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“Come over here, baby,” he said oddly, making me stiffen. “Don’t worry, ain’t gonna try to fuck ‘ya. Though, I wouldn’t turn down that if it was offered. But you need to get your ass closer because I can’t just hand you a gun in broad daylight.”
Right. Okay. Duh.
I leaned down, pretending to be petting my dog who whined and tried to pull away as I moved to grab the money out of my pocket then stood and moved closer to the very hot, very interested biker who suddenly reached behind his back as he pulled me almost flush to his body, his warm breath on my ear. “This is a Smith & Wesson® SDVE nine-millimeter pistol. It’s heavy, but it’s smooth. When you go home, figure you might want to go online and look up how to handle it since it’s clearly your first gun.” With that, I felt his hand touch my belly, and jerked back, but his other hand went to my lower back, holding me still as something long and hard and cold slid into the front waistband of my pants and his other hand slid into my back butt pocket and I felt what I assumed was a baggie of bullets settle there.
“Right,” I agreed, swallowing a little hard as his hand left my pocket and moved to cup my asscheek instead.
“Payment, baby,” he reminded me, making me shake my head as if to clear it.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, but waited for instructions.
“Why don’t you slip it into my front pocket?” he suggested, smile devilish again.
And well, the deal was almost done. I had what I came for, and cops hadn’t swarmed in on us like I maybe had been paranoid they might.
So I wasn’t going to be put-off by some cocky biker who wanted me to cop a feel. I reached out, shoved my hand in, then yanked it back out before he could even blink.
“There. We’re all settled,” I declared, yanking away and walking as quickly as I could without it looking like I was running away.
When I got back home, I unleashed the dog who ran as far as fast as he could, locked my doors, put my usual bookshelf in front of the front one, grabbed my laptop, and went upstairs to my bedroom. I pulled the not as scary as I imagined gun out of my waistband and put it carefully down on my bed. It was black with a stainless steel slider and little grippy spots on the handle and near the trigger. I pulled out the bullets as well, climbed into bed, and did what I was told; I researched. I researched until I knew there wasn’t even a margin for error in the technical details. Until I had loaded and unloaded and reloaded and slid on and off the safety a dozen times, getting comfortable with the weight and where everything was located.
As I sat on my bed though, the house eerily quiet as night fell, my stomach twisted into knots. I had maybe a moment or twenty of absolute weakness where I wondered if maybe whoring myself out to a badass arms-dealing biker in exchange for protection wasn’t an all-together bad idea.
He was hot at least.
Alas, I wasn’t a whoring myself out kind of girl.
Then again, I didn’t exactly think I was a ‘buy an illegal gun from a biker and use it to scare off an attacker’ kind of girl either.
It was amazing the things you learned about yourself when you found yourself backed into a corner.
Hours passed. Long, exhausting hours of paranoia that turned to a genuine concern that I was losing it. Because nothing happened. No banging on my windows. No peeping. No dog barking.
No nothing.
My stomach slowly unclenched as the latest part of the night passed me by, convincing me that I was just letting my imagination run away with me.
Gut feeling, my ass.
What was wrong with me?
I put the gun down on the nightstand, took my first deep breath that day, changed into my usual nightgown because I couldn’t sleep when my legs were in pants; I always felt stuck, then I scooted back against the pillows.
Then fell asleep.
A flash woke me up some indeterminate time later, making my heart fly into my throat as I jolted awake, confused. A flash? Power surge? Lightening?
“Gonna have that pretty cunt tonight,” a voice said, different somehow than I had been expecting. I guess you always kind of figured bad guys had those deep, gravel-filled voices. My stalker sounded nasal, like he had a pesky sinus infection or a deviated septum.
But no matter the tone used, the word ‘cunt’ almost universally sounded God-awful and threatening. Especially so when it was coming from a man who had been stalking you for months and was suddenly in your freaking bedroom… taking pictures of you.
