I wasn’t gentle with her.
I told her I had the special key. Buzz me up. Get your key, a warm coat and flat shoes.
The penthouse elevator doors opened. She greeted me, legs spread for balance, two hands on her pistol.
“We don’t have time for this. He’s dead. He said to take care of you. You want to live, we go this second.”
She blinked, sniffed, put the gun in her coat pocket, steeled herself and followed me out.
I parked where we could catch a city bus. I left the car unlocked.
We bussed to a strip mall with a discount clothing shop and a drug store.
We did a ‘Jack Reacher’, paying cash, using the space between two mall dumpsters to change into the new non-descript clothing and baseball caps. We stashed the spare socks and underwear into new carryalls and fed the dumpster with our old stuff.
We got some personal stuff at the drug store along with two new pre-paid sim cards. I crushed the old sims into the ground.
The next city bus took us to a brightly-lit intercity station. We found some shadow and waited.
The plan meant a three-hour trip north to another station with storage lockers and a cheap motel nearby.
When we got there, I retrieved some cash and other supplies from a locker.
I booked into the motel under fake id.
When we got to the room, she went into the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the shower.
She hadn’t yet said a word. That shower took a long, long time.
She came out wrapped in a towel, shivering.
She tossed the towel and dove into bed, pulling the covers over her head.
In that briefest of moments, I saw the physical attraction she exerted over the boss.
Her hair was long and lush. Her body was compact, soft but not flabby; Her face beautiful even now with the makeup drained off.
She was every inch a dream girl.
Except maybe of course for her penis.
A posting from Kevin McGill’s The Possible Ks
Canadian Satire, Poetry, Social Justice Commentary & Inspiration
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