He saw her freckles, her concerned brow. He had nothing. No blood, no stench, no rage, no visions… nothing compelling him to silence her. Just fear. If he had to kill her, he had to do it alone. He did not have the knife or his treasured coat.
He averted his eyes in wilted defeat.
“I’m glad we talked, Bob. And I’m glad you were honest with me. Couples should be honest with each other.” The tone of her voice had changed, and when he looked back up to her, he noticed that the coat she was holding over her arm and stroking lovingly was his. She bent down and gently kissed his head, holding her hand on his shoulder. “Be sure that it stays that way.”
She handed him the coat and then reached into her pocket and extracted something that flashed silver in the kitchen lights. She placed his knife on the table in front of him. Bob’s heart jumped into his throat, and his breath froze.
“Bob-don’t be out too late tonight.”
IRRESISTIBLE by Yvonne Coats
Sandy slumped against the wheel of her old-but-it-still-runs Toyota Celica and tried to figure out how her day had gone to hell. A tap on the window startled her: It was Billy, one of the regulars, smiling at her in a way she’d gotten far too familiar with. Not a bad guy-none of them were bad guys, usually-but she surely did not like that smile.
She rolled the window down a crack, and Billy didn’t say any of the things she’d anticipated, like how unfair it was that she’d been fired. He didn’t ask if she’d be okay, or offer her a loan. What Billy did say was, “I wonder, I mean, could I call you sometime?”
“No. I gotta go now, Billy.” Shit shit shit, she thought as Billy reached for the door handle. She turned the ignition key and had never been more grateful to hear the little Celica’s sewing machine engine turn over.
She pulled away from Billy as fast as she could without knocking him down and zipped through the parking lot and out into the street. She’d made good money serving drinks at the Silver Dollar, but she hadn’t put much away. She didn’t think finding another job would be all that easy, especially since Shelly, the manager, said she’d fired her “cause she couldn’t keep her hands off’n the customers.”
Tears welled in Sandy ’s eyes. It hadn’t been her mauling the customers, but the other way around. I need a drink, she thought when she saw the Handy Pantry sign.
She pulled right up to the door-good, it’s not busy-and went inside for some cheap beer. She hoisted the six-pack onto the counter and rummaged in her purse for her wallet.
“Hi,” the clerk said. He was a skinny redheaded guy who looked about seventeen years old but had to be older if he could sell beer. And he had that smile.
“Hi,” Sandy said, extracting her wallet. “How much?”
“Drinkin’ alone?”
She kept her eyes down but was sure he was still smiling.
“Preferably.”
“Not very friendly, are ya?”
“Sorry. Just tired and not in a very good mood.” She smiled slightly and forced herself to look up. Yup, he was smiling, like a man about to take his first bite of a really good steak. “How much is the beer, please?”
“Onna house.”
Damn. “Come on, how much is it?”
“Onna house,” he said again, louder.
“If you don’t let me pay for it, I’m not taking it.”
When he just kept smiling, Sandy thought, I am not leaving without beer. She pulled out a five, slapped it on the counter, and walked out.
“Hey, wait! This is too much.” The redhead came out behind her, but he was too slow. She had the Celica in reverse and out of the parking lot before he stepped off the curb. In the review mirror, she could see him waving her five-dollar bill.
When she got home, to a former garage some thrifty soul had turned into a dollhouse of a rental, she was glad she lived alone. Right now, she was glad she wasn’t dating anybody. Do Lutherans have convents? she wondered, though she hadn’t been to church since she left home.
She popped the top on one of the beers, took a long swig, and snorted at the brand name, Blitz. How come cheap beers have all the best names? I guess names are cheaper than ingredients.
She flopped down on the squashy red plaid couch, pulled off her spike heels, and rubbed her toes and arches. Groaning, she stood up and peeled off her stockings, tossing her fancy garters on the coffee table and aiming the stockings toward the bathroom.
She sat back down, took another slug of beer, and considered her situation. She had a couple of hundred in checking, nearly seven hundred in savings, maybe two months’ worth of money if she really watched it.
Her gaze settled on the garters. Last week, they’d seemed perfect. Last week, her sister Cheryl asked her to be a bridesmaid, said she’d buy Sandy’s dress-hallelujah-and asked Sandy to find her something “old and blue” that Cheryl could “borrow” and wear on her wedding day next month. Before Sandy could panic about finding something wedding-appropriate, she saw an ad in one of her magazines. There was a tiny photo of a pair of garters, and they sure looked blue. Underneath was printed, “Be irresistible,” and a description of the garters as “antique.”
Sandy had called the phone number, and a soft southern voice answered, “Blue Ridge Bazaar, Rennie McCoy speaking.”
“Um, I’m calling about some garters.”
“I got them when my grandmother died. I believe they’d been in the family for a long time. They’re handmade, probably late Nineteenth Century and, since I assume you want to wear them, the elastic is in remarkably good shape.”
“That’s nice,” Sandy said, in a hurry because it was long distance. “I can’t tell from the picture… are they blue?”
“Yes, royal blue satin with lace trim, which has yellowed a bit, but the garters are quite lovely. My grandmother said they, how did she put it, ‘contributed to a memorable wedding… and wedding night.’ She wouldn’t let my mother wear them at her wedding, though, I remember someone saying…”
“So they really are old. Great. Um, how much are you asking?”
“A hundred dollars.”
“Shit. Sorry. That’s a lot of money.”
Rennie McCoy had listened to Sandy talk about her sister’s wedding and her request, and they had haggled for a couple of minutes. Finally, he’d agreed to let them go for seventy dollars, shipping included. Maybe it had been a great deal, but now Sandy wished she had the money back.
She woke up with a hangover-it’d been a long time since she’d killed a six-pack by herself, and she vowed it would be an even longer time before she did it again. Looking at her dull skin and red eyes in the mirror over the sink, she decided to stay home and clean house before hitting the pavements to find a new job.
She got lucky and found work the next day, glad that Shelly from the Silver Dollar had not, apparently, said anything too awful about her to Kent, her new boss, who owned the Westerner. She still couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong at the Silver Dollar, but none of the men at the Westerner paid her more than ordinary attention. Some harmless flirting, a couple of propositions from guys she expected to pour out the door at closing time-nothing unusual. Nothing weird.
Things went well until Friday. Kent had told Sandy that he wanted her to dress more provocatively on the weekends. “I can buy you gear if you need it, but go ahead and wear your own stuff tonight.”
Sandy looked in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She’d put her hair up and wore big silver hoop earrings, snug black tank top, bleached denim miniskirt, sheer black nylons, and shiny black stilettos. Maybe a little plain. She pulled one of the blue garters halfway up her left thigh, where it would be highly visible. Not bad, she thought. She wondered if guys would put dollar bills in it, the way she’d seen them do with strippers.