Calvin whipped out the gun, pulling it from the waistband of his jeans. "Get over there. Strip."
Betty stepped away and he shut the door.
"Scream and you're dead."
Betty nodded and unbuttoned her blouse.
"Pants first. On the bed."
One-handed, he unfastened his jeans and slithered out of them. "Get ‘em off."
Betty dropped the clothes held in her arms and lay down on the bed.
She kept her eyes on the gun, her mind a whirl of emotions and suppressed action. He shoved the gun between her legs. The slick, cold metal sight scraped her insides. He jabbed deeper. She grunted in pain.
"Never shoulda throwed me out." The gun slid up and down, in and out, faster and faster raking her tender hidden center.
Betty squirmed away.
"Move and die."
She stopped, her guts churning, muscles tense.
He pointed the gun at her lips. "Suck it." Blood snaked along the barrel, gathering into a thick, dark head ready to strike, weaving hypnotically- as it moved closer and closer.
She opened her mouth, tasting salty copper, gun oil and rust, and something more complex, sweet and musky. Her stomach heaved.
Thrusting the gun deeper, he mounted, plunging, driving, grinding her into the silky down comforter. The bed springs squealed.
Her body betrayed her, pulse quickening, hips thrusting. A moan escaped, tinged with shameful pleasure. Body warmed to the primal rhythm. Nerves tingled. Flesh softened and accepted, welcomed. Her mind cringed from her body’s betrayal, moved away, distanced from shame and disgust, separate from her baser instincts, waiting for the chance to regain control.
The slats squeaked and creaked, headboard bump, bump, bumping the wall faster and faster. He stiffened and groaned, the gun slipping out of her mouth.
Every sinew and muscle tensed. Now! Her hand snapped up and out, wrenching the gun from his hands.
A fist rocketed out and slammed into the left side of her head. Deep inside her, quickening to life, he pinned her and grabbed for the gun. She held on, clinging to consciousness as she clung to the gun, desperately. Another sharp pain burst
inside her head. Remember the gun. She clung to it, nails tearing and catching on sight and trigger. It was pointed the wrong way.
Digging her heels into the edge of the mattress, she bucked, thrusting one hip higher to unbalance the rider. The left side of her head exploded. She held on. The last vestiges of her sight were now spangled with dark starbursts expanding outward and merging. She bucked, heaved, and bucked.
They grappled, twisted, fought for control. Betty forced the gun down, thrusting, driving, pushing, shifting and writhing against his greater strength and weight. A muffled shot rang out and then . . . silence.
The long, slender, black second hand on the wall clock jerked in the empty silence moving along eons stretching into eternity. Her heart drummed slower and slower, losing speed and strength while she lay unmoving, barely breathing. The second hand jerked relentlessly around the hash-marked face of the big, black institutional clock. One jerk, one breath. Two jerks, one breath. Three jerks, one breath. Four and one. Five and one. Slow and even breaths rasped loudly in the interminable silence. Six and one. Seven and one. The drumming slowed. Breathing crawled and hitched in painful, searing whistles.
Wet warmth spread between them, trickling down in a rush of completion, pooling beneath her. The wet spot spread and cooled. She held her breath, waiting for her heart to stutter to a stop, for the big death to claim her.
She breathed in. Exhaled. Breathed.
Screams exploded. Footsteps drummed. The door banged and clattered in its frame.
The door crashed into the wall, the knob buried in flaking plaster.
She’d have to pay for that.
The world was fuzzy and her eyelids drifted down, shielding against the bright, white glare. The warm wet spot spread and cooled. The room faded and brightened.
I’m not sleeping in the wet spot. She tried to shift sideways, but could not move. Death weight pressed her down.
Rough hands reached out and yanked the heavy weight away. Like a wet sack of taters, it thumped to the floor. Gentle hands lifted away the heavy steel weight pressed to her belly, helped her to sit up and wrapped her in soft blue warmth. Beside her, blood soaked the cream-colored silky down comforter. It was brand new, another expense.
The second hand jerked. New wall.
It jerked again. New comforter.
Another jerk. Broken lock.
Jerk. Doctor bills.
The blanket was warm and she was so cold.
Shudders wracked her body, shook her muscles.
She had never been so cold, so tired.
Sleep, she needed sleep after such a long day and a rough night.
Everything would look better in the morning.
Not in the wet spot.