Call Me Crazy, but I’m getting really good at this, to the point that I can say I enjoy killing. It’s men who I get the most pleasure out of executing, stabbing and poisoning, among other things. But I’ve recently come to realize that killing a woman can be just as pleasurable. I guess that bitch, Officer Sissy Dickerson, would call this latest escapade a double homicide. But to me, it was just a simple case of some girl getting in the way; in the wrong place at the wrong time.
For this particular encounter, I picked up this producer named Barry Fuller at Nola’s, a swanky nightclub in midtown, on 52nd Street, close to Broadway. We didn’t actually meet at Nola’s, it was just a rendezvous that we agreed on the night before when I attended a music industry function at The Supper Club. Don’t ask me how I managed to be around all of those hotshot celebrities. Maybe it was dumb luck, if that’s what you wanna call it. But Barry slipped me a note that night while he made small talk.
“Don’t look at it now,” he told me. “It’s a surprise.”
So I didn’t. I forgot all about, it until I undressed later at home. In front of Barry, I had slipped the folded cocktail napkin into my bra, tryin’ to be all sexy about it. Huh. Was that really necessary, considering how easy men are to seduce these days? And why in the world was I trying to seduce him, anyway? Well, for one thing, I was horny, he was semi-attractive and, well . . . he was a producer after all. An accomplished one, too. He even won an award that night at the Supper Club. And isn’t it a girl’s dream to wind up with a rich, successful man?
Okay, so maybe it’s a far-fetched fantasy, seeing as how those so-called rich and successful men are so few in comparison to all of us single, horny women. Add to that, if you’re a black woman with issues, the odds against you are greater. Better have good looks to fall back on, or else . . . or else it would be a stroke of luck. A wait to exhale.
But me and Barry? It was just dumb luck. Like we stumbled on each other. I knew he was a pushover the moment I met him—half-stuttering, with a film of perspiration there on his brow. He even fumbled with the wad of money he held, or tried to hold, dropping it on the floor where we stood near the bar in the crowded club. He had a bit of a belly, he wore wire-framed glasses and his hair was cut close to the scalp. I liked his lips: full, but not so fleshy. Plus there was an instant when I imagined them on me. We had the same brown complexion too, so it didn’t take much to attract me to him.
This could turn out to be something big, I told myself. And I’m being honest when I say the run-in at Nola’s was, for me, mere foreplay. I had already made my decision the night before—I always do that when I see a man. Would we work out in the bedroom? Would he fit inside of me, or is it too big? Could we take this thing all the way to the altar? How would our children look? And then the “yes” or “no” decision would be made right there. No second thoughts. Sure, this was all hopeful thinking, but shit, I’m twenty-four years old these days. And my so-called biological clock is ticking. I can’t be a free agent all my life.
Needless to say, my producer-friend came to Nola’s with nostrils flaring. I had on Chanel perfume, a Wonderbra that made my breasts bubble out of my black top, and a body-hugging green skirt that covered just half of my thighs. My fishnet stockings always got a lot of attention anytime I wore them; I know this from other occasions, how my look was playing on men’s imaginations. The effect was dazzling, like there were a dozen black spiders climbing up my legs, trying to get to my diamond mine. Either that, or men were thinking I had a bit of whore hidden in me.
Beyond how my body was clothed, I had on my black stilettos and a sunlight-blond wig with the hair falling into slight curls near my lower neck. No question, I was scandalous!
It was getting late and I was getting edgy, so I just cut to the chase. “Okay, Barry, so level with me. I’ve had two drinks, you’ve had one. We’ve talked about what we do for a living—you the music, me the office manager. We’ve discussed failed relationships, our families, our futures . . . maybe we’re all talked out by now. But I want you to be frank with me. Are you interested? Am I someone you’d like to get to know better?” The face I made should’ve said a million and one things; most of all that I wasn’t playing games.
“Wow. So direct, River, aren’t you?”
“I like direct. It pushes aside all of the bullshit. And to be honest, Barry”—I took his hand—“I usually like to take the car on a test drive before I decide to buy it.”
“Ooooooh . . . spontaneity, huh?”
“I like spontaneity. There’s a lot of truth in spontaneity. It comes from the heart.”
“A test drive . . .” He chuckled some under his breath before saying, “That sounds exciting.”
I said, “And I’m all about excitement.”
That’s all it took. Barry and I left Nola’s in a chauffeur-driven town car. It wasn’t a limo, but then I found out that Barry was conservative. A lot of platinum hits under his belt, and plenty of cash and credit to go with it. But still, the man spent money practically, not lavishly or carelessly. I liked that too, because if this thing between us went any further than one night, it could mean our girl River would always be flowing in dough. The more money he saved, the more there was for me to spend. Hee hee.
Before I know it we were driving north along the Saw Mill River Parkway until we reached Hartsdale. Never been to this town before, but I’d seen one or two newspaper ads for car dealerships, a furniture outlet, and the latest audio-video wholesaler that claimed their prices were “INSANE!” From the parkway, the town car snaked through the suburbs for ten minutes until we turned into an oval driveway.
“Wow. I’m impressed already. And you live here alone?”
“Just me and my little kitty cat, Daddy’s Girl.”
“Daddy’s Girl? Is that a name?”
“It is now,” he said. And I laughed like a silly college coed, wondering secretly if this man was just pretending to be naïve, or whether he was a touch crazy underneath.
No matter. I had Sally with me, in my purse. Whenever in doubt, always take Sally out. But who was I kidding? Lately I never left home without her. Especially in this day and age, with the cast of wackos on the rise.
Barry unlocked the front door and let me in the low-lit foyer to his home. He closed the door behind me. I turned to him after taking an eyeful of the grand entry hall. It was dark, but grand nonetheless. I hadn’t even turned all the way around before Barry pushed me back against the wall, his body pressed full up against my own, and his lips all but devoured mine.
I was thrust up against the wall and could hear my body’s thump along with my own breathless sigh. Unsure of what was happening to me and overcome with fright, I patted around for my purse, looking for Sally. I couldn’t believe how Mister Nervous and Conservative turned into such an animal so quickly. Fuck! I told myself, assuming that I had been tricked.
And then, between kisses, Barry uttered his unfounded testimonies, as is “I’ve been . . . waiting . . . all night to be able to be alone . . . with you . . . oh River!”
Thank God, this was just the man’s lust and passion taking over. My distress turned to a kind of high anxiety, where I was more than happy to oblige Barry’s desires with my own aggressive measures. I didn’t put up the wall like we were taught to do from our early years: “Don’t let the boys go too far . . . you don’t wanna seem too easy . . .” The hell with that. I grabbed his balls in a way that was possessive and at the same time violent. He let out a grunt that was fed into my mouth like warm gas. Soon our hands were groping at each other like fiends, pulling at belts, buttons and other accessories.
The high-speed striptease was followed by Barry carrying me up a flight of stairs and into a room so dark it didn’t matter. It could’ve been a black hole for all I cared. This was pleasure, to be swept off my feet like I was, surprised by this absolute animal.
Yes! Take me!
The man’s lips were foreign against my breasts, my nipples, and further down until he buried his head between my legs. I thoroughly enjoyed this man’s daring. After all, he didn’t know me so well as to get so far, so fast. But then, since he was willing to go there . . . to satisfy me like he was . . . who was I to complain? Soon I was calling out his name like it was candy on my tongue, begging him not to stop. And he obeyed, so it was more than cool.
I worked up a fever so hot and heavy that I was about to come all over this guy’s face . . . about to let out my heartiest scream ever. Something the heavens might hear.
When I heard the words I smiled at the idea. The man was talking dirty already! But no, that was a woman’s voice! And I opened my eyes to see that the bedroom light was on. Shit. Just when I was gettin’ my rocks off.
“Fuck!” Barry exclaimed.
“Fuck? Is that all you have to say? Fuck?” The woman was this short, thin, redheaded bitch, and I swore I could see steam comin’ off her head. Suddenly, this man’s tongue on my pussy wasn’t all that exciting anymore.
“I’ll show you fuck,” the redhead said. Then she ran off to God knows where.
“Who’s that?” I asked. Barry wagged his head at me and went to pull his pants on.
“Well? What are you, stupid, you fucking whore? That’s my wife.” Barry threw my clothes at me and said, “Wrap it up. The party’s over.”
I was still lying there naked, propped up on my elbows, with my legs apart as if some outrageous encounter had transpired. And hadn’t it? Whore? No you didn’t call me a whore! I scrambled into my clothes, more than prepared to kick this fool in the dick before calling a cab.
“Jane!” Barry lumbered out of the room like a klutz before I could get all of my clothes on. A moment later I picked up the phone and dialed 411.
“Can I have a cab company in Hartsdale, please?” When the operator gave me the number I dialed and asked that a car be sent to—“Shit!” I exclaimed, suddenly aware that I didn’t know the address. “Hold on, ma’am. Please.” I hurried out of the bedroom and down a hallway toward the stairs. Yelling was a constant back-and-forth down there. I couldn’t see the two, but I heard enough to know that I didn’t belong here.
“She’s just a whore, baby. Don’t give up on us for a piece of ass.”
“Fuck you, you bastard! This is the last time! If you can’t keep your dick in your pants, I’m gonna help you. When I’m finished with you there ain’t gonna be no dick left! Nothing but a stub! Now let me by before I start cutting you to pieces.”
“Where you goin,’ Jane?”
“I want the whore!”
I made it to the bottom of the steps when Barry’s wife appeared.
“I’ll teach you to fuck with a married man, you home-wreckin’ whore!”
Jesus! The woman had a kitchen knife that was long enough to be a pirate’s sword.
“Miss! Control yourself! I don’t want your man!”
But my words fell on deaf ears. Short Shit was comin at me, knife in hand. I was wide-eyed and my chest was heavy with a banging heart. I saw my purse on the floor where Barry had pushed me against the wall . . . where I had dropped it once I had realized that this would be lust and not violence. Wow, was I ever wrong about that!
Next thing I know, I was diving for my purse. The woman hesitated for a moment, not sure what I was up to. If she didn’t know then, she’d know now.
“Now slow your roll, bitch. Slow your goddam roll.” I was able to direct the snub-nose at Short Shit just in time.
“Jane, please.” Now Barry emerged from behind the woman, eventually getting the full picture. “A gun? You bring a fucking gun into my house?” The way he came at me was as if he didn’t think I’d use the weapon.
“Well, you know us whores. We like to be protected from lyin’-ass, pussy-lickin’ womanizers like you.”
Just then, the redheaded Short Shit lunged at me. Maybe she thought she’d be faster than me . . . and why she was risking her life over some lowlife, I don’t know. But that was beside the point. It was my life that was at stake here. As much as I didn’t want to, I pulled the trigger. All I saw was the splatter of dark red mix with the orange-red hair on her head. The woman was thrown back to the floor; the bullet had made an open gash in her where her eyebrow use to be.
“She asked for it,” I said calmly, as if I needed to explain myself to her lame-ass husband. Barry went to the woman’s side at once. A moment later, he turned his angry eyes at me. I saw the knife in his hand and I snapped. I emptied the gun until the center of the man’s chest turned to alphabet soup.
I thought quickly about the things I might’ve touched while here at this man’s home, but things had happened so fast that there wasn’t time to touch much. I thought about the address, the phone . . . oh God, the phone. I wondered if the operator had heard the commotion as I raced up the steps barefooted. The line was dead. Shit. This was a first. Not one dead body, but two. Okay, River René Burlington. Calm the fuck down. Been here, done this. The operator probably just hung up because I took too long. Relax. Breathe in . . . breathe out. That’s right. Okay, good. Now for the address.
I had to poke my head outside to look over the doorway. There was the number . . . 16. I recalled that this was Black Cherry Lane. I went back to the same phone up in the bedroom for two reasons: to call the operator and ask for the taxi again, and to wipe the fingerprints from it. I was tempted to find a fireplace and burn the phone, just to make sure. But instead I rubbed the receiver real good, and even found hair grease to dress it with. In case there was some other last-minute cleaning to be done, I took the jar with me downstairs.
A minute or so later, I found myself standing in the entry hall awaiting my fate. It would either be the police or a taxicab to pick me up. In the meantime, I drew a lipstick heart on the cheeks of my black and white victims, and then I sat at the foot of their winding stairway and reviewed my work. There was a puddle now where the blood of both bodies had merged. I made light of the situation, joking with myself as I wondered if when type A blood mixed with type B blood, it became type C. The thought amused me, and I laughed out loud so that my lone voice filled the cavernous entry hall.
“See, Barry? Now if you woulda kept my black ass in the city . . . maybe if you took me to one of those expensive hotels somewhere, maybe then our friend Sissy would’ve taken the case—she’s hot on my trail, ya know. But noooo . . . Mister Two-timing Bastard had to show off his pretty suburban home. Now look where it got you. Dead. You and red, dead—ha ha!
“You gave me head
And then came red
And now you both are dead!
“Wow, Barry. That rhymes.” I laughed real hard at my sick humor. I swear I crack me up.
Soon there was a motor running outside. A car horn sounded. And I looked outside through a window to find that—whew!—it was a taxi. I checked my wig and sunglasses in the entry-hall mirror, and with my scarf I turned the knob and let myself out of the Fuller home. Such interesting hosts those two were.
The cabdriver made small talk but I made like I was exhausted with a bunch of murmurs and other discouraged responses as he took me to the Bronx.
“Here’s good,” I told him as we came to the intersection of Fordham Road and Webster Avenue.
“Are you sure? It looks dangerous out here for a pretty lady like you.”
When he said that I considered a direct response, like, I bet your bedroom would be safer, wouldn’t it? “Keep the change,” I said after slipping him the folded money. Then I got out and watched him disappear. Thank God.
I walked for three blocks to Third Avenue, and entered through the back entrance of my building. I remember being relieved to have gotten away with murder. Again.
Before long, I was snug in my crib where I could finally relax. I found myself missing that man’s tongue between my folds. He seemed so experienced! I had to have Brandon to come and finish the job. I whistled before I called out to him, “Come, Brandon. Come to River.” Brandon is my Labrador retriever. He’s got a completely golden coat of hair and sharp black eyes. He also obeys like the man I never knew. “Attaboy. Take care of Momma like only you can.”
Barry and Jane Fuller were my seventeenth and eighteenth victims. I’m batting a thousand. I’ll take a day’s rest and return Victor’s call. He’ll be the usual: a movie, dinner, and he’ll wanna get in my panties. By the end of the night he’ll have satisfied my cravings . . . my cravings for sex and blood.
Copyright © 2004 by Relentless Aaron. All rights reserved.