Flicking his skinning knife—a curved serrated blade…not even 4 inches long that bore the name Mini-Tac just before the tang where his left thumb hovered—Phelan Lorcan sat between us. A Gaelic chief holding court on a red micro-suede sofa.
Right paw thrust between her milky thighs, blue wool skirt bunched to Bonnie’s navel, Lorcan stroked her clit. His cold green eyes mocked me. You’ve known her thirty years, I’ve known her three short months.
Snapping a hair elastic, I bound my raven hair. Tossed the tail across my back. Less for him to snatch if the bastard waxed violent.
Lorcan flicked the knife again—but swept the blade to Bonnie’s thigh. Raked the flat across her skin. Brought the tip to rest a pubic hair from her pussy. “Make us coffee,” he demanded, withdrawing both his hands.
I snorted in agreement. “Least the bitch can do after that feast you served us, Phelan.”
Bonnie winced at my barb. Stood without a word. Tugged and straightened rumpled pleats. A quick sashay around the gnarled coffee table where Lorcan set his knife, now tucked in its sheath—then left into the kitchen that reeked boiled cabbage. I’d lit half-a-dozen scented tealight candles. Now both rooms stank like vanilla farts.
The new master of her domain leaned back against the sofa. Splayed his legs spread eagle. Smirked, tugged his crotch. Leered at my tits. “What you need now Cat is some genuine Irish cream. Your mate in there tells me you do both men and women.”
“Your mate in there tells me you’ve been making movies. Skin flicks she calls them. For business? Or for pleasure?”
His eyes flashed in anger. But both hands stayed relaxed. “Aren’t you the curious Cat.”
I shrugged, leaned in casually to the coffee table. Rummaging my purse, I deftly palmed his knife. Yanked the handbag off the table. Let the blade drop inside my left knee-high boot. “Shit. Wouldn’t you know…I left my smokes in the truck.”
Lorcan’s nostrils flared. “When you finally bring that coffee grab my cigs and lighter. And the Jameson’s, too.”
“Thanks for saving me a trip. Your bitch also tells me you’re hung like a horse. But seeing is believing. Tell her to make some popcorn, too. I think it’s movie time.”
Lorcan smirked. “So you’re still hungry, lass. Eager for dessert. But—”
Bonnie maneuvered a tray bearing her cluttered labors on the coffee table. Replanted her pert ass against his right leg. I snatched Lorcan’s Lucky Strikes. Knocked out two. Slipped one between his lips. Flicked the Zippo, lit mine first. Butt-fucked him. Master grabbed an ashtray, snapped his fingers. Without hesitation Bonnie unzipped his jeans—swallowed him like a porn star…eyes and cheeks bulging.
Lorcan snuffed his cigarette. I followed suit. Gnarled fingers trenched in Bonnie’s newly-dyed red hair—he yanked her mouth off his cock. “Your turn, Cat. I’ve saved the Irish cream for you.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Unlike your whore? I can’t handle that. Poor gag reflex.” Prying my ass off the sofa, I pulled a travel toothbrush from my black leather vest. Uncorked the cover. Telescoped the brush. Jammed the bristles down my throat—and hurled on his crotch—
Hot red corned beef chunks, fetid shredded cabbage, and a liquid geyser of rancid stomach acid pelted Lorcan’s lap like righteous lava raining on Sodom and Gomorrah.
I didn’t waste a second: I slung the purse across my shoulder. Stormed for the kitchen door—
“You god damn bitches!”
Bonnie would catch a beating cuz of my little stunt.
I ached to beat her ass myself. Stupid tongue-wagging cow.
Bonnie’s long-sleeve cowl-necked sweater—worn throughout dinner in that sweltering kitchen on a warm March night revealed a helluva lot.
Lorcan’s mud-caked Jeep squatted beside my Ranger. The front Massachusetts plate dangled like a Rorschach print under the harsh glare of Bonnie’s yellow porch light. Ragtop rather than hardtop.
I pinched that skinning knife. Slashed a raging Zorro Z across the passenger’s plastic window.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Masshole—redneck Mississippi-style.
I savagely yanked the tarp. Slipped my arm inside the yawn. Whadya know. A bit of luck. The glove box sat unlocked—registration perched atop the Owner’s Manual like a pot of gold.
I slammed the glove’s door closed, pierced his right rear tire. Climbed inside the Ranger. Cranked a three-point turn—slinging mud and gravel cross the sloppy dirt driveway, jounced down the rutted lane. A jarring mile-long jaunt before the Ranger’s Michelin’s bit smooth pavement on Service Road 101. I finally calmed enough to finger the center console, thumb the tin lid on a box of Altoids, and toss two in my eager mouth.
Phelan means wolf. A common surname if you chance to live in Southeast Ireland. But not in America, especially the deep-South. And Lorcan? A name so obscure I had to run a Google search. Little fierce one struck me as the best translation.
Cutting west on 90 in Pearlington, MS—a dying ghost town with no mayor—I crossed the Pearl River into Louisiana. Flicked the dome light on. Dared a few quick glances at the filched registration. The Jeep’s listed owner? Patrick Thomas O’Malley.
No matter what he called himself or what his real name was, douchebag fit this shyster best. Like every dick she’d fucked for the past thirteen years, Bonnie met douchebag at an AA meeting. This time in New Orleans at St. Brigid’s, a small community church tucked inside the Irish Channel behind The Rum House bar. They’d swapped stories, the likely way that strangers do when eager to impress: a jumbled mix of truth and lies. DB claimed he hailed from Boston—
And worked for the Irish mob.
Yet her week’s vacation over? Bonnie brought him home as if the shit-stained douchebag was a prized Border Collie. She’d proudly shown him off over lunch when they got to Mississippi. Until tonight’s debacle I hadn’t seen them since. Though she texted me every day, and we talked once a week.
Other than watching Good Will Hunting I know fuck-all about South Boston. And knew even less about the Irish mob…seven whole words: the names James Whitey Bulger and The Winter Hill Gang. Even redneck peeps who live under rocks know about ’ol Whitey—the Boston-born gangster…captured in California at age 81—after eluding the FBI for almost 16 years. A dirty FBI agent had helped ’ol Whitey flee early on. Hoping to look good and bleach their dirty laundry, the white-hot FBI and a SWAT team of prosecutors dumped a mountain of unsolved crimes soundly on Whitey’s head. If not for history’s sake? I suspect the demented feebs would’ve gladly pinned killing President John Kennedy on the old bastard, too.
Pissing off a douchebag who thought himself a wolf didn’t scare me one iota. Pissing off the Irish mob if douchebag was connected? I didn’t relish that…
Least I had a name that linked to an actual address: 135 D Street, Boston.
As a wealthy trust fund kid, the cost of digging deeper into douchebag’s past didn’t pose a problem. But trying to find the leverage to force him out of Bonnie’s life? That might prove impossible.
Reaching White Kitchen, I hooked robotically north on Highway 190. Another fifteen minutes, I’d be sliding on my jammies and sipping on some Booker’s.
Cat Scratch Fever screamed from my iPhone. Unknown Caller. I absently stabbed Dismiss. But mere seconds later the text alert chimed. Using knees to steer, I tapped my 8-digit password. Glanced at the message from the unknown sender. Shit. Willingly or not? Bonnie had given Lorcan my iPhone number: Bonnie stormed out after you. Is she with you Cat?
I didn’t believe for a second he’d let Bonnie leave the house. This was a power play: showing me once again how completely he controlled her. He could’ve changed that flat by now. If he had my address, too? Turned up at my place? I wasn’t in the mood or prepared for an altercation.
Knowing I needed help rankled. I didn’t want to feel weak. Didn’t want to be like Bonnie.
But no need to get stupid. This war had barely started.
Instead of slashing west and south on Interstate 10 to my Eden Isle condo on the northern shore of Lake Pontchartrain? I kept the Ranger aimed north, and hit Slidell where Business 190 is called Femaux Ave. The dashboard clock read 9:20. I teased a remote from the center console, cut a right on 10th Street—the garage door opening as I swung into the drive on a 2-acre lot where a brick and stucco home perched at 10th and Maine.
Disheveled Donnie met me in the breezeway: “I don’t suppose you’re here because you want to fuck my brains out?”
Since I owned the house? I shouldered him aside. Sweat and booze smacked my nostrils—a crisp one-two Cassius Clay combination that packed more snap than ammonia smelling salts.
He followed me to the kitchen…
I hadn’t lived here in six months.
Not since I fucked his brains out—
After getting lobotomized? My criminal lawyer husband stupidly fucked me over.
“I’ll be staying overnight. For starters what I want is my father’s Colt.”
“This about Bonnie’s beau?”
Johnny Walker Black beckoned from the table. I plunked my ass in a chair. Filled his empty glass. Drank deep. “Calls himself Phelan Lorcan. Claims an affiliation to the Irish mob in Boston.”
Donnie’s 6-foot-two frame sinking in the opposite chair, I slid the Jeep’s registration scooting cross the table—and whizzing past his laptop. “The vehicle could be stolen. Or Patrick Thomas O’Malley might be an alias. But I don’t think so—
“She’s become his willing slave. Says he’s making skin flicks. Likely a sick play on words.” I wagged the skinning knife. Flicked the blade open. Donnie’s blue eyes darkened, fingers flying across his keyboard. “Besides filming their sex lives? I’m convinced he’s cutting her, too. Possibly selling DVDs for the kink market.
“We’d barely finished dinner and he tried to spark a threesome. His demeanor totally changed when we moved to the living room and all sat on the couch—since she doesn’t own armchairs. At the snap of his stinking fingers she gave him a goddamn blowjob…that’s when I realized he had hidden cameras rolling—and managed to haul ass. But bloody Bonnie’s been singing like a snitch. He’s got my cell phone number. Probably has my address, too.”
Donnie’s eyes stayed glued to the laptop’s screen. “Did he threaten you or Bonnie?”
“No.”
“Not a good idea then, taking your father’s Colt. Mob connections or not? In relation to you and Bonnie, he hasn’t broken any laws. And you don’t have a permit to carry a gun concealed. Concealed includes your purse or any kind of pocket. Self-defense laws are also bloody wishy-washy. They only cover your ass in certain situations—and under strict conditions. An attempted car-jacking for example.”
He stopped typing, looked at me. “If he’s breaking into your condo? Sure, you have the right to shoot. But after most shootings—especially a fatal one? Opposing lawyers are going to argue about a bunch of issues, including ‘reasonable force.’ So for home defense? I highly recommend you take my father’s shotgun. Far more reliable. As you know firsthand, one lone shot should take him down.”
Donnie grabbed the scotch. Swigged from the bottle. “Even though having one doesn’t guarantee your safety, I agree you need a handgun, Cat—and you should keep it with you. If you come home and this dude is waiting inside for you? That shotgun’s fucking useless. But trials are about appearances.
“Justifiably shoot this asshole with your father’s Colt on Sunday morning in a Starbucks parking lot? Such an act could suggest premeditation on your part. If this guy was threatening you and you felt endangered? Why didn’t you report him to the cops prior to the shooting? Give me till noon tomorrow. I’ll secure a piece that won’t trace to you.”
His blue eyes turned hard. “All I’m trying to do here is level the playing field. Remember where you are at all times, Cat. Pull a gun—any gun—from your purse in a WalMart parking lot full of security cameras? Your ass is going to jail. You need a gun to protect your life. Not wave as a deterrent. But hypothetically speaking? If you were to shoot him in a place with no cameras? You say that gun is his. He lost the pistol in a scuffle—and you shot in self-defense. You’re a woman, he’s a man. And if he’s got a criminal record? You look sympathetic and believable. His sorry ass won’t. Deal?”
I tugged the scotch from his hand, refilled the glass. “Okay, deal.”
Donnie smirked, snagged the glass. “Short-term I suggest you stay out of Mississippi since that’s where he’s been living. If you plan to waste him, Cat? Make him come to you. On your chosen turf. Like your uncle’s hunting lodge—a great private place for making kinky movies.”
Cat Scratch Fever blared—
I scooped the phone from my purse, tossed the fucker on the table. “Lorcan. Again.”
Donnie mouthed the words, may I? I nodded in assent. He set the phone on speaker: “City morgue. You stab ’em—we slab ’em.”
Lorcan laughed. “You must be Cat’s husband. I’d heard Mr. O’Connor that you’re a jolly joker. Always a bit of fun to confirm rumors. Please remind your wife she has several things that belong to me. And I in return have something that used to belong to her.”
I tamped my flaring anger. “Mr. O’Connor is my attorney—not your errand boy. Meet me at Mundy’s,” I purred, “breakfast at 7, Phelan. Hope you’re an early riser. I’m craving Irish Cream.” I stabbed End Call—set the phone on Silent.
Donnie scowled, fists clenched. “Well-veiled threat. He enjoys playing games. But he could be escalating. You think he intends to kill her?”
I shrugged. “You and I both know…at least subconsciously. That’s exactly what she wants.
The living room clock chimed eleven. I retired to the library; Donnie beelined for his office to make some private calls.
Settling on the chaise with a sheet and pillow, I set my phone’s alarm for five. Fatigue pained my bones. Yet sleep mocked me.
Thirteen years of Bonnie’s bullshit and paying for her therapists…dating back to the summer night we both turned seventeen.
Our lives at that time couldn’t be much more different. My mother died in childbirth. My father rarely present, devoted to his business. But just like Teddy Roosevelt? The males in my family tree clung to the notion that they were Great White Hunters.
Since my father had no sons? I became his acolyte. I skinned my first deer at the age of seven. Shot my first buck on my tenth birthday during a trip to Montana. I was forced to field dress the animal. And properly carry the carcass half-a-mile back to camp without letting its meat spoil. Shooting, killing, skinning—and dressing deer? Became no different than using a fork or spoon.
With my father gone so much, I spent a lot of time with his brother Carlton—who lived a simple life, tucked deep in the wooded wetlands along the Pearl River. A self-taught naturalist, unlike my father, he didn’t kill for trophies. He ate what he killed alongside what he grew: a true survivalist. Together with the land, his lodge, tools and hands provided everything he needed. His property included a deer skinning station. And a slaughter table for butchering wild boar.
Meanwhile? Like good Catholics in that day and age, Bonnie’s deluded parents didn’t practice birth control—and raised eight kids: the first six boys, followed late in life by Bonnie and Cissy. As the older sister? Bonnie got strapped with taking Cissy everywhere she went.
I’d owned a car since I turned sixteen. Bonnie got her first—a used Pontiac Sunbird—on our seventeenth birthday. Out of the blue she’d gotten the hots for stupid Tommy Glover. But as usual? She couldn’t leave that night without taking Cissy.
Bonnie hatched a plan…and badgered me to death before I finally caved. She and Cissy picked me up. Whenever we took my car? Bonnie rode shotgun. Cissy sat in back. But once we got to Tommy’s? I drove the Sunbird, Cissy rode shotgun. Bonnie and Tommy hopped in back.
My jealousy burned hot. I’d never been with a boy—I was in love with Bonnie. Though I felt curious, too…and kept sneaking glances in the rearview mirror as the two of them made out.
Rounding a curve on Camp Rd. over in White Kitchen, a deer darted out and froze in the headlights. Busy watching Bonnie, I couldn’t stop in time…and cut the wheel hard right. The Sunbird sliced sideways—slammed an old oak.
Cissy died on impact—
All of us were crushed.
Making matters worse? My father died that winter. Ruled a hunting accident in God-forsaken Alaska. My moods grew darker. Bonnie grew more depressed, turned to alcohol. Inside a year? Full-blown alcoholic. Yet for the next three years? She and I were lovers…meaning we had sex. Sure, I loved her. But Bonnie loathed herself. Bloody survivor’s guilt. Couldn’t love anyone. And shit. I was driving. She had to hate me, too. Of course back then, I didn’t understand that. I can’t count the times I’d get angry and berate her. The past is the past. Why can’t you toughen up?
Five times in thirteen years, Bonnie slashed her wrists. Eight times she’d overdosed on prescription meds.
Now…here was Lorcan. Who despite his damn depravity? Had taught her to toughen up.
During our three years? She slept with different guys. I didn’t know that either…not until she dumped me.
Stung by her betrayals? I started having sex with both men and women. Though not at the same time. I craved adventurous sex. But also craved control. Not once in those eight years did “love” play a part in my quirky equations—
Till Donnie came along.
Never in my life had anyone swept me off my feet. Never in my life had I felt happy either. I loved that guy so much I thought my heart would burst.
I’d swung by his downtown office eager for an early lunch. But what do you know? His paralegal Lisa proved more ambitious. When I walked through the door at 11:30? The nineteen-year-old bitch had Donnie’s cock in her hungry mouth.
What the fuck?
So I don’t give blowjobs. I didn’t suck at sex. If he was into teenagers? He shouldn’t have married me.
I understand mistakes. The importance of forgiveness. I wasn’t willing to let him go. Hadn’t filed for divorce. As for Donnie? I doubt he’s been with a woman since. But I couldn’t move past that sloppy betrayal blowjob.
He’d given good counsel though: make Lorcan come to me. And the lodge the perfect spot. When uncle Carlton died? His son Sean got the land.
But Sean lives in Alabama. Except for me doing maintenance behind Sean’s back? The lodge soon became The Land that Time Forgot.
No idea how long I slept. But a searing clap of thunder tore me awake before the alarm sounded. Two minutes later, the Weather Service dinged my phone with a Tornado Watch Advisory. Yee-haw. Good morning, Slidell. I padded to the kitchen. Downed a glass of OJ. A quick cold shower. A forlorn smile. Donnie had neatly set black clothes from my closet. Tee, jeans, bra, hiking boots and socks—but no panties. Smart ass.
I donned a raincoat in the foyer. Cinched raven hair atop my head, beneath a black scarf. Hefted Donnie’s best umbrella.
Mundy’s seats thirty. Most at a U-shaped counter. One large table in the middle that could hold eight. A loner for two out front—that sports a window view. I’d called the joint at 6 to secure the window seat. Sat down and staked my claim at 6:45. Kept the raincoat on. Ordered a carafe of coffee, along with a box of a dozen assorted muffins. Enough short-term to make me worth their while. And they soon forgot me, catering as usual to the Saturday morning counter regulars.
Lorcan seemed to think me a stupid declawed house cat. So I had a role to play. Had to prove convincing if I hoped to lure him to my uncle’s lodge. Soon as he sat down? I planned to jerk him off underneath the table. Then lick his cum lasciviously from my fingers.
Fuck me royally, Jesus. I’d been sucking Altoids for at least an hour. And practicing my smile. All-the-while mentally burning my wrists with a Zippo.
He rolled into the lot at 6:55. Parked in the southwest corner—nearly out of sight—right beside the dumpster and alongside my Ranger.
Lightning ripped the sky. Douchebag climbed out the Jeep. Fuck. His head exploded—
A lovely wine-colored mist cut through the driving rain. Then he disappeared…completely and swiftly hidden by the dumpster and the Jeep.
Between the diner’s din and the rolling thunder? No one in the back heard the rifle’s crack.
I popped open the umbrella, dropped a tenner on the table. Strolled out the door, head tucked low, approaching the Ranger slowly from the passenger side. I flicked that skinning knife. Closed the umbrella, slipped it in the pickup’s bed. Circled round the hood; squatted…and duck-walked to the dumpster. Christ. A mounted GoPro camera glared squarely at me from douchebag’s dead right shoulder. I stabbed the power off. Snipped the ties, snatched the camera. Tucked the GoPro in my raincoat.
Another duck-walk to the Ranger. No one at Mundy’s knew me. I doubt a soul knew Lorcan either. I backed out my slot. Pulled out the lot—
Drove half-a-mile south and stopped. Bought a bag of bird seed and two hummingbird feeders at Sawyer’s roadside greenhouse—where I routinely shop. If the cops questioned me? I wanted a reason for this excursion.
I cruised leisurely to Slidell, hit Hancock Whitney Bank. Standing in the lobby, I glanced at the calendar.
Today was…fuck me…my wedding anniversary.
The morning storm had cleared. Clean spring scents filled the air. April and all its glory hovered on the horizon. Next door at Habanos I grabbed a bottle of Booker’s, speared the Ranger onward to Camp Salmen Nature Park. I tugged a tarp and blanket from the passenger’s cab. Hiked to Old Field Plateau and its sweeping meadows where the wildflowers grow.
I spread the tarp then the blanket over the same spot where I’d joyously kissed the groom. Eagerly cracking the Booker’s, I fiddled with the GoPro. Drank and suddenly sobbed for thirty sodden minutes. Then felt his eyes upon me.
“Lorcan was my problem. And so was Bonnie. Why’d you do it Donnie?”
“Only chance I’d ever have to prove I love you, Cat.”
“The gift that keeps on giving. I never shoulda fucked your god dammed brains out. I shoulda been a boring wife. You stupid stupid bastard—
“Bonnie’s dead, Donnie. Butchered like an animal.”
He settled on the blanket—kicked off his loafers. I rewound the footage. “It’s obvious that asshole never skinned or dressed a deer. Least we know where he ditched her. His stupid pride and joy has a GPS. Though we’ll have to track her down. I know she’s dead and gone. But that ain’t where or how her earthly remains belong.”
Lorcan’s filth unfurled. My tears fell again. Donnie’s spilled, too.
I flicked the camera off—tenderly, oh-so-tenderly…
I let D make love to me.
Wanna say “Hello?” You can visit Jess at the links below:
https://www.facebook.com/jesse.rawlins.583
https://jesseheelsrawlins.wordpress.com/
https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/86403618-jesse-heels-rawlins-crime-writer-editor
Thanks S.A.V.A. Press for introducing my story to a larger audience! Cheers, Jesse Rawlins
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