“No one could ever know what happened here,” I told her as she grabbed her clothes from the floor and put them on. She didn’t say anything, just grabbed all her stuff and walked out the door. Just the way I like it.
A week later, I saw her again. Same bar, same bar stool. Drinking another dirty martini, she started groping at me, asking me to take her back to my place again. I knew I could get what I wanted from her so I was game. Why not? This time, I entered from behind, pushing her against the couch, shoving her face into the couch pillows to smother the screams. Stupid little whore wants to play with me, she can take it in the ass.
After, I told her I was going to bed and she could show herself out. She did.
I really thought that would be the end of seeing her; clearly she wouldn’t go back to O’Reilly’s Pub on South Street the following week.
I was wrong.
Barely in from off the street, I immediately noticed the back of her curly hair. Quickly, I snuck into a booth and watched her a bit. I wanted to see if she’d let someone else pick her up. A couple different guys approached, but left almost immediately. I was going to just leave, not wanting her to get the wrong idea if she saw me, but meh, why not?
“Back for more?” I said, while looking at the bartender to order a drink of my own.
She didn’t say anything but I was pretty sure she was smiling. With a drink in my hand, I started to leave and she grabbed my arm. “Wait,” she said.
“This is what you want?” I asked her.
This time I saw the smile to know for sure. She looked so young in that moment. Too young. And I immediately got hard.
“Fine,” I said, tossing back the Johnny Walker. Oh the warmth.
I slipped the glass onto the bar and grabbed her hand. When we got outside I pushed her against the door of the next building and kissed her hard.
“You gotta do something for me though.”
“I’m gonna give you some money,” I told her, finding the big bills in my wallet. “A-lotta money. And you’re gonna go where I tell you to and tell them I sent you. They’re gonna give you a paper bag, like a lunch bag, and you’re gonna give them the money an’ come back out here to me.”
“Don’t look in the fucking bag alright? An’ don’t look around much when you get in there. Just go in, find the guy behind the counter, tell him my name and leave with the bag.”
I looked at her and she looked different. Even younger than before.
“How old are you again?”
“Twenty eight, why?”
“You gonna be able to do this or what?”
“Um, yeah. I guess. Sure.”
We walked around the corner to the Chinese take-out joint and I sent her in and waited and not more than a minute or two later, she came out holding the bag.
“Is there at least some food in here?” she asked.
I couldn’t help but laugh. I took her back to my place and fucked her before I showed her what was in the bag—an eight ball of coke. We snorted a couple of lines and fucked again and I realized I was in a fucking relationship with someone I didn’t really care about who I couldn’t shake. And she was okay with me doing whatever the fuck I wanted to do to her. The kinkier the better it seemed. So why not?
Had I known I’d be trying to hide her fucking body a couple months later, I would’ve known why not.
This piece of FICTION is inspired from this week’s speakeasy prompt as well as the unbelievably true and disturbing story of the missing woman from Milwaukee, Kelly Dwyer.