He still didn’t like her aiming the S&W at him—she could tell—but the sight of her breasts decorated with blazing diamonds was getting to him. He dropped the towel, his skinny cock bobbing in front of him (a sight both hilarious and thrilling) and crawled across the bed toward her. He kissed her, his tongue tasting her upper lip, and she was conscious of her composure and personhood sliding away in a familiar rush of want.
He pulled her down on the bed, using the gold chain and a fistful of her own hair, forcefully but not too rough. She managed to get the gun into the holster, just before he pushed open her legs with one knee. She must’ve strapped the S&W on too loosely. His thigh forced the butt of the gun back against her crotch.
Truth was, she never came harder than in those first few minutes, when he was kissing her, and her clit was grinding against the soft-hard rubber of the .357’s pearly grip. She went off like a pistol. The actual sex was just the recoil.
April 12, 2013
AT THE END OF HIS shift, Randall Kellaway let himself into the security office and found a sheriff’s deputy waiting for him, a grinning Latina in one of those ugly Hillary Clinton pantsuits, a Glock on her massive hip. You never saw white cops anymore; it was all about increasing diversity now. After Iraq, Kellaway had applied to the state police, the local police, the sheriff’s office, and the FBI and never so much as got an interview. State cops said he was too old; sheriff’s office wouldn’t hire him because he’d been AdSep’d; the feds told him there were suitability issues after he took their psych test; the local cops didn’t have any openings and reminded him he had nine hundred dollars in unpaid speeding tickets. What it came down to, a black guy who talked in ebonics could get hired if he had just managed to graduate high school without murdering someone in a drive-by. A white guy had to have matriculated at Yale and volunteered to work with orphans who had AIDS to even get a foot in the door.
When Kellaway entered the security office, he was on the customer side of the desk, with Officer Chiquita Banana. The receptionist, Joanie, was on the other side of the Plexiglas window, sitting in her rickety rolling office chair. There was one other security guard there, too, Eddie Dowling, taking off his belt and hanging it up in his locker. It was just like Ed to decide to call it a night ten minutes before quitting time.
“Here he is, Officer Acosta. I told you, he doesn’t clock out until the minute his shift ends. Mr. Kellaway is very punctual. Randy, this is Officer Acosta from the sheriff’s department—”
“I know where she’s from, Joan. I recognized the uniform.”
Folks from the police department and the sheriff’s office dropped in all the time. In January it had been to show him the mug shot of a wanted felon who was engaged to a girl who worked in the food court. In March it had been to warn him there was a known pedophile just down the road and to keep an eye out for him.
He was thinking it might be something about the black kid who had just started working at Boost Yer Game. A week ago Kellaway had found him carrying boxes out the Boost Yer Game service door and loading them into a rusty, rinky-dink Ford Fiesta. Kellaway had told him to get against the car and put his hands on the roof, had thought the kid was boosting his game by boosting some shoes. It was an hour before opening, and the boy wasn’t in uniform, and Kellaway had never seen his face, didn’t know he was a new hire, didn’t know the kid had been instructed to drive some fancy Nikes to the Boost Yer Game outlet in Daytona Beach. Naturally, now it looked like Kellaway was a racist and not a guy who’d made an honest mistake.
If it really had been a mistake. Kid had a bumper sticker said LEGALIZE GAY MARIJUANA, which was pretty much a raised middle finger to a world where rules mattered. Kellaway could hope that Acosta had come to tell him the kid was a known banger and she wanted to search his Fiesta for crack and guns. (And why, he wondered, did the most American of American car companies name one of their vehicles a Fiesta, which sounded more like a bargain meal at Taco Bell? Although probably the plant making those cars was in Tijuana, so the name actually suited.)
Just before Acosta spoke, though, Kellaway noticed the wan look on Ed Dowling’s face. He saw, too, that Joanie was willfully not looking at him, pretending to be interested in something on the screen of her antique Dell—Joanie, who inserted herself in the middle of every conversation and couldn’t bear to let any visitors to the office escape without forcing them to answer a dozen mindless questions about what they did, where they were from, and if they had seen last week’s Dr. Phil. Kellaway felt the briefest of misgivings, a kind of grim flicker, the psychological equivalent of dull, distant heat lightning.
“Let’s have it,” he said.
“You got it, darling,” said Acosta, and she slapped some folded papers into his hands.
His gaze skipped across blocks of text: TEMPORARY INJUNCTION FOR PROTECTION AGAINST DOMESTIC VIOLENCE and NOTICE OF HEARING and SCHEDULED TO APPEAR AND TESTIFY.
“You are instructed by the State of Florida not to physically approach Holly Kellaway, either at her current place of residence at 1419 Tortola Way or at her place of employment with the Tropic Lights Cable Network at 5040 Kitts Avenue, or to approach her son—”
“Our son.”
“—George Kellaway, at the Bushwick Montessori on Topaz Avenue. If you are found within five hundred feet of their place of residence, her place of employment, or your son’s school, you will be subject to arrest for violating this restraining order, are we clear?”
“On what grounds?”
“You’ll have to ask the judge at the hearing, the date of which—”
“I’m asking you. On what grounds can the State of Florida decide to keep me away from my own child?”
“Do you really want to do this in front of your co-workers, Mr. Kellaway?” she said.
“I never put a hand on the hysterical bitch. Or the boy either. If she says anything else, it’s lies.”
Acosta said, “Did you ever point a gun at her, Mr. Kellaway?”
He didn’t reply.
Joanie exhaled a snorting breath, like a tired horse, and began typing furiously, her eyes fixed on the screen of her computer.
“You’re going to want to call her,” Acosta said. “Don’t. You are forbidden to contact her directly. You want to say something to her? Get a lawyer. Have him say it. You’re going to want a lawyer for the hearing anyway.”
“So if I call to say good night to my six-year-old, someone’s going to arrest me? Should I hire a lawyer to call on a nightly basis to read bedtime stories to him?”