Bombshell
“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Merrick said at the same time as Joann and the doctor.
“Oh,” Charlie said. He went back to whittling.
Merrick wondered if whittling was his way of coping with his hot-tempered, opinionated wife. He suddenly had a vision of himself as an older man, whittling away on a piece of balsa wood as Bombshell held forth on something that was making her livid in that very same kitchen.
Merrick shook his head. Where the hell had that come from? It’s not like you’re really going to marry that woman. Get it together.
Chapter Fourteen
Harold hung up his phone after getting the call from Florence. He had been thinking about calling her, maybe getting an update from the secret society her husband ran. The vibe in town had been unusually hostile since whatever had happened the night before; maybe she’d have some insights. Plus, he knew Florence was chomping at the bit for his cock – he’d welcome the cunt’s stretched-out pussy. Florence wasn’t pretty – in fact, she was ugly – but she knew how to fuck, and she liked it rough.
He switched cars at his house, not wanting to be seen driving in the easily recognized sheriff’s cruiser. He’d purchased a nondescript retired rental car from one of his black market contacts and slapped on an out of state license plate with a fake registration tag. This was the car he always used when visiting “the studio.” He put on his ball cap and sunglasses, then headed out. He hadn’t been there since, well, Jana had disappeared. That had been, what – two weeks ago? It reeked as usual, so opened the windows, and sprayed several cans of air freshener around. It helped a bit, but not enough. He found some weed and set a stick on fire, using it like a sage wand. That helped.
Her heard tires on gravel, and readied his gun, just in case. “Hello, it’s me?” came Florence’s cheerful voice. He checked his watch. She was late, no doubt on purpose.
He opened the door for her and she took in a sniff. He lit the joint he’d rolled and took a deep drag before placing it in her mouth. She sucked it in, and exhaled. He rubbed the joint out and set it in an ashtray.
She gazed at him with lust in her eyes and dropped her long coat of her shoulders, letting it fall onto the ground.
As expected, she’d dressed for the occasion. Undergarments made of leather and chains. Her over tanned dried up tits hung inside the clutches of a leather cup. A painful pair of nipple clamps twisted her nipples.
She had her fingers dipping in and out of the space below her unshaved graying muff.
“I’m late,” she said as she licked her lips. “Aren’t you going to spank me?”
“Not yet, Florence. What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“Oh, okay,” Florence said. She turned around and bent from the waist, showing the sheriff the butt floss that disappeared inside her too tanned but crack. She picked up a bag by her feet and tossed it to him.
He caught it, and started to look inside.
He stared at some clothes and a women’s purse. “So, what’s this?”
“Remember that girl, you were looking for. Well, these are her things. She left them at the bar, last night.”
Harold’s pulse raced a little. He pulled out the purse and opened the wallet. Jana.
“Where was she?”
“At the bar, last night – but then you know that – you were there?”
“I was?”
“Yes, Harold, don’t you remember. You showed up in the middle of her performance and trashed the place.”
“You’re lying,” he said and slapped her hard across the face.
She gasped, then turned her sexiest smile on him. “Do that again,” she begged as she pulled on her nipple clamps.
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know,” Florence said. “But, her friends came in this morning and said she was missing. I thought you’d rather have her things then let her friends have them.”
Harold nodded. Yes, he was happy to have her license, but this seemed like an inadequate reason for him to give this women a fuck. “Was there something else, you wanted to tell me?”
“Actually, yes. My husband has surveillance footage of you shooting your gun in the parking lot.”
That got the sheriff’s attention.