Kill Whitey

That’s where we were at. If the bedsprings squeaked or the headboard thumped, I sure as hell didn’t hear it. I couldn’t hear Webster’s insistent clawing anymore either. The only sound was our breathing, and Sondra’s soft, passionate cries. We moved together as one, the perfect rhythm, the perfect timing, our hips grinding together at just the right spot with every stroke, gorging us, urging us both on. Our bodies were attuned, our nerves drawn out tight and hurtling towards that harmonious note that all lovers strive for.

In those moments, people often toss around bullshit clichés. ‘Did you feel the Earth move’ is a classic. ‘I might be having a heart attack’ has become popular. ‘Was it good for you’ is a popular stand-by.

These are common.

‘Was that a fucking gunshot’ is not one that easily comes to mind, however.

I was close to coming, trying to hold off just a little bit longer so that Sondra could get off first. I wanted us both to achieve that crescendo. I’d already figured out that it wasn’t going to happen without some clitoral stimulation. Propping myself up with one hand, I reached down with the other and gently rubbed her clit and pelvic bone. That sent her over the edge. Careful not to lose my rhythm, I softly cheered her on. Her stomach muscles clenched. Her thighs squeezed me.

And then Darryl shouted something. I couldn’t tell what. Grinding my teeth, I tried ignoring him, tuning him out. Sondra bucked against me, lost in orgasm. She squeezed her eyes shut and moaned. That was enough for me. My muscles went taut. I surrendered, collapsing against her as all my blood rushed to my groin and I exploded.

While I was in mid-orgasm, Darryl yelled again. I couldn’t react, couldn’t speak. I was too spent. All I could do was lie on top of Sondra, flopping and gasping, feeling our sweat run together. I went limp. The strength drained from my body.

“Wow,” I gasped. “That was something.”

She started to speak and that was when we heard the gunshot.

I didn’t know that’s what it was at first. Just an unidentifiable boom—very loud, very jarring, and very unexpected. It didn’t sound like the shot in the Odessa’s parking lot. That had been muffled and short and sharp. This was more solid. I felt it in my chest. Heard the echoes in time with my heartbeat.

Sondra froze. So did I. Then I heard voices over the ringing in my ears.

Speaking Russian.

I clenched the sheets. “Shit!”

Sondra trembled. “Where is my clothing?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Grab one of my shirts.”

I rolled off her and hit the floor in a crouch. Not bothering with my socks or underwear, I grabbed my jeans and yanked them on. While Sondra shrugged into one of my t-shirts, I reached under the bed and pulled out my baseball bat. I’d always meant to buy a gun. Something like a .357 or .45. I never had, though, and I cursed myself for it now. Fucking stupid. Facing down trouble without the proper firepower. Still, the weight of the bat in my hand made me feel better. I crept to the closed door. There was no sign of Darryl. If he was still out there, then he wasn’t speaking—or was unable to.

The voices drew closer, right on the other side of the door. I gripped the bat tighter. Webster, tough old cat that he was, bought us some time. He hissed. One of the intruders hissed back at him. Then I heard his paws running across the carpet. He’d obviously decided to retreat. While this was happening, I reached out and locked the door.

My bed sat in the middle of the tiny room, the headboard pushed up against the wall. On the far end of the bedroom was the bathroom door. On my side were the closet and the bedroom door. Someone entering the room would see the bed, bathroom door, dresser and nightstand, but they’d have to turn around to see the closet. Sondra crouched down between the dresser and the bed. I scurried into the closet. Keeping the closet door open, I raised the bat and held my breath. My heart thudded in my temples. I really needed to piss.

The doorknob jiggled. Then somebody kicked it. Sondra whimpered. The intruders hammered at the door. Each blow rattled the door in its frame. The cheap wood splintered, and then cracked. The door crashed open and two men rushed in. I recognized them both—bouncers from the Odessa, Vacheslav and Alexander. Both had guns. That was all I had time to notice because then they started shooting.

They fired several shots into the bed, dresser and mirror in an apparent effort to flush us out. The plan worked. Sondra screamed and Vacheslav started towards her.