Pole Dancer - a short story

I can't recall the exact time I wrote this short story though sometime during the 80s is a safe guess. It's about a man, an American Indian man, visiting a strip club to watch his sister perform. The idea came to me after I had visited a strip club. I'd had a conversation with a dancer who was upset because her father had come into the club to watch her perform and to try to convince her to quit her job. The bouncer had thrown him out before he'd had a chance to do either. 

Reading the story again after many years I can still feel the anger in my words that I felt following a failed marriage and, most likely, still suffering from PTSD from my time as an infantry machinegunner in Vietnam. The sentences are choppy and the dialogue stilted but I refrained myself from launching into a massive edit job because it was written by the person I was at the time and not the same person I am now. Thanks for reading Pole Dancer and I hope you like it anyway. P.S. If the subject of nudity offends you then please stop reading now.

Pole Dancer

Another hot Oklahoma day, dry clouds streaking a faded sky as dervishes of swirling dust burnished Joe Redbird's elbow. Two crows, examining an armadillo carcass, moved out of his path. Joe had other things on his mind and didn't notice as he passed a slow-moving pumping unit, siphoning the last greasy sips from a dying reservoir. Scattered remnants of a once proud industry littered both sides of the road, staining the dry earth with dirty water. Overhead, a lone hawk floated in a thermal updraft.

Redbird pulled into a pea-gravel parking lot surrounding a freestanding cinder block building. Broken neon lighting, mounted on two pilfered stands of drill pipe, proclaimed the place Valley of the Dolls.

Shading his eyes from noon sun, he steered the pickup between a red Chevy and a dented Fat Bob Harley. Waves of damp heat flooded the cab when he opened the door. He didn't bother stretching as he side-stepped a drunk Okie leaning against the wall.

He squinted into murky darkness, smoke accosting his eyes and loud music his ears. At least the air-conditioning felt good, chilling his sweaty neck as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A half-nude waitress encircled his waist with slender arms, pressing her breasts into the small of his back.

"Whatcha having, Geronimo?"

"Pitcher of Bud," he said.

"Smile, Chief. Can't be all that bad."

Redbird's expression remained dark, despite the young woman's friendly prodding. He nodded toward the bar circling center stage. His mousy-haired server puckered her lips and made lewd kissing sounds. When he refused to respond, she wriggled her nipples between thumb and forefinger and then kissed him on the cheek.

"You need something, just whistle. I'm Anita."

Redbird's features remained impassive as Anita winked and backed away through the crowd. When his eyes dilated enough to see, he glanced over his shoulder at the dozens of other patrons. Bikers in leather and chains, soldiers with shaved heads and roughnecks in dirty overalls. They filled the large room to frantic capacity, and he had to elbow his way to an empty chair at center stage.

His dollar tip earned him a wet kiss when Anita returned with his pitcher of beer. Ignoring her, he wiped the lipstick off his face with the back of his hand. Anita shrugged and eased away through the crowd. After draining the first glass, he poured another. Then he faded into cool darkness as pulsating-neon flooded center stage.

Several-dozen prairie voyeurs rattling beer bottles soon replaced the jukebox. A new dancer was preparing to come on stage, and shrill whistles began piercing the darkness. Redbird cocked his head for a better view of the wooden stage.

Staggering up the short ramp, a young blue-eyed blond woman licked her lips. Clad in only a bra and gold sequined g-string, she smiled at the whistling, cat-calling audience staring back at her. When the jukebox began, she gyrated in a drunken simulation of sensuality. Above blaring rock and roll, a high-pitched voice shrilled.

"Hey baby, show us your snatch."

When someone put two soft hands on Redbird's shoulders, he knew who it was without turning to look.

"What are you doing here, Joe?"

Redbird pivoted in his chair, gazing up into a dancer's dark eyes.

"Pete Thompson said I'd find you here."

The young woman's long hair draped in raven waves over bronze shoulders. Reflections in her dark eyes rippled like black paint in a blender. Joe's neck grew warm as he sensed the gaze of everyone around them. They were admiring the attractive dancer, a woman with smooth skin, brown as his own.

"Pete's right. I'm a dancer."

Glancing over his shoulder at the girl on stage, Redbird said, "Like her?"

When Victoria shut her eyes, Redbird could almost feel the hot flush spreading up her neck. Opening them, she stared at the floor.

"Mom send you?"

In a voice barely audible above the loud music and grating background voices, he answered, "Mom doesn't know you work here. Maybe you can tell me why you do?"

Redbird leaned forward, touching her hand, causing her to wrench away and back into a drunk at the table behind her. The man groped her leg before she could move away.

"I have no answer. Least one you'd understand."

"Try me."

"Vicky, you're up next," someone called from behind the bar.

"Have to go," she said. "Finish your beer and get out of here before you embarrass us both."

"Will it embarrass you to have your big brother watch you strip and do squat thrusts while these monkeys masturbate in the dark?"

Vicky shook her dark mane. "I don't do that. They are to watch me dance. That's all."

Glancing at the girl weaving drunken circles on stage, Redbird said, "You call that dancing?"

"What about you? You've been here before."

"Different," he said.

Victoria tried to smile, but her quivering lower lip betrayed her true feelings. She leaned against the table so no one else could hear her reply.

"Why is it different?"

"Because people are laughing behind your back," he said.

"Who are they laughing at? You or me?"

"I don't dance in a titty bar."

"Yeah, and I suppose all your friends have great respect for the way you earn a living, driving a garbage truck."

"Honest work."

"So is dancing."

"This isn't dancing, Vicky. It’s obscene. I feel sorrow for you and shame for our family."

"Only thing you feel is your throbbing head and queasy gut when you wake up Sunday morning with puke on your pillow."

"Doesn't change things," he said.

Victoria touched his hand and said in a whisper, "I can't expect you to understand. I've wanted to dance since I was a little girl."

"But why here?"

"Because we all have decisions to make, and don't always have enough choices."

Redbird folded his arms and shook his head. "These scumbags don't care if you dance, or parade around on all fours. In fact, I'm sure that's what they would prefer."

"I do it for myself, Joe. Not them, and not you." When he didn't reply, she said, "Just get out of here. Please."

He stayed in his chair, noticing glints of sadness flicker and fade in the darkest corner of her eyes. Her lip quivered, and she drew a breath, almost losing the tiny halter covering her breasts when she exhaled. Clutching it to her bosom, she hurried away through the crowded tables.

Though impassive, his shoulders began shaking in an almost imperceptible tremble. Sitting straight up in the rickety bar chair, he locked his folded arms against his chest and turned toward center stage. Everyone locked on to the blue-eyed dancer. No one had noticed the confrontation. Enveloped in her third song, she'd already discarded the sequined halter covering her breasts. As he watched, she yanked on her golden g-string.

With eyes like a stalking wolf, she promenaded across the stage on hands and knees. When she spotted Redbird and saw his frown.

Pulling the snap of her g-string, she twirled it once around her head, sniffed it, and then tossed it around Redbird's neck. With a satisfied smirk, she flipped over, wrapping long legs around her neck. She rolled across the stage, displaying her shaved privates. Her performance brought whistles from the drunken crowd.

Redbird turned away. Some perverse curiosity returned his gaze to the stage. He locked onto the young woman's sweating body, dirty from the dust tracked floor. She writhed in widening circles, not forgetting Redbird until the music ceased.

When the song ended, she collected the dollar bills scattered across the stage and grabbed her outfit in a slight bend of the knees. Redbird folded his arms and turned away, trying to lose himself in the remaining slug of beer. At least, until a hand touched his shoulder.

"Another pitcher, Chief?"

Redbird nodded. After returning from the bar, Anita filled his glass, sipping from it before handing it to him. Confused by his rampant emotions, he studied the rose tattoo on her breast and the strange gold fleck in her left eye. She licked foam from her lips with an overt flick of her tongue. His dollar tip earned him another wet kiss, followed by solitude as she departed to wait on someone else.

Attracted by the booming jukebox, Redbird's gaze returned to center stage. As beautiful Victoria appeared through the neon-lighted darkness, he held his breath.

Except for her near-nudity, she seemed a beautiful princess, ascending dirty steps to a royal throne. Behind Redbird, the anonymous audience whooped and whistled their approval. He couldn't look her in the eye but couldn't take his own off her body. His face and neck grew red. Victoria was tall and dark, moving across the stage like a dandelion wafting in the breeze. She pirouetted in slow, measured circles, long raven hair billowing in synchronous waves.  Her eyes, dark and liquid, mesmerized and quieted the audience, Her movements possessed them. Victoria whisked off the tiny halter covering her breasts during a slow turn on the polished pole. As a single entity, the crowd gasped.

Joe Redbird watched, along with bikers, soldiers, and roughnecks. His skin flushed with rising anger. Unable to forget the leering creatures gaping at his beautiful sister, he turned away. His head began to shake with a subtle flutter that crept into his shoulders and down the base of his spine.

Victoria's last number sheathed its patrons in a tight knot of rapt concentration. As bass notes resonated through the murky darkness, her movements entwined them. Nothing disturbed her as she revolved around the polished pole, like a holographic vision in a giant music box. Finally, she whisked off her last garment.

Screaming shouts and wild applause punctuated her curtsied finale. Smiling at the ovation like a prima ballerina, she waved, acknowledging their praise. As she prepared to exit the stage, Redbird hoisted his half-filled pitcher of beer, hurling it at his sister.

She dodged the missile, watching it crash into the wall-length mirror behind center stage. An explosion of flying shards liberated the audience as angry patrons closed around Redbird. A fat security guard bullied his way through the crowd. When he reached for Redbird, the tall Native American took a round-house swing and knocked him on his ass. With fists raised, he pivoted in a semi-circle, daring anyone to touch him. Someone did.

Willowy arms encircled him; the gentle pressure of soft breasts in the small of his back calmed him like water on a lighted fuse. With fury bleeding from his soul, he allowed the woman to back him to the front door.

"Get the hell outa here and don't ever come back," the fat security guard called after them.

Someone started another song on the jukebox, and another dancer took center stage. Bar patrons grumbled but returned to consuming more beer and watching the next performance. Mousy-haired Anita pushed Joe Redbird into bright August sunlight of the graveled parking lot. He halted when she shouted at him.

"What right have you got pulling a stunt like that?"

Naked, except for a yellow strip of tawdry cloth covering her pubic hair, she waited for his answer. It never came. Instead, his apathetic stare caused her to shield her bare breasts with a perfunctory arm.

A pickup passed on the highway, honking its horn and raising dust devils on the blacktop. Heat from late afternoon sun sent perspiration trickling down Redbird's neck. Wiping it away, he continued staring at Anita in silence.

They stood like gunfighters preparing to draw their weapons. Brilliant sunlight revealed all the young woman’s physical flaws. Her self-confidence began to wane, and even the rose tattoo on her breast seemed to fade. Redbird stared at stretch marks on her breasts and belly, blinking as he studied her bowed legs. After gazing at angry scars of adolescent acne on her almost pretty face, he turned away.

Her shoulders sagged. Taking a single step backward, she tripped on a rock in the uneven parking lot and almost fell.

Quivering with emotion, she said, "Victoria is beautiful. Everyone loves to watch her dance. If you didn't want to see, you shouldn't have come."

Redbird didn't answer, unsure of what he had seen, or how he felt. Returning to his pickup, he lowered the windows before cranking the engine. The heat felt like the last agonizing breath of a bursting lung.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, he glanced again at sad Anita, her arms folded across her bare breasts. Numbed by emotion and too much beer, he spun the tires in loose gravel and drove away back down the lonely blacktop road from where he had come.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.

Motorcycle - a short story

Written after a failed marriage and while I was still suffering from deep depression caused most likely by my time in Vietnam as an infantry foot soldier, much of this story is autobiographical. Like the lead character in the story, my life was in a mess. I somehow managed to keep my day job and most of my relationships, probably because it was during the "wild and crazy" days of the Oklahoma Oil Boom of the 80s and almost everyone at the time was drunk, stoned or both. There's a grain of truth in every fiction and there was a real person I met one night who called himself Blue Angel. And yes, I owned a 750 Triumph Bonneville, just likes James Dean.

Motorcycle

Dying twilight and flashing neon beckoned me into one of the many stripper bars skirting the edge of town. I parked my bike beside a row of Harleys and opened the black enamel door, blaring rock and roll flooding over me as I made my way through the crowded barroom. A tipsy dancer had just begun her gyrations on center stage and I grabbed the first empty chair I came to.

When my eyes finally adjusted to the subdued light, I noticed the man sitting beside me had a big pear-shaped head and a screwy grin on his pug-ugly face that indicated he was already drunk. He was also obese; his double chin dove into hairy flab wedged beneath the gaudy western shirt he wore.

Unmindful of my sudden critical stare, or foaming brew dribbling down his neck, the fat man slugged beer straight from the pitcher without an offer of apology. Despite his repugnancy, I couldn't turn away, his ugliness hopelessly mesmerizing me.

The man's blackened teeth looked like California asphalt on a hot August day, and a motorized wheelchair supported his bulky frame. He grinned when he finally noticed me staring at him. Had I been sober myself, I'd have probably searched for another chair. I wasn't.

I was wishing I had minded my own business when he said, "Kinda motorcycle you ride?"

Dancing strobes flooded center stage with silver light, further accenting his drunken grin. I straightened in my chair and said, "Triumph Bonneville 750. Like James Dean."

"Most people 'round here ride Harleys," he said.

Glancing around the crowded barroom, I saw what he meant. Leather-clad, bandanna-headed bikers of both sexes crowded the stripper bar, rotating strobe lights magnifying their greasy hair, deadhead tattoos, and silver earrings. The fat man's raspy voice shattered my flight of fancy.

"What's your name, bub?"

"Denzil. You?"

"You can call me Blue Angel."

I needn't have worried about my inability to suppress a drunken snicker. Blue Angel didn't seem to mind. He was apparently either used to the look or else he just didn't give a damn. I forgot about my musings when the girl on stage winked at me and jutted her breasts in a brazen manner. Blue Angel whistled, using his index fingers to tightly stretch his thin lips, managing to produce a piercing shrill.

"Pleased to meet you, Blue Angel."

"Nam," he said, seeing my inquisitive glance at his withered legs. "Landmine."

After comparing tiny legs with his bloated body, I had trouble believing his deformity was anything other than congenital. I kept my opinion to myself, not wishing to insult him even further.

"I was there," I said. "Infantry."

Blue Angel grabbed the elbow of a passing waitress, ignoring my assertion, and ordered another pitcher. His broken-tooth grin had all but vanished from his inflated cheeks.

"I ride a Harley," he said.

Advanced inebriation and a pinch of embedded meanness marked my blurted reply, regretted the moment I spoke the words. "The hell you say. Cripples can't ride bikes."

My drunken grin failed miserably to indicate that I meant the vicious remark in the best possible way. Blue Angel's own smile revealed he had taken no apparent offense. He just kept describing his cycle.

"Three-wheeler. Hand controls. Custom made."

On stage, the nude girl with broken hearts tattooed on her breasts gyrated to the caustic strains of a Bob Seeger psycho-melody. Multi-colored strobe lights flared in my face. From a shadow-cloaked corner, the waitress returned with Blue Angel's pitcher of beer and he tipped it to his lips, swilling beer until it gushed from his mouth, wetting his shirt. He shoved it toward me when he finished.

"You work, Denzil?"

"Longshoreman."

"Married?"

"Not now," I said, shaking my head.

"Marrying soon, myself," he said. "Luanna's crippled too. Met her at a paraplegic convention. Gonna marry her right here on center stage.

"Terrific," I said.

"Hell's Angels comin' from all over the country. Big event. Be here or be square."

Ignoring his off-handed invitation, I returned my attention to center stage where two blondes were dancing in an odd pseudo-sexual parody. Blue Angel whistled to the waitress, hastily ordering another pitcher.

By now I was totally anesthetized by cold beer, blatant sex, and loud music. When we finished the second pitcher, I ordered yet another. Awash in noise, beer, and gyrating naked dancers, Blue Angel wheeled himself to the bathroom. When he returned he slid out of his wheelchair, onto his back on the filthy floor. Without success, he struggled to get up.

I tried lifting Blue Angel's dead weight back into his unwieldy vehicle but found he was heavier than he looked. Two bikers wandering over from the pool table helped, grinning as if they'd performed the same task many times before. After we'd killed another pitcher of beer, Blue Angel asked me to show him my bike.

"Why not?" I said.

Through the crowded barroom, I wheeled him, past milling bikers, out the side door to the parking lot flooded with interfering rays of moon and neon. Parked between a black Harley and candy apple pickup we found my metallic blue Triumph.

"No Limey bike's good as a hog," Blue Angel said. "Least it ain't a rice burner."

"Faster than any hog," I said. "And lots of rice burners."

"Maybe. Take me for a ride?"

"You crazy?" I said. "I couldn't even lift you off the floor in there. How do you expect me to get you on back of the bike?"

"Jack and Banjo will help."

"But you wouldn't stay put, even if we managed to get you on back."

"Then strap my ankles to the bike frame with bar rags. I'll hang on."

Shaking my head, I said "I might not make it home myself, drunk as I am. You want to go for a ride on the back of my bike, Blue Angel then you must be drunker than me."

Blue Angel's lips curled into a pleading pout. "I ain't that drunk. Please take me. I never been on a Limey bike before."

"Maybe next time," I said, wheeling him back toward the strip bar.

*  *  *

I don't remember when I began stopping after work for drinks at the Blue Note Lounge. Sometimes I stayed until Jimmy Turner, the owner, kicked me out and closed the place. Sheila didn't mind much. She was busy with her own life, new job, summer softball league and all. That summer she met Big Zina, playing ball on the same team. Before long Big Zina began going everywhere with us. Out to eat, to the movies. I didn't mind. When Big Zina was around Sheila was always in a good mood. When she wasn't. . .

Sheila had never smoked during our seven-year marriage. That summer I began finding ashtrays filled with butts, hers and Big Zina's. I also found a half-smoked roach in an ashtray. Sheila and Big Zina confessed to buying a lid to smoke at a Peter Frampton concert. They spent the weekend out of town, seeing Peter Frampton and doing other things with some of the girls from the team.

Shortly after our divorce, I bought a motorcycle, a metallic blue Triumph Bonneville 750. I knew nothing about motorcycles, never ridden one, but had an immediate need to wrap my legs around a powerful engine and drive it, very fast, down the highway.

After selling my old Mustang I began going everywhere on the bike. Even in the rain. Most of my free time I spent swilling beer at the Blue Note. Sometimes I made it home without remembering where I had been, or what I had done. Once two teenage boys lifted the cycle off the pavement when I tumped it over, leaving the bar. I remember the shock in their eyes when I charged out of the parking lot, barely missing the front fender of a passing car.

About that time Jimmy kicked me out for good. In a drunken fit, I threw a pitcher of beer at his frosted-glass mirror behind the bar. Unsatisfied with the ensuing explosion, I capped it off by smashing a couple of chairs and tables with my fists and feet. Jimmy and two regulars tossed me out on my face.

"Don't ever come back," he said as I powered away on my cycle.

After Jimmy banned me from the Blue Note, I began frequenting sleaze joints and biker bars populating the back roads leading to the ocean. It was there I met Rhonda.

Rhonda had red curly hair, a tattoo on her left shoulder and ultra red lips the same intense color as her skin art. Her personality also matched her hair. She smoked pot, used various drugs, slept around and had no visible means of support. Between jobs, she had explained. Rhonda lived in a three-room wood-framed cracker box on the wrong side of town.

Shortly after we met, we made love - spontaneously. In the front room on her shabby couch. We were both drunk, Rhonda's libido further stoked by pot and coke. I made do with beer and a couple of shooters. As we made love I noticed her faded green curtains gaping, wide open, for the world to see. The front door was also open.

"Think I better close the door and window?"

"Why?"

"Because someone might see us."

"Fuck 'em," she said.

Rhonda had long since sorted out her life, going through men faster than some women go through nail polish. As I was becoming attached to her, she had already finished with me, tossing me away like an empty bottle. Leaving a bar one night, drunk and alone, I motored past her place, maybe to satiate my morbid curiosity. See who she was with. Perhaps, deep down, I thought she might be alone and be happy to see me.

Parking the Triumph in the drive, I strolled up to her front door, peeking through the window before I knocked - a good thing because she wouldn't have answered anyway. She was on her back and she wasn't alone. Rhonda and a long-haired, nearly nude man was in motion on the shabby couch, feeling the apparent throes of full-blown, drug-assisted sexual nirvana. I had to kick-start my heart, and then my bike.

Gunning its engine, I trenched Rhonda's front yard as I sped away, nearing sixty by the time I reached the approaching intersection. It didn't matter that the light was red because I didn't have time to stop anyway. An old woman wheeled her Chevy directly in front of my fleeting path and I still remember her startled look when she saw me sliding toward her. I was very much out of control.

Concerned motorists pulled the cycle off my chest, the accident sparing me, and mostly the motorcycle, but leaving me cut, scratched and black and blue. When the cops finally released me, I watched headlights trailing away into the night, feeling the fool. I walked home alone after the tow truck had hauled away the bike.

*  *  *

"You awake?" Blue Angel said, tapping my shoulder.

"Sorry," I said, glancing up into his big cow eyes.

A nude dancer was weaving a sexual burlesque on the grimy wooden stage in front of us and lightning flashed through the open front door. I could smell rain blowing in from the north.

"Gotta go," he said, tapping the counter. "Don't forget my wedding next Saturday. Right here, same time."

Jack and Banjo suddenly appeared, pushing through smoke, shadows and frenzied customers, wheeling Blue Angel out the front door. They lifted him into the bed of an awaiting pickup and drove away as rain began to fall. I watched them disappear into the neon-illuminated gloom, and then rested my head on the counter.

By now my brain pulsated with a deep-seated ache, threatening to burst straight through the skull. Resting my head on the bar, I closed my eyes, letting loud music and bar noises resonate through flesh, bone and the distressed wood of the stage. The moment provided scant solace. Instead, I screamed through space, straight to the back of the truck with Blue Angel, my suddenly blurred thoughts a vision of street noise, glimmering neon, and passing humanity. Blue Angel flashed his blackened grin when he saw me.

"Welcome home, Bub," he said.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.

Blue Norther - a short story

Horror becomes reality when a dark stranger rings the doorbell during a winter snowstorm.

Blue Norther

Dark clouds of an approaching Blue Norther gathered outside the window as Linda watched her husband pace worried circles around their living room.

"Please, Ted, don't go out tonight. The weather's awful and getting worse by the minute."

Ted stopped pacing and frowned. "No option. Big meeting at the bank."

"Friday night at seven?

Both Ted and Linda glanced up at their precocious nineteen-year-old daughter Britta. One year beyond high school graduation, she still lived with them. She glanced over the balcony, naked except for a pair of lacy panties.

Linda said, "Britta! Put some clothes on."

Britta pranced back to her room, returning with one of her father's starched white shirts over the panties.

"Hot date, Dad?"

Britta's jesting implication caused Linda's gaze to return to the pot on the stove. Ted didn't seem to mind.

"I have an important meeting at the bank, young lady."

"Even Gramps wouldn't call a meeting on a night like this."

"Your grandfather may own the bank, but he doesn't run it any longer. I'm president now. I call the meetings when I see fit."

"Whoa!" Britta squealed.

"Have you done your homework?"

"I graduated a year ago, Mom. Remember?"

"Just being facetious."

"I have a date tonight with Freddy."

"You can't go out in this awful weather. I won't allow it."

"I'm nineteen. I make my own decisions now. Remember?"

"As long as you live here you should as least listen to your mother."

"Dad, will you please tell her to stuff it?"

Ted glanced at his watch before replying. After winking at his daughter, he said, "Britta's a grown woman. Cut her a little slack."

"Thanks, Dad," Britta said, blowing him a kiss and disappearing into her room before Linda could protest.

Ted cracked the curtain and peeked out the window.

"Can you fix me a drink?" he said.

Linda swallowed her annoyance on the way to the liquor cabinet, pouring one for each of them. She touched his hand when she gave him the vodka.

"You know I don't sleep well when you're away."

Ted returned to the window, ignoring her distress. "How did the weather turn so bad, so fast? The sun was out when I left the office."

Drifting snow had already begun piling up against fences and houses. "Blue Norther," she said.

Ted saluted the snow with a raised glass. "Got that right,"

"See how bad it's getting? Please stay home tonight."

She returned to the kitchen without an answer. Linda was different from her daughter. Soft and silky smooth compared with Britta's lithe body and her all-over tan. Long, bottle-lightened hair draped her shoulders. Britta's hair was short and surfer girl blond. Britta was a chatterbox, Linda introverted to the point of angering her husband.

"At least eat something before you go."

Rattling ice in his glass, he just stared out the window. "Maybe. If the weather doesn't get any worse."

The ringing of Britta's cell phone interrupted their conversation, and she returned to the banister. "Guess I'm staying home tonight. Freddy's battery is dead."

"Good," Linda said. "At least I won't be all alone."

They all turned to look when someone knocked on the front door. Ted opened it, finding a tall stranger waiting in the doorway.

"Help you?"

"Car broke down, and I lost my cell phone in the snow. Mind if I use your phone to call for help?"

"Let the poor man in and close the door," Linda called from the kitchen.

Moving aside, Ted watched him remove his gloves and blow his hands to warm them. The young man's clean-cut good looks calmed any distress Linda may have had as she took his coat and pointed to the kitchen.

"Warm yourself by the stove. You look half frozen."

Britta shattered her concentration when she hurried downstairs to see who was there.

"Now I'm glad Freddy has a dead battery," she said, staring at the handsome stranger.

Ted frowned. "Britta, put some clothes on."

Britta frowned but trotted back upstairs as Linda followed the man into the kitchen.

"Coffee or hot tea?"

Looking at her drink glass, he said, "I'd rather have what you're drinking."

Feeling an inexplicable attraction to him, she turned to the liquor cabinet to mix another drink.

"What do you drink?" she asked.

"Scotch, neat, if you have it."

"The phone is by the coffee pot," she said as she handed him the drink.

Without taking his eyes off her, he raised his glass in a silent toast. It brought an inexplicable flush to Linda's cheeks.

"Phone's dead," he said.

"Can't be," Linda said, concern replacing her facial flush. "Britta just had a call."

"On her cell phone," Ted said, walking up from behind.

Linda jumped. Regaining her composure, she called upstairs.

"Britta, is your phone working?"

"No bars. Sorry."

"Mine's not working either in this lousy weather," Ted said. "Guess you're out of luck. Sorry, we can't help."

Britta called from the banister. "Dad can take him into town. Invite the poor man to dinner, Mom."

"Pardon my rudeness. Will you have dinner with us?" Linda asked.

"Why not?" he said, his smile warming Linda's neck.

"Then make yourself comfy. My pot roast is almost ready."

The stranger smiled again. This time, Ted noticed how it flustered her. She turned away, averting his frown.

"How rude of me not to introduce ourselves. I'm Linda Stevenson, and this is my husband, Ted. The sassy young lady is my daughter, Britta."

For an awkward moment, the man continued staring at her as he squeezed her hand.

"I'm Dan Savage," he finally said.

"I'm going upstairs and try the weather band," Ted said.

"Well," Linda said. "Guess we'll soon find out about the highways. Dinner won't be long."

She smiled when she heard the rattling thump of logs added to the barren fireplace. Feeling almost guilty, she peeked through the door. As if he'd felt her gaze, Savage gave her a look that made her weak in the knees.

"Thought I'd heat things up," he said.

Before she could reply, Ted rushed down the stairs, bundled in coat and gloves.

"Can't wait for dinner. Got to go now. Storm's worsening by the minute. I'll drive you into town, Mr. Savage."

Dan Savage placed the last log in the fireplace and grabbed his coat hanging by the front door. Before he could button up, Britta rushed up from the basement.

"Wait, Daddy. We have a broken pipe downstairs."

Ted banged the door with his clenched fist. "You can't be serious."

"No need missing your appointment," Savage said. "I'm handy with things. I'll fix it for you."

"Fantastic! You go ahead, Dad," Britta said. "Mr. Savage can repair the pipe and then stay the night in the spare bedroom. You can give him a ride into town tomorrow."

Ted glare revealed his inner turmoil. After glancing at the cut of Savage's clothes and hair, he decided he was no ax murderer.

"Great. I'll take you into town tomorrow."

He kissed Britta's forehead, ignoring Linda's folded arms as he went out the front door without a backward glance.

"Show me the pipe," Savage said, interrupting the moment.

Britta led him to the basement. Despite Linda's concern, she experienced an almost forgotten flush of sexual excitement. The feeling embarrassed her as she returned to the kitchen.

Unable to shake her growing sexual fantasy for the young man, she fixed him another drink and took it to the basement. She almost dropped it when she saw his bare chest. Stripped to the waist, he was making final adjustments on an exposed pipe. Britta, sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, was also watching Savage's every move.

"Thought you might need this," Linda said.

Sweat trickled down Savage's muscled rib cage. Unnerved by his physical presence, she had trouble averting her gaze.

"Thanks," he said.

Savage stood six inches taller than Linda, had a strong jaw, thick brown hair and probably fifteen years younger. After tipping back the glass, he touched the icy surface to his forehead.

"Fixed," he said.

"You are good!" Britta squealed, wrapping her slender arms around his neck.

Linda's face flushed, jealousy her only emotion as she watched Savage and Britta embrace.

"Follow me, Mr. Savage, I'll show you the guest bedroom. You can shower, and I'll find some of my husband's clothes."

"Call me Dan," he said, untangling from Britta and following Linda up the stairs, into the spare bedroom.

"Towels are in the cabinet. Take your time."

Linda waited in the kitchen for twenty minutes before selecting a shirt and pants from her husband's closet. Returning to the guest bedroom, she tapped on the door and then entered without waiting for a reply.

Through the cracked bathroom door, she heard Savage humming a silly tune. She eased it open; senses sharpened as she stared into the steam-filled room, her eyes focusing on his hazy shape. Standing with his back to her, he stared in the mirror, shaving cream on his face and razor in his hand. She watched his naked backside until he stopped humming and turned around.

"See something you like?"

Linda's face flushed bright red. After dropping Ted's clothes to the floor, she hurried out of the bathroom.

"Dinner in ten minutes," she said.

Twenty minutes later, Savage joined her in the kitchen. Though Ted's shirt and pants were too small, he didn't seem to mind.

"Britta," she called. "Dinner is ready."

Wearing a sexy blouse and tight leather skirt, Britta danced into the dining room. "Where you from, Dan?" she asked.

"Here and there," he said, ladling corn from a bowl. "Mostly there."

Britta giggled, and Linda smiled. When they finished eating, Britta went upstairs, and Savage helped Linda with the dishes. They were soon together in the living room, basking in the warmth of the fireplace.

"Does your husband always have meetings on Friday night?"

Savage's question earned him a nervous titter from Linda. "I've wondered that myself."

"The answer?"

Reclining on the couch, knees bent, she rested her head in her palms. The posture caused her skirt to ride up on her thighs. She straightened when she realized Savage was staring at her legs.

"Sorry," Savage said with a smile.

Linda's face was on fire, but it felt good and she realized she didn't want it to stop burning.

"Britta says he's having an affair," she said.

"Is he?"

"Probably. I'll get you something to sleep in tonight."

"I usually sleep in the buff," he said

Linda ignored his comment and Savage stretched out on the couch as she hurried upstairs. He was grinning when she returned.

"You're bigger than Ted," she said, handing him the robe and pajamas.

He winked as he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. "Your husband has excellent taste. I can sleep naked if they don't fit."

Savage's words seared Linda's soul. Flushing with sexual warmth, she waited ten minutes. When he didn't return, she went to her bedroom, shutting the door but leaving it unlocked. Her body blazed as she squirmed beneath the sheets. She finally got out of bed and drew open the curtains.

The storm had more than arrived. She watched, perspiration beading her forehead as drifting snow piled up against the house. After returning to bed, she slipped into a restless dream, returning her to the shower scene:

A steamy mist filled the room as Savage reached for her hand. When he touched her breasts, she awoke, tangled in the sheets and needing a drink. Not bothering with robe and slippers, she arose to get one. On her way to the stairs, she found something amiss.

Ted's office door was open. Peering inside, she switched on the desk lamp. Papers lay scattered on the floor. His floor safe stood open and empty. With trembling fingertips to stifle a scream, she touched her open mouth.

"My God!"

When Linda discovered Ted's gun was missing, her hands began to tremble. She hurried to the guest bedroom and pushed open the door. She gasped when she heard the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking. Not only had the brazen stranger stolen their money, but he was raping her daughter. She reached for the light switch.

"Stop it now, you monster!"

Britta sat bolt upright,  shock on her pretty face. Savage grinned.

"Mother, how could you?" Britta said.

"Get out of that bed," Linda yelled. "Now!"

Grabbing Britta's arm, she yanked her to the floor. Britta curled up in a ball to hide her nudity.

"Thief! How could you rob us and then rape my daughter?"

"You kidding me, lady? The little bitch loves it."

"You're a liar," she said, scratching and flailing with arms and fists as he blocked her blows. When he slapped her and shoved her against the wall, she sank to the floor, wiping tears from her eyes and blood from a split lip.

Britta sobbed as she lay crumpled in a naked heap beside the bed. Savage wiped the blood from three parallel scratches on his face. Linda crawled across the floor to her daughter. When she tried to put her hands on her shoulders, Britta wrenched away.

"How could you do this to me?" she said.

"Britta, you don't understand. This man is a thief."

"You only want him for yourself," Britta said, her tears returning.

"That's not true."

"I hate you," Britta cried. "Just like Daddy hates you."

Slamming the door behind her, she ran out of the room leaving her mother alone to glare at the thief on the bed.

"I'm calling the police."

Savage laughed, and it chilled her. "Phone's dead. Remember?"

"It was you that cut the line." Savage didn't answer. "How did you know about the money and jewels we keep in the house?"

"Maybe you should ask Britta."

Linda froze. "What do you mean?"

"You think I just met her tonight? We've been going at it like cats in heat for a month. We're taking the money and blowing this burg."

"Liar!"

"Am I? How do you think I managed the broken pipe in the basement?"

Feeling dizzy, Linda sank to the floor as he got dressed. She followed him out of the bedroom and down the stairs where Britta was waiting, suitcase packed. Savage grabbed his coat and opened the front door as the icy wind filled the hallway with blowing snow.

Linda grabbed Britta's elbow. "Where are you going?"

Britta shook loose from her grasp. "Away from you."

"What will I tell your father?"

Pivoting on her heels, Britta said, "Don't bother. He'll know why I left."

"Please stop," Linda begged as her daughter trudged through the snow.

Britta kept walking. Linda followed her into the brunt of the storm. When they reached a car parked on the street, Savage tossed the suitcase into the backseat. Linda grabbed Britta's arm, but she pulled away and climbed into the passenger seat, locking the door behind her. Banging on the window, Linda pleaded with her.

Savage tried cranking the engine until it became apparent the battery was dead. Britta led him to the garage. Minutes later, Linda's silver Mercedes screamed away through the misty darkness, Linda chasing, barefooted through the snow, after them.

***

Ted Stevenson returned next morning, easing his car into the driveway. In front of the house was a red Chevrolet, hood, and windows covered with snow, he hadn't noticed when he left. He also saw something else.

It was Linda, on her knees on the front porch dressed only in her sexy nightgown. Crystals of ice coating her body glistened like broken glass in the morning sunlight. One frozen hand clutched the door handle in a deadly embrace. Paralyzed by horror, Ted stared at her pallid face.

An ironic smile lay frozen on her lips. Her eyes seemed to move, but it was only a frosty reflection. Rushing upstairs to check on Britta, he abandoned her to death's eternity and the frozen kiss of the departed blue Norther.

END

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.

New Cover for Upcoming Book RIVER ROAD

This is the cover for my upcoming book River Road (hopefully out by December). It will be the 5th book in my French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans.
Wonderful cover artists HigginsRoss of Lowell, MA used many elements from the story. It features Ashland Plantation in the background where several movies including The Beguiled and Long Hot Summer were filmed. The cover model wears a gold medallion from the 1948 Krewe of Rex. Hope you like it!

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Eric Wilder is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series. Please check out more of Eric's writing on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBook author pages