SO I ALMOST MARRIED A HIT MAN

By Greg Emerson

thedistresser1963@yahoo.com

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

“What did you bring me to wear? Where are my clothes that you brought?”

Travis was perusing his newspaper; Brick was in the shower.

“Over there,” he said, nodding to the dresser. “Second drawer down on the left.”

I opened it and found tops and bottoms neatly folded.

“I’m impressed. You didn’t just shove them in there any old way,” I said.

“I’m not a heathen,” he said.

I opened my mouth to make what he knew would be a snide remark, so he said, “Not a word.”

I smirked.

I selected a soft cotton, baby blue v-neck shirt, short-sleeved; almost like a glorified t-shirt. It didn’t quite make it to my waist, which was typical of many of my informal shirts. I showed my belly button a lot, I guess.

Travis had brought my denim skirt, which was fortuitous. So that would be my outfit for the day.

“Tell me you brought shoes,” I said, even though going barefoot was my preference. Sooner or later I would have to wear something on my feet.

“Sandals and flip-flops,” he said, not looking at me. “Bottom drawer.”

Sure enough, there was a pair of flip-flops and the sandals he used to call my “sexy sandals,” so named because they were almost like flip-flops; there wasn’t much to them and they were flat. The only thing that kept them from being flip-flops was the thin strap that went behind the heel of the foot.

“You did pretty good,” I said. “You brought a good selection of clothes and stuff.”

“I paid attention,” Travis said.

Just not the right kind of attention, I thought ruefully.

I was allowed a shower and as usual, I took my time with it. I let the water pound my body. I hadn’t eaten yet and so my tummy growled; I could hear it above the shower spray.

I thought about the day ahead. I didn’t want to, but it was impossible to ignore. I just kept thinking positive thoughts. I kept thinking that I would do fine and that Travis would keep his promise and keep me out of harm’s way.

Without the accessories of bondage, that is.

I washed my hair this time, but just ran a brush through it and let it air dry. I liked that look sometimes, because it gave me a curl to my tresses that I desired on occasion.

I dabbed on some makeup—eye shadow, blush and a little mascara. I put on some pink matte lipstick. It didn’t appear that Travis was going to gag me anytime soon, so I thought I’d take advantage and wear some lip color.

I slipped the v-neck over my head and wiggled into the skirt, which came down about mid-thigh. I kept my feet bare; I’d slip into the sandals when we had to leave.

When I emerged from the bathroom, the men were huddled over the laptop, on one of the beds.

I cleared my throat to get their attention.

Whatever they were looking at was put on pause as the men turned to me.

I could see by their facial expressions that I met with their approval; Travis’s eyes twinkled as he looked me over, and Brick nodded slowly.

I did a twirl for them.

“How do I look? I feel human again,” I said.

“Nice,” Travis said.

“VERY nice,” Brick added.

I smiled.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

The transition was being made, I felt, from me being captive to being accomplice, and the latter was a much better feeling.

I was allowed to sit in the chair without being taped to it. My mouth wasn’t gagged.

I treasured every moment of this new feeling.

It was unspoken, however, that I shouldn’t make noise or try to escape, but at least I was trusted enough to censor myself.

It was nearly 8:30 a.m.

“When can I call my mom?” I asked, twirling some hair between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand.

Travis looked at his watch.

“When does she wake up?”

“Oh, she’s probably awake by now—especially since she’s expecting my call,” I said.

I looked toward the laptop.

“What are you guys watching?”

The men looked at each other.

Travis said, “We took video yesterday. Just looking it over.”

I nodded. “So, you guys really are like spies or secret agents or something,” I said, and I was kind of impressed, actually.

Travis said, “It’s not like what you see on TV. A lot of this job is boring.”

“Come talk to me,” I said to the men, tapping the table on either side of me, where empty chairs sat.

When they didn’t move right away, I arched a brow and said huskily, “I promise I won’t bite.”

The laptop was closed and the men ambled over.

I grinned.

“You’re in a good mood,” Brick said.

I shrugged. “I’m just glad to not be taped up and gagged. Makes me feel special. A girl takes whatever she can get sometimes.”

Travis said, “Well, you know the rules. If you violate them, the deal’s off.”

I rolled my eyes and said, “Yes, sir! Aye-aye captain.”

I paused and added, “Seriously—are we done with the duct tape?”

I could tell that Travis didn’t want to commit to something he didn’t feel he could uphold, so it didn’t surprise me when he said, “For now, yes. But I can’t predict the future, Lauren.”

I sighed, slightly disappointed. But again, I understood.

Travis let me call my mom at 8:45-ish, and that went well. I had fooled the poor woman to the hilt. I told her that, while I felt better, I was still staying home from work.

And I told her that I’d call her, so she wouldn’t risk waking me from a slumber in my weakened state.

Poor woman. She had no idea.

The men spent most of the morning writing down notes, looking at video, and making hushed phone calls—some of which were placed outside.

I whiled my time away by watching TV, reading the TV Guide provided, and taking a short nap.

I didn’t sleep long; too excited.

It was pushing 11:30 when Travis nudged me awake.

“OK, sleepyhead—put on your game face.”

It took me a moment to gather my thoughts and be coherent again.

Still my first word was, “Hmmmff?” as if I was still gagged. My mouth wasn’t working yet.

“We have to be at our next location in an hour,” Travis said.

THAT got my attention.

I scrambled to a sitting position, yawned, stretched and ran my right hand through my hair.

“Where are we going? I mean, I assume I’m going too, right?” I asked, my voice stilted with hope and also dread.

“Yep, you’re going, too,” Travis said, not sounding too thrilled about it.

I padded into the bathroom and peed, washed my hands, and brushed my hair. When I came out, the men were putting the few pieces of equipment they had used, away.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

I watched, hugging myself, as the men loaded the car with some of the equipment boxes, my purse, and a duffel bag.

Then it was time for the last piece of cargo.

Me.

Travis took hold of me by my left elbow, gently but firm enough for me to know that it would be advisable if I went along with him. Call it female intuition—and physical persuasion.

“Wait,” I said as I stumbled forward. “My sandals.”

Brick already was holding them, and handed them to me, smirking.

I returned the smirk and slid my feet into them, snapping the straps over my heels.

“OK,” I said, and I was between the men—Travis in front, Brick in back. And that’s how we marched out of the room and to the van.

Did I think, albeit briefly, about making a run for it?

You bet—but I wouldn’t have made it very far at all. Both men were trained, physically fit, and Travis especially moved like a cat. I was in flat sandals, practically barefoot, and I wouldn’t have made it more than a few feet before they’d have been upon me.

I was stashed in the backseat of Brick’s van—which was a big improvement over how I arrived at the motel in it, taped up and rolling around on the floor.

The men left me unrestrained, further indication that I was being trusted more, which was a necessity if I was going to help them in any way.

As we drove, Travis—behind the wheel—and Brick kept a close eye on me. I noticed Travis frequently glancing at me via his rearview mirror, and Brick wasn’t above occasionally peering at me over his left shoulder from the front passenger seat.

I don’t know what those guys thought I was going to do, but it was obvious that whatever it was, they weren’t about to let me do it.

I was a good girl. I kept my hands to myself, my mouth (mostly) shut, and I didn’t give the men a lick of trouble.

After about 30 minutes on freeway and surface streets, heading south and southwest of the motel—thus a tad closer to where my house was—Travis pulled the van into the parking lot of a strip mall, though a generous distance from the structure.

Brick was pulling something shiny from the glove box.

Travis said, “No offense. Just a precaution,” and with that, Brick handed him the shiny thing—a pair of police issue handcuffs.

My eyes widened.

“What are you going to do with those?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

Travis exited through his door and walked around to the side of the van, opening its sliding door.

As I watched nervously, Travis snapped one cuff around the armrest of the backseat bench and reached for my right wrist.

I pouted.

“Oh come on,” I protested.

“You’re being left alone,” Travis said, motioning with his fingers for me to surrender my wrist.

I sighed and thrust my right arm toward him, petulantly.

“Thank you,” he said with too much courtesy as he clicked the other cuff around my tapered wrist.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head, mildly disgusted.

I moved my arm back and forth, testing the cuffs, and sat back, looking straight ahead.

“How long will you guys be gone?” I said.

“Not long,” Travis said, and before I could pose a follow-up question, he was sliding the door shut, and Brick was already gone, too.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

It was early afternoon, in broad daylight, and I was handcuffed to the backseat inside Brick’s van.

I could have screamed my head off, because Travis hadn’t gagged me—I guess because he either thought I wouldn’t, or that no one would hear me.

Probably the latter. The windows were rolled up. The van I was in appeared to be at least 30, 40 yards from the nearest vehicle. A woman’s screams would never travel that far, through a closed-up van. And I wasn’t really close to any window, anyway.

Like I said, they left the windows rolled up, which you shouldn’t do in the summer even for a dog, much less a human being.

It got hot, fast.

They parked beneath a modicum of shade, but the temps had been running in the mid-to-high 80s all week, and today wasn’t any different.

I sat and waited, looking forlornly at my cuffed wrist. Such a simple device, yet so effective in keeping me from going anywhere.

I tried for a bit to slip my wrist and hand through the cuff, but it hurt and it was tight enough to prevent any wiggle room.

I looked around as much as I could from the backseat, trying to imprint as many landmarks and visuals onto my brain’s memory as possible, in case I would need to recall them later, or for whatever other reason where that recollection might come in handy.

Sweat beads were forming along my brow and just below my hairline. My cotton top started to feel damp. I was getting restless—and this was after less than ten minutes.

I considered shouting, but why? All it would have done was tire me out, make me feel even hotter, and not a soul would have heard me. I wasn’t gagged but my mouth was still useless in this situation.

I lost track of the men when they left me, so I have no idea in which direction they walked. My vantage point was significantly obstructed.

The strip mall was to my left; the van was facing perpendicular to it.

So when I heard approaching voices and, a split second later, the sound of the van’s side door being unlocked, I was startled, to say the least. I might have yelped.

Travis climbed in, followed closely by Brick. The door was slid closed behind them.

My eyes wide with wonder, I blurted, “Where the HELL have you guys been? It’s freaking hot in here!”

Travis placed his finger over his lips. “Settle down. It took longer than we thought, sorry.”

I frowned and yanked on my cuffed wrist for show. “Take this off me, please?”

Brick dutifully unlocked the cuff and I rubbed my wrist to relieve the still-existing pressure.

“So what did you guys do while you were gone?” I asked, more than mildly interested.

“We had to make sure the people we need to see are here,” Travis said. “Had to make sure it was safe to bring you in there.”

My eyes widened as I looked at the men, still rubbing my right wrist.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you and Brick came up with this idea for you to help,” Travis said. “So…here it is—your chance to help!”

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

“What, you don’t want to do it now?” Travis said, and he was pretty annoyed.

“No, no—I’ll do it,” I said in a small voice. “But…what is it that I have to do?”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

Travis explained, and Brick filled in the gaps.

Basically, they were going to bring me to the back room of a dry cleaners, where a group of men who do business with Morris Dowd would meet me, ask me some questions, and where I was to impress upon them my desire to meet Dowd in person.

My motivation? The story would be that my sister is an aspiring singer and actress and heard that Dowd could maybe help advance her career, through connections that he has.

The clandestine part, I was told, is because Dowd charges VERY high commission and uses “unorthodox” means to get women’s feet with dreams of stardom into the door, so to speak.

I didn’t want to know any more than that. In fact, I waved Travis silent when he tried to tell me more.

“This is so going against my better judgment, it’s not even funny,” I told Travis. “But if this means you’re out of my life as soon as possible, then let’s go for it.”

He had the audacity to appear hurt by my comment.

“Don’t sound so eager to get rid of me,” he said.

I looked at him, mouth agape.

“Travis, I’ve been held captive by you the whole weekend! What am I supposed to do, be longing for those days?”

“You just seem to be forgetting so easily the good times we had before,” he said.

I counted to ten.

“Please,” I said, “let’s just do this and get it over with.”

Travis said that this was just the first step. The next would be the actual face-to-face meeting with Dowd. I didn’t want to even think about that, but he was right—this was indeed a two-step process.

“I must look a mess,” I said. “I’ve been baking in this van.”

The windows were opened and I was allowed to freshen up, best I could. I dried the sweat off my brow, added some more blush, and swiped on another coat of lip color.

“How many men are in there?” I asked with trepidation. I wished I was dressed a little less scantily; my denim skirt was short and my sandals were just glorified flip-flops.

“I don’t know; six or seven,” Travis said.

I sighed.

“So it’ll be little old me and eight or nine oafs. Terrific,” I said. “I’m not liking those odds, Travis.”

“They won’t touch you,” he said, with conviction.

“Maybe it’s not them I’m worried about,” I said, sticking my tongue out at him.

The sun was bright and hot, just starting to sizzle with the early afternoon upon us. Travis returned my purse to me—sans cash and my pepper spray—and it was slung over my right shoulder.

The dry cleaners was about in the middle of the strip mall. It only took us a couple minutes to walk it, mainly because the men kept a brisk pace.

As we walked, I looked around, squinting because I didn’t have any shades. I don’t know what I was looking for. A police car would have been lovely, but it wasn’t to be. Naturally.

We entered the dry cleaners. Not surprisingly, the woman behind the counter was Asian. Travis didn’t speak; all he did was nod to the back of the store, and the woman lifted a portion of the counter that was hinged and waved us through.

We maneuvered through the racks of clothes. The whole place had that dry cleaners smell of fluids and starch and drying garments. It wasn’t unpleasant, just very prevalent.

The backroom was something out of a detective novel. There was a rectangular table, around which sat six men. Some were smoking, which I abhor. But at least the windows were propped open.

All the men were dressed in suits, though some more rumpled than others. I’d guess their ages ranged from mid-30s to early-50s.

They stopped talking when we entered, though I had the distinct feeling that they stopped talking because a woman entered.

All I know is that I felt 12 eyes on me—it was so obvious they were checking me out. It was like walking into a prison cell block.

The leader of the pack seemed to be the one sitting furthest from me. He also looked to be the oldest. He had thin, graying hair and a silver and black mustache. He stubbed out his cigarette and spoke.

“You must be the young lady Travis spoke of,” the man said, and his voice was pleasant enough, though a little hoarse—probably from smoking.

I looked at Travis, who nodded for me to respond.

I cleared my throat and said, “I guess that’s me. I hear you can help make girls’ dreams come true,” I added, along with a small, hopeful smile.

The man smirked. “Well, not me, exactly. But I can point you in the direction of the man who can,” he said, referring to Dowd.

I nodded. “Nothing wrong with taking a short cut or two, right?” I said, and a couple of the men chuckled softly. Mustache Man nodded.

He lit up another cigarette and said, “Are you the mark?”

The mark?

Oh—my sister!

I recovered and said, “No—my sister. She’s the one with all the talent in the family,” I said, grinning—and I was kind of liking this. It was like doing undercover detective work or something.

“Oh? I’d have thought it was you,” MM said.

Travis interjected, “I told you it was her sister,” and he sounded annoyed.

MM looked at Travis and gave him a lazy shrug.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t think she has some talent, too,” MM said.

He looked at me and said, “YOU don’t have any…’talent’?” and he literally made air quotes with his fingers upon saying the word “talent.”

I chuckled and said, “My talents shall remain private,” and the men liked that—their reactions ranged from cackles to hooting.

This was going smoother than I thought. In fact, I was pretty much digging it. My fears had vanished. The men weren’t going to gang rape me. I was holding my own in the repartee department.

Amazing what a girl can do when she isn’t gagged.