Our challenge this week at Terrible Minds was to look at a list of names of “Dirty-Ass Sex Moves” and use one of the names as our title. The story doesn’t have to include the sex move (thank God, because some of them really are dirty-ass) and we have no word count limit. Enjoy.
I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Someone touched my hand, so solid, real, and caressed it. I could feel his callouses.
I snapped awake.
My right arm was draped over the side of the bed. I could still feel the ghostly touch of the hand, as if it still held mine.
Whispers; I could still hear them.
I sat up in bed and glanced around. I saw no source of the voice, so I turned on the lamp and crawled out of the sheets. No one hiding behind the foot of the bed. I crouched down. No one beneath it, either.
And the whispers hushed.
Goosebumps erupted on my arms, prompting me to climb back into the warmth of my blankets.
“Make sure the invoice shows both the deposit, and balance due,” my boss was saying, later that day. I couldn’t pay attention, though. The voice was still with me.
I had not heard it with my ears since the previous evening, but in my mind it continued to whisper its nonsensical words.
When my boss stared at me expectantly, waiting for an answer, I shook the voice away and murmured, “I know.”
I was eating lunch with a friend. The waiter had just placed my salad before me. He did not smile, but merely watched me. He was gorgeous, not dark skinned but dark nonetheless. Can’t describe it. His serious features fixated on me as though I were meant to understand the words he was speaking through his eyes.
And then he walked away.
“What was up with him?” my friend asked with a smirk. “Looked like he wanted to eat you alive.”
I shivered. “Don’t know.” I glanced at the waiter and he back. We locked eyes and my stomach flipped in angst.
As he looked away, the voice returned.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“Yeah, they’re talking about this girl they took home last night.”
I looked around. “What are you talking about? Who?”
My friend nodded her head in indication of the table to our left.
“Oh, right,” I murmured. She couldn’t hear the same voice I was hearing. There was something wrong with me.
I was sitting on a park bench, killing time before I had to go back to work, when a man sat down beside me. Wearing a business suit, he appeared as threatening as the waiter had been talkative—not at all. I glanced at him now and again as he read the paper.
“Goddamn it!” I exclaimed and buried my head in my hands.
And then I remembered that a man sat beside me. I lowered my hands.
Without raising his head, the man lifted his eyes and glanced sideways at me.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
He returned to his paper.
During the remainder of the day, I attempted to remember the words that circled my mind relentlessly. When I really thought about it, I realized that there were two voices, both male.
The phone rang five minutes before closing. I hesitated, wondering if I really wanted to deal with another client searching for $0.99 flights to Florida, and answered with the standard greeting.
Only, this time, it was stemming from a digital source.
The whispering continued in its senseless manner.
“Jill,” my boss said, “who is it?”
I shook my head.
“Jill…” the voices whispered. “Who is it? Jill? Who is it?” and they continued in their foreign language.
I slammed down the telephone receiver. “Wr—wrong number.”
The parking garage was empty. I didn’t like this time of day. Seven o’clock. Everyone had gone home. The travel agency was the only office still open until this time of night, so few vehicles remained in the lot—mine, my boss’s, and a few belonging to janitors and security.
I hurried towards my car, chilled to the bone by the voices repeating my name, and fished the keys out of my purse.
I didn’t see the man before I bumped into him. I yelped in surprise and looked up.
It was the waiter. Only, he was now wearing an entirely black suit, black shirt, black tie, black shoes. He merely stared at me.
The feeling of dread in my stomach prompted me to turn away from the man, to run, but I only collided with another man, who appeared from out of nowhere. The man from the park bench; blond, goatee, as handsome as the first.
But good looks did not mean good intentions.
“What do you want?” I cried, turning back to the waiter.
The whispers. But the mouths of the men did not move.
“Is it you?” I asked, trying now to retreat from the pair of men closing in on me.
The man from the park bench extended his arm in an order to stop what I was doing. I backed into the hood of a beat up old Jetta.
The waiter glanced at the blond man and whispered something I could not understand.
The blond man nodded.
That was when I heard the screech of tires as they manoeuvred through the garage. I could tell that the vehicle was coming from the floor above me, heading towards the exit.
I saw the car come around the corner. It was a Ford Explorer, my boss’s, and I suddenly felt a surge of hope. I don’t know how she had made it here ahead of me, but it wasn’t entirely illogical, considering I had been stalled by these men.
I hurried towards the vehicle as it approached.
“Help me!” I cried. I stepped in its path, knowing my boss had more than enough time to slow.
But this vehicle did not slow.
That was when I saw that it was not her behind the wheel but a man with a baseball cap. He was barrelling down on me full speed. As it rocked on its wheels, glass fragments fell from the driver’s side window onto the pavement. The vehicle had been stolen.
I had no time to get out of the way. Neither did the men.
The next thing I remember was waking up on my back, agony roaring through my body, my breath difficult to attain. I was staring up at the ceiling of the parking garage, the smell of stale exhaust fumes still in my nose.
The waiter leaned over me. So did the man from the park bench.
“How—?” I croaked but the waiter shook his head.
They began to whisper to one another.
The blond man, also wearing all black, leaned close to my face and set his lips on my forehead. The words he spoke after that, I suddenly understood.
“Time?” I murmured. “Am… I dying?”
“Pl—se… T—ll me.”
“Spare this one,” the blond man whispered.
The waiter nodded.
And then he kissed my lips.
When his touched mine, darkness overwhelmed my vision. Flashbacks of the past day streaked before my eyes at an unbearable speed. The last one lingered for just a second. It was of my dream the previous evening, the hand touching my own…
I snapped awake to find myself in bed, the clock reading 1:11am.
It had been a dream. I pulled my arm back into bed, and felt my hand. My heart pounded in fury as I remembered the nightmare. I had never experienced one so realistic.
I needed a drink of water.
Climbing out of bed, the whispers returned.
“It was the right thing,” one voice murmured. “We couldn’t let her die.”
“She will make a fine escort.”
“Her beauty surpasses that of the average human, so it is only appropriate.”
I swallowed and my heart pounded harder. I hurried to the washroom. I needed to splash water on my face, wake up. This wasn’t happening. I was still dreaming. I flicked on the light and turned on the tap, then cupped cool water into my hand and drank from it. Huffing, I looked into the mirror, and I jumped.
My skin had never been so clear, smooth. My hair shone, it’s auburn colour more of a fiery red. I had never looked so beautiful.
My heart thundered in my chest.
And then the men from my dream stepped into the bathroom with me. The blond man stood to my left and the waiter to my right. They watched me through the mirror.
“What happened to me?” I asked through trembling lips.
“You’re one of us now,” the waiter said, no longer whispering.
“One of what?” I cried.
“An angel,” the man from the park bench replied.
© Lindsay Mawson 2011