Christopher Ryan has written supernaturally-tinged crime thrillers, a high school thriller, and a timely, darkly comedic thriller about a depressed comedian who accidentally starts a national rebellion. (www.chrisryanwrites.com)
It was the denim thigh high boots that made him stop.
Rising from stiletto heels, skin tight and showing off shapely calves, ending just above the knees, drawing the eye to gorgeously muscular thighs, and an outrageously micro mini skirt.
A huge purse on a long strap led his eyes to her tube top, which was struggling with its responsibilities.
Dark curls cascaded over her shoulders, framing slightly parted lips, high cheekbones and, finally, ice-cold eyes flashing under long bangs.
“Get in.”
Kennon, who was about twice her age, paunchy, and gray at the temples, meant to sound commanding, but when she leaned those bombers down toward the window, his voice cracked.
She did, flashing the barest of G-strings. Didn’t say a word. That made Kennon nervous.
“If this is a set up, it’s entrapment.”
Her laugh was laced with utter dismissal as she reached for the door.
“Wait,” he pleaded.
She leveled those mesmerizing North Pole eyes at him and cocked an eyebrow, nodding toward the street.
Kennon lurched the car forward, got his driving under control, tried for a casual tone. “So, what do I call you?”
“Penelope.”
“I can work with that.” Kennon nodded his coolest nod, steering with his left hand, dropping his right onto her knee like a vulture onto road kill. “So, Penny—”
“Penelope.”
“We’ll go to the Winst—”
“The Bilson. Next right.”
He gave her thigh a squeeze to show he was the boss. “Look, hotness, I’m paying—”
“I was warned you’d be like this.”
“What?”
Lighting fast, she pulled his hand off her thigh, yanking him toward her as she drove her left elbow into his Adam’s apple.
Penelope took the wheel as Kennon clutched his throat. Easily kicking his foot off the gas, she eased down on the brake, made a right into an alley, coasted to a stop.
Kennon sucked air, confused eyes bulging at her.
“Gotta know how business is done,” Penelope said, looking though her huge purse. She pulled out a little baggy containing an inhaler. “This is what you need.”
Penelope opened the bag. Kennon snatched the inhaler from it, wrapped his lips around it, inhaling deeply as he pressed down on the pump with his thumb.
The screech he emitted was barely human. Kennon’s breathing became desperate yawks and wheezes, arms flailing, legs pumping, seatbelt keeping him in place.
“Now your wife? That babe knows how to conduct business,” Penelope continued, removing colored contacts to reveal big brown eyes. She dropped the fakes in her large bag. “Made contact through a safe agent, showed pictures of you cheating on her repeatedly. She even filled your spare inhaler with chemicals you are so fatally allergic to.”
Penelope wiped off the make-up that created the high cheekbones.
“She knows you so well; the denim fetish, the thing for thigh highs and mini skirts, your obsession with big breasts — clear your search history, dude,” Penelope said, pulling large falsies out of her tube top and dropping them in that bag of hers, followed by the wig. “She even knew where you liked to pick up pros.”
Penelope was actually a petite brunette.
Kennon, throat swollen, suffocating now, could only look at Penelope with burning eyes.
“Smart woman, your wife,” she smiled. “Chemical engineer, right? Pretty cool. And she’ll win her impending lawsuit against the pharmaceutical company that, evidence will suggest, produced your fatally bad batch of medicine. Your wrongful death will make her millions.”
Kennon lunged for her throat. Penelope easily slapped his weakening arms away.
“No time for foreplay,” she laughed, tossing the boots in the bag, pulling on loose-laced purple Cons, “I gotta get out of this alley before my friend turns the Bilson’s security cameras back on.”
She climbed out of the passenger side, pulled an oversized hoodie from her bag. It came down to her knees, covering everything, including the bag. Now she looked like a tiny college freshman. “Your wife says, “Die, you predatory bastard,” Penelope said, and then bopped on back to the street as Kennon’s death rattle escaped unheard.
~ fin ~
Christopher Ryan has written supernaturally-tinged crime thrillers, a high school thriller, and a timely, darkly comedic thriller about a depressed comedian who accidentally starts a national rebellion. (www.chrisryanwrites.com)
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