Unintended Consequences

There was more than a hint of trouble when she showed up at the motel twenty minutes late, without make-up and wearing workout clothes. He had been pacing the room, measuring his fear of his live-in girlfriend discovering his transgression with this woman, which had begun as a crazy, innocent romp resulting from some flirting at a party that grew into drinks after work, then from a casual kiss in the parking lot to full-blown necking in the car behind the building to a rendezvous in this same cheap motel outside of town on an interstate exit. They both agreed in advance it was just one time, that it was a simple desire to take the lust to the next level, consummate the passion that inflamed them and part as friends who’d had benefits.

He’d been fine with that approach, which they had discussed calmly and rationally one afternoon while sitting on a park bench. He had again admired her cool demeanor, her stated belief in the nature of the world and the necessity of taking things as they presented themselves rather than risk missing a moment in your life. For him, it was more about the moment he would have her naked, the things they would do to each other. So it had been signed, sealed and finally delivered in a motel room reeking of a maid’s cheap perfume and ammonia, accompanied by a decent wine indecently splashed into complimentary plastic cups.

The sex, saluted by her as a joining of souls in a moment of intensity, had proven to be more than acceptable for him—though certain acts had not unfolded as fantasized—while she applauded him for his slavish devotion to her orgasm and thanked him for his willingness to hold her gently after the fact. They had parted with a simple and sweet kiss. He assumed, as agreed, that a moment of pleasure had been granted him that he could relive at his leisure. He assumed the same for her.

Until the first invitation to a second meeting that he ducked gracefully, but enjoying the idea he had obviously touched her in a special way. However, at the same time, he was dealing with the festering guilt of cheating on the woman he had deduced he truly loved, which convinced him he must not repeat the illicit act.

With the second and third suggestions, he managed to be noncommittal but pleasant. She, however, became slightly emotional during the telephone calls constituting the fourth, fifth and sixth requests for them to “get together for a nice time. You know, what can it hurt for us to enjoy ourselves?” He was tempted by the memory of her sleek body, her openness and willingness. But he steeled himself with thoughts of the woman who shared his life on a daily basis.

The seventh time was not an invitation, suggestion or request. It was a flat-out demand that he meet her that afternoon in the same motel because they had to “talk about all this.” And pointedly suggested it would not be good if he failed to show up.

He did show up, gnawed by a counterpoint of fear and anger. He failed to comprehend why she couldn’t honor the bargain as he had, but assumed he was going to find out. Her tardiness and disordered appearance unsettled him immediately.

“I want you to know I understand I’m a victim of my own imagination, my own desire for a relationship,” she said to him, both standing in the middle of the room, the bed a lurking presence. She then launched into a detailed account of her life to date, leading to an inability to get close to anyone—until he came along, treated her with respect and kindness. It had shaken her soul, she confessed.

He felt the chill, but also anger. “Look, I appreciate you sharing all this with me, but we agreed on how things had to be. You knew this was only going to be a one-time thing. In fact, I’m pretty sure that was your suggestion.”

“I accept that,” she said. “But things changed.”

“But not for me.”

She eyeballed him. “You mean if I stripped right now and told you to do anything you want to me, you wouldn’t?”

He nodded. “That’s right. I’d leave.”

Her voice took on a menacing edge. “Then I guess there are several ways this could go. I could kill myself.”

That jolted him. “Now, come on,” he said, a little shaky. “That’s not you.”

She shrugged. “You don’t really know me. Maybe it is. Or I could kill you. Or your girlfriend. Or you, and then kill myself. Or your girlfriend, and then myself, leaving a note explaining why. Or I could kill you and your girlfriend, and then myself. Or I could kill your girlfriend and make it look like you did it. Or I could kill you and testify your girlfriend did it because she found out about us. Or maybe just you and your girlfriend because I’m a crazy bitch—but who’d know? You didn’t.”

His nerves were jangling. Before he could say anything, she said, “I bet right now you’re thinking about killing me yourself, aren’t you?”

He shook his head wildly.

“But wouldn’t that be the simple solution?”

“No,” he croaked.

Then she cackled, something harsh and rattling, and said, “Didn’t you tell me you have a dog?”

He almost laughed himself at the sudden absurdity of it all. “Yeah, I have a dog. Why?”

“Maybe I’ll just kill your dog,” she said flatly. “Or maybe I already have.”

She put a hand in her oversized purse, pulled out a paper bag and tossed it on the bed. She smiled a crazy smile, turned and walked out, closing the door gently. He slumped onto the edge of the bed, legs quivering. The bag slid down the slope of the mattress, ending against his back, and he shivered.

BIO: Gary Carter’s newest novels are Not Dark Yet and Snake Bit. Based in North Carolina, his poetry and short fiction have appeared in Nashville Review, Sky Island Journal, Deep South Magazine, Real South/West, Steel Toe Review, Santa Barbara Literary Journal, Dead Mule, Delta Poetry Review and Main Street Rag. A former journalist, he also contributes nonfiction pieces to print and online pubs, as well as selling a little real estate on the side.

Website: https://gecarterwriter.com/

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