The words over at Three Word Wednesday are arresting, rhythmic and wicked.
I wake in a nondescript room and by the looks through the gloom, I've come to in a cheap motel near the airport.
My hand is on fire.
The pinkie finger on my right hand is missing at the second knuckle; the stump has been cauterized by something hot, metallic.
The steel bracelet of a handcuff circles my left wrist, the other bracelet dangles open like a fishhook.
Spread across the other double bed is a arresting brunette, her hair swept over her face, her feet dangle off the bed. Crimson lipstick is smudged like a bruise across one cheek.
I put two fingers to her neck, breath a sigh of relief when I find the rhythmic thump of a pulse.
Slumped in the shoddy motel chair is a body of a man. He’s dressed in a cheap, shiny suit, a wicked, ragged hole open at the temple. Dried blood makes a Rorschach pattern across the drapes, and all I can see in it is trouble.
There’s no need to check for a pulse, this guy’s 86’ed.
The babe on the bed stirs, arches her back, rakes slim fingers through the tangle of hair.
“Sergei,” she purrs. “Baby, come back to bed.”
My name is not Sergei.
I wake with a nudge, in bed with a paperback novel spread across my chest.
“Baby,” my wife says, “you were snoring again.”