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Packard pointed the gun at Barnett and pulled the hammer back. It clicked as loud as the hasp on a cheap casket.

"No," Barnett gasped. "I'll pay..."

"Goddamn right you'll pay," Packard said, tight-lipped.

Then he shot him once in the chest.

Barnett's body jerked backwards from the force of the bullet and his eyes widened in surprise and he sank over to the floor. He clutched his chest with both hands and blood leaked out of his body onto the white shag carpeting. He groaned and then lay still.

Mona stared, aghast, at Barnett, and felt something warm and wet on her leg. She looked down. My God, she thought, she was wetting herself. She clutched herself, stopping the stream. She looked in wonder at the small puddle on the carpet. She breathed harshly through her mouth.

Packard turned to her. "Back in the bedroom," he growled. His eyes were narrowed, leering at her. Numbly she turned and walked back down the hall and into the bedroom. Packard followed her, grabbing the whiskey bottle as they went through the living room. Sasha, the dog, was peeking out from beneath the bed and Packard kicked at it and it yelped and disappeared down the hall.

It had been a long time since Packard had had a white girl. He put his gun on the dresser and took another pull at the bottle. He held the bottle out to Mona. "Want a hit?"

"No," she said in a small voice.

"Better take one. Ya might need it." Packard chuckled.

She looked back at him in fear and loathing.

Packard grinned and took another drink. He lay his .38 on the dresser along with the gun he’d taken from Barnett and then he kicked his boots off, unbuckled his belt, unsnapped his jeans and let them fall around his feet. He stepped out of them. He wore no underwear. His body was lean and sinewy and scarred. He hadn't washed since before he'd left Texas.

Mona backed up, cowering against the wall, and Packard grabbed a handful of dyed hair and slapped her, hard, across the mouth, and pulled her to him. Blood welled up on her lip and he kissed her, grinding his mouth into hers, tasting the saltiness of her blood. She tried to shrink back into the wall, away from him. He smelled of sweat and hate, and his manhood prodded up against her. He threw her onto the bed and ripped off her wet panties. He held them to his nose.

"Peed yourself, huh?" He rolled her over on her stomach and slapped her bare ass a few times. "Naughty girl." He slapped until her ass was red. She clenched her jaws and fought back tears.

Packard grabbed her hips with both hands and hoisted her up so that she was on her knees with her butt in the air. "You like it up the ass, don'tchou, you fuckin' whore," he growled.

In desperation, Mona drew up her right leg and then kicked back as hard as she could. She connected with Packard's erection, bending it back against his belly. He screamed in pain and slid off the end of the bed and crashed onto the floor. Mona scrambled up, snatched his gun off the dresser and pointed it at him and pulled the trigger.

Mona had never fired a gun any bigger than a lady's purse weapon and the recoil of Packard's .38 sent her arm back and the bullet went harmlessly into the wall.

"You goddamn bitch," Packard snarled between clenched teeth, getting up painfully and lunging toward her.

She backed up and fired again, using two hands this time. The bullet took a piece of meat off the top of his shoulder, and blood splattered into the air. Mona's back was up against the wall now. She fired another shot as Packard crashed into her and they collapsed in a heap on the floor.

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My eBooks

I wrote some books all by myself that you might be interested in if you like country music, steel guitar, the 60's and/or mysteries.

Steel Guitar Insanity, the book

My latest book. A compilation of the blog of the same name. Buy now.

 

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My 2nd ebook: The Beast From the Back of the Bus

A musician procedural. What it's like to be on tour through Texas with a murderous White Supremacist on your trail.

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My first ebook, a mystery, available at Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and the the Sony Reader Store.

Hot Rods, girls, music and murder from 1963. More at Chevy Summer.

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