Welcome to the Call Me MAYbe Flash Fiction Challenge!!
All stories begin with "The phone rang" and are no more than 1,000 words. Deadline to submit is May 31. For full contest rules and prize list, visit this link: http://mystiparker.blogspot.com/2013/04/next-month-call-me-maybe-flash-fiction.html
#3: Talk Normal
Mickey J. Corrigan
The phone rang. Our eyes locked, held. Neither of us moved to answer it.
"Your cell," he said, his low voice a lionish purr. When I shrugged, he said, "Pick it up. Speak in your normal voice."
As if. There was no way I could chat with my mom, or arrange to meet one of my friends for a beer. Not while this man held a gun to my head. Not while this handsome hunk of a thug clutched my hair in his thick, dark fist.
"You need to let go of my hair," I said. My voice shook. Like it should, considering my circumstance. "Or put the gun away. I can't talk with you all over my head the way you are right now."
He snorted, but he dropped the tight hold he had on my curls. Immediately, my splitting headache receded. If only he'd take the handgun from my temple, I thought, I might feel like talking.
"Hello," I said without checking the readout. I had no idea who was calling, but I hoped it was someone who knew me well enough to tell that I was in trouble.
My captor grabbed the phone and clicked on speaker , then handed it back to me. He smirked when I rolled my eyes.
"Hey, baby. Whassup?" A man's voice, a drunken man's drunken voice.
My kidnapper gave me a hard stare. When I shrugged, he frowned, lifting his nicely cleft chin to indicate I should make the conversation short.
"Who's this?" I asked.
"S'me, baby. Your long lost lover boy."
"Hey, cut the shit. This isn't the best time to chat. Know what I'm saying? I don't recognize your voice, so make this quick."
"Thass what you always say. Quick in and out, thass you, babe."
My thug arched his thick black brows and pursed his pink pillowy lips. He was enjoying the conversational dance so much he'd begun to relax the pressure of the pistol against my skull. I would have a bruise there, and I didn't appreciate it. Even if he killed me, I didn't want my face a mess for the funeral, I'm that vain. I rubbed my temple for a moment, my resentment building.
"We met at Starfund, 'member? The Malbec, the chocolate almond pie? Youse came back to my place after and we—"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I interrupted. "What's Starfund?"
I glanced over at my host and he stared back. I arched my brows as if to say, now what? He made a continue motion with his free hand, then set the gun in his lap.
"Starfun, starfund," mumbled the drunk. "You know. And you had on that lacy pink thing, and you smelled sho good. Lavender. Um-hmm."
My captor ran his thick pink tongue over his smooth lips, his eyes taking on the sleepy look of a lover. I decided I'd keep talking sex. Maybe this would be my chance to make a break for it.
My hand trembled, so I set the phone on the wooden crate in front of me.
"Oh, okay, now I'm remembering," I lied. "You're the big guy, right?"
The caller chuckled. "Oh baby, youse got that right."
I could feel the blush creeping up my neck to my face. I didn't dare look at my thug. Instead, I said, "Remind me. What did we do when I took the lacy thing off?"
"I took them panties off," the man said. "Me. Not you, bitch."
The voice had turned nasty. I looked at my kidnapper. His brow furrowed so deep you could hide a penny in the crease.
"Okay. So what happened after that?" I tried to keep my voice sultry, but it wasn't easy. I was tired of men and their pencil-thin egos, their childish anger, their mean ways. "Did you perform or was it another bedroom failure?"
The man with the gun snickered, but the one on the phone got mad. "Whass your problem? I call you up to have a nice li'l chat, and you mess with me. I'm thinkin' of hangin' up right now, bitch."
When my captor reached over to pick up the phone, I leaned in as well. As if by remote control, my hand shot out and grabbed the handgun in his lap. He managed without much difficulty to pin my palm to his crotch while lifting the cell to his chiseled face.
"Buddy, you shouldn't talk to women like that. Your momma ever teach you manners?"
"Who the hell's this?" the drunk stuttered. "Aw shit. I didn't know she had company. Good luck to you, bro,this one's a hellcat."
My kidnapper disconnected the call. My hand couldn't help itself. As if by remote control, it found its way to the center of a different form of communication. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cement wall. I wasn't exactly holding onto the gun, but I wasn't not holding it, either.
After a breathless minute in which my sordid life as a phone sex operator flashed before my eyes, I launched myself from the crate I was sitting on and, using the old quick in and out, managed to knock his head into the wall. He let go of the gun for just a second, but that was all it took.
When the phone rang, I was the one with the gun. I held it against his head and grabbed a thick handful of his hair, just to be mean. I can be mean too sometimes, and this was one of those times.
"Answer it," I said.
He pulled his cell out of his shirt pocket. Our eyes locked, held. His eyes were black and deep. I could see a glimmer there, a tiny fire that would, I was sure, light me up inside if I let it.
"Talk normal," I told him. So he did.
Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan lives and writes and gets into trouble in South Florida, where the men run guns and the women run after them. Mickey is the author of a number of e-book novellas. The cyber sci-fi novella Dream Job (Breathless Press, 2012) has been compared to The Matrix and the Twilight Zone. Professional Grievers, a weird romantic comedy about people who go to funerals for a living, was published early in 2013. BabyShares, a sexy financial crime story, was released in March 2013 by Secret Cravings Press. Noble Romance released Geekus Interruptus, a hot farce for adults, on the first of May.