He Who Hits The Road Is The One Who Lives, Jenifer D. Ruano [book club suggestions txt] 📗

The beat up Ford Falcon pulled off the interstate and onto the graveled parking lot of the old motel. It was dusk and the setting sun had cast a red shadow over the east side of the building. She drove slowly, taking care to observe each number on every piss yellow door. There were five other cars in the parking lot and none of them were his. She knew he would show up here, he always did. She would wait for him; she would wait for her beloved and have her revenge.

The Falcon pulled slowly into a space furthest from the building. She shuts off the engine and the car heaves back in defiance before sputtering violently to a rest. Sunset was washing over the hazy sky and a beam of light fall onto the hood of the car, revealing its chipped paint, speckled with rust of what was once shiny gold paint. She watches the parking lot with the eyes of a hawk and waits patiently for the sun to finally fade away. He'd be there after dark. He was so damn predictable.

Rummaging through her oversized black purse she pulls out the gun and stares at its dulled metal. She smoothes her thumb over the barrel. The chamber was empty.

She lets out a long sigh before tucking the gun securely in the back of her waist band. An hour passes and then another. She chain smokes to keep awake. In the black of night a flame blazes in front of her hazel eyes.

Where the fuck was he?

She thinks, growing more annoyed.

Just then headlights reflect off of one of the windows of a room on the main floor as it enters the parking lot. She scrunches down in her seat to avoid being seen as the vehicle drives past her and then turns into a space. Her heart flutters in her throat at the sight of his black pick-up truck.

The brakes squeal to a stop in front of room number 3. She watches as he steps out of the truck and takes a drag from his cigarette before flicking it onto the dirt road. A billow of smoke circles above his head. He slams the truck door shut and walks towards the stairs that lead up to the second floor. He was drunk and his heavy boots weaved and bobbed on his unstable legs.

She watches him as she brings the ashy end of her cigarette to her mouth and takes in one last puff. A smirk ripples over her lips as he steps into his room and shuts the door. Exhaling a long stream of smoke into the air, she steps out of her car and pulls on her leather jacket and reaches into the pocket. She pulls out a lone silver bullet and slides the bullet into the barrel, clicking it into place.

Her boots crunch over the loose gravel as she walks with the gun by her side toward the old motel. The pace of her stride quickens as images of his hurt flash before her eyes, building on her rage. Of the whore who slept in their bed, of the lies he had told, and the bruises he left on her body.

On the second floor she walks down the long corridor and she hears the muffled sounds of a television reverberating off the windows.

She stops in front of his door and hears her heart thudding loudly in her ears. She conceals the gun back into her waistband and covers it with her gray t-shirt. She takes in a deep breath and then pounds her fist on the door. After a moment she hears his heavy footsteps on the other side of the door.

"What?” He barks from the other side.

“Let me in!” She calls. “It's me.”

The creaks loudly as it opens and then moaning to a stop. He gives her a once over and then leans against the door frame. His dark blue jeans were stained and he smelled of oil and rust.

”Hey baby,” he says through a smirk.

They stare at each other.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” She asks coldly.

He raises an eyebrow and then narrows his eyes before stepping aside and allowing her to pass. The door clicks behind her and she feels him close against her back. He moves her hair away from her neck, sending a shiver throygh her. Before she can pull away he pulls her close and buries his face in her neck.

“Get off damn it!” She cries and rips herself away from him.

He takes a step backwards. “And what’s your problem pussycat?” He lets out a chuckle and steps in closer to her. “Why else did you come here?” The thought of him made her sick.

She reaches for the gun at her waistband and slowly lowers it to her side. His gaze catches the metal and he stares at the gun and then looks up at her.

“What are you doing?” His voice is a mere whisper.

“You asked why I came here,” She says and her eyes pierce into him.

He smirks and takes a step towards her and with a click the gun is in his face. He stops cold.

“Baby, have you lost your mind?” he asks, his voice breaking a bit.

There is only silence.

Darkness falls over his face as the shadows in the room lengthen and his eyes penetrate her stare.

“You won’t do it,” he spats.

She bites the inside of her lip.

“You can’t

do it,” he taunts. “You don’t have it in you.”

“Fuck you!” she says and swallows back the lump in her throat.

He glances to his bedside table and her eyes follow. It is only then when she notices the large pocket knife sitting next to the lamp. In a flash he lunges for the knife and she stammers back and pulls the trigger. The gun doesn't fire. He turns to face her and a devilish smirk spills over his face. The blade gleams off the overhead light.

“I told you that you couldn’t do it you bitch!” He snarls and walks towards her.

She takes a step back, and repositions her stance and fires again. The blast echoes loudly through the room. The color drains from his face as he looks down at his blood soaked shirt. He grabs his chest and pulls back his bloody hand. She watches as he swallows hard and then falls to his knees. He tries to brace himself on the mattress to stand, but falls back. Drips of blood fall to the dirt green carpet below and he looks up at her one last time. His eyes are big glossy globes. Seconds pass and he falls forward with a thud as his head hits the floor.

The air is thick and the smell of gunfire still hung heavy in the room. She returns the gun to her waistband and then kneels in front of him. A dark puddle of blood begins to pool around him. She takes care not to get any on her dusty boots and bends her ear close to his mouth, listening. His breath narrows and then goes hollow, until it stops completely. She stares at his face, his eyes glossy and vacant and knows her job is done.

She steps over his body and walks confidently to the door. Using a section of her shirt to open it carefully, she steps out into the warm dry air. It is dark now and the door clicks behind her as she walks down the long corridor and past the room with the blaring television. Back to her car she lights another cigarette and her hair trails in the wind. She moves it out of her face and looks up his motel door. Taking a long drag of her cigarette she smirks and then slides into the driver’s seat the old Falcon. The engine starts with a loud rumble and she revs twice before the tires peal off the road, spitting out dirt and rock behind it.

~ THE END ~


Copyright 2010 Jenifer D. Ruano

Publication Date: 02-27-2010

All Rights Reserved