Powder Burn Flash # 150 - Christopher Grant

GILDA
by Christopher Grant

She knew what she was doing the minute I handed her the gun. To look at her, you'd think she knew next to nothing about how to use a firearm. But then I hadn't seen her in action yet. And when she pulled the trigger, she was explosive.

Her name was Gilda, an old-fashioned name. I seem to remember that it was the name that Rita Hayworth used in a movie with the same name. Just like Rita, this Gilda was a looker, one that could persuade me to do whatever she wanted me to do.

And right now, what Gilda wants, more than anything else, is for me to take her for a ride down to the beach, even though it's nearly midnight.

We make it to the beach and she's out of the car before I even park the car, running for the sand, shedding clothes, getting down to her bra and panties. She plunges into the dark sea, disappearing beneath the surface and I don't see her pop up.

"Gilda!" I scream, hoping she'll answer. "Gilda!"

Finally, just as my heart starts to climb up into my throat, threatening to escape out of my mouth, she bobs up and laughs hysterically. I can see her, illuminated by the nearly full moon. She's insane, I think, as she comes out of the surf.

Gilda's underwear is clinging to her. I can see her nipples through the wet bra plastered against her breasts. Her panties cling to her and when she pirouettes, I can see the crack dividing her shapely ass cheeks.

"Did you bring it?" she asks. She's talking about the gun, of course. I did but I left the bottles in the backseat of the car and I have to go back and get them. I excuse myself and she tells me to hurry up.

When I come back, Gilda's standing there, completely naked, her red hair slicked back. My jaw hangs open and she's laughing at me again. I'm trying to avert my eyes but she reaches out and slaps me and tells me to look if I feel like it.

She takes the bottles from me, finds a rock and spreads them out in a line about six to eight feet long.

"Give it to me," Gilda says when she returns.

"Hmm?" I ask, thinking I'm smart. She could have been talking about a couple of things. She slaps me again.

"The gun, dummy," she says, her hand out, her fingers flexing down to her palm and back, motioning for me to hand her the weapon.

I reach to the small of my back where the gun is and pull the piece out of my waistband. I hand it to Gilda and she says, "Thank you."

She cocks the gun, takes aim, nails one, two, three, four, all five bottles with a single shot each.

She didn't look like much in the way of a shooter. I've got some newfound respect for Gilda.

That respect quickly turns to loathing and then to terror.

The gun is in my face; she has one bullet left.

"Wallet on the ground, keys on top of the wallet," she tells me. "Strip and get in the water. Don't even think of coming out until I'm gone. If you do what I ask, I won't have to use this on you. If you don't..."  She waves the gun for emphasis.

Gilda's speech sounds so rehearsed, I almost want to laugh. But when I hear the gun cock, I do exactly as she says.  I wonder, as I'm taking off my clothes, how long she's been planning this.  I guess it doesn't really matter, does it?

She stuffs my underwear in a pocket as she pulls my jeans on, needing to pull the belt very tight to keep them from slipping down. My shirt hangs off of her but she buttons it up anyway.

Then she's gone to the parking lot.

Then she's just gone.

BIO : Christopher Grant is the editor and proprietor of A Twist Of Noir and writes crime fiction, such as the
story above, which has appeared at Powder Burn Flash and the now-defunct Muzzle Flash Fiction.