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The First Time by Elle Robb
Saturday, January 6, 2007
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
A woman pushed to the limit by the men in her life overhears another woman in distress, and decides to do the stranger a favor - by killing her abusive husband.
The first time I killed a man was very nearly orgasmic.
It had been a rough week – my ex had defaulted on yet another credit card, leaving me with the bill, my boss had once again taken my work and claimed it as his own and the man I had been convinced was the new love of my life had punched a hole in the wall next to my head when I confronted him about the petite blonde I had seen him with at lunch yesterday.
I decided to treat myself to my favorite haunt, Shakes & Rolls, the little coffee house downtown. I pretended to read the latest Stuart Woods book while eating my plain turkey sandwich. Actually, I was eavesdropping on the conversation between the two middle-aged women seated directly behind me. One was confiding everything – her husband’s numerous affairs, his decree that she not be allowed to work, his control of every move she made and every dollar she spent.
“If he knew I was out having lunch with you, he would have a fit,” she whispered. “He says you’re a bad influence.”
“That’s crap,” her friend replied, and proceeded to try to talk the woman into divorcing the jerk.
“I wish he would drop dead. Maybe someone will do me a favor and run him over or he’ll be the unfortunate victim of a drive-by shooting.”
“Yeah, maybe he’ll surprise a burglar or have a hunting accident.”
The seed had been planted, and thoughts began to swirl in my mind. Something in me snapped, and I began to wonder if I could do what I was considering. The women left, the waitress stopped to refill my coffee. I asked the waitress about the woman. The young girl tucked a stray hair behind her very pierced ear, then proceeded to tell me more everything she knew, including the rumors of physical abuse and where the woman lived, “You know, that cool ultra-modern house just past the country club.”
After stewing about it all afternoon, I found myself leaning almost casually against a tree on the 18th hole, watching that ultra-modern house. It was a typical early spring day. I breathed in deeply – I was pretty sure the tree was a dogwood, and the blooms smelled wonderful. The grass was still damp from the morning rain, and I was alone on the course. I heard shouting and swearing. There was a crash, then a woman cried out. A tall, brown-haired man slammed out the back door, kicking a fluffy yellow cat out of his way. I was so close, I could hear him mumbling under his breath. I caressed the cold metal of the Ruger .22, and wondered if I could actually do it. The gun had been a Christmas gift to my ex-husband, but he hadn’t liked it – he preferred a .38. He left it in the box in the top of the closet when he left. If only someone had done me a favor like this two years ago . . .
I was an excellent shot. My father was an avid hunter, and I was only 12 when he took me out to the gun club for lessons. And I was fairly confident I could get away with it – I had no ties to this man. No reason for the police to look at me. Why would they look at a legal secretary without so much as a parking ticket?
The gun was smooth and cold, and my hand fit perfectly around the molded grips. I glanced around to make sure I was still alone on the course. I held the gun firmly and sighted in on the asshole still kicking things around on his deck. I could still hear the woman crying inside the house.
Head or chest? Decisions, decisions.
I took a deep breath.
I pulled the trigger.
He stumbled.
His hand flew to his chest. He looked down at his hand. Blood.
He staggered.
He fell.
I shuddered with emotion, the blood pounding in my ears. I blinked and gasped, trying to catch my breath.
What a rush!
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