Last Ditch

Last Ditch

Ken La Salle

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Ken La Salle

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Last Ditch

By Ken La Salle

To Clostio

Chapter 1

The mind of Jessup Reeler was no different from yours or mine; he just used his differently. His apparent interests included boating, though he was afraid of boats, the peoples of other countries, though he seldom traveled, and making friends, though there were few who would really call him one. Those things in which he took a more authentic interest were the soft curve on the inside of a woman’s leg, the place where the hip and the side of a woman met, that flash that came between a smile and a greeting, and coins. He loved to collect old coins. They were a part of history. They connected him to another place, outside of his own world. Of those he had, they were a prized possession. But he would never show them to anyone. In fact, he rarely pulled them out of the old tackle box where they were kept. He saved that for special occasions, for when he knew he’d need one, just after he orgasmed, when he would gently slide one of his rare and precious coins into the woman’s soft, moist, unflinching mouth.

Jess had another interest. Blades. His blades. And how he used them.

He always knew who would be next. He knew from the moment he saw them; it was some sparkling fleck in their eyes. He knew he would have them. He knew he would feel their naked flesh.

But Andrea wasn’t like that. She was so… simple. So easy to be with. So beyond the categories Jess had created for the rest of the world, which made him adore her. Everyone on Earth had always fallen into one of these two categories: those he had to have and the unmemorable remainder. Jess liked them like this. He liked the equality of the faceless masses. He could use them however he liked, moving in and out of their presence like a ghost when he needed to or a bolt of lightning when he desired. He thought that those others, the ones he had to have, were probably a lot like himself, though he never spent enough time getting to know them to learn the truth.

Andrea Archer was neither faceless nor compelling, at least not in the way the others were. Jess knew he needed to be with her. He knew he needed her in his life. But he didn’t want to kill her.

And this, he decided, must be love.

He poked at his pasta as she went on about the rules of accounting. Then, he realized, she’d been quiet for a while, and he looked up and saw her genuinely concerned pout. Where are you? she asked.

Somewhere you should never be, he thought. As hard as it was for him to put it out of his mind, his penis was fully erect under the table cloth, hidden by the fortunate table linens. He was back in San Diego with that Hispanic woman. He could taste the sweat from her large breasts and feel the way the muscles of her vagina closed on him.

But he smiled and tried again to put it out of his mind. Honey, you know me. I’m just nervous, that’s all. His voice was gruff, like that of a smoker after many packs a day for years and years. But Andrea had grown used to that, knowing that it was just the way his voice got sometimes. There was no emotional element; Jess had never smoked. Andrea decided early on that Jess just wasn’t the kind of guy who could sound tender. Andrea was fine with that. She’d been with guys who could sound tender but who were, in fact, not.

She took his hand and he dropped his fork and he looked into her eyes and she smiled at him. All around them, the night was beautiful. It was a typical, Southern Californian autumn evening, cool but not cold, set in a sense of style and décor, while people blocks away couldn’t make their rent. Their little, Italian Bistro, Giovanni’s, was hidden in back of the 55 freeway on the edge of a part of Santa Ana most people would rather have avoided, which was why there were always tables available and also why the patio where the two sat was entirely enclosed, encircled with twinkle lights and chain links, filled with music to help shut out the noise of the rising crime rate.

They already love you, she said.

Maybe, he answered with a shrug. But they only love the idea of me. Let’s remember, they haven’t met me, yet.

You’ve met them over the phone. The way she insisted reminded him that they’d already discussed this several times. She was growing tired of him affecting an insecure ego. This was how he liked to think of it, not that he actually was insecure.

He nodded. You’re right, of course. I shouldn’t be so nervous.

Andrea squeezed his hands tighter. He hadn’t been trying to dismiss her but she wanted to make sure. I’d marry you no matter what they said, she told him.

This whole becoming a husband thing, Jess wanted to get it right from start to finish. So, he insisted that he meet them and made it important that they like him, too. When he had told Andrea there had never been anyone else like her, it hadn’t been flattery. He’d never loved a woman, had never considered marriage; Andrea made him feel better than anyone else, safer, happier, more loved.

He wished he could lean over the table and kiss her but he couldn’t, not without taking the chance she would witness his state. And that would require some explaining. And he didn't want to have to lie to her, not to Andrea. So, he pulled her hands closer and presented them with his loving kiss, looking up into her smiling eyes. He could never tell her that his real nervousness had nothing to do with her parent’s approval. He couldn’t tell her what happened when he left his home and went to new places, when he saw some new face, some new woman, new flesh he had to have. How could he tell her that without hurting her, without giving her every reason to fear him?

Mom’s making a roast, she informed him. You’ll love it. She does the whole spread. Carrots, Biscuits. And the gravy! We’ll leave at noon and get out there by dinner.

You think?

Andrea had this down. It’s three hundred twenty-one miles up the coast to John Little. That should be about five hours. We may just beat them.

John Little was the name of the state reserve that bordered her family’s home on the California coast. That old, five bedroom monster always seemed on the brink of succumbing to nature’s persistent wear and every year seemed as though it might be the last. This year was no different. The family couldn’t live out there all the time so it was never completely kept up; the rest of Andrea’s family made their home on the Monterey Peninsula the rest of the year, while Andrea lived and worked in Huntington Beach, in the warm artificiality of Orange County. The old vacation home didn’t sit exactly halfway between them, but it was a place where the family could spend a long weekend meeting Andrea’s new fiancé, among the pretense of more prosperous times, and where he could get to know them as well. They’d have one of Andrea’s mother’s legendary dinners prepared on arrival. Then, they’d spend Saturday enjoying the cool sunshine and the family’s company. Andrea’s father had told her he’d like to take her prospective husband on one of his hikes down to the shore on Sunday. Jess wasn’t much of an outdoors man but Andrea’s father, Matt, assured her he wouldn’t push the young man too hard and another great dinner would await them on arrival. On Monday, they’d return in time to beat the evening traffic.

That was the plan.

Jess released her hand, picking up his glass of David Bruce Pinot Noir. He wasn’t much of a drinker; she’d finish two glasses for one of his so there was never a thought of ordering a whole bottle. And the thought of her mother and father, their wine glasses filled and their loud laughs, raised one corner of her smile. Jess was always so reserved. Not repressed. Calm. Confident. Comfortable in his skin. She watched as he took a slight sip of the wine, relishing in the aroma, the taste, the slight alcohol of the vintage. She liked to see him enjoy himself. He was probably too hard on himself, most of the time. As his eyes opened, he saw that look and raised one eyebrow her way.

She giggled.

It all felt so right.

Later, after he’d walked her to her Camry, they spent several minutes in each other’s arms enjoying the closeness of their bodies. She could feel the soft muscles of his abdomen beneath his shirt, not fat but the tummy of a man who worked indoors and hosted business lunches, and the soft fabric of her blouse felt good in his hands as they stood there. They spoke quietly, ignoring the ruined suburbs around them, their lips only a heartbeat removed from each other.

I’m going to tell you again. You can come home with me, Jess. I want you to.

His mouth shut her up and his tongue took her request right out of her.

You think I’m doing this because I’m old fashioned, Anj? he asked. He never used her complete name. You think it’s for religious reasons?

Tell me what it is, then. Her fingers moved south just beneath his belt. Because I can see you want to.

Of course, I want to.

Then, get in my car and I’ll bring you back here tomorrow. They kissed. Or later tonight. They kissed again. Or we can just do it in the car. Fuck it. Now, they laughed through their kiss.

Listen, he said, and he was serious. I’m thirty-six years old. You’re thirty-two. We’re not kids. We don’t need to rush into bed. I don’t claim to know why you’ve never been married short of mass blindness or stupidity on the part of every male in America but I know why I haven’t and that’s because I have been waiting for you. Now, he kissed her, grinding his erection deeply towards her pelvis so there was no doubt in her mind how much he wanted her. I’ve waited this long, Anj. A few more months is nothing.

Even as her left hand pulled at his waist, her right traced the pattern on the front of his pants. You’re really serious about all of this?

Very, he told her.

She wanted to tell him how every time he did that made her want him more but that brought a twinge of guilt. Instead, she whispered into his mouth, Okay, but my mother is going to think I’m lying or that you're gay.

He laughed, and kissed her again. I'm sure she won't think I'm gay.

She joked, It's possible. I make that mistake a lot.

When she drove off, he remained standing in the parking lot for several minutes, enjoying the lingering scent of her perfume.

And then, a change overcame him. And he let out a long and ragged exhale, the tortured breath of a long distance runner out of shape. For the first time in his life, he was afraid of being found out.

What the hell was that? he asked himself. What the hell was all that shit? What was the hard-on at the table all about? What? He wasn’t bothering to get in his car; the lot was empty and it was after eleven on a work night so there was little chance of being spotted by anyone. Jess didn’t care about the crime. In fact, the way he felt, he almost wished some gangsta would come by and…

Anyway, he couldn’t get his keys out of his pocket. His hands were shaking so hard it was all he could do to clench them into fists. The honest stabbing of his nails into his hand was just about all he had to keep him present. He spewed one invective after another at himself, his breath heaving, snorting angrily.

Jess had never had to worry about being found out before. He’d been so good at what he’d done.

He remembered the first time the way some people remember their first kiss, their first love, or their favorite flavor of ice cream. He’d done it in South Philly, although and because he had no reason to cross the river from East Camden, where he lived. Where he had grown up. He had known even at fifteen how to track her, how to find the perfect spot. Maybe he had lacked the finesse he would one day develop and maybe his style had been different. All the same...

Her name had been Trina. Never Katrina or Kate. She was a snobby, little bitch with too much money for their part of town and she loved to brag about how she drove around South Philly at all hours just because she could. And this was back before anyone they knew really had a car but her dad – her dad – who Jess knew she was fucking – before her dad had given her that peach-painted Pontiac, rag-top; she always drove with the top down except when the weather was absolutely rotten. She acted like the rain should stop for her. Jess had never met anyone like her. She was sophisticated and cool. Back then, all he knew was that feeling he got when he watched her, that longing ache she brought to his inexperienced body, and how he longed for her, how he wanted her – he wanted – wanted… he didn’t know what.

So, he had started out by catching her eye. Innocent glances that were not so innocent. He’d follow her to the Mickey D’s and walk in long after she’d gotten a seat and he’d go up to get ketchup packets when she did. His timing was exact. And he’d smile and he’d wink and that made her giggle. He’d make sure they passed on the street. One day, he followed her to Van Nieda Park and watched her just walk for nearly a half an hour, just walk around and around, and he wondered who she'd fucked and he wondered what her father told her she would get in exchange for her soft, pink mouth, before he arranged to run into her. Then, together, as if by accident, they both walked up 29th to the Channel while she told him about how her dad expected so much from her and she just had to drive that Pontiac over to South Philly to get all his expectations out of her hair. Maybe I’ll run into you sometime, he told her. And he smiled and he winked.

And he did. He ran into her as she drove that peach-painted Pontiac. It took him months but it was perfect, so perfect how could it ever be planned? She had to stop at a light on Pattison Avenue, down by FDR Park and the golf course and the railroad tracks. Jess had spent all that time following her, learning where she drove – Trina would probably still be alive if she hadn’t been so predictable, hadn’t always followed the same route. And it probably explains why he switched to hotel rooms. They’re just so much easier. He had given a shout and a wave and, before he knew it, they were parked in a dead parking lot off of Langley Avenue. It was dark; they could hear the noise from the ships at the docks on Schuylkill River. Perfect. They’d started by necking but, slowly, he’d worked her top off and nuzzled her breasts. He was so much the amateur but he was getting his results. She was on top of him and grinding the soft mound of her crotch against his cock, buried deep in his pants. As their breathing grew harder, so did he. And she reached down and undid his trousers. She had thought it was so cool that he wore those 40’s style trousers, so baggy, and she reached in to stroke him. He undid her pants. I don’t know if we should, she gasped, even as his finger was on her clit.

You don’t want to? he asked.

Of course, I want to, she moaned. Can’t you tell? She was very wet.

No more was said as he pulled down her jeans and lowered her underpants. She slid down on him without encouragement and bucked up and down with his face buried in her tits.

Then, she began to moan and gasp. Jess had no idea what was happening; it was his first time. Looking at her face, watching her mouth contort, he decided he should finally do what he had come to do.

And he pulled her hair back a little so that her face, filled with ecstasy, would be pointing upwards. She laid her neck out for him like a buffet from heaven, creamy and young.

And he brought out the two, old pocket knives he had. With one in each hand, he brought them quickly to each side of her neck, and he pushed them both inward, very hard. He was stunned by the long stream of blood and Trina cried softly, Ouch, because she didn’t realize what he’d just done. Then, she did and the last look she gave him, the look of confusion and surrender, made him cum so hard that he pulled her tight and pushed himself deep inside of her. His body went ridged as hers went slack and she became dead weight even as he pulled out and pushed in, again and again.

Then, he lay her down on the bench seat of that big, peach Pontiac and watched for a minute as blood still splashed out from the two, wide gashes he made.

It took him a minute to realize that he’d ruined his clothes. He left his shirt in the river, along with his shoes and socks. He’d always been a good swimmer and took that river the entire way back up to East Camden. He was walking up his street, the pocket knives in his pockets, long before anyone found her body. Aside from his seminal fluid, he left her only one thing, a lucky Buffalo nickel he had always kept with him. He felt he should give her something to repay her for what she'd given him. He placed it very carefully in her mouth so she wouldn’t drop it as he lay on top of her, her body still warm. Then, he kissed her. He’d replaced her clothes and made her comfortable. There was no sign she’d been having sex when the police found her. His fluids were probably washed out when she finally released her own.

Jess already knew a lot about death. He’d spent years reading about it and wondering what would happen at that final moment. He knew how long Trina would take to die but not how peacefully she’d sleep until she did. He knew what would happen when she died but cared little of what would become of her life. He knew how she would decompose. He knew how she would rot.

But he was never so stupid as to cum inside another woman, not without a condom, ever again. Even if he was soulless, Jess was not careless.

He’d used a condom with the Hispanic woman, though she’d wanted him in her mouth. He hadn’t dared. He knew enough about how CSI units worked from movies and TV to know better. So, the condom was the safest way. After all these years, he was beginning to think he couldn’t cum unless he was killing. The idea was taunting him. What would happen when he was married? What would he do then?

Will I be able to stop, he wondered as he stood there, exposed by the harsh streetlights. After he made his vows, would his – what was it? His hobby? The thought brought laughter to his throat like bile. But the question remained. After he was married, would he be able to stop? Of course, he knew he would need to; he knew he couldn't continue.

Could he?

Thinking this, his hands went cold. It had never been more than a desire before, a longing that made him think, What if I…? Was this what it had become? Some kind of addiction? Was that what had Jess standing out there, frightened in the middle of the night?

The Hispanic woman had only been the most recent. Less than a week ago. A week before that, it had been that blonde in a motel outside of Fresno. Jess has met her at the ice machine; she had been so drunk. What had her name been? Shawna? Jess could think back to a time when he could wait more than a week between having to surrender to his needs. After Trina, he’d waited six years. She’d lasted him so long. It had been so satisfying. Or was it guilt? Either way, he could recall all those years of masturbating over her quiet remains. Other guys were having sex, friends from high school, guys at the University of Massachusetts,