That Kind of Girl
written by: Tori Chambers
Gregg Nesmith drove until the anger died. He developed the habit, when upset, of driving down lonely roads to calm his nerves. Sometimes he drove until his mind cleared and exhaustion overwhelmed him. Sometimes he drove until he no longer remembered why he was upset, but this time, it didn’t work. He was still angry.
Stupid bitch, he thought as he left behind the small, west-Texas town of Evant. Stupid, stupid bitch.
Six hours later, he still hated Vicky.
Gregg wasn’t happy with Doug, either. Good, old Doug. Buddy Doug. His best friend Doug. He didn’t say shit, just stood there with a supportive hand on Vicky’s shoulder as she cried and told Gregg about their affair. That’s what angered Gregg the most: Of the two, Vicky was the one with enough balls to make the confession. Doug stood there like a gelded dog who hung around his bitch over a vague memory of what they used to do. Doug just stood there.
Vicky still loved Gregg, she said. She wanted to work things out. She asked for his forgiveness. “It was six months,” she told him, tears running down her cheeks. “It was a mistake.”
No, once is a mistake. Six months is a ‘fuck you.’ Six months is a ‘I don’t give a damn about you or our son.’
Gregg thought about their eight-year-old child, and his anger flared, again. Jesus, what do we tell Jimmy? That Mommy and Daddy don’t love each other anymore?
How do you tell a kid you’re breaking up without destroying him?
As he approached the next town, the speed limit dropped, and he slowed. The shoulder widened. Ahead, a car’s taillights flashed red against moonless darkness. Gregg slowed more.
The stopped vehicle, a late-model Ford sedan, appeared to be abandoned. Just ahead, he could make out a lone figure beside the reflective, white line, an arm stretched out. Gregg’s motion slowed to a crawl.
He could make out the figure better, now: a woman — a pretty, little thing from the look of her — hitchhiking. He pulled to the shoulder ahead of her and came to a stop.
She walked to the passenger side and leaned over, resting her arms on the lip of the car door, then rapped. He turned on the dome light and lowered the electric window.
The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties, long, chestnut-brown hair beneath a cream-colored cowboy hat. Spaghetti straps held her frilly, white tank top over double-D breasts, and her cherry red lips formed a perfect smile.
An odd feeling washed over him; a vague sense of familiarity, as if he’d seen her somewhere before, although he was sure he hadn’t. Gregg stared, trying to sort out the mystery as she held the smile perhaps a bit longer than comfortably necessary.
“Hey, sugar,” she said in a mid-Texas twang. “Help a gal out?”
Gregg tore his eyes from her cleavage and glanced back at the dark car behind them. “Won’t start?”
“Yeahhh, clogged fuel line.” She snapped chewing gum and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “I was gonna take her in on payday. She’s been stallin’ and jumpin’ forward like a lazy frog, but she gave up the ghost two days early. Fords, huh?”
He held up his cell phone and shook it. “Need to call a tow?”
“Well, ain’t you sweet?” she said, again grinning. “Nah, I got my own phone. My brother drives a tow truck, and he’s on his way to get it. What I really need is to get home PDQ, so’s my babysitter can leave. She’s got school in the mornin’, and I’m already two hours late.”
“Gregg gave her a polite, reassuring smile. “I could drive you.”
“I dunno,” she said, pulling back a little. “You ain’t a serial killer, are you?”
“No, no,” he said, laughing. “I sell insurance.”
She stared, but said nothing.
Still smiling, he pulled a wallet from his pocket, opened it to his license, and handed it to her.
She studied it, closely. “Gregg Nesmith… ’Course, if you were a serial killer, it wouldn’t matter if you showed it to me or not, would it?”
“Call your brother,” he said. “Give him my name and plate number.” Again, she stared.
“Seriously, I’d feel better if you did.”
She pulled a phone from her hip pocket, punched a button, and placed it to her ear. “Hey, Matt? Yeah, it’s me. Listen, when you get here, I’ll be gone. This guy was nice enough to give me a ride so Rachel can go home. His name’s Gregg Nesmith. Hold on, I’m gonna read you his tag number.”
She walked to the rear of the vehicle and stood a few feet back. He watched her read the number in the glow of the brake lights, then return to the passenger door, open it, and slide into the seat.
“Yeah,” she said into the phone. “Yeah, I love you, too. Bye.” She hung up and said, “Thank you, Gregg. I’m Amber, by the way.”
In the cabin lights, he could see her better. Amber was definitely a looker: thin frame and large breasts, great legs, deep-gray, almond eyes, high cheekbones, and thin arms. More make-up than he liked, but it suited her. Besides the hat and top, she wore tight, cutoff jeans and worn cowboy boots. Her slender fingers ended in hot-pink nails with the silhouettes of nude women in suggestive poses. He blushed at a few of them.
“You wanna know where to take me?” she asked.
He started, suddenly aware that he’d been staring. “Oh. Uh, oh yeah. Which way?”
She pointed ahead, and he caught a whiff of her heady perfume. “There’s a flashing, yellow light about a quarter mile ahead. Turn left there, then twenty miles straight. I’ll show you where the trailer park is.”
He shifted into gear and pulled out.
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said as the car turned left at the traffic light. “Thank you, thank you… Oh!” She handed him back the wallet. “Waco, huh? That’s a drive and a half. What brings you out to Bum-Fuck, Egypt?”
“It’s a long story.”
She looked at her watch. “We got nothin’ but time.”
So he told her about Vicky and Doug and even little Jimmy. When he finished, Amber sat in silence. He wondered if she’d even heard him. After all, who was he to her? Nothing. A stranger.
Finally, she said, “Wow, that’s so weird.”
“What is?” he asked.
“Your story.” She stared straight ahead, her beautiful features highlighted in the dashboard lights as she watched the dark road. “I broke up with my boyfriend three nights ago for the same reason. Caught him in bed with my best friend, Chelsea.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Huh. Wish’t I was. But it sounds like we’re in the same boat… Do you believe in fate, Gregg?”
“I guess.”
“Well, I don’t.” She gave him a strange look. “But I do believe in revenge.”
He shook his head. “I thought about it. I mean, who doesn’t? I never want to see Doug again, but as far as taking a tire iron to his head, well, that’s just a fantasy.”
“What about Vicky?” asked Amber.
He’d considered it. Hell, he planned it on the long drive: going home with a shotgun and blowing his wife away, but he couldn’t really do that, either. “You think about it. Hurting her. But, no. Besides, that hurts Jimmy, and he’s an innocent in all this.”
“So you think you and her will work it out?”
He thought about that all night, too. Vicky begged him to forgive her. She felt guilt over what she’d done. She came to him. If she hadn’t, he’d still be oblivious. Sure, he was mad, but he still loved her, and Jimmy… Gregg’s parents split up when he was thirteen, and it devastated him. How much harder would that be for an eight-year-old? He couldn’t put Jimmy through that.
“Yeah,” he admitted after a long pause. “Yeah, we’ll probably work it out.”
Amber nodded. “You’re good people, Gregg. That’s what my mama would call you: good people. You don’t wanna hurt someone, but that ain’t the only way to get revenge.”
His brows knitted in confusion. “I don’t follow you.”
She tilted her head back and gave him a critical eye. “You know, you ain’t a bad-lookin’ guy. I’ll bet you’ve dated some pretty gals in your time.”
He shrugged. “I guess so.”
“You ever heard of a pity-fuck?”
He gave her a doubtful look. “Yeah…”
“I gave one to a boy, once. I was twenty-two. He was a kid; seventeen, eighteen, tops. Homely. I mean, really ugly. The kinda guy you just knew would never get laid without payin’ for it, y’know? He tried to pick me up in a Denny’s at three AM. I let
him take me to a motel, then left early in the morning while he was still asleep. In a strange way, I felt like I’d done somethin’ good.”
Gregg nodded, but said nothing. This conversation made him uncomfortable.
“I ain’t sayin’ I’m the world’s most beautiful woman,” she continued. “Lord knows I ain’t sayin’ that, but I’ve gotten some looks, and I’ve had my share of boyfriends. I know I’m pretty, and now I know somewhere out there is this ugly guy who still brags about me to his friends. I may not even be the prettiest girl he’s ever gonna have, but I bet I’ll always be in his top five, and I’ll bet he always remembers me.”
Gregg looked Amber up and down, then looked back at the road. Was she a hooker? Some kind of freak? What was she hinting at? In the end, he said nothing, just kept driving.
After a while, Amber said, “Look, Gregg, I don’t want you gettin’ the wrong idea. I ain’t sayin’ you’re like that homely kid, and I ain’t talkin’ about a pity-fuck at all, but how about a revenge-fuck? For both of us? Even if no one else knows we did it, we’ll always have the memory of it. You get a little payback on Vicky, and I get some on that retard I’m datin’, cause in the end, I’ll probably go back to him, too.”
Gregg shifted nervously in his seat. Her idea had a certain appeal, but he’d never done anything kinky in his life. In college, he and a girlfriend planned to have sex in an elevator once, but chickened out at the last minute. He’d always regretted that.
“Come on,” she said, playfully slapping his arm. “I’ll be honest, baby. The idea really turns me on. Let’s get a little revenge.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, then nodded. “Okay. Okay, let’s do it.”
“Hell, yeah,” she said. “Pull over.”
“What? Are you crazy? Here?”
“I ain’t doin’ it at home in front of my son,” she said. “I got some scruples, dude.”
She scrambled over the seat and into the back while Gregg looked for a place to stop. He found a dirt driveway leading to a Christmas tree farm and a copse of Scotch pines. After fifty feet, the street lay behind them, obscured by trees. He stopped and sat in the darkness, staring at the dash.
“Gre-egg,” Amber called in a sing-song voice from the darkness behind him. “Come here, sugar.”
Sweat trickled down the side of his face. “May-Maybe we should think this through. I mean, we don’t even have a condom.”
As if in answer, a rubber pack flew from the back seat and landed in his lap. He stared at it in silence.
“Get your clothes off,” she said in a sultry voice, “and I’ll handle the rest.”
“What if a passing cop sees the taillights?”
“Kill the lights.”
“What if he looks in?”
“I’ll risk it.”
“What if this is posted property?”
Her head popped up behind him, sans cowboy hat. “What are you? Gay? I’m offering you Grade A, USDA-inspected pussy, baby. No strings attached. How often do you lay strangers who look like me?”
The only thing worse than risky sex — to Gregg, anyway — was looking like a wimp in the eyes of this sexy, young woman. She was right. How often did a girl like her offer a guy like him a freebie? He unbuttoned his shirt.
“Thaaat’s it,” she purred, wrapping her arms around him from behind and tugging off his shirt. “Let’s get you out of those nasty, ol’ clothes.”
Once nude, Gregg’s rigid member allowed the condom to slip on as readily as Amber had slipped into the back seat.
He followed her there, where his eyes quickly adjusted, allowing his gaze to drink in her image. Thin and small-waisted, her body was lush and gorgeous. Long, shapely legs slid around his hips, drawing him to her. Slowly, he entered her, his breath catching in his throat as her depths sheathed him like a scabbard to its sword; like she was made just for him.
“Ohhh, yeahhh,” he groaned, closing his eyes. “Baby, that’s so —” He stopped. A strange noise came from beneath him; a sobbing sound, both sad and wretched.
He opened his eyes and found she was mewling softly. He touched her face and felt her tears. “Amber?
Honey, what’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I’m so, so sorry. You’re good people, Gregg.”
“What?” He tried to pull out, thinking to comfort her, but her legs held him tight, her muscles like a vise. He jerked backwards, unable to withdraw from her. “Am-Amber?” he asked, panicked. “Amber, what are you doing?”
“Surviving,” she said, sadly.
Something hard and sharp — something with teeth — dug into his sex.
If you drove down a particular road, on a particular, west-Texas night, at 11:47 PM, you might have heard an inhuman scream.
Three nights later, Gregg Nesmith’s BMW pulled onto the shoulder of Interstate Ten, sixteen miles east of El Paso. The flashers kicked on, and a leggy blonde in a striped, knit dress and six-inch stilettos stepped out of the car. She closed the door and walked seventy feet in front of the vehicle, where a fully-restored 1964 Mustang pulled up ahead of her. It waited on the shoulder, engine running.
Walking to the passenger side, the blonde rested her hands against the door and stooped down, her head in the window.
“Well, hello,” she said in a cultured, British accent. “Help a lady out?”
Two hours after that, Officer Tim Browning used a slim jim to pop the lock on the abandoned Beemer. The stench almost knocked him over when he opened the door, but he managed to keep his breakfast down. What finally forced him to vomit all over the DNA evidence was the decomposing, partially-eaten remains of Gregg Nesmith, lying on the back seat.
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