Scarlet Rendezvous - Sex Stories

Scarlet Rendezvous

... dropped.

Almost immediately, my phone started ringing. The number was unlisted.

"Hello?" I said.

"We have her," the caller said. The voice was distorted and mechanical, like the one on my voicemail.

"Who the fuck is this?"

"We want our money. We're tired of waiting and playing your fucking games. You have 72 hours to wire $3 million to us. Don't go to the police. If you do, she's dead. Just like Rick Faustino."

I had a flashback of Rick in the video, and started to feel dizzy.

"I won't go to the police," I said.

"No tough guy bullshit, or she's dead."

"Don't hurt her. She has nothing to do with this."

"No cops. No bullshit. Wait for my call with further instructions."

"Tomorrow's Sunday," I said. "I need more time."

The line was dead. They'd hung up.

I stood staring at my cellphone, the room spinning. A feeling of unreality came over me, a feeling of disassociation that made me wonder if I was going insane.

I collapsed on the couch, and buried my head in my hands.

***

Somehow I pulled myself out of the haze. My SEAL training kicked in, and I was able to focus better. I went out into my car and brought in my Glock17. I knew this was going to happen. Deep down inside, I knew my past in the desert would catch up with me. Rick and I had stolen some of the Russian's money, sure. But it was gun money. Blood money. We'd busted-up two of their biggest gun rings, and confiscated a pallet of fucking cash, stashing some on the side. Some ...

... of the government guys knew it. Some were in on it. Some helped us move and hide it. Now the Russians were coming for it. I knew deep down it was only a matter of time.

Someone was working on the inside, someone who knew me and my past. They were Russian, no doubt. They knew about the desert, about Rick and the money we stole.

Sasha.

Yes, Sasha. I'd known in my gut all along. That mother fucker. He must have been connected to the arms dealers in some way. All those scumbags ran together, the drug dealers, and gun runners, and sex-traffickers. They were all a part of the same network of thugs and animals.

Mandy was pulling into the driveway in her Uber. It was 2:34 p.m. She came in the front door, carrying sandwiches and large Styrofoam cups of iced tea.

"The shoot wrapped up early," she said. "For once in the past three years, we got shit done on schedule. I brought us a late lunch. Leftovers from the shoot. I hope you didn't eat already." She paused, seeing me for the first time. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

I was sitting on a single wooden kitchen chair which I'd pulled into the middle of her living room. The television was off, and the shades were drawn. I was just sitting there, staring at her.

"Who's Sasha?" I asked her.

"What?"

"Sasha," I repeated calmly. I stood up from the chair. I pulled out my Glock from behind my back, aimed it at her.

She screamed and dropped the sandwiches and cups of iced tea on the rug.

"Shhhh," I said. "Stop ...