The Redheaded Pistol Read online



  The Redheaded Pistol

  by

  Ryan H. Nichols

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  The Redheaded Pistol

  Copyright © 2011 by Ryan H. Nichols

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  The Redheaded Pistol

  "May I take you home tonight?" A petite blonde asked.

  Her breasts popped out of a light green tank top. I laughed. This proposition was not the first tonight. The bar was packed with bodies. Women of all ages numbered the people here to see me. Apparently I was something of a spectacle. This small town doesn’t see my type that often. If one does arise out of it, one doesn’t stay long.

  "I’ve got a house near here; we can have a little party. See that girl over there, and the one next to her? They’re coming too."

  This girl had a plan. Most do; flinging themselves at me. Now, please remember this fame I acquired was not intentional. Following a dream is when ‘fame’ happened. That’s a story for later, now let me enjoy my drink. Jim Beam, double, on the rocks.

  As I was saying, the bar was packed with young girls, littered with aging women. Drinking, secretly undressing me with their eyes. I could see all sorts of fantasies being created in the female’s minds under the same roof as myself. Some just took glances at me; others tongued a cherry or a pineapple or a lemon. More are dancing: the human female mating call, subconsciously beckoning me over to them; imitations of what would happen if I choose one in particular, or a group.

  As time passed, and sex-on-the-beach or cosmopolitans or margaritas or whatever was the cheapest shot started to take hold on the fragile blood streams in the females, urgency started to rise within each one. I could feel the electricity in the air start to build. Cutting my way to and from the bar seems to confirm my intimate doom. I could smell it by now. The night at this bar was coming to the end and I needed to make a decision. I had plans of my own.

  My manager and closest friends were roaming; looking for the hottest, funniest, most willing group, to follow us back to the house we rented-no, I rented. There was a hand on my neck and I turned to find another counterfeit blonde.

  Pulling me close, she whispered in my ear, "I can make anything you want happen."

  "Ok," I said, "first you’ll have to take it up with my girlfriend." I pointed to a red head in a corner near the dance floor. Three other girls surrounded her, all drinking, laughing and paying no attention to me. The red head lingered on the edge of the conversation, erupting with an added point. She quickly calmed her intensity, intent on listening to her friends.

  "The more the merrier." She said sizing up the red head, "Be right back".

  The blonde walked up to the red head, tapped her on the shoulder and began detailing her secret plans for me, or us. Shock flashed on the redhead’s face as she shook her head and violently waved her hand, dismissal. The blonde argued for a moment. Each word from the redhead brought her body to face the blonde’s in full. From my seat I could not hear the conversation but found her body language fascinating. I considered moving to a different location but the blond scurried back to me. She looked at me confused and said, "That girl says she isn’t your girlfriend and you can do whatever you want to me."

  I smile to myself and look over to the red head. She was giving me a confused, evil eye. I wink at her. With a twirl of her head, she returns to her friends, holding up a middle finger for me. I smile at her, soon looking around for a familiar face; someone I had come with preferably. None were available and I started to wonder if they were milking my fame more than I was. The exception would be my manager. The rest had been born and at some point been raised here or lived here for a while. Warning the town of my arrival (including prominent bars) increased the appearance of out of town girls. I guess they made the trip, hoping to ‘bang’ a celebrity. I didn’t mind.

  We do this in all the towns we visit. We call ahead so the maximum number of people will attend our parties. This is my generation. These are my people.

  "Hey," a brunette called up to me. She had two drinks in her hand: bottle still capped and a margarita.

  She pushes the beer in my hand. A girl in Nashville had wanted to fulfill her own form of ‘Misery’. Fortunately, my manager pulled us out of the bar before the rufie fully took hold of me.

  "You’re the famous writer guy right?" Her confidence led me to believe that she already knew the answer.

  "Yep," I said casually looking into the crowded bar.

  "Um, wanna dance?"

  "Sorry, I don’t dance, I just write about the circumstances that create an atmosphere conducive to dancing, well, no, actually, the attempted art of sexual invitation." Every third word was lost in the music.

  Her face was straight, almost frowning. The corners of her mouth turned downward for a moment, "The bars are about to close and I know of a few parties tonight, if you wanna come."

  "How old are you, sweetheart?"

  Calling her sweetheart must have excited her a little because she jumped with her answer. "18."

  My brain leaped as I smiled down at her, "Thanks but you’ll have to ask my girl friend over there," again, pointing to the sexy red head at my left. The creases formed on the corners of her mouth again and she put up one finger. Retreating to her group of friends, she became absorbed in a conversation with them. She had been brave enough to come up to me (must have drawn the shortest straw) but not when it came to "my girlfriend."

  I continued to capture looks that were saved for private rooms with double locked doors and plastic keys.

  A few people patted me on the back and congratulated me on the book that was recently published. I said my thanks and shook their hands. Eagerness filled their eyes. I concluded that some of the congratulators were only here to "meet a celebrity." The cute brunette finished her council and walked over to "my girlfriend." This redheaded vixen was now at the bar. She wore a knee high skirt and heels to match. Blood red hair covered a sleeve of tattoos on her left shoulder and back. She yelled at the bartender as she lifted her weight onto the bar. I noticed that the bartender was having trouble hearing her. Finally, he matched the number of drinks that she wanted and hurried off to make her order. The vixen stepped back down to our planet, smoking her cigarette as she waited. (Enter the brunette) She tapped nervously the redhead on the shoulder. She swirled around to see who was touching her. I watched the scene curiously. The brunette appeared to be dominated by "my girlfriend" before she could say her first word. When the proposition was over, the red head looked irritated. She reminded me of a red pistol, a colt, one that was used in the Wild West. I could see her mouth the words "fuck off" and "not" and "girlfriend" in close proximity to each other. This brunette was the second girl that I have sent over to the red pistol. I had an amazing chuckle to myself about the play I had created. I abandoned the scene and practical joke, to save for later, because at the moment I had no one to share it with who would be as amused as I was. For now the joke was mine and the redhead’s, although I don’t think she found it too amusing. Even in the crowded bar I felt alone with my thoughts. The last conversation I had was a failed one with my entourage about the events of this evening. I lost the debate coming up against two simple words, "Why not?" I had wanted this time to be a break from the lime light; in my home town to relax and collect my thoughts.

  The red haired fox called over the bartender and told him to set her drinks on the back of the bar for a minute. I could not hear the conversation but only observed their actions. She pushed through the crowd heading in my direction. I wore a cocked grin; a predatory grin waiting for her to approach me. She squeezed through the crowd encircling me, with her mouth partially open, with the words of abuse on the tip of her tongue. She looked prepared to
throw a low punch, but I extended a hand, "Now we’ve finally met. What can I call you? ‘Red headed Vixen’ and ‘Red Pistol’ are getting a little old."

  Confused, she hesitantly took my hand, I could see her processing what I said. Anger was building in her eyes. "Maybe she really would punch me," I thought. Slowly as I held her hand waiting for a new name, the anger faded, slightly. She spoke. "E…." the music took over her words, lost in the chatter, and forever floating in the bar.

  "Eva?" I said.

  "Elisha" she yelled.

  "Is that with an E?" I smiled a new predatory grin.

  "Yes. Now, we need to have some words. What’s this shit about you sending these bimbos over to ask if you can go party? And calling me your girlfriend? Next time I'm gonna slap a bitch and that’s on you." She said all this, forcefully, in one breath. I was impressed.

  "Look around." I released her hand.

  She looked. "So..?"

  "Do you see anyone around here worth talking to?"

  She scanned the room for a second time.

  "You’ve had people around you the entire night," (she had noticed me!) "Why do you have to fuck with me?"

  "Answer my question; you look like a smart girl."

  "No." She said simply with a very unforgiving look.

  This was the first conversation I had all night that didn’t involve sex or my book. I was too excited to let it end.

  "Ok let me make it up to you."

  "How," she asked indignantly. "You’ll take me back to the house you rented and ‘show me the time of my life?’"

  "No, don’t be silly. Let me pay for your drinks for the night." I said, hoping that her response would not be a single word answer.

  "Ok, but you have to buy me and my friends’ shots, take care of our tab and bring the shots over to our table to take ‘em."

  "A tall order," I thought and laughed aloud.

  "Sure." She walked away to reclaim the drinks behind the bar. I called to another bartender and ordered five Washington Apples and a refill on my drink, Mr. Jim. I also told the bartender that the drinks on the red head’s, Elisha’s, tab were to be placed on mine. He quickly came back with the shots and a tray. Once over at her table I explained what the shots were.

  "And you’re drinking…?" She questioned.

  "Whiskey" I answered.

  She made a face and pretended to throw up; I caught bits of her mumble, "nasty" and "straight" was only a few of her gargled words I caught. I laughed. The red pistol uneasily cheered the night with me before we took our shots.

  "Are we even?"

  "Yes," she said and, for the first time since we had started to exchange words, smiled.

  Her friends took their shot, waiting for an introduction but received none. I sipped my whiskey and, suddenly, the lights turned on. I excused myself to pay my tab and found my manager at the bar.

  "Looks like last call. You want one more?" My manager asked.

  "Sure, wanna shot as well?"

  "Hell yea," My manager motioned the bartender over and told him our last order of the night; a whiskey, a beer and four redheaded sluts.

  I laugh at the order. My manager gave me a wink and said, "That’s all you're gonna get from a redhead tonight but maybe a blonde..." I turned around to find the pistol’s table empty. Returning to my shots, I sighed and smiled, making mental note of the night with the pistol.

  My manager slapped my back and shook her head. Her gold hair brushed the top of her slender shoulders.

  "Oh, I have a story to tell you." I said, leaning in close.

  My manager, crew, the pick of the night and I left for my rented house shortly after.