Thomas Prescott Superpack by Nick Pirog Page B

one hour of sex.”
    We both stood there for an unpolished Humpy Dumpty and if I said the thoughts running through my head were PG-13, I’d be lying. I heard a faint ringing in the background of the X-rated movie playing in my head, and the lead actress, Xela, said, “I think your cell phone is ringing.”
    The ringing was indeed coming from my pocket and I extracted my phone. I checked the caller ID, it was Lacy. If it’d been anyone else, I would have clicked on my voice mail. I flipped the phone open, “What’s up?”
    “I just called to tell you that you’re the master. You got me sooo good.”
    Got her? Oh, my little practical joke. I’d strategically placed thirty fly traps throughout the house. If you aren’t familiar with a fly trap, they unravel from the ceiling about three feet and are covered in a half tree sap-half Elmer’s glue type concoction. I’d gotten three of them stuck to my face on the way out and I’d hung them. “Well thank you Lacy Prescott. That means a lot coming from you, although it’s easy when your prey is deaf, dumb, and blind.”
    “Just blind you prick. Where did you get the parts, they feel so real.”
    “What parts? They’re fly traps; I picked them up at the hardware store.”
    “No, the body parts in my bed. They feel so real.”
    As she said the words I knew my worst fears had been realized. Tristen Grayer was back.

Encore in October

Chapter 12
     
     
    My autonomous nervous system kicked in and my body couldn’t decide whether to fight or flight. So I stood still, like a deer in headlights. No wait, Alex was shining the friggin’ spotlight in my eyes again.
    She said, “Oops, sorry,” and ran into the house.
    I flipped my cell open and dialed Caitlin. She picked up on the third ring, “This better be good.”
    Caitlin should have asked, “Where?” The only reason I would be calling at 11:30 P.M. on a Monday night would be to report a murder or put in for a late night sex romp. Where covered both bases. I cleared my throat and said, “My house.” She was silent, the reality of the situation piercing her skin. When it hit marrow, she asked, “Are you there?”
    “No, I’m thirty minutes out.”
    She didn’t ask where I was, and if she had, I would have said the dentist. Lucky for me, this wasn’t the time for questions or comedy routines.
    Caitlin said flatly, “I can be there in twenty.”
    I flipped the phone closed and saw I had unconsciously made my way through Alex’s house and was nearing her front door. Alex had absconded somewhere and I hoped she would understand my leaving without a proper so-long, farewell, arrivederci, miss-me-miss-me-now-you-have-to-kiss-me.
    I b-lined it to the Range Rover, rammed the key in the ignition, threw the car in drive, slammed down the gas, then slammed on the brakes, nearly crippling Ms. Tooms in the process. Alex hit the hood with both hands and threw open the passenger door. Her chest was heaving as she said, “I’m coming with.”
    I would have thrown her out, but it would have wasted valuable time, and to be perfectly honest, I didn’t mind her presence. She apparently knew where I lived and directed me through a shortcut even Hillary wasn’t wise to. (I would later go on to name the route, “The Lewinsky.”)
    I kept my foot down on the gas and after two minutes I was rocketing up the ramp to I-95. Once safely on the highway, cruising at the breakneck speed of a hundred and ten miles an hour, I attempted to get my cell phone out of my pocket. It was a futile effort and I said, “Dial this number.”
    Alex pulled a cell phone from her pocket, sending something small and metallic onto her lap. She said, “Shoot.”
    I rattled off the number and she handed me the phone. After the first ring someone picked up on the other line and I said, “Where are you?”
    Conner’s voice shot through the phone, “I’m on my way to your house. What the hell is going on? Lacy wouldn’t tell me shit.”
    I told him