"Bloody Thighs"

Fred gets involved in a relationship with Jill, and is stalked by her old boyfriend. 

All Fred wants to do is get rid of this woman Jill he's having an affair with, along with her sonuvabitch ex-boyfriend, Robert.

Jill straddles the entrance of Fred's bright kitchen while he cooks a stir-fry dinner. She's wearing a white top and short-shorts, leather thong sandals with tiny colored beads across her toes and is holding a frosted goblet of wine. On the tall side with smallish breasts and slim, she is appealing enough that most men would regard her the equal of any woman in desirability. Fred knows he is not her equal in physical appeal, being six feet tall but skinny with large ears and mouth, and dark eyes set far apart.

He sees Jill observing him with little up and down eye movements. Perhaps he looks funny to her—his big head of curls, his frayed jeans dragging on the floor, no shoes as usual and flat hairy feet. He imagines that she is thinking, "I'm stylish, not like this guy." He wonders how she could ever be attracted to him. She must need something else is the only answer he can think of.

"Is this a new dish?" she asks.

Slivering onions at high speed, he replies, "No, it is just a different kind of Pad Thai noodles than last week." He has the mild European accent of someone who learned English in late childhood.

"I'm sure it'll be good, as always," she says without emotion. "I have to talk to you about something, Fred."

"I know." Fred looks right at her. "It's Robert, I know, he is coming around again." He opens the refrigerator and takes out two leafy salads with peanut dressing.

Her breathing quickens. "How did you find out?"

"I see he was putting the canopy on your truck some weeks ago. His hair was wet," He grins to one side, flips the refrigerator door closed and spins back to the stove. "Then, I got to your place early yesterday," he adds without concern.

Jill sways back in her standing position, hands on hips, either confused or surprised by his dispassionate behavior. He continues wielding his knife like an expert chef.

"Most guys wouldn't be so OK about it," she says.

He approaches her with a stiff smile, two dinner plates and a handful of utensils protruding forward. "Not at all. It was quite nice of you to bring it up—even though you are a few weeks late." He whips the verbal dig in a hard European accent to highlight the difference between them, and for the sarcasm. Then he steps past her through the doorway. She gives him little room.

Enjoy Another Free Bonus Excerpt from "Bloody Thighs" 

Fred has the weapon cocked in his robe pocket, and walks outside to check the patio. But he is immediately clubbed at the base of his neck with a bat, he crumples at the knees, and drops face down on the ground like a log. The intruder looms over the still body.

Then a dark shape twists around the assailant's leg. He screams, "What the hell—snakes!"

Stunned, but still conscious Fred rolls over face-up, aims his weapon, and squeezes the trigger to shoot a powerful stream of liquid into the assailant's face.

The man howls in agony, trying to ward off the spray with his flailing arms, but falling backward and dropping the bat. Fred recognizes him as big Robert, and douses him with more spray, swearing at him, "You goddamn sonuvabitch!"

Fred sees the bat, and with one swift motion he grabs it and whacks Robert broadside the head with his own weapon.

Gasping for breath, with the bat in his hand and nose full of snot, Fred fights back the overwhelming urge to crush Robert's senseless head into bone chips, and mush. If he bashes in the head, he cannot say to the police that he knocked Robert out but he died. It is murder. He could say Robert ran at him instead. Then a pair of sparkling eyes appears in the doorway, the flashing green eyes of the kitten radiating their own innocence and confusion. The sharp gray highlights around the edges of her dark coat resemble a glow, capturing what scant light there is. But one good smash down on Robert's fat skull? Or the kneecaps instead? Motionless, the kitten stares at Fred with the raised club, as if keeping him there. For a moment they both seem to keep each other in absolute stillness.

Enjoy the Suspense and Climax of "Bloody Thighs" in

PLEASURE ON THE RUN