Happy Thursday, Internets!
I’m getting a little bit later start this morning. Some Thursdays are like that. On a week like this, I’d really be looking forward to Friday, but since it looks like this will be a working weekend, what I’m really looking forward to is more sleep. 🙂
So how about a little crime story for this week’s free fiction? THAT KIND OF FACE is a story I wrote under my Kris Sparks pen name. It features a hit woman with a definite agenda of her own. Enjoy!
That Kind of Face
Published by Thunder Valley Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by Kris Sparks
Cover Photo by Frenk and Danielle Kaufmann | Dreamstime.com
“He went out for cigarettes and didn’t come back,” said the bottle blonde sitting across from me at the break room table.
I blinked at her. All around us, our co-workers were busy with lunch. I’d been eating mine all by my lonesome until the blonde plopped herself down to tell me her tale of woe.
“You’re kidding me,” I said.
She shook her head. Her sprayed-in-place hair didn’t budge. “I know how it sounds, but I swear that’s what happened.”
She couldn’t know how it sounded to me. It’s the oldest cliché in my business. My real business. By day I’m a middle-aged data entry clerk. I sit in my eight-by-eight cubicle and process unemployment insurance payments for the state. I listen to movie scores on my iPod and think lascivious thoughts about the cute guy I saw on TV the night before. Unless, of course, the night before was devoted to my real business — the contract work I did on the side taking care of jerks like the guy who apparently put cigarettes higher up his priority list than his wife. Those nights I’m generally too busy for television, cute guys or not.
“You hear from him after he bought his smokes?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said around a sniffle, her voice thick. Her sniffles were threatening to become an all-out crying jag.
The blonde’s name was Yolanda. She worked in Accounting, and she had the kind of hourglass figure that was heavy on the top side. I understand guys go for that kind of thing. I wouldn’t know, never having been overly blessed in that area. Yolanda had a pretty face, or at least it would have been if her eyes hadn’t been red-rimmed and puffy and her skin blotchy enough that makeup didn’t quite cover the patchy parts. She was on the far side of thirty. Today she looked every one of her years.
Yolanda dug around in the pocket of her skirt and brought out a lumpy mess of something that once might have been tissues. She dabbed at her eyes, wiped her nose, and shoved the mass of stuff back in her pocket. “He’s leaving me,” she said. “For my plastic surgeon.”
That explained a lot.
“My surgeon’s a guy.”
That explained a hell of a lot.
“So why are you telling me?”
(read the rest of the story here)