Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part One

General Notes: FF, MF, FD, MD, mind control, violence, language

--

There are hand-painted magnets on the fridge, little sea creatures holding up finger-painted papers and a school lunch menu. Shit, that means they've got kids. Goddammit, Ray, I think, you didn't mention kids.  This was his backup plan. Now I need a backup to the backup.

I tuck my gun away at the small of my back and hold my hands out where everyone will be able to see them.

"Hello?" I call out in what I think of as my horror-victim voice, that fearful and exposed tone the female actors use as they're about to enter a dark room, that voice that makes you want to simultaneously protect and slap the speaker.

"Hello?" A woman replies. I hear her footsteps coming toward me down the hall.

"I'm so sorry," I start talking before I even see her, letting myself hyperventilate just a little, "the door was ajar and I -- the weather -"

It'll help that the weather really does suck. I got soaked while picking the lock on the back door.

She turns the corner of the entryway to the kitchen. She matches the photo Ray gave me. I'm in the right place but things are still fucked. She looks at me, concerned but not afraid, not like she should be.

"I ran out of gas and -- your light was on."

"Oh you poor thing," she says. I back up as she walks into the kitchen. She gestures to a chair at the kitchen table. "Have a seat. Do you have a phone?"

"No," I lie, sounding relieved and worried, letting a small, wry smile settle on my lips, "Would you believe I dropped it in the toilet this morning?"

She laughs. Her face and stance relax and she says, "Yes, I would. Stuff like that happens all the time. I hope you put it in a bag of rice. Here, use my phone." She hands it to me and I click and swipe and see I have to enter a code. "Three, eight, two, three," she says as she puts a kettle on the stovetop. I enter the code and touch the screen for the keypad.

"I'm Rowan," she says.

"Rebecca," I say, extending my free hand to shake hers as, with the other hand, I hold the phone up to my ear. I didn't actually dial a number. "It's busy," I say, "I called my boyfriend's work number and it's busy."

"You want me to drive you to the gas station?" she asks. I turn off her phone and set in on the formica tabletop. The swooping, overlapping chevron designs in the formica remind me of childhood lunches with my dad at the diner near his house.

"I'd really appreciate it, but I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble," I say.

"No trouble, really. You'd just need to wait a few minutes. The girls will be home from school soon and I like to be here when they do."

"Oh, you have children?" I ask, the words coming out automatically. I cringe inwardly. I hate kids. I hate it when people talk to me about kids. And I hate that this woman has kids. My brain is still scrambling to come up with Plan C.

"Yes, two, Abby and Reba. They're old enough to stay home alone, though, so we'll just get them a snack and then I'll take you to get some gas for your car."

"Lucky kids, to have you waiting for them at home," I say, not meaning it at all.

Rowan nods slowly, looking almost abashed, "I feel real lucky we can make it on a single income."

"What does your husband do?" I ask, happy to change the subject but knowing full well he's been with Ray's outfit for years. Caught one too many times with his fingers in the honey pots, I think but, if you believe Ray, he's been liberating them or maybe stealing a few for his own harem. God knows where he'd keep them.

"He's head of the accounting department at a large company," she says, sounding proud. I feel a flash of sympathy for her. I dig my nails into the palm of my hand. There's no feeling sorry for anyone; everyone is either the victim walking into the dark room or the monster waiting for her there. I am the monster. I don't feel sorry for my meals.

The kettle starts to whistle. Rowan gets up, turns her back on me, the way every unsuspecting victim does, to move the kettle to a cold burner, to reach for two mugs in an overhead cabinet. I admire her braid of thick, brown hair. It falls almost to her hips. I think about the honey pot who wears her hair the same way, how I like to wrap it in my fist when I fuck her, and how I like to unbraid it after.

"Want some tea while we wait?" she asks, her back still turned. "It'll warm you up."

"Yes. Thank you so much," I say.

"Let's see," she says, "Vanilla Chamomile or PG Tips? That's a black tea."

"Uh, the chamomile," I say. I hate tea. I hate kids. I hate her faux-country house in what amounts to a slum neighborhood set down in prime farmland. I suddenly really hate Ray, too.

"What brings you to the neighborhood, anyway?" she asks, "Ain't nothing around here except a few streets of houses." I decide I also hate her hick accent.

"Took a wrong turn trying to get to the dairy up the road," I say, remembering I drove by at least five on my way to this microscopic town. "At least," I add, trying to sound abject and humble, "I think it's up the road. I didn't even notice the gas gauge until my car engine just up and died."

She gives a small, sympathetic chuckle. "It's easy enough to find a dozen dairies around here," she says, bringing me a steaming mug. It smells funny but I wrap my fingers around the warmth. "But it can be hard to find the right dairy, sometimes."

I realize I also hate how everyone thinks their own place is uniquely confusing and hard to get to. I want to confess the why's and wherefore's just so I can tell her how easy it was to find her home and pick the lock at the back door; how easy it will be to pull the trigger as soon as I can get her away from her kids. Kids don't need monsters like me, I know.