I’m working hard on NaNo, but thought you might enjoy this piece of tale: From Slaughtered.
His phone rang. Loud.
Should have left that on silent.
How many doubles had he and Frank shared?
To goddamn many for Jack’s head.
It rang again. Kept ringing.
How many before it went to voice mail?
He rolled over. Reached for the device, and the ringing stopped.
Oh, that was how many. He covered his eyes with his hand, shading them from the light.
What time was it?
Jack rubbed his eyes, squinted at the screen. Nine-thirty.
Had he set up some kind of appointment?
He didn’t think so.
And didn’t recognize the number.
Swiped the screen to answer, before he recognized his screaming need to pee.
Scrambled to his feet as he answered
The voice sounded familiar. “Yes?”
Jack was still wearing his jeans from the night before. Struggled to undo them one handed.
“It’s Dr. Gamble.”
Doctor Gamble. Gamble. Oh, the vet.
“Yes!” he answered, his enthusiasm came from the fact his belt and jeans were now undone, and he was crossing the threshold into his bathroom. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Underwear, sliding down.
Relief, seconds away, but in a room with horrid acoustics.
“Hang on just a sec,” he said, and muted the phone.
Splashing relief followed. Jack tilted his head back, stretching as he relieved himself. God, his head ached.
Cheap Scotch, and too much of it.
“Mr. Slaughter?” a distressed voice said from the phone.
He looked over.
Shit. He’d hit speaker instead of mute.
Frantic pulling up of clothing and zipping followed. As if she could see through the phone, rather than just hear.
Which meant she had just heard…
“Sorry, I meant to mute the phone.”
Great, just great.
The laughter slowed. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“No,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just….”
A long pause followed.
“It’s okay, Jack. I—good morning.”
“Um, yes,” he said awkwardly. “What can I do for you?”
“Jack, I-um-it might be good. But it might be bad too. Can you come to the office?”
“Sure,” give me…” he trailed off. Took a quick pit sniff. “Give me about an hour.”
“You bet,” she said. He heard laughter as the call ended.
Wonderful start to the day, he thought, and stripped off his clothes, heading to the shower.
Troy is a freelance writer, author, and blogger who lives, works, and plays in Boise, Idaho with the love of his life and three very talented dogs.
Passionate about writing dark psychological thrillers, he is an avid cyclist, skier, hiker, all-around outdoorsman, and a terrible beginning golfer.