She nearly walks right past the poster, nearly misses that 5,000 watt grin of his, those steely grey eyes. He’d always said he would become a rock star, and it seems he was right. The pain hits her like it was yesterday, rather than 20 years ago, and she remembers bitterly how he had broken her heart, how he had broken her.
In two weeks time, they will be playing in her town. It costs her nearly half her month’s salary to book a hotel room on the same floor as the band’s. It costs her the other half for the revolver.
She trembles as she slips the six, cold pellets of death into the revolver’s chamber. She takes another drink and sits on the edge of the bed, wondering if she is crazy. She thinks about maybe keeping just one bullet, like Russian roulette, let the fates decide. She takes another swig of Jack Daniels and makes up her mind, emptying all the rounds into the bedside drawer. He won’t know that its not loaded.
After the gig the band pile back to the hotel draped in fawning, drunken, groupies. He doesn’t recognise her, but she would be surprised if he recognised any woman except for perhaps his own mother.
He is easy to coax up to her room, and why not, after all she is a beautiful woman. None of his arrogance has left him, if anything its grown worse and his ego is so inflated as to be comical. He is the sort of man, she thinks, that if he were making love to a beauty queen, he’d probably fantasise that he was masturbating.
Even when she pulls the gun on him and tells him who she is, he does not seem phased. “There’s no way that thing is real.” he shrugs and makes to walk out of the room.
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t” she snarls softly, pulling back the hammer. “That a chance you want to take?” Something in her voice and eyes tells him this is no mad fan prank and he starts to look a little worried. She tells him there is one round somewhere in the chamber, points out the one-in-six probability and gestures, with the cold steel, for him to move away from the door. His mind races and he tries to place her, he remembers the face, the name even, but he can’t recall what he’d done to make her so mad. She is pointing the gun straight at his head.
“Strip.” she tells him, not really knowing why, this had not been the plan. There is a little fear, beginning to etch its way across his face now, but he doesn’t do as she tells him so she aims the gun at his crotch and almost laughs: he looks more concerned about getting his balls blown off than his head.
She pulls the trigger and he jumps violently, his eyes scared now staring intently at her and then the gun and then back at her. “One-in-five now,” she points out as calmly as she can “and I said strip.” and he does. He still has a magnificent body and a beautiful cock. She points towards the bed and he climbs onto it, and she notes that he is shaking now. Little trickles of guilt scamper across her as she realises his fear is getting her wet.
She realises that his being scared might prevent him from getting stiff, but she understands the reverse psychology of the male erection. “If that thing gets hard,” she tells him, pointing the gun at it, “I will blow it off!” She delivers these last three words loudly, and clearly, almost in a shout. It works like a dream and almost instantly his member starts to thicken and lengthen, twitching up towards his belly. He pleads with her. “I’m warning you.” she says coldly and watches, enthralled, as he becomes harder, his cock dancing on his belly. There are tears now welling up in his eyes.
He screams and stares wildly at her, the words ‘please’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘no’ spilling from his mouth, tripping over each other, in a torrent of panic. She can hear someone laughing, and it is a moment or two before she realises it is her. “One-in-four” she grins. Keeping the gun trained on him with one hand, as she works her panties off from under her short skirt with the other. She kicks off her shoes and mounts him.
He is sobbing now and pleading, it is hard to make out what he is saying through the sobs but her name is in there and lots more ‘please’. The guilt she feels at being so aroused by his panic heightens her senses and her lust begins to simmer and boil as she rides him harder and faster, rubbing at herself as she goes, stroking his face and chest gently with the gun, peering into his eyes, drinking his terror in like fine wine, drunk on his sobs.
She remembers how badly he had treated her, remembers how he had made her do stuff that disgusted her, how she had pleaded not to. He had insisted though and she had loved him. She remembers how she had begged him to stop and how he had just told her to pretend to enjoy it and not ruin it for him. She remembers how she had run sobbing to the bathroom after and showered over and over while he had just lain the smirking. She forces the barrel of the gun into his mouth, feeling him gag on it.
“One-in-three.” she spits, wishing now that the gun were loaded, enjoying how his body convulses under her as he tries to scream through a mouth full of metal. She pulls out the revolver and smashes it into to his face adding blood to the snot that bubbles from his nose and the tears that stream from his eyes “Motherfucker!” she screams at him, pushing the gun back into his mouth as she starts to come. “Motherfucker!”
The hotel is surrounded by paparazzi and photos of him, running naked down the street sobbing and bloody, cover every front page the following day.
When she goes to put the gun back in the drawer, she notices something odd: there are only five shells in there. She flips open the chamber and starts, a shiver running down her spine as she realises there was a round in there all the time.