The Highwaywoman

She lays naked next to him, the sheet just barely modestly covering her rear as she presses her elbows together, purposely exemplifying her breasts at him. He’s on his back, arms behind his head and gripping the back board, smirking at her. She cocks a brow and does that half-smirk with her lips. Somehow, after a night’s long tussle in the sheets, her lipstick is still the ruby red, perfectly applied gloss that had captured the light of the club last night so perfectly. For good measure, she bites at her bottom lip, letting him know she really wants another go.

He sighs, ("fuck") as if it’s some chore that he takes 'no pleasure' in doing, and then he swings himself around her. Sheets float upwards, giggles are subdued by kisses, and their morning is simply a continuation of the night.

It takes a great deal of self restraint for them to finally convince themselves to leave the bed; not that they leave each other. The shower is small and hot enough; how they both fit inside is a mastery of collaboration, clinging and creativity. She gives him looks that ward off his advances—looks that say “hand me the shampoo”—but one stroke of a hand through her hair and a light bite to her neck leads to…more of the same activities as before.

When they finally emerge for air, she steals one of his shirts; she’s not about to slip back on that compressing, uncomfortable dress from last night. And she leaves it at just that—his shirt.

He smirks wildly, throwing on some boxers and pants. When he attempts to throw on a button up, she’s there, tugging at the sleeves to keep him exposed. He doesn’t fight her—why would he?

Her red locks dry into curls, and her light eyes sparkle with a desire that’s dangerous, he knows. In other circumstances, she’d probably be the one. She has fire—she’s funny. He can’t recall laughing so much through a night of passion; she took the edge of everything. She was flirty and aggressive—hell, she approached him at the bar. It didn’t hurt that she was the most attractive woman he’d probably ever seen (or had been with…and if not seen, then at least seen in a long time). They way she purposely moved, so catlike, in his shirt, around the room…

This was love, he knew it. A doomed love that’d haunt him and leave the bitterest taste on his tongue for years if not life, but the taste of the fruit for one night alone was worth the damnation.

“Any plans today?” She asks, reclining on the pullout bed and propping her feet on the coffee table. He smirks.

“Thought I’d see the sites. I’m a tourist, y’know.”

She reaches for a green apple in the complimentary bowl, biting into it. She knows. They both are. She glances back at the glass windows, floor length, that reveal Prague before them.

“Have you seen the Astrology Clock Tower yet? It’s only…a few blocks from here.”

She sits across from her, lifting things out of his open suitcase in search of socks or a watch of something to fumble with so his hands have something to do.

“Saw it yesterday.”

He sets two books aside, and she jumps at this.

“Didn’t take you for an avid literature type?”

He chuckles.

“What type did you take me for?”

“The one night kind,” she winks.

He nods—he deserved that. Smiling, he hands her the novels.

“Alfred Noyes Poetry?” Now she’s perplexed. She certainly didn’t expect him to be a man of…poetry.

He shrugs.

“The Highwayman. Couldn’t get enough of it after 5th grade.”

She laughs and picks up the second book.

“And…Tom Clancy.”

He shrugs, muttering through some explanation of the airport bookstore until they both break out laughing.

Finally, she leans back, Alfred Noyes firmly clutched in hands, holding the book up to her nose to cover her face.

He thinks she’s never looked sexier than in his shirt with her face buried in this book.

Hen again, he’s rather limited in the “ways” of how he’s seen her. But this one takes the top spot currently.

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

She peeps over the book’s top to smile at him. He’s watching her like a wolf, ready to ravage her for the countless-th time, but he’s holding himself back.

She snaps the book shut.

“Don’t want to finish it?”

She scrunches her nose. “The ending always made me sad. That’s the thing though, about books and stories. You get to decide where they end. I can choose not to turn the next page, not to read the next passage. And so, for me, Bess and the Highwayman are forever alive, embracing each other and laying out plans to meet the next night.”

“But that’s cruel.”

She raises a brow, “How so?”

“They have lives—stories—that they need to live out. You’re freezing them in their mind without a conclusion—without closure. You want Bess to live, and for the Highwayman to return to her, but that’s not their story. You have to respect the story,” He chastises, but all with a smile on his face.

She’s glowing, smirking at him. He’s not at all the dumb, hot man she took him to be at first. He’d just been an easy target—a fellow American abroad where she could speak openly and not worry about the communication barriers. Someone who could hold her to her drinks and someone who just from the sight of him she knew she could get a good fuck out of. But then he had to go and surprise her by being…

Wonderful.

She sets the book down.

“So what are your plans?”

He shrugs.

“Convince the girl before me that either I put on a shirt, or she takes hers off.”

She winks at him, standing.

“No, but I meant…where are you going after this?”

He shrugs.

“I have a plane ticket in three days’ time out of Brussels to fly back to Iowa. Beyond that? I’m drifting…”

She smiles, her eyes scanning the room and his luggage.

“Let’s go to Berlin.”

He scoffs, but to her surprise, nods. “Ok.”

A four-hour train ride later, they’re standing outside a hostel in Berlin. She collected her knapsack of things from her own hostel before they left, and he’s dragging his suitcase, trying to remember what little German from High School he’s retained. The most He’s got is “Aufweidersen” and “Bitte”.

She’s doing alright—practically fluently arranging their room and board. He offers to split the bill but she waves him off. He smirks, intrigued. He wants to know more about her. A well-off girl, traveling Europe on her own from New York? The alone part particularly sticks out to him.

When everything at the front desk is settled, they make their way to the room upstairs. He’s feeling antsy, and is relieved when they get inside. He unzips his suitcase, shuffling through things before he finds his kit. He turns and heads straight for the bathroom, hoping to avoid her condescending glares. He rolls up his right sleeve, pulling out the strap and tightening it around his arm above the vein. He taps at the needle, careful to extract just enough heroin for a good kic-

The door swings open and she’s there. He freezes. Well, this is it. This is where their fantasy ends; she’s seen the real him. The junkie him who needs that hit just every few days, just to keep him going-

But, her face doesn’t read disgust. Instead it reads intrigue. She steps slowly towards him. He sets the needle on the counter, and she straddles him. She pushes him to be seated on the toilet, bringing herself into his lap with her legs lifting to wrap his waist. Her hands feel up his arms, unbuckling the strap. He doesn’t stop her; he hardly reacts to her. She’s in control of him, moving his hands to where she wants them on her. She tips his chin so he’s angled just right. There’s a moment of waiting—like a dog waiting for their master to command “come”—and when she gives the look, the one that says exactly that, he’s released.

His hands grip where she placed them. His mouth collides with hers and her arms pull him closer to her. Clothes are lost rather quickly and they break from their kisses to breathe through the act. It’s fast and passionate and this is a high. A far greater high than the needle would have given him, he realizes.

Her moans will surely call complaints from the neighbors, and his rocking against the walls and shaking of the cabinets will only add to the bill, but they don’t give a damn.

It’s been a weekend of nothing but passionate sex and rolling in sheets, scantily clad walking in full views of windows and, more importantly, each other, and the occasional beer and food run. There’s a kiosk nearby their hostel and he’s grateful for open carry because it lets him get a head start on the way back. He needs it, because this girl shoots straight vodka back like a pure Russian and he swears, as young as he is, he’s too old for shots.

He’s first tipped off something is different when the front desk is empty. Not that it’s watched 24-7, but the array, the mess, behind the desk..? Papers have spilled out onto the floor in front of the desk—no respectable hostel leaves their front desk in such a way.

He drops the bags, hearing the shatter of some cheap IPAs breaking and bites at his cheek. Please no, please no, please n-

Their door is ajar—just a crack.

He wishes he’d kept one bottle on hand, if nothing else to use as some sort of make shift weapon, but he’s completely unarmed. So, he does what he can.

He taps the door open further with his foot, arms up in a surrendering motion.

She’s there, sitting in the recliner that just that morning they’d made love on.

There’s a knife to her throat and two men behind her.

“This the one with the money?” Their accents are thick, and so are her tears that refuse to fall.

She says nothing, but her eyes plead for forgiveness. He looks between her and the men. They’ve made themselves at home in the hostel. Feet on the table, chewing at the food that he’d bought the day before; groceries. Such a simple concept; something normal people did.

“Yeah…Yeah, I’ve got the money,” he answers. He doesn’t know what’s going on but…he’ll play along. He can feel the knot in his throat—he knows he’s being played. The way these men look between each other and her; they know each other. This was a set up.

She played him from the beginning.

He motions to reach for his wallet, raising his brows as if to ask for permission.

The man eating the food shakes his head.

“Don’t make a fuckin’ move, or the bitch gets it.”

The one with the knife attempts to emphasize the threat by digging the knife ever so closer. She squirms ever so slightly, but not enough to convince him this is her first time at knife point or even gunpoint.

He spent the past weekend admiring her body and memorizing the faintest scars. He never questioned them; rose-colored glasses left him blind, thinking her skin was perfect. That she was perfect.

He scoffs, which confuses the thugs. They don’t expect him to chuckle.

“You can drop the act.” He keeps his hands raised.

The thugs move to speak, but she beats them to it.

“He knows. Drop the knife.”

The man behind her does so, hesitantly, and she stands. She approaches him, slowly, and reaches into his pocket for his wallet. He’s still smiling—what a fool he was—and shaking his head. He looks her in the eyes, barely catching them as she’s refusing to look back.

“This what you do? Find a mark, bring them to Berlin? This how you get your income? Are you even from New York, or are you just better at accents then your friends here.”

She scowls at him, still standing in close proximity of him.

“I was from New York. But things happen and you find yourself in places, situations, you wish you weren’t in. But, this is where I am, so…” She holds up his wallet, turning to her accomplices.

“We have his cash. Tie him up and let’s go.”

The one sitting suddenly stands, spitting out a seed or something from whatever fruit he was devouring disgustingly.

“You fucked this one, right?”

Her chest rises in anger.

“I did the job, just as I was told. I got him here, and we have his money. Now, let’s go before anyone else shows-“

“-He won’t like it.”

“Won’t like what?!” She snaps.

“Just leaving him…intact. He fucked you, his prized pony. He can’t be let off with just…” the first thug waves his hands about.

She’s fuming, but she’s also terrified. He can tell as much. Whoever this ‘Him’ their referring to…her pimp or boyfriend or whatever… Her body language tells him enough.

“Look for me by moonlight,” He whispered, eyeing the back of the woman he’d loved—loves. He found what he was looking for.

“What?” She snapped, turning around.

“Watch for me by moonlight.”

In a swift motion, He threw one arm around her throat, the other reaching into the back of her pants to pull out and reveal her concealed revolver. He held it pointed out at the two thugs who suddenly were at attention, too slow on the draw with their own guns.

She’s speechless, not having expected this retaliation.

“I’ll come to thee by moonlight…” He whispered in her ear, before slamming her out of the way into the wall. Multiply shots went out. The thugs stumbled to grab at their own, to retaliate.

She hit the wall and slid down it, gripping her head. When she looked up, all she saw was feathers—and blood.

Pillows had been shot to hell—the couch looked like a cloud with the feathers of white covering it. The sunlight peering through the window only made the room appear brighter—more heavenly.

But in contrast, two bodies, large and dressed in black save the red stains that seeped from their chests, soaking and staining the cushions and floor beneath them.

And then, there he stood. His arm still extended, gun still aimed at where the thugs had been.

Her first thought was a futile one—a foolish, hopeful thought that she was free. Then, gravity returned her to here and now and she saw it. The wound in his chest—the three.

He coughed, at first as if simply trying to hold down a cough, but suddenly blood pooled out and he was hacking. He heaved over, collapsing and clutching his chest.

"Shit, shit, shit-!"

She didn’t hesitate to throw her arms around him, to hold him and cradle him back into her lap. Maybe this was the last thing he wanted, but…

He smirked up at her, his blue eyes suddenly so blue—almost white, they were so pure and bright.

“Th-though hell sh-should…bar the w-….way…”

He muttered through oarse breadths. She shook her head hysterically, tears weeling. Real ones. Not her crocodile tears used on so many men before. It wasn’t like missions had gone south before—she’d seen men die. She’d slept with men she’d personally had to kill for resistance.

But he…he was different. She had wanted nothing more than for him to get away. For him to escape her and be in Brussels in a day, boarding that flight back to Iowa and forgetting her. Everything about her.

She choked back snot and tears, pushing her hair out of her face as if that alone was blinding her and not the swelling of tears.

“Wh-why?! You...fucking idiot!?”

He was hardly looking at her anymore. His eyes, glazing over quickly, looked up to the ceiling.

“Shot…Down like a dog on the highway…”

“S-stop! Stop the story now-- here! I-I don’t want Bess, o-or the Highwayman t-to d-die! I-I’m stopping this; I won’t read anymore so just…quit it! Quit quoting, quit…. quit d-dy-!” It’s hard to spit the word ‘dying’ out. She can barely breathe, she finds.

His fingers twitch, pointing in a vague direction at where his suitcase is.

“T-take the ticket…Escape whoever…. whoever h-he is…Go to Iowa, a-and from there…see the world. Th-this isn’t the end of the story. You l-live on…keep reading…” He smirks.

His eyes are half closed and suddenly he’s stiff.

She finds herself screaming, hyperventilating and hysterically bawling over his corpse. She’s screaming get up, she’s screaming that she loves him. She loves him, damn it, so get up!

A boy sits nervously in the airport, his mind replaying the horror story his parents told him of how a young man from Iowa was found murdered in Berlin. It’s not too late to call them and admit he can’t go on this study abroad course in Paris. He keeps seeing that man’s picture in the obituary and it scares him. That could be him!

His knee is bouncing, his legs shaking in his seat, when a woman with red hair and lips to match approaches him. He’s so stunned that this femme fatale straight from the movies is approaching him—she must need directions, he thinks. Unless she’s a cougar. Hell, he barely had his first kiss with Kristen Larkin this summer—he’s not ready for…this.

She smirks, maybe recognizing his thoughts and the obvious attraction and intimidation he holds for her. She kneels beside him, eyeing him from behind her sun glasses.

“You’re going to Paris?”

He can only nod.

She smirks, then takes a seat beside him.

“I just came from Europe myself. Business, not pleasure.” She bites her lip, but continues. “This must be your first time. You’re sweating horribly,” she chuckles as she says it, softening the insult, but he still bows his head in shame.

“Let me give you some advice…”

She reaches within her bag and pulls out a book, handing it to the boy.

He glances at the title and then back to the woman.

“A…poetry book?”

She nods.

“It belonged to a friend of mine. It brought him comfort wherever he went. Inspired him…Maybe it’ll help you.”

“Why are you giving me this?”

She shrugs.

“Because that chapter of my life is over. I’ve turned the page, and I can’t go back….as much as I want to. I can only go forward. Just like you. So, take the book. If nothing else, girls love a guy whose into prose and poetry!”

He smirks, feeling cheeky enough to comment back, “Did you friend impress you with his knowledge of poetry?”

She smiles, and it’s bittersweet, but she answers. “Yes. I fell in love with him for it.”

The boy wants to ask the mysterious woman more, but she’s already taken a stand and her heels are clicking away. She’s headed outside of the airport—onto American soil.

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding—

Riding—riding—

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

-The Highwayman, Alfred Noyes