Gunfire echoed through the night. Three quick shots. Barking dogs consumed the subsequent silence.
Greg’s heart pounded in his throat. The whole idea was ridiculous, and driving into this slum at the dead of night further cemented its absurdity. He poked his head out the window, attempted to discern where the shots came from, then pulled his head back inside the safety of his car. As if a sheet of foreign auto glass could stop a bullet. As if.
He glanced at the motel sign towering above him; two neon palm trees beckoned lowlife trash to fester beneath their glimmering fronds. The email had told him to be prompt, not a second late. If he stayed in the car, psyching himself out with bullshit, the opportunity would vanish. After another long sigh he slid from the car.
Greg knocked three times on Room 118, just as the email had instructed. The door cracked open. Green eyes shimmered past the security chain.
“You Greg?” Wine red lips clashed with porcelain skin.
“Um…” Something about her eyes distracted him. Perhaps she was wearing contacts, or maybe the neon caught the opportune angle, but Greg swore for a split second that her eyes were actually glowing. Left powerless by her mystique, he gathered up just enough strength to nod in reply.
“Got the cash?” She blew the shaggy raven bangs from her eyes. “All of it?”
“Yeah, right here.” He pulled the envelope from his hooded sweatshirt. He had counted it four times before leaving the house. Hopefully his fiancé wouldn’t notice its absence before he could replace it. He dreaded explaining his motives if it came down to that.
The woman snatched his money before shutting the door. Greg’s guts curled into knots at the thought of all their wedding money suddenly lost. Relief lifted his heart up from his balls when the door popped back open. The woman shoved a cardboard box against his chest, which knocked the wind from him. Somehow his butterfingers managed to catch it before it fell. That would have been disastrous.
“This is the real deal?” He peeked beneath a box flap.
“Did you count the money?”
“I know where you live.” The door shut firmly in his face.
Greg turned around and stepped away from the door. Jitters crept along his spine when he noticed the hookers gathered beneath streetlights across the way. Nobody else seemed to be around. He dashed to his car, placed the box gently in the passenger seat, then got the hell out of there.
Everybody has a List, don’t they? A List of all the celebrities they fantasize having erotic encounters with, should the chance arise. Greg has a List, but there’s only one woman on it, and she doesn’t even exist in our world. However, Greg has found a way to make his fantasy as real as possible with the help of modern technology. Hopefully his fiancé doesn’t learn that he spent all of their wedding money trying to do it.