It’s Thursday, the weekend is close but not quite here, so pass the day with this exclusive extract from Write Sex Murder by Burt Bosma:
It was a panther, not a dragon.
When Pieterse approached the entrance of the Dark Haven Nightclub with Megan – dragged by Megan would be more accurate – his worst fears were immediately realised. The same pony-tailed bouncer was standing by the door. Only his muscular right arm wasn’t decorated with a fire-breathing dragon, as Pieterse had remembered, but with a panther. A fire-breathing panther, which was a little weird, but it didn’t make him any less menacing.
Pieterse felt the memory of his previous humiliation pulsing behind his eyes as they walked up the three steps from the footpath to the foyer. Sweat dripped under his armpits. The bouncer glanced at them. Then stepped aside. Pieterse was amazed.
“That’s incredible. He’s let us in.”
Megan was amazed at his amazement.
“Why shouldn’t he? He’s only there to stop trouble makers.”
“Well, he stopped me last time. I was sure he’d remember me.”
Megan turned. She put her face close to his ear so he could hear her over the pounding music which, even out there in the foyer, made normal conversation almost impossible.
“Two things. First, don’t be a dickhead. When you came here last time you were alone and probably dressed like an old man. These places will let almost anyone in. It’s all money. And second, don’t be such an egomaniac. He would have forgotten you two minutes after you left. Nobody remembers anybody, nobody notices anything, nobody cares. Nobody. Got it?”
Pieterse said he got it. Megan put a full stop on the conversation.
“Right, let’s go have some fun.”
Fun? Pieterse quickly realised that, at the Dark Haven, fun meant buying drinks at twice the price he’d pay at any pub or bar in the city and which, he was sure, had been
watered down. Fun was being assaulted by music so loud it shook his teeth. Doof-doof! Doof-doof! Doof-doof! Over and over. Every song, to his ear, almost the same as the last one. As for the look of the place, well that was probably fun too, but the lights were kept so dim they might just as well have been in a cave.
After one expensive drink, Megan dragged him out to dance. Dance? They squeezed themselves into the throng of writhing and sweating bodies and bounced around with them, locked together like a giant quivering jellyfish, trying to keep up with the doof-doof beat of the music. When the swirling maelstrom spun them to its outer edge, Pieterse took the opportunity to steer Megan towards the bar. He needed another drink.
Becalmed by the glasses in their hands, they stood back and watched the zoo. Through the strobing, flashing multi-coloured lights, Pieterse could see guys picking up girls, girls picking up guys, guys picking up guys, and girls picking up girls.
Megan leaned across and took Pieterse’s half full glass from his hand. He looked at her confused as she pressed her mouth to his ear.
“Go and try your luck.”
He didn’t understand.
Her turn again. Louder this time.
“Try your luck. Go pick up someone.”
This time he understood. His stomach gurgled. The place was awful enough without having to make a fool of himself in front of Megan. He grasped at a straw.
“Who? There’s no one here I want but you.”
Megan ignored the false compliment.
Pieterse followed the line of her eyes and saw a girl standing alone about 10 feet away. She was in her late twenties, a little plump, but pretty in a girlish sort of way. She was wearing a short black dress – too short, because it exposed her oversized thighs – and was swaying on the spot, almost but not quite in rhythm with the music. She had an empty glass in her hand. Pieterse looked at Megan, hoping for a reprieve. It didn’t come. Instead he got an elbow in the ribs.
Pieterse took the few short steps towards the plump girl. He stood beside her. He was ready to make his big move. He leaned in toward her. Then he decided he wasn’t ready. He leaned back.
From the glazed look in the girl’s eyes, Pieterse was sure that the empty glass she was holding wasn’t the only drink she’d had – and probably not the only intoxicating substance either. He stood there for one entire doof-doof song, barely noticing as it merged seamlessly into the next while he built up his courage. He glanced across to where Megan had been standing. She wasn’t there. Then he felt a short, sharp pain in his back. A knuckle this time instead of an elbow, but he knew without looking that Megan was now standing behind him.
There was no way out. He stepped in front of the plump girl and yelled into her ear.
She smiled a dull-eyed smile and nodded her head, putting her glass down on a nearby shelf.
Success! For the first time since Pieterse had begun his quest to master The Method, he had approached a member of the opposite sex and received a positive response. And all it took was one magical, persuasive, incisive word: Dance.
A moment later he was back in the doof-doof washing machine spin cycle.
Pieterse pointed at himself.
She seemed confused, but then through the haze understanding came. She pointed at herself.
Dance. John. Lisa. Two words from Pieterse, one from her. A total of three words. Did that count as an intimate conversation? It must have, because Pieterse suddenly felt Lisa’s large but firm breasts pressed hard against his ribs. All things considered, he preferred Lisa’s breasts from Megan’s elbow or knuckle. He took her lead and reached his arms around her waist, placing his hands on her backside – or arse, or maybe ass, as he felt sure Megan would prefer – one hand on each cheek. Lisa didn’t object. Instead she pressed forward harder, grinding her hips against him to the doof-doof rhythm. Pieterse tightened his grip on her ass cheeks, massaging them in a circular motion. That didn’t bother her either. She pressed her head up to his neck and Pieterse felt her teeth dig into his flesh, not sharp, but with definite intent. Then she did something with even more intent. She forced her right leg between his legs, pushing her thigh against his soft spot and rubbing her soft spot against his thigh. Then she moaned.
Pieterse was amazed. There were hundreds of people on the dance floor, pushing against them, sweating on them, but no one took any notice of what they were doing. Maybe they were all doing it too.
Slowly but surely, that part of Pieterse where Lisa’s thigh was pressing grew hard. That seemed to please her.
Did that count as her second word?
Then she giggled. And gave Pieterse what was either her second or third word, depending on how you count the ‘Mmmmm’.
She grabbed his arm and pulled him through the heaving crowd to the door, past the ponytail and down a nearby alleyway. Seconds later his pants were around his ankles and he was holding her fleshy thighs in his hands as he stood with bent knees and pressed her against the wall of the alley.
Pieterse groaned. Lisa squealed. And that was that.
They sagged down the wall. Pieterse ended on his knees with Lisa sitting on his lap. They stayed in that position for a minute or two, then awkwardly stood up. He pulled up his pants, she straightened her dress. Pieterse didn’t know what to say, but quickly saw he didn’t need to say anything at all. She gave him a glazed smile and then spoke an amazing three words in a row.
“That was nice.”
He gave her one word in reply for a grand total of eight, or maybe nine, between them.
And then she walked off. Pieterse followed a few paces behind. At the top of the alley, she straightened her underwear, looked around, then walked up the street and back into the Dark Haven. When Pieterse got to the entrance, Megan was waiting for him.
“Woohoo! All right! Yeahh! Way to go!”
She did the full mock American celebration. Right down to the high fives and low fives, and added a little war dance of her own. Finally she settled down, still laughing.
“Come on Cinderalla, time to go home before you turn back into a pumpkin.”
You can download this book from Amazon now: http://www.amazon.com/Write-Sex-Murder-Burt-Bosma-ebook/dp/B00J2LGWSM/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1410291770&sr=1-1&keywords=burt+bosma