Fillin’ Chet
By J.M. Snyder
Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2012 J.M. Snyder
ISBN 9781611522600
For more titles by J.M. Snyder at Smashwords visit https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jmsnyder
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Cover Credits: Joerg Rammer
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: J.M. Snyder
All rights reserved.
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This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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Fillin’ Chet
By J.M. Snyder
Chet Swearingen turned off Broad down an unlit side street. This wasn’t a part of Richmond he normally visited during the day, let alone at a little after 10:30 on a cold night in February. His car’s heater was turned up full blast, the seat warmer keeping his butt and legs cozy, but a scrim of frost clung to his windshield that the wipers and defrost hadn’t managed to clear away. It was late and cold and, by the looks of things, he was the only person alive in the world.
Bad idea, he told himself over and over again. Bad idea, bad idea.
On Tuesday nights he took a lecture class at Virginia Commonwealth University downtown. It ended at ten, and he usually headed straight home. But when he checked his cell phone during the break, he found a cryptic text message that sent tingles of anticipation from his head to his toes. All clear. Want 2 hook up?
He hadn’t been able to type the answer fast enough. YES!
The rest of the class had passed in a blur. Afterward, he hadn’t lingered with the other students, instead making a beeline for the parking lot. The frost on his windshield hadn’t deterred him; he just cranked the heat up high and set the wipers on full speed, shivering as the late model Lexus he drove warmed in the frigid night air. When a small patch of clear window finally appeared, he hunkered down over the steering wheel to see through to the road and inched out of the parking lot. Thank God it was late—his was practically the only car on Broad.
Off campus, he kept up the snail’s pace because he wasn’t familiar with the area. Anything Southside was beyond his ken—he lived in a loft apartment in Richmond’s fashionable West End, and the rundown section known as Churchill wasn’t a place he liked to go. Lord knew he heard about it often enough in the news, shootings and robberies were commonplace in that part of the city. Even though he saw no one on the streets, he felt them watching him, assessing him. Young preppy college kid, in a fancy car, heading…where?
Even he didn’t know. He felt like a mouse crawling across a room full of cats. The felines would only feign disinterest until they knew they had him trapped.
He shook his mind to clear that image away. At the corner, he turned right and let his car pull into the center of the narrow street. Vehicles lined both sides of the road, closing in on him. The houses he passed were dark, but he saw glints of life on the porches, his headlights catching a bottle of liquor here, a spoon for freebasing there, white eyes in hidden faces watching him pass.
Bad idea.
Another block, two, and he spotted a familiar street sign. Despite the fact he was the only one on the road, he turned on his signal and took a left. Suddenly the residential homes were behind him, and a row of dingy storefronts stared blindly as he passed. He was looking for one in particular…
There. On the corner sat a squat building whose neon lights were dark, though through the front windows Chet could see a faint light deep within, like a flame flickering against the night. He passed the side street, hit the brakes, and with one arm thrown over the back of the passenger seat, he steered as he backed the car into the turn. He could’ve just pulled in and parked, he knew, but he didn’t like parking on the wrong side of the street, even if he could get away with it. That wasn’t the way he’d been taught.
The car’s tires kissed the curb and he corrected his aim, straightening out. The moment he cut off the engine, cold air seeped into the car. You can do this, he told himself, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. You’re already here.
That made him think of Scott. Fumbling his cell from his coat pocket, Chet called up the last message received and hit REPLY. Just parked. Meet me at the back door.
He toyed with the idea of something more—love you came to mind—but it was still early in their relationship, and Scott didn’t seem the type to toss around words like that, anyway. If Scott ignored it, Chet would be hurt, no matter how much he tried not to be. Better to leave things the way they were between them. For now.
Message sent, he shoved the cell back into his coat pocket and pulled the keys from the ignition. When he opened the car door, a whoosh of icy air curled around his legs. As he stepped out, a puddle limned with thin ice crackled underfoot. Slamming the door shut behind him, Chet crammed his hands into his pockets to keep them warm.
Across the street, he saw three shadows detach themselves from the darkness and head his way.
Shit. He huddled into his coat and skirted the front of his car, gaze trained on the building’s employee entrance a few yards away. Behind him, he heard shoes scuffle over gravel, and a reedy voice called out, “Yo, man. Hold up. You got any change?”
Chet ignored the plea and picked up his pace.
“Fucker!” another man spat. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”
A third voice chimed in. “Look at them wheels, man. He got to be loaded.”
“I’ma ask you again,” the first man hollered. “Then I’ma gonna take your money anyway.”
His friends laughed. They sounded closer now, but the door was only a few feet away, if that. Chet didn’t want to break into a run, but he stepped faster, clutching his cell phone deep in his pocket as if for protection. Bad idea, bad idea!