Noirotica: A Subgenre Mashup!

This is an entry for Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenge. This week's prompt was a sub-genre mash-up where we had to choose two sub-genres from his list and mash 'em up into a thousand words or less of flash fiction fabulosity. Thanks to Michelle Simkins and Suzanne Payne who read the first draft of this story. I made some changes (and got it within the word limit, woo hoo!) Still not sure if it's very noir, but I tried! Without further ado, I am pleased to present you my "noirotica" story, Lady Dick.

Moonlight is diffused by the fog outside the window, casting a silvery glow over the chair where he sits. I see what Shelly must've seen in him. But despite the handsome face, there's a meanness behind his eyes, even as he grins up at me now. They match his name, those eyes.

Dan Ire's ads make him seem more like a hitman than a private investigator. Call Dan – he's your Ire for hire! I want to laugh at how pathetic he is. But Dan thinks he loves me. He “loved” Shelly, too. At least Shelly thought so, until she showed up at my office with a black eye and busted lip.

Dan doesn’t know he and I are in the same business. Lady Dick. No better than Ire for Hire, but I don't advertise that way. That’s the nickname some of my cop buddies gave me when I left the force. Sometimes the law doesn't know what's best. 

Dan thinks I'm a lonely widow who needs him to track down money stolen by my dead husband's business partner. Flash a little cleavage, smear on some trashy red lipstick, and Dan Ire will bend over backward to take your case. He's also bent me over a few times since he took the case. Can't say I didn't like it. The man's got stamina.

I sit atop the desk in front of him, sipping the watered-down whiskey from the bottle reserved for clients. I know damn well there's another bottle in the bottom drawer that he keeps for himself. Cheap bastard.

“Like I said,” I uncross my legs and rest one foot on his thigh, “I can't pay the rest of your fee yet. I'm sorry.”

“I don't feel right asking for it, seeing as I didn't find anything.” He talks to my leg, his eyes fixed on the lace top of my stocking. A black garter disappears under the hem of my coat. He licks his lips and looks up. “Let me keep looking. Just a couple weeks.

And then charge me for the extra effort. Scumbag. I put on my best pout.

“I guess by then I'd have the money, if I pick up some extra shifts at work.”

He loves a damsel in distress.

“Baby, I wouldn't dream of taking your money.”

Besides the $5000 I paid up front. I drain the rest of the whiskey in one swallow and set the glass down.

“I know how to pay you back.”

“The money isn't--” He stops when I start unbuttoning my jacket.

These past few weeks I let him think that every time we fell into bed, or I let him shove me up against a building in some seedy back alley and cop a good feel, it was because he was so fucking irresistible and I couldn't help myself, but it was all business. I hadn't expected the sex to be so damn good.

With the last button undone, the coat slips off my shoulders. There's nothing underneath but stockings and a garter belt.

“Christ, Mags.” He shifts in the chair. That bulge in his trousers must be getting uncomfortable. He can't take his eyes off my thighs and their eventual destination. I know he can see how aroused I am.

Despite my hatred, he gets me hotter than blacktop in July.

The hardwood floor will probably bruise me, but I kneel anyway.

“There's a blanket--”

I put a stop to his worry with a kiss. His concern for me was superficial at best until this past week. I was a fucktoy and a source of income, until suddenly I wasn't. I bite his bottom lip.

“Ow! Mags, that--”

I silence that, too, with my hand in his pants. So easily I shut him up. He'll only love me until suddenly he doesn't anymore, and then what? Then it's bruises and broken bones, like Shelly. Or worse.

Freed from his trousers, his cock beckons me, thick, unflagging. I love to make it yield.

He loves the slow movement of my tongue.

“Oh Maggie.” He leans back as I slide him past my lips, over my tongue, to the back of my throat. “Ah, fuck.”

He loves to see my red lipstick smeared up and down his shaft. I hate how much I like seeing it there, too.

Dan thinks he's a man's man – wife-beater, unscrupulous businessman, and all-around sonofabitch. Yet my tongue reduces him to a soft, panting heap. I could overlook all that when the job was over if he'd just keep making my toes curl for hours on end.

But that all changed when I found the videos. The same man who thinks he loves me takes deprave to a whole new level. The thought nearly makes me choke, but I don't.

He loves how I can take him without gagging. He fits just so.

I hate myself for loving how he feels inside me. Do I hate him more?

“Oh Maggie. God yes, Maggie.”

I hate the begging way he says my name. I want to scream at him to be a real man and fuck me, not some girl on a tape who looks like she's barely in high school.

I stand without warning. He's had enough. I've had enough.

“Mags, what in the hell!”

“Ssh. Just wait.”

He settles back into the chair again. I reach into my purse on the desk.

Shelly hired me to find something she could use to drag his name through the mud. I found it. But he doesn't deserve to get up from the dirt, and sometimes the law doesn't know what's best.

I turn and sink a bullet into his forehead before his eyes even focus on the gun.

Then I slip my coat on, pull the belt tight,and steal away into the night mist.