Monday, May 3, 2010


A wise friend once told me that Richard Burton (the explorer, not the actor) had multiple desks for his multiple projects. Today I hope to draw the spirit of Burton as I leap from my novel to articles to short stories and 'round again. Laptops make such movement easier, though a desk-filled home sounds rather cool. Hmm...

Sidenote: Posting stories in this impromptu fashion feels a bit like wearing a bikini into church (I imagine)... Speaking not of church, here's the latest. ;)


She enters the bar and spots him – tonight’s victim. Tall, broad-shouldered, clean-cut. She can almost smell his posh leather and silk-filled closet, his Clive Christian No. 1. He stirs his dry martini; she imagines it on her lips. Soon she’ll taste it there.

“Table for one?” the hostess asks.

“No. Thank you. I know where I’m going.” She strides toward him, brushes past then sits at the nearest table. The first up-close encounter always excites her. Meeting the men she’s watched for weeks. First virally, on the internet. Then at their workplace – in this case, a prestigious Manhattan law firm. Observes their taste in woman – his, red heads. Their marital status – married. And their moral character – nil. She’d spotted him with six other women over the past two weeks, only one of them, his wife. When she’s learned enough, she makes her move. Seduces them, reels them in and nails them. But not until they hand her the hammer. It’s beautiful magic, if you think about it. In the four years since she emerged from victimhood in her own life and realized there was work to be done. A little plastic surgery, some hair dye – okay, a lot of hair dye. It’s worth the dieting and extra hours at the gym. The horror in their eyes when she catches them, the moment they morph from powerful man to weak, quivering boy. Her prize that’s worth the rocky ride.

She orders a drink with easy alcohol then lifts her cell phone from her purse. She speaks with just enough volume so he can hear. “Hey… Tomorrow? I’m already booked. What’s the rate?” She pauses. “Tell them if they’ll pay cash, I’ll consider it. But I’d have to take a later call time. And no swimsuit, even if they beg. It’s not in the contract.” Pause. “Great. Cheers.”


“Excuse me--” he starts.

Bingo. “Yes?” Demure, innocent.

“-- I’m sorry.” He squints and cocks his head. “Your voice sounded familiar and now…” A nervous chuckle. “This is going to sound cliché, but do I know you?”

She flashes him a radiant, though bashful smile. “I don’t think so. I’m not from around here. Sorry.”

She refocuses on her drink and her phone, pretends to answer it again. “Hello? …The whole campaign? God, Franco, you’re the best. Yes, we’ll celebrate soon…Thanks so much.”

“Yes!” she exclaims, an accentuated whisper.

“Good news?” he asks.

“Uh, yes. Sorry. I normally don’t talk on the phone in public, but…when work calls.” She smiles and shrugs.

“Well, congratulations, on whatever it is.” He extends his hand. Big. She envisions it reaching for her – then, snap. Perfection. “William. William Hoxton.”

I know. “Kaytlin. Nice to meet you.”

With their eyes locked, she notes the electricity pulsing between them, a racing stream of pheromones. Or whatever the hell it is that men like William Hoxton thrive on. She’s learned to dig it, too. For different reasons. She blushes again, retrieves her hand. She flips her long auburn hair from her shoulder and notes the look on his face as he notices.

“Sounds like you’re in need of a celebration,” he says. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She bites her lip, considering. “Why not?”

“Another round. For myself and the lady,” he beckons the nearby server and sits at her table. “Let me guess…Model? Actress?”

She flashes her palms outward. “You got me. I’m in from Los Angeles through the weekend.”

“Ah. Maybe that’s where I’ve seen you.”

“Possibly.” She sips her drink. “And you?”

“Lawyer.” He drops to a whisper. “But please don’t hold it against me.”

“I won’t, if you’re nice to me.”

For the next hour, they chat. She plays it tipsy, but cool. At the first lull in conversation, she undresses him with her eyes. Nice body. He works out. His nipples harden beneath his dress shirt, tiny erections his undershirt can’t hide. She stretches. Arcs her back, accentuating her breasts. He’s affected, but completes his joke. “Nothing. Lawyers are supposed to be that evil!”

“You.” She sets her drink down. “Are so…funny.” She pats his hand like a school girl, then grasps it. She pulls him toward her, so close he can feel her breath. His smells precisely as she imagined.

“I’m married,” he whispers.

“I don’t care,” she whispers back. She locks her lips with onto his then enters in, excavating his mouth with her tongue. With her hand she wriggles his wedding band from his finger. “Until we’re finished.”

“Sorry it isn’t nicer. The client put me up and I didn’t get the luxury suite this time.” She opens the hotel room door, appearing less drunk, but not quite sober. She truly would’ve preferred the penthouse but she checked—too many windows. Perhaps tomorrow she’ll take an upgrade, enjoy her breakfast before the Central Park view. For tonight the drapes are closed for privacy, the lights pre-set for intimacy. She’s focused, aimed and ready. Soon their bodies will entangle, dark silhouettes contrasting the pure white sheets, conveying the ugly truth.

He follows her in like a timid mouse, eager for a nibble but fearful of a watchful cat. “Are you sure about this?”

“Oh, I’m sure. Aren’t you?” She steps toward him, unbuttons her top and presses her breasts to his chest. “I thought you wanted to help me celebrate. Speaking of which…” She pulls the bottle from her purse and slips him two pills. “Ecstasy. Sort of an underground model-perk.”

He looks at her, amused. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t asked me…lured me in. You know that, right?”

She stops and stares him in the eye. “Take them. Then shut up and let me fuck you.” Fuck him in so many ways. She pretends to swallow pills then passes him the water glass.

The door opens. Two police men, pointing guns. “Meredith Kaitlyn Kiloeski? You are under arrest for illegal substances and the exploitation…” Their words blurred together as mind leaps to her manuscript. It's okay. It's safe. “You have the right to remain silent…”

She looks at William. His steel glare reads: Gotchyou.


by Meredith K. Kiloeksi


When I started this project, I never imagined I’d end up completing it from prison. But I have no regrets. The photos within these pages may have been cropped and some identities disguised, but the men and their evil are real. Look at them. Absorb the sensuality. Hell, let it turn you on. Then imagine who these faceless monsters might be. Cheaters, rapists, liars. Men who yell, steal, ignore, strike and molest. And ladies, if the little voice inside your head whispers warnings and your gut tells you it might be him, look closer. Because even if it isn’t, it probably is. Take it from one who’s been there.

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