Free Wanted by Kym Brunner Page B

eyes.
    This time I’m sitting with Clyde on an old wooden porch swing. I have on a flouncy yellow skirt with a white cotton top complete with frilly ruffles and pearl buttons. Clyde has his shirtsleeves rolled up and his top buttons undone. We clink mason jars filled with a cloudy brown liquid and take a sip. I swallow the putrid concoction—kerosene trying to pass as homemade whiskey would be my guess—which burns as it slides down my throat. I shield my eyes from the sun blasting over the large maple in front of the house. The paint-peeled planks scald the soles of my bare feet, so I swipe off bits of dirt from my feet and curl them under me.
    Clyde drapes his arm casually over the back of the swing, his hand resting behind my neck. He pushes off the ground with his toe and the swing starts to sway. “You’re as pretty as a postcard in that fancy new outfit,” he says with a smile, his thumb making lazy circles on the nape of my neck. A pleasurable zing electrifies my entire body, neck to toes and back up again.
    Clyde grins devilishly, a dimple appearing on his right cheek. “This dress is almost as nice as the birthday dress you got underneath it. Sure would like to see that one.” He winks and seductively lifts the hem of my skirt. “It’s a sin to cover up gams as gorgeous as these.” He puts his hand on my knee, and ever so slowly, slides one finger up my inner thigh. At the same time, he leans in and kisses my neck. He expertly locates all the right places with his tongue. I close my eyes, writhing with pleasure until I can’t take it anymore.
    I tilt his chin up and plant a passionate kiss on his lips. He responds eagerly, gently sucking on my bottom lip before softly whispering, “Let’s go inside, baby.” He rises to his feet and holds my hand, gently tugging me off the porch swing. “I want to give you a glimpse of what heaven feels like right here on Earth.” Clyde leads me through the squeaky screen door and into a dimly lit bedroom. Slits of sunlight filter into the room from around the edges of the shades. “I’ve been dreaming about this.” He kisses me, lifting me off my feet, and tenderly places me on the bed.
    The daydream fades to black, ending the show. Based on the slick film of sweat in all of my restricted zones, I realize my brain was a lot more turned on by Clyde than I knew. I sigh, a tiny smile of satisfaction on my face. Now that’s what I call a dream with benefits.
    That’s why I ended it. You started breathing way too heavy for my liking.
    I bolt to a sitting position and clutch the neckline of the NYU t-shirt I wore to bed. “You again! Stop popping in and out and talk to me already!” My eyes dart around my room, watching for her image to appear inside a cocoon of white light or floating in a sea of black mist.
    No response. “This is stupid! If you want my attention, show yourself!” I demand, slightly louder this time. Still nothing. No voice, no halo of light, no ink cloud of gloom.
    â€œDamn you!” I slap my hand down onto the bed. “If you’re really Bonnie Parker, then prove it! Stop screwing around and let’s have it out right here, right now!”
    Fine! You want proof, you got it. My full name is Bonnie Elizabeth Parker and I was born on October 1st, 1910, in Rowena, Texas. My daddy’s name was Charles and he died when I was four. My mama’s name was Emma. I loved Clyde Chestnut Barrow more than anything in the whole wide world until we got gunned down in 1934. Satisfied, darlin’?
    My heart skips a beat. No. Please no. Let it be that my overworked brain made all that stuff up to confuse me. I lunge for my laptop and quickly type “Bonnie Parker” in a Google window, clicking on the first website. I only have to read the intro to see Bonnie’s full name, birthdate, and hometown. I shove the laptop away in a daze. It’s true. Every word