Kristen’s Bio:

Kristen Boe is a former advertising television editor currently held hostage in her own home by three small children. She and her family live in Scottsdale, AZ. Kristen currently has a historical romance under agent review, and is working on a modern-day suspense novel. This is her first flash-fiction contest.

Spellbound

By Kristen Boe

 

The thing about Tasers is that they need a reload after the first shot. Susie Wescott didn’t have another cartridge. Thank God.

She shot me while I was on my knees chipping up damaged linoleum tiles with a plastic scraper at the Fill-R-Up Convenience Mart. It stung a helluva lot worse than sticking a fork in a toaster.

I should have been temporarily paralyzed, but Susie shot me at the very limit of the Taser’s range. One of the probes sputtered ineffectively on the newly exposed cement, while the other stuck in my thigh, making me twitch like a meth addict jonesing for a fix.

I yanked the probe out of my leg.

Her face crumpled in outraged dismay. “You’re supposed to be unconscious, pissing yourself!” Susie kept pulling the trigger of the spent Taser, mercifully not realizing it could still operate as a touch stun gun.

Crazy people never read the directions.

“How can I help you, Susie?” I said as calmly and politely as I could, edging on my good side toward the shelf. I had a pretty decent arm. A can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup in the face would shut her down quick enough.

“Oooooh!” She stomped a pink platform sandal. “You know why I’m here, you white-trash little witch!”

Harris Donnelly O’Rourke.

She threw the Taser at my head.

I ducked. The pink stun gun flew past my ear and wedged beneath the candy display at the front of the store. I inched backwards on my butt, the red and white cans still a few feet out of reach.

She stalked towards me, dark curls swinging against her bare shoulders, fuchsia halter dress flaring around her. “You’re gonna take that spell off him. Now.”

“And what ‘spell’ would that be?”

“The one that won’t let him marry me.”

Spells cast on Harris—none. Reasons for him to not marry Susie Wescott because she was nine kinds of crazy—plenty.

I sighed. “Look, Susie. If I had magical powers, do you really think I’d be working at the Fill-R-Up? I’d have perfect hair, weigh ten pounds less, and actually be Mrs. Harris O’Rourke.”

Susie pursed her lips and took in my black poly-blend work pants, black t-shirt and yellow nylon vest. “So you’re just weird? I mean... normal-weird?”

I shrugged.

“No hard feelings then?” she asked hopefully.

Aside from the pins and needles feeling in my leg, the effect of the Taser had mostly worn off. I pinched the bridge of my nose. The worst of it was, I understood exactly where she was coming from, being wildly, insanely in love with Harris myself. “Go home, Susie.”

She turned and walked toward the door, hesitating at the front counter.

“Leave the Taser,” I said.

I hid it after she left and went back to pulling up damaged floor tiles for the rest of my shift, my mind full of him. Moor Irish—all lethal charm and sex appeal, 6’3”, with the lean ropy muscles of a middleweight fighter, black hair and green eyes so pale they were almost colorless.

I went home. My heart gave a little hop at sight of the familiar black Escalade in my driveway. Inside, wearing faded blue jeans, work boots and a grey t-shirt, Harris lounged against my fridge, Red Stripe in hand.

“Seriously?” I said. “You’re drinking my last beer?”

“If you’re talking about the one stashed behind the rotting apples in the vegetable drawer, then yes.” He held out the bottle to me.

“Never mind.” I waved him out of the way, pretty sure there was still a half-can of Dr. Pepper in the barren wasteland of my refrigerator. I opened the door.

My eyes got wet.

The fridge was fully stocked. And in typical Harris fashion, he’d gone and wiped it out before putting the groceries he bought away.

I grabbed a Red Stripe, blinking hard as I scrabbled with the cap. Harris reached over and twisted off the top. I took a swig. “This almost makes up for Susie Tasing me at work.”

“Jay-sus, Babe.” He pulled me into his arms. “That crazy... I’m sorry. I swear to God—”

“Why, Harris?” I asked into his chest. Not really caring about the answer, just breathing in the smell of him—leather and lime and the essence that was Harris. “Why do you always tell your girlfriends you’re spellbound to marry me?”

He leaned back, mouth quirking up at the corner, eyes serious. “Because it’s true.”

***