Wet: Confessions of a Mercenary Girl

Fiction by J.D. Cumberland

            “Wet.” She said, staring down at Reynolds. He sat in his squeaky chair staring across his desk at her. She would have been fresh out of basic in his Corp. She looked like she would have been fresh out of Jr. High back in the fucked up real world some ignorant pussies call home. She was scrawny by his taste in women. Five foot nothing, full in chest and hips with her dark brown hair pulled back in a pony tail. He took a long look at every inch of her. This was not to make her feel uncomfortable. It was not to make her think he was undressing her with his eyes. It was to see what was in her eyes when his finally got back up that far. When he did, she was staring bemused at the wall over his balding skull.

            “So you like to get wet, honey?” Reynolds asked her with more than a hint of sarcasm. He thumbed through her resume. She had all the credentials and all the accolades from some of the top references in the business. He could tell by the way she was dressed she preferred to pack light. Her top unbuttoned with a tight white T and kakis. No need for bra and G- String where she’s going, Reynolds thought to himself. But she wasn’t dressed to please him. She was dressed for the job, and he was only pretending to be reviewing her. They both knew this was only a formality. She would walk out of here with what she came for. She didn’t bother to reply, she didn’t have to.

            Reynolds slid the manila envelope across the desk. The light flickered. The damn generator was going out again. It was hell in this office as it was. If it died this room would feel like the inside of a yaks’ ass. If it wasn’t for the money he was making on the side, this would be the worst job on the fucking planet. As she opened the envelope he opened the portable fridge beside him and took out an ice cold beer. The frigid air washed past him. He didn’t bother to offer her a cool one. Her dark eyes stared at the page and the photo clipped to it. Reynolds was fascinated by a thin bead of sweat trailing down her long neck toward her cleavage. She slowly raised those sultry eyes over the page to see Reynolds staring at her now erect nips. Reynolds let his hand drift down to his crotch. They stared at each other across the desk.

            She exited the small metal building gripping an ice cold beer in her hand. Three men were leaning on a Hummer outside. She walked over to them and took a long drink of her beer. She wiped the sweat from her chest. “Pay up.” She said to the men in a dry tone. And to the driver she said, “I want to be on my way within the hour.”

            Reynolds staggered out of the door of the building as she rounded the corner. The men snickered at him when they noticed the long dark trail soaking the inside of his trousers. He instantly knew they had put her up to it. It was an urban legend that every one in the country knew. The contractor obliviously hands the wet-operative an envelope with his own name and photo in it and becomes his/her next job. “Funny shit! Assholes!” Reynolds yelled. “I could have killed that bitch if my weapon hadn’t jammed.”

            Reynolds knew they didn’t believe him. He drew first but she had him dead to rights. She even pressed the barrel of her weapon into his forehead hard enough to leave a round .9 mm red spot in his forehead. Reynolds could only stare back into her cold dead eyes. His last thought would be, “This child is going to peel my skull back.” He squatted in the porta-shitter and put his head in his hands. As he began to cry, he thought to himself, “I fucking hate Afghanistan.”