She spent forty dollars on the manicure, but Jake was about to make her ruin it with a bullet.
Writer’s Prompt
The smell of acetone always reminded Tanya of hospitals and endings. She was halfway through a coat of “Venetian Vengeance” when Jake kicked the door open. He looked like a man who had spent the night in a gutter and enjoyed the view.
Tanya didn’t look up. Her finger hovered over the trigger of the .38 tucked beneath the vanity, but she hesitated. This shade of red was a nightmare to fix once it smudged.
“You’re late,” she smoked, her voice a low rasp. “By about twenty-four hours. Yesterday was my birthday, Jake.”
“I forgot,” he said, his voice flat as a tombstone. He didn’t offer an apology, just the cold draft from the hallway. “I’m giving it to you straight, Tanya. I’m in love with your sister.”
The room went tomb-quiet. Her sister, Elena—the “saint” with the choir-girl eyes and a heart like a Venus flytrap. The betrayal didn’t sting; it burned, a slow-acting acid eating through ten years of shared secrets and blood-stained cash.
Tanya looked at her wet nails. They were perfect. Then she looked at Jake, standing there with that pathetic, honest look that usually preceded a funeral.
Nails be damned, she thought.
Her hand blurred. The vanity drawer screeched. The .38 felt heavy, cold, and right. Jake didn’t move; he just closed his eyes, waiting for the thunder. Tanya felt the smooth curve of the trigger against her index finger. A single drop of red polish smeared against the steel—a tiny, crimson casualty.
She had him dead to rights. But then, she remembered the letter in Elena’s desk.
The Ending is Yours…
Does Tanya pull the trigger and paint the walls with “Venetian Vengeance,” or does she realize Jake is exactly the Trojan Horse she needs to take down her sister? How does the smoke clear?
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