The Tar Pits
#18 of Writing Group Challenge
This was for a writing challenge in a Telegram group I joined (link here if you're interested: https://t.me/joinchat/CPoeZhclggenrOEh0yYwvg). At just over a thousand words, we would write a short story fitting a chosen theme. The new theme for this week is, "I'm not who you think I am."
Another story set in my Resonance universe, but this time, it's a little more bittersweet.
If you enjoyed this week's prompt, or have a suggestion for me to write, feel free to leave a comment below. :) You can even message me if you want to request a commission! <3
Veronica Summers seemed like the epitome of a perfect vixen.
Luscious ruby fur, white canines that formed a beautiful smile, thick & wavy headfur that fell over her perfect breasts, and a moan which resonated like an orchestra whenever my fangs nibbled on her neck. Or when we made love on the bed inside my luxury penthouse, her cries resonating with my lustful grunts as my cock entered her and stretched her velvety sex to a memorable climax. Then, we'd caress each other in a sleeping embrace, the soft glow of Oasis, the Sin City of Nevada, reflecting onto my bed as we dreamed.
Not to say a pair of nice tits and ass were the only thing I loved about her. Far from it. Veronica Summers could entrance me in hours-long conversations about anything, be it the weather, some movie streaming online, some TV show streaming online, books, biking (between working as a secretary for the local hospital, she loved sports) in the park, basically anything we found interest in. She even convinced me to even start eating healthy just a month into our relationship. I felt like I could talk to her about almost anything.
Well...almost anything.
As far as any strangers were concerned, I worked as a financial consultant and part-time accountant for a legitimate businessman/nightclub owner named Alceste 'The Fox' Kearsley. He owned clubs such as The UnderCity and Perchance to Desire, both of which were so exclusive, that even the mayor of Oasis itself needed to make a reservation. However, very few knew the truth: I laundered money for the Mob. Whatever money Kearsley or the other mobsters made through various illegal businesses, they sent it all to me so I would clean it like a new car, then send it back in exchange for protection and a small cut of the net profits.
Such a 'small cut' provided me an opulent lifestyle. This included a luxury two-story penthouse overlooking the iconic Oasis Strip, as well as the ability to have a magnificent view of the Mojave Desert surrounding this city of sin and gambling. Money practically flowed through my fingertips, leaving me no short of security, food or pleasure.
Now, just a year into our relationship, I decided it was time to tell Veronica. Or at least, ease her enough into the truth about my profession. Maybe even invite the vixen into my world.
My tail wagged as I waited outside of her building, bouquet of flowers in my rust-colored paws and a grin infectiously spreading across my muzzle. Most furs assumed that all a ferret could do was either smirk like a criminal or snarl.
Finally, the grin grew wider as she stepped down the stairs, fawning over the daisies--her favorite--and then me, pulling me into a hug that required me to stand on my toes.
"You ready, babe?" I asked.
"Damn right, I am," she chuckled.
The Oasis Tar Pits were a staple attraction in this diamond-of-the-desert city. Pools of decaying liquid made from the fossils of dead dinosaurs, with a quarter-mile of parkland surrounding it for the average jogger to enjoy or take their girlfriends on a walk through. Nothing too spectacular to be honest, given the other opportunities that lay deeper downtown. However, when the sun fell at just the right moment, they gave way to a view that many would pay to own.
Sitting down at a bench overlooking the pits and the sunset, we leaned closely to each other's embrace. I could feel her cool breath against my neck, her soft paws and clothing clinging to mine, and our relaxed shoulders touching as Veronica and I enjoyed the scenery. All alone, without a single soul in sight.
"V-Veronica?"
"Hmm?" she mused, glancing to me. "What is it, Dean?"
A sigh escaped my throat, and my tail couldn't help but nervously twitch against our thighs. "W-Well, you see...there's something we need to talk about...you see...I uh, haven't been totally honest with you."
"What do you mean?"
I inhaled, then exhaled. It was time to tell her.
"I'm not who you think I am. I'm not a money consultant," the words came out of my maw, though not too fast for Veronica to understand. "I'm actually a...money launderer for some business associates...None of it is LEGAL, per se...but it's been over a year and I thought I'd be honest with you before we make ourselves too serious...ya know, before we made big decisions like moving in or...or..."
Veronica's face carried various expressions and mixed emotions; surprise, shock, worry...Yet, there was also regret and sadness. All of it laid prominently on her crimson-and-black muzzle.
"Oh Dean..." she whimpered, looking me over and then to the tree line behind us. Her paws fidgeted for mine. "That is...something alright..."
"You okay?" I asked a moment later. "Veronica, are you--"
"Dean," her tail curled onto her lap. "I need to be honest with you as well...Dean, I'm not actually a secretary...I'm sorry, but..." The beautiful vixen lifted her collar, "Now."
My world suddenly came crashing down in a spectacular explosion of shouts, guns trained on me and roughhousing me inside the back of a police cruiser. Hours passed by as they read me my Miranda Rights, got my mug shot and then processed me into solitary confinement. Through snippets and the rumor mill at the county jail, I knew two distinct truths: The cops had raided my apartment and office, as well as Kearsley being arrested during his trip to Mountainburg in Colorado. We had been under the FBI's surveillance for quite some time, it seemed.
Second, Veronica Summers--real name Veronica M. LeClair, an undercover police officer for the Oasis Police Department--had effectively retired into Witness Protection. The only other time we saw each other was during the racketeering trial months later, explaining to the judge everything she needed to say in order to put me away for 40+ years in prison.
I never held a grudge against her. Not when we shared one final gaze in the courtroom before disappearing forever. The vixen's smile turned apologetic, then transformed into a screen of black static.
My only regret before the judge handed me my sentence? I didn't get to kiss her one final time, before I effectively found myself pulled into the black pool of the state penitentiary. Just like those damnable tar pits on our last date.