Bang

by E. K. Blair

With a smile, I give him a sliver of obedience when I say, “I’ll have the blueberry crunch pancakes then.”

  After our waitress stops by to take our order and fantasize about riding Declan’s cock, she giggles as she walks away.

  “Do you get that a lot?” I ask. “Women feeding your ego as you watch them blush in your presence.”

  “You always dissect everything like that?”

  “You always avoid questions like that?”

  Leaning his forearms on the table, he says, “No more than you do.”

  “You realize, unless we’re discussing business, we talk in circles, right?”

  “Okay then. No circles. Ask me a question,” he prompts and then takes a sip of his coffee, waiting with curious eyes. Emerald ones rimmed with his dark lashes. I can’t blame our waitress for her reaction. I wonder how many women go home after meeting him to fuck their fingers or vibrator before their pitiful husbands return from work.

  Cleaning my thoughts, I ask the most innocent question I can think of, even though I already know the answer. “Where are you from?”

  “That’s your question?” he laughs, and when I glare at him, he swallows it and says, “Edinburgh.”

  “Scotland?”

  “Do you know of another?”

  Smartass.

  “I thought you were cutting the shit and being nice,” I say as I lean back and pick up my coffee mug.

  “Momentary slip. My turn. How long have you been married?”

  “A little over three years.”

  “How long have you been together?”

  “Four years. And that was two questions,” I lightly nag.

  “I’m not good at following rules either,” he says and then continues before giving me a chance to speak. “Sounds like a speedy path to the altar.”

  “What can I say? When Bennett wants something, he wastes no time in claiming it.”

  When our waitress returns, I watch as she nervously makes eyes with Declan while she serves our food. I laugh and he takes notice, shaking his head.

  “See what I mean?” I ask after she walks off.

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Why would it bother me?” I question and pick up my fork to cut a piece of my pancake.

  “Then why even mention it?”

  “Circles, Declan. We’re doing it again,” I say and then take a bite of the granola-filled pancake as he watches.

  “Okay, no circles. You have any kids?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want kids?”

  “I can’t have kids, so it doesn’t really matter what I want.”

  He takes a pause, not expecting that answer, and then asks, “Why can’t you have kids?”

  “That’s none of your business,” I tell him and then take another sip of coffee.

  “Do you love him?”

  Swallowing hard, I clarify, “My husband?”

  “Yes.”

  He takes a bite of his eggs as I straighten my back and look him dead on. “Your assumption that there could be a possibility of more than one answer is offensive.”

  I notice the slight upward turn of the corner of his mouth, and he holds his stare for a beat before saying, “Funny how you chose not to answer that question, but instead, avoid.”

  “Of course I love him.”

  Lie.

  “So he’s it?”

  I hesitate, making sure he takes notice, and then respond with a simple, “Yes,” careful to ensure a slight tremble in my voice.

  He catches my subtleties as he keeps his eyes pinned on me and I shift, playing uncomfortable, and I’m certain he buys it when he changes the subject. We spend the rest of our meal in idle chitchat about nothing in particular, and as we leave and walk towards his car, my foot hits a patch of ice, unsteadying my balance. Declan’s hands are on me fast as I shuffle and land my back against the side of his car. He’s close. Chest to chest. Foggy vapors escaping us with each breath. I don’t speak or move away. I wonder if he’s going to make a play, because I can tell he’s thinking about it. But putting thoughts into action takes balls, and I’m hoping he has them.

  In a low voice, he urges, “Push me away, Nina,” as if he’s testing me.

  But I’m the one doing the testing; he just doesn’t know it. So I respond with, “Why?”

  “Because you love your husband.”

  Pushing my hands against him, I move him away from me as I say, annoyed, “I do love him.”

  As if no exchange was just made, he opens the door for me to get in.

  When we pull onto the main street, he asks, “Where do you live?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m gonna drive you home,” he says, turning his head to look at me.

  “The Legacy.”

  The silence between us is noticeable, and I wonder what he’s thinking about, but I don’t dare ask. He doesn’t allow my thoughts to overtake me when he turns on the stereo. I can tell he’s using the music to distract himself as he keeps his eyes focused on the road. I’m granted no reprieve as I consider the thoughts that are scrolling through his head right now. But this part is out of my hands because I won’t push. The fall has to come of his own accord. I’m merely the fuel that feeds the vehicle; he’s the one driving it. And the destination is up to him.

  When he pulls up to my building, he shifts the gear into park and looks over at me. He hasn’t spoken for the whole drive, and he remains quiet. Wanting to calm any of the ill thoughts he may be having, I lean back against the seat and let out a sigh as I roll my head over to look at him.

  Our eyes are locked, his hands still on the steering wheel, and then I say in a soft voice, free from any undertones, “I had a nice time with you.” Declan nods, unconvinced, so I give him a little more to coax him, adding, “I don’t have many friends.”

  When I say this, his hands drop slowly to his lap as he turns slightly towards me. He then asks, “What about those two hundred people on the guest list for the event you’re planning?”

  “If it weren’t for Bennett, those people wouldn’t give me a second glance. I wouldn’t want them to though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re nothing like me.”

  “How so?”

  Lowering my head to focus on my hands, I don’t respond immediately.

  “Tell me, Nina.”

  My eyes meet his when I say, with a faint shake of my head, “I guess I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “And your husband?” he questions.

  “He doesn’t know this. He thinks I enjoy the lunch dates with the wives when I really loathe them.”

  “Then why even bother?”

  Letting go of a deep breath, I say, “Because I want to make my husband happy.”

  He leans over, closer to me, resting his arm on the center console, and asks, “And what about you, Nina? Who wants to make you happy?”

  “Bennett makes me happy,” I state while his eyes search my face for hints of dishonesty, and I make sure to let a few slip through. Drifting eye contact for a quick second with a couple rapid blinks. Nodding my head as if trying to convince myself of the words. Giving him a small, feeble smile.

  I know he buys it when he says with a gentle voice, “Liar.”

  He’s confident in his accusation when I don’t deny it, instead, lowering my head and then turning to look out the windshield.

  “I should go.” Looking over at him, he gives a nod before I open the door and step out.

  Walking to the lobby doors, he calls out, “Nina.” When I turn around, he’s rolled down the passenger window and gives me back my earlier words. “I had a nice time with you too.”

  I reward him with a smile before walking away.

  When I get inside, I drop my purse and coat on the dining room table and call Baldwin to let him know I got a ride home with Declan and that I won’t be needing him for the rest of the evening. I then walk over to inspect the kitchen and notice there is fresh fruit i
n the fridge that wasn’t here this morning, letting me know that Clara has already been here and left.

  Knowing there won’t be anyone else coming or going, I waste no time pulling my coat back on and grabbing the keys to one of the cars before picking up my purse and heading back out.

  When I pull out of the parking garage, I make my way to I-55 and start heading south to the one person who has always been there for me. It’s been a few weeks since I last saw Pike, and I miss him. I allow myself the excitement of finally being able to see him—my best friend since I was eight years old.

  I pull off the interstate and into the town of Justice before turning onto 79th and heading to the trailer park. When I pull up to the mobile home, I park the car, and take out the key I hide in the lipstick case in my purse. The bass of someone’s car stereo rattles the windows, and when I unlock the door and step inside, I relax my shoulders, sigh, and walk straight into Pike’s arms. I take his warmth, comfort, and everything else only he can offer as he holds me.

  With my arms wrapped around him tightly, I breathe, “I’ve missed you.”

  “It’s been nearly three weeks,” he says as he pulls back to look at me, and when he does, I can see he isn’t happy. “Where the fuck have you been, Elizabeth?”

  “ELIZABETH,” MY DADDY calls from outside my bedroom door. “Do you need help?”

  I struggle against the glittery fabric of my princess dress, trying to find the opening of the sleeve to push my arm through. “No, Daddy,” I call out in a heavy breath as I twist and wriggle my arm, finally finding the opening.

  “Are you ready?”

  I walk over to my toy box and pull out the pink plastic heels that match my sparkly dress. Putting them on, I walk over to my door and open it. I look up at my daddy, holding a small bunch of pink daisies.

  “I never get tired of seeing that beautiful smile,” he says before taking my hand and kissing the top of it. He then hands me the flowers. “For my princess.”

  “Thanks, Da—I mean, Prince.”

  “May I come into your castle?” he asks, and I grab his hand, pulling him into my bedroom—our pretend castle for the afternoon.

  “Would you like some tea?” I ask as we walk towards my table by the window that my tea set is on.

  “I would love some. My travel from the kingdom was quite long.” I watch him sit down on the small chair and giggle as his knees hit his chest.

  Daddy and I do this often, have our fairytale tea parties. I don’t have a mommy or any brothers and sisters to play with, but that’s okay because I get to have him all to myself. He has the prettiest blue eyes, but he tells me mine are prettier.

  Setting down the flowers, I pick up the teakettle and pretend to pour him a cup while he eyes the plastic pastries, swirling his finger above them as he decides on the one that he wants.

  “Daddy, just pick one.”

  His eyebrows shoot up in excitement when his hand lands on the yellow cupcake with sprinkles. “Ahh, this one looks delicious,” he says before taking his make-believe bite and then licking his fingers.

  I scrunch up my face, squealing, “Eww. Princes don’t lick their fingers.”

  “They don’t?”

  “No. They use napkins.”

  He looks around, and says, “Well, I don’t have a napkin, and I don’t want to waste the icing on my fingers.”

  I exaggerate thinking, tapping my finger on my cheek, and then agree, “You’re right. Okay, you can lick your fingers.”

  We sit in the sunlight of my room and have our fairytale tea, talking about the flying horses we’ll ride to the magical forest.

  “Did I tell you about Carnegie, the caterpillar I met?” he asks.

  “You met a caterpillar?”

  “The last time I took my steed to the forest, I did. He had some berries he shared with me and then told me a secret,” he says quietly as he sets down his teacup.

  “What?!” I exclaim excitedly. “You met a talking caterpillar?”

  “I did. Do you want to know what he told me?”

  “Mmm hmm,” I hum, nodding my head energetically.

  “Well then, he told me he had been living in the magical forest for years, but that he was once a prince.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  He folds his arms over the tops of his knees and leans his chest against them, saying in a secret whisper, “The kingdom’s sorcerer cast a spell on him, turning him into a caterpillar.”

  “Oh no,” I gasp. “Why?”

  “Turns out, the king was upset because he told Carnegie to stop sneaking out of his room at night and stealing juice boxes from the fridge, so he had the sorcerer use his magic to turn him into a caterpillar.”

  “Daddy!”

  He has a playful smile on his face. I know he’s teasing me since he’s been getting on to me about waking up and drinking juice boxes at night. Last night he scared me when he turned on the kitchen light and caught me drinking an apple juice.

  “You’re not gonna cast a spell on me, are you? I don’t wanna be a caterpillar.”

  “Why not? I could introduce you to Carnegie.”

  “But I would miss you,” I pout.

  He reaches out his arms for me. “Come here, baby doll,” he says as he turns in the small chair and stretches out his legs. Hoisting me up on his lap, he wraps his big arms around me and makes me giggle when he kisses the tip of my nose. “I’d never cast a spell on you and send you away. You’re my little girl, you know that?”

  “I thought I was a big girl now that I’m five.”

  “No matter how big you get, you’ll always be my little girl. I love you more than anything.”

  “Anything? Even more than chocolate?”

  I watch him laugh, big smile, lines at the corners of his eyes. “Even more than chocolate.”

  I place my hand on his cheek, prickly with his stubble, and tell him, “I love you more than chocolate too.”

  He pecks his lips to mine and then asks, “You wanna know what’s sweeter than chocolate?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Before I can leap off his lap, he starts playfully attacking my neck, tickling me as he blows raspberries and then plops us on the floor as I roll around, laughing and squealing. He doesn’t stop until the doorbell rings. As I try and catch my breath from all the laughing, he sits up on his knees and orders, “Hop on.”

  I get off the floor and jump on his back, taking a piggyback ride all the way to the front door.

  You’ve heard the saying, “Beware of what lies on the other side,” right? Neither of us could have possibly imagined how our lives would be forever changed when he opened that door. I used to wish that someone would cast a spell on me, forever changing me into a caterpillar. I could’ve had a good life, living in the mythical forest with Carnegie. Spending our days searching for berries and floating aimlessly on the lily pads in the pond. But instead, I was about to find out the hard truth of life at the age of five. The truth they keep from you as a small child, allowing you to believe that the fairytales are real . . . but they aren’t. And neither is magic.

  “Cook County P.D.,” is all I hear as men come charging into the house.

  Chaos. Loud chaos.

  “Daddy!” I scream, scared, panicked, clinging my arms around his neck like a vice when a man grabs for me. “DADDY!”

  “It’s okay, baby,” I hear my dad say as another man is talking at the same time.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  I don’t know what those words mean as ice cold fear runs through me, fisting my daddy’s shirt in my hands, unwilling to let go of him.

  “It’s okay, baby. It’s going to be okay,” he keeps repeating, but his voice is different and I think he’s scared too.

  “You need to come with me,” the man who’s grabbing me says.

  “No! Let go!”

  I begin kicking my legs when I’m pried off my daddy’s back, stretching his shirt because I have my hands clamped so tightly to the fabric
as I’m being pulled away.

  I see my daddy’s eyes—blue eyes—as he turns to look at me. “It’s okay,” he says calmly, but I don’t believe him. “Don’t be scared. It’s okay.”

  “No, Daddy!” I cry out as the tears fall. I hold on to his shirt until I am pulled so far back it pops out of my hands.

  The moment I am no longer touching the man that sings to me at night, that puts my hair in pigtails, that dances with me while I stand on top of his feet, I’m whisked away. I see my prince drop to his knees as I watch over the man’s shoulder who’s carrying me away.

  “DADDY!” I shriek, throat burning, as they clamp my daddy’s hands together behind his back with something. His eyes stay on me, never once pausing as he says, over and over, “I love you, baby. I love you so much, baby girl.”

  And for the first time ever, I see my daddy cry before the door closes on him and he’s gone.

  “Let me go! DADDY! NO!” Kicking and swinging, I can’t escape this man’s hold on me.

  “It’s okay. Calm down, kiddo,” he says, but I won’t. I want my daddy.

  The man sits down on my father’s bed with me still in his arms, fighting. He continues to coax me to calm down, but my screaming and thrashing don’t falter until I grow tired. My body is limp as I’m crumpled against his chest.

  “Can you tell me your name?” he asks.

  I don’t speak.

  A moment passes and then he says, “I’m Officer Harp. Michael Harp. I’m a policeman. You know what that is, don’t you?”

  I nod my head against his chest.

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  Still scared, my voice cracks when I tell him, “Elizabeth.”

  “Elizabeth. That’s a nice name,” he says. “I have a daughter whose middle name is Elizabeth. She’s much older than you are though.”

  He continues to talk, but I don’t pay attention to what he’s saying. I’m so scared and all I want is my daddy. I close my eyes; I can see him on his knees crying. He was scared just like me.

  After a while, the door opens and I lift my head to see a chubby woman walking in. I think I’ve seen her before but I can’t remember where. As she gets closer, she says, “Your red hair is beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Where’s my daddy?”