“Not nervous at all,” Patrick said, his tone flat. “Why would I be?”
“No reason.” Steve unwrapped a stick of gum and folded it into his mouth. He chewed and clicked like someone without a care in the world. “It’s a big deal is all. Want to make sure you’re up to the challenge, feeling good.”
Patrick felt his face getting hot, his jaw beginning to ache.
You beat the shit out of some poor woman, blew a huge account, nearly lost your job, and now you’re sitting here with your feet on my desk, clicking your gum without a fucking care in the world, as if nothing happened.
Patrick decided right then and there that Steve Lucas wasn’t just someone he deemed mildly annoying. He hated him. And as much as it dented his ego, Patrick was now certain jealousy was indeed the primary reason. Steve Lucas had somehow came out of his debacle a rosebud, with only a matter of memory-suppressing time before he flourished again. For Patrick and his family, each passing day felt like a long drive through a dark tunnel—a constant journey of heartache that teased his family with a small square of light in the distance when things seemed to be getting better, only to see that square shrink to nothing without warning, placing them right back into darkness no matter how fast or determinedly they drove on. Steve Lucas was everything bad that was happening to Patrick and his family. Steve Lucas was the unrelenting hand of bad luck that prodded him without mercy whenever that tunnel seemed it might have a bright end.
(Crescent Lake)
(weeks of healing in cold hospitals)
(months of psychotherapy)
… prodding him with his goddamned feet on his desk while popping his gum and smiling …
(Caleb and the tacks)
(endless nightmares)
(the infamous trial looming)
… as though nothing had ever happened …
(Oscar dying)
(Bob dying)
(Amy drinking and driving)
“Yeah, I feel good, Steve.” Patrick stood, and with a giant swing, swiped Lucas’ feet off his desk with such force, he nearly tipped the man over in his chair. “Why the fuck shouldn’t I?”
Steve Lucas stared back at Patrick like a frightened boy, his mouth hanging open in shock, the chewed gum visible.
“How the fuck can you sit there and talk to me like that after what you did?” Patrick said. “You think you get some kind of free pass? You think you’re different than everyone else? You were like a little bitch when I went to see you last week. You were like a little bitch a few hours ago when you thought your career was fucked. And now you act like it’s all okay? You act like I couldn’t go out there and tell everyone what really happened? What you did?”
Lucas’ lips trembled as he tried for words.
“Why the fuck do you care so much about my account, Steve? What the fuck does it have to do with you?”
Any flash of the old Steve Lucas had reverted back to the terrified version Patrick had seen that night in the man’s home. He leaned into Patrick’s desk and whispered fast and desperate. “Patrick, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm, man, I was just talking, you know? Just talking. Please don’t say anything, man. Please. I was just talking.” He hurried towards the office door. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
“You just can’t act like nothing ever happened, Steve. It doesn’t work that way.” Patrick’s face was blood-hot, his chest heaving. The old stab wound on his abdomen throbbed—the first time in awhile—and it only served to anger him further. “Get the hell out of my office, Steve. In fact, avoid me. Avoid me until I tell you not to avoid me. Understand?”
“Okay, man. Okay.” For the second time this month, Steve Lucas scuttled out of Patrick’s office afraid. The first time it happened, Patrick smiled; he had felt justified, had felt good.
He didn’t know exactly what he felt now. It certainly wasn’t good.
44
“Whoa,” Amy said that night when Patrick told her what had happened.
“I know,” he said, taking his plate to the sink. The kids were out of earshot in the den watching TV. “I fucking lost it,” he whispered all the same, Carrie possessing superhero hearing abilities when it came to curse words and all.
Amy stayed seated at the kitchen table and handed Patrick her plate. He took it to the sink and started washing while he spoke.
“I don’t know what happened. I mean the guy’s a tool, but I really laid into him. Everything just seemed to hit me all at once.” He turned and faced her, plate in one hand, towel in the other.
“What do you mean everything?” she asked.
He shrugged, turned back to the sink and continued with the dishes. “Everything.”
Amy glanced over at the kids, then back to Patrick. “You mean CL?”
Patrick faced her again. “No, not just that. Well yeah, that, but everything else, you know? CL and the residual effects are bad enough, but Jesus, have we gotten a fucking break since?”
Carrie’s head spun towards the kitchen. “Did Daddy just say the F-word?”
Patrick and Amy simultaneously hummed: “No.”
Carrie looked at Caleb, said, “Yes he did,” then went back to watching television.
Amy lowered her voice and leaned forward at the table. “Are you talking about woof-woof and Dad?” she said, careful not to say Oscar’s name aloud, nevermind her father’s.
“Yeah,” Patrick said. “I mean are you fucking kidding me? After what we went through we should be getting fucking medals, but instead we get dead dogs and dead parents and more fucking gas on a fire that’s been blazing for a fucking hell-of-a-long—”
Amy stomped her foot, cutting him off. Both kids were staring wide-eyed at their father from the living room. No denying the F-word now. “Dead dogs” and “dead parents” weren’t exactly poetry either, but it was all but certain those were forgotten instantly after good old Dad started mashing The Fuck Button.
Patrick sighed and nodded at Amy. He stepped into the den. “Daddy’s sorry, kids. I did a very bad thing and I used the F-word. Can you forgive me?”
Caleb said: “I forgive you, Dad.”
“Thanks, brother-man.”
Carrie said: “Will you buy us a present?”
45
John Brooks was sound asleep early Wednesday morning. Monica could hear him snoring through the motel door. She gave the door a shave-and-a-haircut rap.
The snoring stopped. “Who is it?” His voice was deep and threatening from the other side.
“Room service, dummy.”
There was a moment’s pause, then the sound of the bolt thumping and the chain sliding. He opened the door and shielded his eyes from the morning sun. “Why so early?” he grumbled.
“You sissy, I’ve been up all night.” She handed him a large coffee and then sipped from her own.
John looked at his coffee then back at Monica. “You haven’t slept?”
She walked into the motel room and took a chair. Her left eye was now a decent blue from her father’s punch. “Nope.”
“Why?”
“You know why. Besides, I was too excited.” She lit a cigarette and smiled.
John stood by the still-open door—hair rumpled, eyes puffy, wearing only his boxer shorts. He looked at his coffee again as though he didn’t know what to do with it.
“Well let’s go, Daddy-O,” Monica said. “Get dressed and caffeinated so we can begin.”
46
Patrick had trouble sleeping Tuesday night. He dozed briefly and dreamt about his presentation …
PowerPoint refused to work.
He jerked awake. Eventually dozed again …
He went blank in front of all those important faces, forgetting everything he’d rehearsed.
He jerked awake. Eventually dozed again …
He was giving the presentation naked.
He jerked awake. Jesus, did he just actually dream he was naked? Talk about Dream Anxiety 101. He gave a silent laugh and eventually dozed f
or good.
• • •
Patrick heard the tiny shuffling of feet, heard Amy hushing the children in whispers, the clanking of porcelain, glass, silverware. He felt their presence on him and smiled inside at what he knew was coming.
“Morning, Daddy!” Carrie blurted. Caleb blurted the same a second after, Carrie making sure to get hers in first.
Patrick rolled over in bed. Amy, Carrie, and Caleb stood bedside, Amy holding a tray of breakfast, the kids wearing excited grins.
“Whoa!” Patrick said. “What’s this?”
Again Carrie beat everyone to the punch by declaring: “Breakfast in bed!”
Patrick sat up. “Wow! For me?”
Amy sat the tray on his lap and kissed him. He looked down at the bacon, eggs, and coffee, and then back up at his family. His heart swelled. He placed the tray on his nightstand and scooped both kids into bed with him. They giggled and squirmed as he wrestled and kissed them. Carrie wiggled free and began jumping on the bed. Patrick lifted up Caleb’s pajama top and blew a big raspberry on his stomach, making him shriek then giggle. Witnessing this, Carrie turned to flee but Patrick latched onto her ankle. She screeched, both terrified and excited. Patrick yanked his daughter back onto the bed and gave her the same treatment as her little brother. She screeched again, impossibly louder than before, and Amy put her hands to her ears.
“Okay …” she said. “Let’s let Daddy eat his breakfast.”
Caleb hopped off the bed. Carrie remained, now straddling her father’s chest. She bounced a few times, Patrick letting out “oomphs!” after each landing. She giggled and continued to bounce.
“Let’s go, missy,” Amy said.
Patrick shrugged at his daughter, pulled her in for a kiss and said, “Gotta listen to Mommy, kiddo.”
Carrie pulled away and slapped a hand over her nose. “Eww, Daddy, your breath stinks.”
Patrick looked at Amy. “My breath stinks, baby. You wanna smell?”
“I smelled it already, thank you.”
Patrick sat up in bed and pulled the breakfast tray back onto his lap. With a snobbish manner he said, “Fine, you may now all leave Daddy and his stinky morning-breath so that he may eat.” He clapped his hands twice. “Be gone!”
Carrie and Caleb left. Amy remained. She leaned into Patrick. “I’ll hold my breath,” she said and kissed him again.
• • •
The morning storm had come and nearly gone. Patrick had heard Carrie complaining about finishing her breakfast, heard her scurrying frantically throughout the downstairs with a shouting Amy hot on her tail so as not to miss the bus (had she ever been on time for the darn thing? Patrick wondered), and now he guessed only Caleb remained, waiting for his mother to take him to nursery school. He pictured his son sitting quietly at the kitchen table, legs hanging from the chair and swinging back and forth, patiently waiting for Mommy. He loved both his kids equally, no question about that, but Jesus, they were night and day.
He rolled over in bed, stretched and yawned. He was going in later than usual because he could. The presentation wasn’t until 11:00. He wanted to be well-rested, avoid rush hour, and arrive with enough time to decompress and get in the zone before it all started.
“Knock, knock.” Amy stood in the doorway.
He smiled at her and yawned again.
“How you feeling?”
“Good,” he said. “Had a few nightmares last night.”
Amy made a face. “You did?”
“Not those nightmares,” he said. “About today. Even dreamed I was giving the presentation naked.”
She laughed. “Cliché much?”
“I know, right?”
She sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his chest. “You’ll be fine. You could have aced this thing a month ago.”
He took a deep breath and said, “Yeah.”
“How was your breakfast?”
He took her hand and squeezed it. “Wonderful.”
She leaned over, kissed him, and said, “I’ve got to go take Caleb. You need anything else before I go?”
“A promise to be naked and ready after my presentation?”
She threw him a coquettish look. “Done.”
“Really? That easy?”
Amy leaned in to his ear and whispered: “After you ace your presentation, I am going to fuck my amazingly talented and successful husband until he forgets his own name.”
Name? I have a name? And what’s all this about a presentation?
Amy left a speechless Patrick. It took a good minute or two before he could get out of bed comfortably.
47
Patrick sat in his office chair, finishing his third cup of coffee. He looked at his watch. 10:30. Almost time. He stood and walked into the conference room. The large oval table held an extravagant spread of edibles, tea, and coffee. In front of each chair lay a leather-bound folder filled with all things Megablast. The high-tech projector and screen stood proud at the head of the room. A large bulletin board with various Megablast logos and slogans flanked the screen.
It looked good. Damn good. Patrick smiled and went back to his office.
• • •
10:45. Jonathan Miles, president of Miles and Associates, knocked on Patrick’s window. Patrick waved his boss in enthusiastically then stood as he entered. Jonathan Miles was a short man, mid-60’s, with thick gray hair and a plump belly. He was a friendly man, a fair boss, and all-business. Patrick liked him.
“How you feeling?” Miles asked.
“Good. Real good,” Patrick said.
Miles shook Patrick’s hand and patted his shoulder. “My man. I’ve got the utmost confidence.” Miles looked at his watch then threw a thumb over his shoulder towards the conference room. “Five minutes?”
“You got it, boss.”
Jon Miles smiled and left. Patrick did not sit back down. He remained standing, thought of the analogy he’d entertained the other day about the fighter who’d trained his heart out and was now eager to step into the ring and kick some ass. The analogy proved that much stronger now. He was the fighter, waiting in the tunnel, pacing, bouncing on his toes, a sweat already worked up, eager for his music to sound throughout the stadium so he could begin his march towards the ring. Patrick felt invigorated by these images. He was ready to do battle. Ready to kick some ass.
And then Steve Lucas walked by Patrick’s window and glanced at him. And their eyes locked for a moment.
Lucas had done exactly as Patrick had so delicately suggested on Monday, and steered clear of Patrick these last couple of days. Patrick had only bumped into him once in the office kitchen where the two went about fixing their coffee in unbreakable silence—not even the slightest periphery glance had been chanced by Lucas.
Today, things were apparently different. Lucas not only glanced in Patrick’s direction, but held the glance for a second or two. And it was not a frightened glance either, as Patrick might have guessed. Nor was it a scowl. It was just … a glance? The first eye contact they had made with one another since Patrick had told Lucas to stay out of his way.
Stop, Patrick told himself once Lucas was out of sight. It was nothing. Stay focused.
Patrick left his office and headed towards the conference room.
• • •
The Megablast clients were seated around the big oval table. Most had helped themselves to coffee. Some had a plate of edibles in front of them. Jonathan Miles sat closest to Patrick, who stood at the head of the room giving his introduction. So far, it was flawless. Patrick periodically glanced at Miles who returned a subtle look of pride. He was rolling.
Patrick hit a remote and the lights dimmed. Time for the PowerPoint presentation.
A moment later, all hell broke loose.
48
The first few photographs on the automatic slideshow presentation were exactly as Patrick had expected, and he addressed each of them accordingly, perfectly:
The Megablast product being enjoyed by both athle
tes and regular Joes …
Enticing visuals of the “all-natural” ingredients that separated Megablast from the rest of the pack in the energy drink field …
And then:
A woman being screwed from behind while giving a blowjob to a second man in front …
A tangle of women going down on each other …
A close-up of a man’s erect penis …
The table had collectively gasped after the first image. When shock released its hold on him, Patrick had snatched the projector’s remote and began feverishly mashing buttons, hoping beyond hope that erasing the images would somehow erase the collective minds of his prospective client.
When Patrick’s fumbling with the remote had failed, it was Jonathan Miles who’d leapt from his chair and picked the projector itself up, smashing it to the ground, even stamping on it despite the fact the images had finally left the screen.
Every member of the prospective client had hurried to their feet and out the conference room door with Patrick and Miles close behind, pleading that there’d been some dreadful misunderstanding, some horrible mistake.
The appalled Megablast tribe had said nothing, only hurried towards the elevators as though fleeing a potential assailant. Desperate, Patrick had attempted stopping the elevator doors from closing by slamming his hand against one of them. A female client slapped his hand away and called him a disgusting pig.
Patrick had brought his hand back as though suddenly burned and then watched helplessly as the metal doors came together until his clients were officially gone. He turned and gaped at Miles.
Miles said, “My office—right-fucking-now.”
• • •
Patrick sat slumped over in front of Miles’ desk, his head down, both hands pressed against it. Miles raged for over twenty minutes:
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 42
