High Risk

by Rick R. Reed

“Cut it out,” he said, much more sharply than he intended.

  Her hand went back to the zipper, but he moved it away.

  “Please,” she whispered, “Let me take care of you. It’s okay. Don’t be scared.” She unbuttoned her vest and let her breasts fall out, then pressed them against him. She rubbed up and down, like a filthy goddamned cat.

  “It’ll be okay. I’ll suck you.” She tugged again at his zipper.

  * * * *

  Beth didn’t care how nervous he was. She had to have him. She needed to tug down his jeans and mount him, right here on the couch.

  He would get hard for her.

  He would want her.

  Just like all the others. She was dizzy, her thighs wet. Everything around her was melting, disappearing.

  * * * *

  No more! Abbott scowled as she finally managed to get down his zipper. He stood violently, mustering all his strength. Beth tumbled to the floor, her head hitting the coffee table, shoulder banging with a thud against the hardwood floor.

  She winced. “What’s wrong with you?” She scrambled to her feet, rubbing her shoulder. Her eyes were wild. Her hair was in disarray. Her mouth looked bruised, the lipstick smeared.

  “There’s nothin’ wrong with me.” Abbott finally gave vent to his fury; it boiled out of him, no longer confinable. “I’m not the whore here.”

  “What?” Beth struggled to button her vest.

  “I’m not the piece of trash screwing around behind my husband’s back while he’s out tryin’ to make a living for her.”

  “Shut up. You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” Beth scooted away. “I want you to get out. Now.”

  Abbott knew he had finally seized control. He was pleased with the terror he finally saw on her face. Her fear rose up and he could smell it, like some overripe, too-sweet flower.

  He was ready to assume his position as teacher. He sat back down, sipped his beer. Calm at last. “I haven’t finished my beer yet.”

  “Get out. Please.” He saw the damp in her eyes.

  “Hey. That’s no way to talk to an invited guest, now is it?” Abbott grinned. He lifted his legs and placed them on the coffee table.

  * * * *

  Beth rubbed her eyes, trying to stop her hands from trembling. She backed away from him, shoulder throbbing.

  Now…now…after all this…he finally returned her gaze, even smiled.

  But there was nothing attractive in that smile, even that face. Not anymore.

  “Please. Please….just go. You’re scaring me.”

  * * * *

  Abbott wanted to laugh. Scaring her? This bitch brings home a stranger to fuck. You think she’d have a little more guts.

  “Listen, Beth—my mother always told me when you invite company, you let them decide when it’s time to leave.”

  “You can’t stay.” Her voice was hoarse. “You have to leave. Or I’m calling the police.” She started toward a cordless phone on a side table.

  Abbott barked a short laugh. His lips curled into a sneer. “Oh, go ahead, Beth, give ‘em a ring. I’d like to tell them my side of the story, too. And I bet hubby will also be curious about both sides of this little afternoon delight. Don’t you think? So you go ahead.” He smiled wide. “Make that call.”

  A small spasm passed through her jaw. “You son of a bitch.”

  Abbott grinned. “Gotcha.”

  Beth shook her head. “No. No, you don’t. Mark wouldn’t believe a word of it. Neither would the cops. I’m calling.” She turned and headed toward the phone.

  But he was quicker. He ripped the base out of the wall and flung the headset to the floor, stomping on it with his boot. The charcoal-gray plastic cracked. “You silly bitch. Don’t you know it’s rude to talk on the phone when you have company? Where are your manners, Beth?”

  He liked the fear he saw. Fear. Finally the little tramp was learning some respect. Eventually, she would be grateful for this day and having met him.

  * * * *

  “Look,” she pleaded. “My husband might be home soon. He comes home during the day sometimes. He has an office here…in the back. Really, you’d better go.”

  The mantle clock told her that Mark would not be home for at least another few hours, at 4:30. But Abbott didn’t have to know that.

  And what if he didn’t leave? What if Mark came home, finding them together? How would she explain?

  It wouldn’t look like a forced situation, not with a beer bottle and a wineglass on the coffee table, her panties in a heap on the kitchen floor.

  Beth slumped against the wall with the thought of it. Why had she done this? She loved Mark; she really did. The terror coursing through her was proof enough…losing him would kill her. Even hurting him would tear her up. She wasn’t sure she could bear it.

  “I think it’d be really nice to meet the man.” A smile played about Abbott’s lips. He stretched out on the couch, kicking off his boots, and taking a sip of his beer. “In fact, I think I’ll just stick around until he shows up. I think I need to have a little talk with him, man to man. He’ll appreciate me letting him know.” Abbott stared straight into her eyes. “I mean, if this were a purely hypothetical situation, as they say, don’t you think you’d agree? I mean, it’s doing the poor guy a favor.”

  Beth bit her lower lip. She pictured Mark in his office, or maybe at the courthouse, glancing down at the Movado watch she had bought him for Christmas, and thinking about how long it would be before he would see her again.

  She rushed into the kitchen and threw up in the sink.

  Chapter 3

  The Meechum vs. Meechum case was a pain. Mark Walsh hung up the phone, turned back to his desk, and drummed his fingers on its mahogany surface. Outside, the sky was the brilliant blue of autumn. He wondered why he had chosen to make a career of arbitrating others’ misery. He watched as two guys on a platform washed the windows of the high-rise opposite and thought that maybe such a job wouldn’t really be bad work.

  Alex Meechum had filed for divorce from his wife, Becky, nine months ago. Nine torturous months in which nothing had been resolved. Not the custody of their eight-year-old daughter, Melissa. Not who would get the house in Lake Forest or the loft apartment in Wicker Park. Not even who would get which of their four automobiles. Becky, when Mark had first met her, had been gentle, seemingly in need of protection. Doe eyes, and short brown hair, a frail little thing who favored flowing dresses that reached almost to her ankles. Now under the tutelage of her attorney, who had the curious name of Stephen Spielberg, she had become an acidic shrew. Even her appearance had changed: her hair cut spiky, tinted red, the flowing dresses replaced with formfitting suits and heels too high for her. Alex had said that if he dropped a dime on the street, Becky would have been drawing up a petition to get a nickel of it.

  The joke wasn’t that far from the truth, except the petition would have asked for eight cents.

  Their trial had been scheduled for July. But Spielberg had asked for more time, citing a need for additional evaluation of Alex by the Jungian psychoanalyst he had hired. The judge, nearing completion of her term and a move to criminal court, couldn’t have cared much one way or the other, and was happy to grant the extension.

  Which would mean a new judge—and a whole new set of unknown variables and, truth be known, prejudices. Judges were people, too, and did not walk into courtrooms blank slates.

  Alex was pushing him to see if he could speed things up, to find some dirt on Becky. It was funny how marriage could quickly turn to war. Where did the love go?

  He could never imagine such a scenario with his Beth. Had the people he had counseled once felt the same about their spouses? Somehow Mark doubted it. What he and Beth had was different, special, rare.

  And now Spielberg had just phoned to say the trial would be pushed back even further, probably into the new year. He had exercised his right to throw out the new judge, without giving a reason.

  Alex would be in his
office within an hours’ time, red faced and raving, once Mark told him of this latest maneuver. But who else did one vent one’s fury on in situations like these? That’s what attorneys were paid for, wasn’t it? Mark picked up the silver-framed picture of Beth and longed to be at home with her.

  Sometimes, the money wasn’t worth it. The whole business had nothing to do with the expedient process of law, nothing to do with helping people. It was all delays, backbiting, money, nipping at each other, tearing each other apart, until there was nothing left but regret, empty bank accounts, and traumatized children. Mark was beginning to see his role as little more than a blade for backstabbing.

  He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. He stood, looking out over the buildings, all the way to Lake Michigan. The sailboats represented freedom to him and he longed for that freedom with an almost-palpable desire. He could almost feel the water’s cool breeze in his face.

  He sat, picked up a legal pad and the Kohinoor Mont Blanc fountain pen Beth had given him when he’d made partner, and began scribbling some notes for petition to show cause in another case, this one involving failure to pay child support. More ugly business. He threw down the pen.

  “Fuck it,” he whispered. Indian summer would be over in a blink…then there would be nothing but gray skies, plummeting temperatures, snow, and trudging to and from work in darkness. He had no court appointments today.

  In a way, he was free—and he should grab this small chance at freedom.

  Mark unfastened the top button of his shirt, loosened his tie. He buzzed his assistant.

  “Annette? Listen, could you do a couple things for me? First, call Alex Meechum and let him know that the trial has been postponed. Again. Be gentle.”

  Annette sighed. “You’re slime, Mark. Slime. You don’t pay me enough to deal with your dirty work.”

  “Oh, sweetie, but you’re so much more diplomatic than I am. And infinitely nicer. Plus, we can talk about a raise tomorrow.”

  “Don’t push it, hon. Flattery stopped working on me when I found myself pregnant for the third time.” Annette snorted. “And why talk about that raise tomorrow? How about today?”

  “Can’t today. Got an upset stomach. I think I’m gonna head home.”

  “Uh huh. I’ve got a migraine. Can I go, too?”

  “Just as soon as you…” and Mark launched into what documents needed to be sent out for signatures, what affidavits and motions to file with the Cook County Clerk of Circuit Court’s office and to be sure and let Alex Meechum know he would talk to him the next day.

  “You know it’ll all be done for you. Think about that when you consider how much of a percentage to make that raise, which we’re talking about tomorrow. It’s a good thing you’ve got me. Things run even better when you’re not here.” Annette laughed.

  “That’s probably closer to the truth than you know.”

  “Oh, I know it. Now go home and take care of that, um, stomach.”

  Mark hung up the phone and loosened his tie a little more. He started to pick up a sheaf of papers to take home, then set them down.

  He smiled as he pictured the look of surprise on Beth’s face when he slipped into the apartment, bearing the gift of a free afternoon for just the two of them.

  * * * *

  The only sound: the clock ticking on the mantle. Abbott continued to sit with his feet on the coffee table, slowly sipping his third beer. Beth sat in a wooden chair, stiff, in a corner of the room, her gaze moving from Abbott to the mantle clock. When she caught Abbott’s eye, he grinned.

  The grin was no longer welcome…or wanted.

  Mark would be home in two hours.

  Two hours until it all blew up in her face. Her fault. How she wished she could go back, start the day over.

  A parade of “encounters” swept by…an afternoon army, all different ages, shapes, sizes, and colors. She stared at the hardwood floor, trying to banish the images that came, unbidden, twisting her gut. So many of them lacked faces.

  This had to happen sooner or later. Mark deserves to know the truth anyway. Deserves to know before that bruise on my foot that concerned me last week really turns out to be a KS lesion.

  The self-punishment did little to alleviate the queasy fear causing her to slightly tremble, causing the cool drip of sweat down her spine. The self-punishment didn’t do anything but help fan the flames of hysteria rising within her with each tick of the mantle clock…the orderly progression to when she would hear Mark’s key being fitted in the lock of the front door.

  “How ‘bout another beer?”

  Beth jerked up her head. Abbott looked large—and permanent—sitting on her couch, like something unreal. How she wished he was.

  “How ‘bout it?” He tapped the bottle. “Good stuff. All I can afford is Old Style…in cans.”

  Beth didn’t say anything. She got up, moved toward the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Sam Adams, opened it, and finally returned with it to him.

  “While you’re up, how about some music?”

  Beth moved to the entertainment unit, where she rummaged through the CDs arranged on the bottom. The jewel cases reminded her of so many dinners with Mark, when one or the other of them would pick something out as background: Rosemary Clooney, Oscar Peterson, Duke Ellington, Lena Horne. Somehow, Abbott didn’t strike her as a fan of classic jazz. What would he like? Something cold and discordant. She pulled out a Prodigy CD someone had left after a party and put it on. The sound of breaking glass that opened the first track seemed apropos.

  Beth slid down on the floor, back against the wall, and resumed staring at the hardwood.

  * * * *

  Irises were Beth’s favorite. Mark took the green paper-wrapped bunch from the florist and headed out the door.

  She would be so surprised!

  He started the Saab 9-5 and merged into traffic on Wells, heading north, thinking of where he might take Beth for dinner that night. Someplace quiet, romantic…with the old clichés of candlelight and soft music. Beth deserved it. She had been so attentive lately.

  Yes, she would be so surprised!

  * * * *

  Abbott watched her squirm. Suddenly her face didn’t look so pretty anymore: her mascara had run, and her skin had an unhealthy sheen, ashen.

  Bringing her mascara-ringed gaze to his, she whispered, “I’m sorry.” She twisted her wedding band around and around. “Is that what you want to hear?”

  “It’s a little late for that.”

  “Is it?” She closed her eyes. “Please. Please go. I’ll do anything.”

  “Yeah. I already knew that.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Please don’t do this.”

  “Watch me.” Abbott took a long swallow of beer. “Didn’t you think you’d get caught? I mean, this isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this? So didn’t you think you’d get caught? Sooner or later? It was bound to happen.”

  “If you won’t do it for me, would you do it for my husband? You don’t know how much this will hurt him. He doesn’t deserve that. He’s a good man.” Beth began to cry. “I promise you I’ll never do anything like this again. Just don’t hurt him.”

  Abbott shook his head. “You’re brilliant. Outstanding. Now you’re worried about hurting him?” He removed his feet from the coffee table and leaned forward. “Don’t you realize sometimes it takes a little pain to heal?”

  “You don’t understand. I know it doesn’t make sense to you, to someone outside, but I love him. I really do.”

  Abbott stood, carefully setting his beer on the coffee table. He crossed to where Beth sat on the floor and squatted down beside her. After lifting her face by her chin, he spit in her face.

  “That’s what I think of your love.”

  * * * *

  Mark turned up the radio. He headed north on Lake Shore Drive, only minutes away from home. Peter Gabriel was on WXRT, singing “Shock the Monkey.” The song made him feel like dancing. Perhaps later
, he and Beth could step back a few years, head down to Rush and Division and go dancing.

  Mark glanced at the high-rises lining one side of the drive, then at the broad aqua expanse of Lake Michigan on the other, and thought of Beth.

  How had she spent her day? Probably, after he had left, she had called her mother. The two were like sisters. He was sure they talked at least once a day. Then she got dressed. Mark pictured her in something navy, low waisted, what his mother had once called “sensible pumps.” He smirked as he thought of the many times he told her Beth should lighten up when it came to her wardrobe, wear something a little more Sex and the City. But deep down, he was glad she didn’t. He liked being the only one who knew what kind of body lurked beneath the flowing dresses and blouses.

  She had spent the day shopping, if he knew her. Lately, she had been making noises about redecorating and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she wasn’t out haunting the furniture stores, picking up catalogs and fabric samples.

  He signaled and exited at Fullerton. He hoped Beth would be there when he got home.

  * * * *

  “How about money?” Beth offered, feeling like she was talking to a rock. “I have about fifty in my purse and can get $500 out of the ATM at the corner. You can have it all if you’ll just go.”

  She wished she could read Abbott’s thoughts, but all he returned was a blank stare. Perhaps there was a bit of contempt lurking beneath the perfect features. She went on, in spite of herself. “I have some jewelry, some of it’s worth quite a bit. I could give you some. No problem to sell it, make yourself a real bundle.” She sucked in a quivering breath. “All you have to do is leave.”

  “Cut it.” He looked her up and down. “Haven’t you realized yet you got nothin’ I want?”

  Beth couldn’t hold back the sobs. “Why? Why do you want to do this to me?” Oh God, why did I do this? Why did I do any of it? Why can’t I be satisfied with what I have? Again: “Why do you want to do this?”

  Abbott smirked, cupped his crotch. “Why do you want to do this?”

  Beth closed her eyes, tried to swallow. She could hear him snickering, but couldn’t bear to look at his face, the face that had once had such a hold on her. She bit her lower lip. “There’s nothing I can say that will change your mind, is there? You’ll just go ahead and casually ruin a couple of lives. All in a day’s work.”