by Nicole Fox
Do not worry. He was, by far, worse off after that battle.
Still, it was a weak disguise, so I did my best to keep my face low over my drink, creating an appearance of silent nervousness––the expression most newbies wear when realizing that they are way in over their heads. By appearing nonthreatening, yet big enough not to be easy prey, I hoped whatever Crooked Jaws were in here would leave me alone. Without even turning my head to look around, I could spy three of them.
They did not seem to be “on duty”–– metaphorically speaking, anyway. They were clustered in a side booth, drinking large beers and guffawing with each other. Every now and again, one would reach out and pluck the poor, bruised bottom of a passing waitress.
Though I knew with certainty that these guys would not provide me with anything useful, I sipped my drink and listened closely.
“Did you see that faggot squirm when I laid into him, Tony?” One asked, punching his buddy in the arm.
“I can’t believe he cried,” wheezed Tony, laughing so hard that his own eyes were leaking.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get in trouble with the boss,” the third one muttered, grim over his beer. “You know we’re not supposed to cause trouble at that end of the neighborhood.”
My ears perked. “Boss” could only mean one person: La Gancho. And yet, what neighborhood did he mean? The Crooked Jaws had no issue causing problems around here.
“I don’t like working for that asshole,” the first one muttered. I smiled. Dissension in an opponent’s ranks was always satisfying to hear. But then, he said something that surprised me. “Always going on about the appearance of legality and the importance of subtlety, and all the college-egghead crap.”
“Thinks he’s better than us,” complained Tony.
Legality? Subtlety? Egghead? Now, this did not at all sound like La Gancho. I would take arrogance from him, but academic superiority? No. The only education La Gancho had was given to him in his father’s bike shop, then on the blood-spattered streets.
“I think,” I realized, “they are talking about someone else.”
A clue! Perhaps something that would help us solve the mysteries of the Jaws’ very strange behavior lately.
As discreetly as I could, I shifted my chair closer to their booth, straining to hear every word. They were drunk, and spoke loudly, but so did everyone else at the bar.
“We’ll just have to be careful,” one said as I approached. “The time will come soon, and—wait! Who is that?”
All of a sudden, all three of them erupted from their seats. I froze, not out of fear, but the way a chameleon freezes when it is about to camouflage. If they suspected me, the worst thing I could do if appear guilty. Still, like a snake, my hand flashed to the bulge against my hip. Where my .45 was hidden.
“Hey, you!” I heard one call. I slipped it from its holster, cocked the trigger, and–
“Wow, man! It’s been forever!”
I chanced to look around. A fourth male had joined the first three, clapping the men on the backs and grinning. He sat down, and the group ordered him a beer.
I breathed. My gun slipped back into its holster.
“Come on, Dom,” I scolded myself. “You’re getting way too edgy. The last thing you want to do is start a shootout in this bar. There are innocents here.”
Man, I was so done. Done with the constant suspicion. Done with premeditating my every move, only to have so many of my plans erupt in brutal conflicts and exchanges of force.
I’d earned my time to relax. I’d fought for it, blood, tooth, and nail.
Feeling disgruntled, I wrested my attention from the gaggle of idiot Crooked Jaws and returned it to my drink. I would continue surveillance, sure, but, for this moment at least, I would simply enjoy my whiskey.
And yet, it tasted of violence. Of knives drawn at local bars. Of shattered bone. Of territories claimed, and then defended. A normal person would be afraid to be in the situation I was: deep in enemy territory, and a well-known opponent to boot. But again, I was not afraid. The worst these bozos could do to me is kill me, and that, I bet, would be in a wholly uncreative manner.
No, I was tired. I sipped my whiskey. I yawned. I sipped more whiskey. I yawned again. Increasingly, I became convinced that I was wasting my time. Those buffoons in the booth would yield nothing useful, and the bartender, meanwhile, was inscrutable as the drinks he served. It was not like anyone would reprimand me for leaving. I was my own boss. It was only my sense of duty that kept me here.
“One more heist,” I muttered to myself, ordering another drink. “One more, and then I’m free.”
I spent the next hour drinking and dreaming of that freedom. It would have been hard to imagine a mind such as mine thinking of anything else.
That is, until she walked through the door.
Chapter Two
Erica
“Another shitty day at work,” I thought, sagging into my car to drive wearily home. For a moment, I did not even have the strength to turn the key in the ignition. Instead, I rested my forehead on the steering wheel, relishing the feel of the cool leather against my skin.
“I love my job,” I said aloud, thumping my brow against the wheel. “I love my job. I love my job.”
And yet, I could not help but finished the thought with, “Yeah, when I am actually allowed to do it.”
I’d been hired to Blade and Goldstein’s Firm almost a year ago, as a paralegal. Since then, however, my duties seem to have devolved into nothing more than a glorified secretary. “Get us coffee, Ms. Carter,” or “Schedule my next meeting, Ms. Carter.” That was, at least, when Goldstein spoke to me. When it was Blade, I heard, “Come over here, Erica my sweet.”
Yikes. He was by far the worst of them. At least he had the decency to go home early on some Fridays, which was why I was able to be in my car, despairing, an hour earlier than usual.
And though I hated it, I stuck the job out. The money was good, and with all the expenses of the wedding coming up, I sure was going to need it.
This thought, at least, put a smile on my face. The wedding. Brian. We’d gotten engaged about twelve months ago––about the time I starting working at the firm, come to think of it––and the following year had been little more than a frenzied–but-happy whirlwind of events. Booking the caterer, the music, the guests––the list goes on. Through it all, Brian had been so helpful and understanding.
Thinking of coming home to him, I smiled, started the car, and pulled into the street. On the radio, I tuned in to one of our favorite songs. It was a love song.
Inspired by the music, I lost myself in my memories. When he asked me to marry him––right after work, as if it were the most natural and easiest thing in the world. I thought about when we met, both young and in college, and how his charm and debonair smile had won me over immediately.
But, mostly, I thought about the first time we’d made love. I was a virgin then. I’d often daydreamed of losing it earlier––as young as high school, even––but I was way too well-behaved for that. No, I was a good girl. I’d waited for the committed relationship. I’d waited for Brian.
And yes, I think it was worth it.
It didn’t hurt. That was what I had been most afraid of. Women go on and on about how much it hurts the first time. But Brian was gentle. I was also afraid of wearing out, that Brian would get bored of me quickly and want to move on. But that didn’t happen either. He seemed perfectly content to have sex when I wanted, and did not seem put off if I wasn’t into it or enjoying myself. Many women like me––smart, career girls, never that interested in sex––would be extremely lucky to have a man like him, who was okay with those sorts of things.
He really was the perfect guy.
These thoughts cheered me as I drove home. It was a long, arduous commute, but I was able to tackle it that night with good humor. Brian would be home first (we’d moved closer to his job because of its career prospects) and I looked forward to a warm meal, the
n a bit of cuddling with him, my perfect man.
Therefore, when I pulled into the driveway and saw that all the lights were out, I was surprised. Scowling, I double-checked my phone to see if he had texted me, saying he’d be working late. Nothing. Still feeling content from my reminiscing, I did not think much more about it. Instead, I clicked the button that would open the garage and slid the car inside.
There was Brian’s, parked in its usual spot, the engine still warm. Now that was strange. I wondered what he could be doing, all alone in the house in the dark. “Perhaps, he is already in bed,” I thought. “Ready for me to snuggle up to him.”
That is how naïve I was.
Juggling my keys lightly, I unlocked the door and entered the place.
It was a rental, and looked like it. The furniture was solid and comfortable, but Brian had always been against adorning a rental place much more than beyond the basics. He seemed to think it was a waste. Personally, I often found it to be rather cold, but tonight, after such a terrible day at work, the sterile-looking living room and kitchen were warm and welcoming.
“Brian?” I called, walking inside. No answer. Idly, I tossed my keys into the dish and kicked my comfortable, low-heeled shoes off and shoved them into the pile. Humming to myself, I approached the kettle and flicked it on. Yes, a cup of tea would be nice, I thought.
It was then that I noticed the pair of high-heels, thrown carelessly by the door. I bent to examine them, but they were not familiar.
“Huh,” I murmured aloud. “Brian must have bought me a new pair of shoes.”
Which did not account for the scuff marks on their soles. Even with that glaring clue in my face, I was still stupid enough not to realize what was going on. But soon, that would no longer matter.
Feeling concerned, but for no reason I could have articulated, I walked quietly up the stairs. Something about the atmosphere––just as when one is in a library––encouraged silence.
I checked Brian’s office. He was not there. I checked the bathroom, my office. Nothing.
Finally, I came to the bedroom. The door was closed, which was unusual, but not strikingly so. During the colder months, we often kept it shut to keep it nice and warm.
It was September.
A ringing filled my ears. For a moment, I thought it was from the tea kettle in the kitchen, but no. It was in my own mind.
I placed my hand on the knob, took a deep breath, and turned.
The cry that escaped me was a savage cry, like that of an animal, feeling and yet not understanding the crushing weight of emotions. Grief. Rage. Fear. Confusion. All at once, they swept over me, like a flood. Like a hurricane of floods.
For there, his back to me, his legs and body naked—save for the red scratches that lined his shoulder blades— was Brian. He grunted and groaned. His muscles flexed and thrust. And all the while, a slapping sound:
The sound of his balls slapping the ass of the woman bent over before him. From the shade of her hair and that tiny little waist, I could tell that it was his secretary––the woman, he’d assured me, he’d hired based on skill alone.
Yeah, her fucking skill.
They appeared not to have heard me, so I was able to gape in horror and watch as they continued to fuck. His voice––so familiar when caressing me!––now seemed brutal. “You gonna cum, you slut?” He demanded, pounding her harder. She moaned and writhed, putting on a display that I would have never dared to make.
“Yes!” She cried. “Yes!”
“No. No,” I moaned. In the corner, I notice his briefcase discarded on the floor. The richly bound, leather case, embroidered with his initials, had been a Christmas present from me the year before. And now, it lay on the carpet, draped with a pair of fucking panties. That briefcase, which he’d brought home night after night of working late. I found myself wondering: “working late, huh? Or going balls deep in your goddamn secretary.”
A great rage filled me at the sight of that case. A thrumming, burning anger rose up from my gut, threatening to overwhelm my senses. Without being fully aware of what I was doing, I crept behind the fucking couple, seized the heavy, brass-lined thing by the handle, and swung.
Through the air it flew, a good twenty pounds of force, lifting up until it was parallel to the floor, its leather straps straining and—
WHAP!
It collided with the side of Brian’s head.
“Argh!” He cried, dropping his grip on his secretary’s hips, popping out of her with the sound of a wine bottle being uncorked. He whirled, eyes screwed up with anger and confusion, ready to pounce.
Then: “Erica?” He gasped, stumbling backward and landing on his ass on the bed. His cock, now half-erect, pointed accusatorily at me like a question mark. Meanwhile, the dumb bitch behind him squealed and scurried beneath the covers of the bed for shelter.
I glared at them, too enraged to speak.
“Erica,” he said again, soothingly, like one would talk to a skittish horse. “Erica, you weren’t supposed to be home for an hour.”
“Get out,” I hissed. The words were like a poison, spit out upon the floor.
“What?” He said. “Come on, baby. You know I’m sorry.”
It was the “baby” that rankled me. How dare he?
“Get out!” I repeated, raising the briefcase again. He winced, his hand going to the lump on the side of his head. “You fucking coward,” I thought.
“Come on, Brian,” his secretary said shakily, touching his shoulder. “She’s crazy.”
“Oh, I’m crazy, you slut?” I demanded, reeling on her. “You’re the one––” Boom! The briefcase slammed down on the bed beside her. “Sleeping with––” Boom! “An engaged man!” Slap!
This time, it came down on her naked skin. She cried out, then darted behind Brian, who readied his arms in self-defense.
“Get out!” I cried again. Now, at the sight of him giving her protection, of caring about her, I felt the tears beginning to fall. “Get out of here, now!”
And with that, I dropped the briefcase and fled.
Chapter Three
Erica
I locked myself in my office to wait for them to dress and leave. Once, Brian knocked on the door and attempted to talk to me, but I ignored him. Distantly, I could hear the secretary complaining that Brian had said they were safe, and how embarrassed she was, and how she should have known better than to get involved with a committed man.
“Good,” I thought savagely. “I’m glad you’re suffering, too.”
A buzz from my pocket reminded me that I had my cell phone with me. Suddenly comforted, I whipped it from my pocket, flipped it open, and began to call…who? Who would I call with this news? My friends, who liked Brian ever–so-much? I could imagine their words: “Oh, sweetie, we’re so sorry. What a jerk! I can’t believe he cheated on you, and with that slut secretary to boot!” They just repeated what I already know, and all the while thinking to themselves, “Hehe, glad it wasn’t me.”
Then, I imagined calling my mother, but she would be even worse: “My darling Erica, you poor baby! Brian was just the nicest guy! Are you sure there wasn’t something you did, or said, to upset him? Because, really dear, keeping a man is hard work. Look at your father…”
No, I definitely was not calling her. I would tell them all later, but tonight, I needed to cope.
Finally, after about a half an hour of shuffling and the sounds of the two of them swearing at each other, there was only silence in the house. To be safe, I waited another thirty minutes, and then, with tears dried to my cheeks, I emerged.
Brian had obviously taken some time to pack. His suitcase, along with a bunch of his clothes, was gone, as well as his now-battered briefcase. There wasn’t much else there for him to take. He had never been very big on trying to make this place look like a home.
“Probably because he never felt like it was a home,” I realized bitterly. With trembling fingers, I reached out and picked up one of the few mementos that
had actually managed to become a decoration here: a photo of the two of us, in the park by his office, smiling as if we were as happy as could be. It had been taken moments after our engagement. In the picture, the ring glinted merrily in the evening sun.
I glanced at my hand. The ring was still there, but it has lost all of its happy sheen. Disgustedly, I took it off and hurled it to the ground. Next, I flung the frame. Its glass shattered against the far wall. My heart pounding, I marched forward, seized the loosed picture from the broken glass, and tore into a dozen tiny, crumbled bits.
