The Eternal Engagement

by Mary B. Morrison

  Steven figured if he got her undressed, made her cum hard, she wouldn’t go anywhere. At least not for a few hours. By then he could convince her to stay by her own will.

  He stroked his long, stiff erection, rubbed the tip inside her vaginal lips, then slid the head in. He didn’t stop sliding until his entire shaft was inside her, then he pressed deep, applying the pressure Mona loved. He held his dick in position, awaiting her flood of fluids.

  When Mona came to him, thrusting herself harder and harder against his erection, she repeatedly screamed, “Steven, I hate you!” Her body couldn’t stop trembling as she soaked the mattress.

  Showering his seeds, he came with her. “I need you, Mona. You don’t hate me. You love me,” he whispered. “And I love you too, baby. We’re in this together. I got you. Trust me. Thanks for staying with me.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Mona

  May 2010

  What just happened had nothing to do with their staying together.

  Sex was Steven’s way of reminding her what she’d be missing if she ever left his ass. His big dick was good; actually, it was fucking fantastic. But his dick was no magic stick, had no superpowers, and no matter how hard, his dick would never make her feel the incredible connection she’d felt when Lincoln was inside of her. If she hadn’t aborted Lincoln’s baby, her life would be different.

  There were many times when Steven was sucking her clit that she held the back of his head and came hard in his mouth while fantasizing about graduation day when she’d sexed Lincoln between the bleachers. Like the first time Steven went down on her at Grist Park in the back of his SUV.

  Based on what Steven had done, Mona’s decision to leave him remained the same. An innocent woman was in jail, and Mona’s name might be in Calvin’s file.

  Steven unzipped her black bag, emptied the contents, tossed her bag on the bed, wrapped his arms around her, then pressed her head to his strong chest. “You have my word. I promise it won’t happen again. Now put those things away.”

  New tears streamed down her face. He dried them with the back of his hand. But it had already happened again. Two more not-so-accidental deaths had occurred during their road trip from Selma to Bakersfield. One was in Macon, Georgia, while Steven was taking Brian Norris into custody. The other, Terrence Vince, an inmate on the run, was gunned down by Steven in Kansas City, Kansas.

  “Your random acts of violence aren’t exciting. Not knowing when or if you’re going to kill another person is driving me insane. This is not what I signed up for. Bounty hunters are not the same as assassins. You’re wearing two hats. I’m not taking any more chances that you’ll randomly murder innocent people. What happened to you? You used to be the nice guy. You used to make me feel safe. You kill the wrong person and sooner or later someone will kill us! That’s if you don’t drink yourself into an early grave. Stop it! We’ve got more than enough money. Quit, go back to making a decent living working nine to five, and I’ll stay.”

  She’d stay as long as Lincoln didn’t resurface and ask her to be with him. Nothing or no one could keep her from loving Lincoln. Not Katherine or her son Jeremiah.

  Steven laughed. “Decent doesn’t cut it, Mona! I’ve never worked a decent nine-to-five job, whatever that is. I’d die living paycheck to paycheck trying to get rich working for the man or one of these oil companies here in Bakersfield! I’ve been on the streets all my life. Hunting is what I live and breathe. I don’t like working indoors. I’m not like you. I can’t sit at a desk or stand in a lab for eight hours. I hate wearing ties, I hate punching clocks, and I refuse to call anyone ‘boss.’ ”

  Mona shook her head. “You don’t get it, Steven. I don’t care about your not wanting to work inside. I cannot, will not, live like this another day. Go on. Kill everybody in Bakersfield if you want to. But do it without me. Murder is wrong! I’m done!”

  She stood naked in front of him, hoping, whether she stayed or not, he’d make the right decision.

  “You’re the one who doesn’t get it. Sit down,” he said, backing her up to the bed. Sitting beside her, Steven explained. “I said I wasn’t going to tell you because you already know too damn much. But those three murders,” he said as though someone else had committed the crimes, “had nothing to do with bounty hunting. They were all a work for hire.”

  Frantically, Mona shook her head, remained silent, scooted to the edge of the bed farthest from him. Her lips tightened with anger.

  Staring at her, he confessed, “We received a half million dollars . . . a head. But you know this here isn’t about money. We’ve been together practically all our lives. I’m not letting you leave me.”

  Now that she knew the truth, leaving was her only option.

  He was paid 1.5 million because somebody wanted all three of those men dead. What Mona didn’t know was who or why.

  Steven moved so close to her she had to straddle the corner of the bed, then firmly plant her feet on the floor to keep from falling off. “When my clients are paying that kind of money, they become my pimp and I’m their whore, baby. I’m in too deep, Mona. If they say, ‘jump,’ I don’t even ask, ‘How high?’ I just do it.”

  That was the dumbest thing she’d heard him say. Was he serious? What clients? Was he working for the mafia? Drug dealers? Mona tapped her foot, became silent. She nodded, then shook her head. She knew what she had to do.

  “Greed is what gets most people caught. I’m not selfish, you know that. I anonymously sent each of the widows a cashier’s check for a hundred thousand. I admit I didn’t tell you that I sent Sarah money when I knew she was in jeopardy of losing her house. She was desperate. Each widow was strapped for cash. They chose to deposit the checks I sent them, and they were foolish to spend the money. That was on them.”

  Mona sprang to her feet, stared down at Steven. “So you blackmailed them as insurance to cover your ass.”

  Holding up his pointing finger, he interrupted, “Our asses. I knew if they were ever questioned, they couldn’t prove to authorities where the windfall money came from.”

  A question for every dollar he’d given those women was in her head. How could they not know where the money came from? Whose name was on those cashier’s checks? The answers didn’t matter right now. Mona thought about the three six-figure deposits Steven had wired to her account. She didn’t know the legal name on the account. Six years was a long time ago. Constantly gasping for air, she paced in front of him.

  “I love you, Mona. I gave you my word. Calm down.” He stood, hugged her.

  “I’m okay,” Mona lied, then kissed him. “I just need something cold to drink.”

  “I’ll draw your bubbly bath water,” he said, releasing her. “That always helps to relax you.”

  Steven shouted from the bathroom, “We’ve got a big job tomorrow. Another FTA. Thirty Gs.”

  That meant he’d give her six grand, the same amount she’d earn in a month working at the lab. I can’t. I just can’t do this again. She knew his name—Steven Cunningham, Incorporated—was on all of the paper checks he’d given her. Money was not going to be her pimp, and she wasn’t going to be her husband’s whore.

  Mona quietly entered the bedroom, dressed from the clothes he’d scattered on the floor. Panties, bra, blouse, and pants were on in less than a minute. She opened the bottom drawer, wrapped her other gun along with the box of bullets in a T-shirt. She left her black bag and jeans on the scrambled sheets, bypassed their kitchen, ran out the front door, got in her car. Her purse was still on the passenger seat. Opening then closing her armrest compartment, her registered gun was there. She stuffed the wrapped T-shirt and its contents into the glove box.

  She mumbled toward the sky, “Thanks for giving me that push.”

  The next-door neighbor, Mama V, waved. Mona backed out of the driveway, fanned her hand in front of the windshield, then sped off, leaving a cloud of smoke behind. Never again would she return to his house. This would be the last time she’d exercise her righ
t to remain silent and let an innocent person like Sarah McKenny go to jail.

  What if Sarah got the death penalty?

  CHAPTER 20

  Steven

  May 2010

  “Mona, baby!” Steven called out from the bathroom. “Your water is almost ready.”

  Turning off the cold water, he noticed the house was quiet. She was probably sitting in the living room in his recliner. That was her preferred place to unwind. It was his favorite place to watch Maury, Family Feud, or sports when she wasn’t sitting there. Damn, he loved some Mona Lisa. There was no way he’d let her abandon him.

  Steven was glad Mona’s mother ostracized her. Made it easy for him to isolate his wife, keep their private life private.

  He didn’t have any sob stories about not being loved as a kid. His childhood was awesome. His father hadn’t walked out on his mother. His parents were happily married for thirty years, living in the same Selma house he grew up in. He was never bullied as a kid, straight-A student. Voted most likely to succeed in high school. Being successful and making lots of money weren’t the same. Steven had learned that on the streets watching drug dealers. They made him smart about making money the legal way.

  Bounty hunting made him debt free. The right assassination contract could afford him an early retirement in three years at the age of thirty, but was the money worth risking losing Mona?

  Was he remorseful for the murders he’d committed? It wasn’t personal. It was business. If he hadn’t pulled the trigger, someone else would’ve. Would he kill again? For two reasons. If his or Mona’s life or livelihood was threatened, and if the price was right.

  “Mona, baby,” he called out. Again, there was no answer.

  Her wanting out of his life was a reasonable request. Had it been any other woman, he would’ve packed her things for her, took or sent her any place she wanted to go. Steven smiled, picturing Mona in their second-grade class blowing big pink bubbles with her gum. When the bubble burst and covered her mouth, oh, how he wanted to be that piece of gum. Her head had a dozen long, pretty plaits with twice as many bows and barrettes. From that day and eight consecutive years after, at the beginning of class he gave her a piece of Hubba Bubba. The day he stopped was when he saw her bite his gum in the middle, then mouth-feed William Lincoln the other half.

  “Mona!” he yelled, entering their bedroom. Her black bag was still on the bed where he’d tossed it, but most of its contents were gone.

  He searched the kitchen and living room, but no Mona. After opening the front door, he stepped onto the porch, stared at the driveway. Her car was gone. “What the fuck? She can’t be serious,” he muttered between his teeth. “I should’ve followed my first mind and blocked her car in.”

  “Hey, Steven,” Ms. Velma, or Mama V as others called her, yelled from her neighboring porch.

  “Hey, Ms. Velma. You seen Mona?” He called her Ms. Velma out of respect, but the only person he addressed as Mama was his mother.

  “She left. Drove away from here as though her life depended on her getting to or from something. Either that or she broke a nail.” Ms. Velma laughed. “You know how these young girls are. Always in a hurry,” she said, then pointed. “See the tire marks in the street? That there’s hers. If y’all don’t feel like cooking tonight, I got some ribs smokin’ on my grill. Come get a slab.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Velma. I might take you up on that offer,” he said, going inside.

  He opened the liquor cabinet, gripped a bottle of 101 proof Wild Turkey whiskey by the neck, yanked off the top, pressed the opening to his lips, then turned his liquid lunch upside down. With each gulp his throat burned like fire. He didn’t stop gulping until the bottle was near empty and his head was on full.

  He made his way to his recliner, flopped down on the cold black leather, sat the bottle beside the lever, then propped his feet up. A slab of ribs wasn’t what Steven needed. He needed his rib. Mona Lisa.

  CHAPTER 21

  Mona

  May 2010

  A woman should know what her man is thinking well before he thinks it. Most men are predictable, and Steven Cunningham was no exception. Most of the time Mona was right about her husband. The one thing she hadn’t foreseen or detected was his motivation to kill.

  When did he get caught up? Why didn’t the cowards who’d paid Steven do their own damn dirty work? Her Steven wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t grow up gang banging either. Intentionally taking a person’s life was out of character for the sensitive guy that gave her bubble gum in school for eight years straight. He definitely wasn’t raised in a thugish way. His parents took him to church almost every Sunday. If Steven could sing, he would’ve been a choirboy.

  Steven knew now that she was gone, his first recourse would be to sit in his recliner, then gobble a bottle of Wild Turkey, not necessarily in that order. The more he drank, the clearer his thoughts would become, or so he’d imagine. There were three times that he consumed to the point of almost passing out, and each time he’d taken a life. Tonight wasn’t that kind of night for him.

  He’d probably wait until he was functionally sober, drive around town looking for her car, then show up at her job tomorrow. If he didn’t find her, he’d think she was running out of fear, long gone, headed up or down Interstate 5. Mona didn’t have to run. She wasn’t afraid of him killing or hurting her. If he did, it would be a first. She was surprised he hadn’t called yet but was certain he would before midnight.

  The drive from Steven’s house to her first destination was less than twenty minutes with traffic. En route she stopped at the Bank of America on Chester Avenue, went inside, opened her purse, presented her California driver’s license, and withdrew five thousand dollars from her account. That was the first time, since saying, “I do,” to Steven that she’d touched any of her two point five million dollar savings.

  Her cell phone chimed, rang, chimed, rang. Dang. Sarah wasn’t dead, she was in custody. Mona silenced her phone. She’d check it later.

  She carelessly married Steven at the Selma courthouse when they were both twenty-two. What in the hell was she thinking? Her mother was right. Mona hadn’t given much thought to being Steven’s wife.

  Most of her friends had gotten hitched right after high school and had babies. When she hadn’t received a phone call or letter from Lincoln, Mona had momentarily lost hope of their getting back together. No one had heard from Lincoln, not even his grandparents, so he had to have reenlisted, gotten out, or was dead.

  Liking the way Steven had his own house, and enough money to take her on vacations and take care of her, Mona didn’t think marrying Steven seemed like a bad decision. She would’ve gotten an annulment if Lincoln had come home or had she not witnessed Calvin’s murder. Lincoln should be out by now. Maybe he was already discharged. She’d give Lincoln time to come around. Holding on to false hope was her way of escaping reality. Mona could wait a few years to get pregnant by Lincoln, again. Having kids with Steven was not happening, ever.

  “I’d also like to apply for a credit card as well as a Visa debit card,” Mona said.

  “Sure thing, Ms. Ellington,” the teller said.

  Mona didn’t have to request that the teller remove Steven’s last name because she’d never put his name on either—the Selma or Bakersfield—bank account or any of her stocks, bonds, and certificates of deposit.

  Her father had told her, “Mona, there’s nothing worse than wanting to leave and not having enough money to go.” Now she understood what her dad had meant. He’d be proud that she’d taken his advice. Though her mom’s advice differed, her mom should be happy too. Mona had enough money to stay gone.

  “Oh, I’m in between residences so hold my cards here. Call me at the number on file when they’re ready to be picked up,” Mona insisted, then wrote her cell phone number on a deposit slip. “Is this the number you have?”

  “Yes, it is, Ms. Ellington,” the teller said, placing her cash in the money counter. She checked, double-check
ed, then ran her five thousand dollars through the machine a final time before putting the cash in front of Mona along with an envelope.

  Stuffing the money into the envelope, then inside her purse, Mona left.

  There were no worries about her bank statements going to Steven’s house. Soon as they settled in Bakersfield, she got a post office box near her job at the lab and a safety deposit box at the bank. But she’d thought it more efficient to pick up her cards than to have them mailed.

  Steven had paid for her every need and want, while her desire to be with Lincoln remained unfulfilled. What made people hold on to first loves forever? Since she believed that her desires dictated her happiness, it was time for Mona to accept responsibility for her daily sorrow and move on.

  The ache in her chest, the worry lines that had developed on her twenty-seven-year-old forehead, and the heaviness of a once outrageously joyful spirit were coaxing her into a life of depression. Sex with Steven was great. He knew how to satisfy her in bed, but even while enjoying climaxing, she was no longer excited about him.

  After driving a few blocks to the hotel, she parked her car in the rear of the open lot, entered the back door, then approached the receptionist. “I’d like a room for a week.”

  “What name is your reservation under?” the girl asked. She appeared younger than Mona.

  “I don’t have a reservation. I said I’d like a room, for a week.”

  “No problem. Let me check.” She tapped on her keyboard, then said, “Great, we have availability. Would you like a king or two double beds?”

  “A king,” Mona said, scanning the lobby, front entrance, and the bar area. She turned around each time the elevator doors behind her opened or closed.