Widow on the Loose

by Stevie MacFarlane

“Answer me,” she screamed, stomping her bare foot.

  “Put. It. Out,” he repeated, walking slowly toward her.

  “Fine,” she snapped, stubbing her butt out in the bowl. “Now answer me.”

  “The money from the sale of your apartment, which was shamefully under value I might add, has been removed from your bank account to be invested with the rest of your assets,” he calmly informed her, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “You can’t do that,” she shouted at him, quivering with rage.

  “I can and I did. George’s will clearly states that if you should sell any property, the money has to be reinvested within ninety days or it would be turned over to your trust fund. Had you bought another apartment instead of flying off to France with that gigolo…”

  “I can go anywhere I want, with anyone I please,” she insisted, stepping up until they were nose to chest.

  “Yes, you can. You just can’t do it on George’s dime,” he mocked.

  “What about my American Express card?” she snapped, shaking with fury.

  “I added a limit, and you reached it. In fact, you exceeded it and they called me about the purchase of the ticket for your flight home. I approved it, but that’s it. One time. No more.”

  “So, I’m broke,” she hissed up at him, her eyes flashing.

  “On the contrary, you have plenty of assets,” he informed her smoothly, “just none that you can piss away.”

  “Why? Why have you done this?” she demanded, rising to her tiptoes and poking him in the chest.

  Travis actually laughed, surprising even himself.

  “I would think that would be perfectly obvious,” he informed her, brushing her hand away.

  “Well, maybe I’m stupid,” she replied, before tossing back the rest of her drink. “Explain it to me, Mr. I Fucking Know Everything, and you know nothing.” Walking to the credenza, she picked up a crystal decanter and pulled out the stopper.

  Travis watched her with narrowed eyes. To put it bluntly, she looked like hell. Last night, woken from a sound sleep, he hadn’t taken much note of her appearance, but tonight it became painfully obvious to him that George would be highly disappointed in him. He hadn’t taken good care of his best friend’s wife, despite the attention he devoted to making sure her finances were in order. No, George would have expected more of him, much more.

  Claire’s face was puffy, her heavy makeup doing little to disguise the dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was different too, longer and somehow dull, not the sleek, shining cap he was used to seeing. She moved with an awkward, jerky stiffness, her body so tightly wound he wouldn’t be surprised if she started breaking things. He was close enough to see her knuckles turn white as she poured more alcohol into her glass with a shaking hand and he wondered how fragile she really was or if he was seeing pure, unadulterated rage.

  It made sense that she was frustrated. He’d tied her hands, figuratively, and Claire didn’t like to be restrained. George had given her far more power than Travis would have. She liked having her way in all things whether it was good for her or not and George allowed it.

  “She’s not a child,” George would often reply when Travis advised him to rein Claire in.

  “She’s behaving like one.”

  “I know,” George would smile and shake his head ruefully. “But she’s so damn cute, I can’t say no.”

  So this is where they were, Travis thought running a hand through his hair. He was responsible for a very beautiful, very wealthy and very spoiled woman who was nearing forty, but behaved like a twenty-something, privileged brat without a lick of shame.

  Technically he could wash his hands of her, at least on a personal level. He could invest her money wisely, pay her bills and deposit her monthly allowance all without having much contact with her at all. He could sit back and watch her self-destruct. He’d basically coddled her for two years, at least as much as it was in his nature to do so, given in to her demands and let her waste a small fortune. Claire appreciated none of his concessions. She wanted more, always more and he was damn sick of it. Sick of her, sick of the way he allowed her to manipulate him and all because he’d loved her… once.

  Shame swamped him, an emotion he was not used to and found very uncomfortable. He’d let George down, compromised his own code of ethics and beliefs and done Claire no favors in the bargain. It was time to man up.

  “Put the drink down and we’ll discuss it,” he stated firmly.

  Claire turned to him with a bitter, yet challenging smile and tipped her glass to her lips.

  He moved fast, but she had just enough time to throw the glass against the fireplace, smashing it before he grabbed her wrist and yanked her to the couch. Controlling his temper was difficult, but at the last moment he managed not to sit and pull her over his knees. He spun her into a corner of the sectional.

  “How dare you put your hands on me?” she screeched in outrage as she tried to scamper away.

  “Claire,” he warned, towering over her. “I sincerely advise you to remain seated. It protects a very vulnerable part of your anatomy that I’ve wanted to have at for years,” he barked.

  Watching her closely, he observed her face nearly devoid of color suddenly bloom with defiance as she kicked his kneecap with her small foot. It hurt like hell and he staggered for a moment before snagging her dress as she dove headfirst over the arm of the sofa. Reeling her back in, he sat and quite niftily pulled her squirming body over his lap.

  “If you lay one hand on me, I’ll have you arrested,” she screamed as he pinned her kicking legs under one of his.

  Travis reached into his pocket and handed her his phone before flipping up her dress. The black lace thong she wore caught him off-guard and he swallowed hard. They matched the lace at the top of her thigh-high stockings and he remembered seeing a charge on her statement from an outrageously expensive lingerie shop in Paris. He quickly determined they were worth it.

  “I mean it, Travis,” she hissed, glaring at him over her shoulder. “I’ll call 9-1-1.”

  Ignoring her, he decided to leave her panties on. They didn’t protect much of anything and the view was spectacular. Raising his large hand, he brought it down and crisply slapped both cheeks at once.

  “Ow,” she squealed in outrage.

  “God, that felt good,” he replied in awe before doing it again. He watched her hands fumble with his cell, punching in numbers and swatted her a third time.

  “Oh no,” she moaned frantically pushing buttons and managing to put it on speaker phone.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a female voice spoke.

  “I need help,” Claire screamed. “Send a police officer, or a SWAT team.”

  Travis laughed. SWAT team indeed. He smiled as he spanked her left cheek three times before switching to the right.

  “Oh please,” Claire cried out. “Travis, stop it.”

  “Ma’am, I need to know what’s going on there,” the women insisted. “What is your location?”

  Quickly Claire spat out Travis’s address.

  “Hurry, please,” she moaned.

  “Do you know your attacker?” the voice demanded.

  “Yes, yes, his name is Travis Forrester,” Claire shouted. Using one hand to reach behind her, she batted at Travis. He captured it easily. “You son of a bitch,” she groaned.

  “Try to stay focused, ma’am, you say you know him?”

  “He’s my financial advisor,” she screeched when Travis again caught both cheeks in a searing swat. “I mean he’s in charge of my finances, Oh! Stop it, you bastard!”

  “Does he have a weapon, ma’am?”

  “Only his hand,” Claire moaned pitifully. “Please hurry, he’s killing me.”

  “Help is on the way, please stay on the line. I’ll send an ambulance, ma’am.”

  “No, I don’t need an ambulance. I need… I need… ice,” she howled at the top of her lungs.

  “Ma’am, what exactly is going on there?”
the voice demanded.

  “He’s spanking me for Christ’s sake, can’t you hear,” she bellowed.

  “Spanking you? As in…”

  “Yes, spanking her,” Travis replied quite clearly. “As in over my knee, my hand on her ass and I’m quite enjoying it.”

  “Sir, please release the woman and wait for the officers to arrive,” the voice suggested calmly. “I’m sure you’ll be able to straighten out your differences in a more acceptable way.”

  “I’m sorry, miss, but this spanking has been brewing for twenty years and while I understand your position, I must tell you I have no intention of stopping until this woman has learned a lesson about how far to push me.”

  For a few moments the line went silent. The only noise in the room the sound of his hand falling on Claire’s rapidly reddening cheeks and her squeals of oh, oh, oh.

  “Are you snickering?” Claire demanded as a sob escaped.

  “No, ma’am, I’m not,” the voice replied.

  “Where the hell is my help?”

  “It’s on the way, ma’am, but in a city the size of New York, calls are prioritized. It appears that while you may be um… uncomfortable, your life is not in imminent danger and you have no need of medical services. An officer will be there shortly.”

  “Is this my tax dollars at work?” Claire screamed.

  That was followed by several crisp smacks that reduced her to a sobbing, snotty mess. Travis kept his hand on her hot bottom in warning.

  “Is the spanking over, Mr. Forrester?” the voice asked.

  “For now.”

  “You realize, of course, that you may be arrested?”

  “Certainly,” he replied, patting Claire’s bottom firmly and savoring her moans. “However, it will not deter me in the future should the need arise again.”

  “Is the young lady all right?”

  “The young lady is fine except for a well-deserved and well-roasted bottom.”

  “The officers are in your building, sir. I’ll end this call.”

  “Thank you,” Travis replied.

  Flipping Claire in his arms he stood and walked to the foyer.

  “Go and clean yourself up,” he ordered, setting her on her feet and giving her a swat on her ass to get her moving. “I’ll make sure you get to file your complaint.” For once she obeyed and scurried down the hall, slamming the door to her room behind her.

  When several minutes went by with no knock on his door, Travis shrugged and went into the kitchen. Taking onions, peppers, cheese and eggs from the refrigerator he began to prepare an omelet, whistling while he worked. His hand stung a bit, but he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so… satisfied. Yes, that was the word, satisfied.

  Chopping vegetables, he looked up and smiled when Claire plodded barefoot into the kitchen wearing baggy sweatpants and a tank top. Her face had been scrubbed clean and her hair was up in a makeshift sort of ponytail. Obviously she’d changed in a hurry.

  “I hate you,” she informed him, her nose in the air as she moved to the refrigerator and took out some orange juice.

  “So be it,” he replied, taking a skillet and adding a touch of olive oil.

  “Don’t you care?” she accused, her lower lip trembling slightly.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Humph. What did you do with my cops? What lies did you tell them?” she sniffed, turning her back on him and looking out the huge window at the lights of the city.

  “They never came,” he informed her.

  “Figures, a woman gets beaten near to death and…”

  Travis snorted while he beat the eggs into a frothy mixture and added a touch of water before pouring them into a pan.

  At the sound of the doorbell, Claire took off at a run to answer it and Travis got out some plates, placing them on the counter.

  “That’s him,” Claire insisted, pointing at him as the officer followed her into the kitchen.

  “That’s the man who beat me.”

  “Chase, how are you, man?” Travis said as he wiped his hands on the apron tied around his waist. “How’s the family?” he continued, rounding the island and shaking the officer’s hand.

  “Fine, Travis. I’ll tell Corey you asked about her. What’s going on here? I got a report of, let’s see, a man spanking a woman,” Chase drawled with a slight smile. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with you, would it?”

  “Guilty as charged,” Travis admitted. “Just give me a minute to finish this and I’ll go downtown with you.”

  “Is this the woman?” Chase asked, eyeing Claire.

  Travis nodded.

  “Claire Wellington, meet Chase MacDougal.”

  “Not George’s wife?” Chase asked, holding out his hand to Claire.

  She refused to take it.

  “What is this, old home day?” she demanded with her hands on her hips. “Arrest him, what are you waiting for?”

  “Now just a minute, ma’am,” Chase said sternly. “I need to get all the facts of the case before I make an arrest.”

  “I gave you the facts. He beat me and I want him arrested!” she insisted.

  “Do you have any evidence?” Chase asked.

  Travis smiled as he added cheese to the omelet. He could see the storm brewing in Claire’s eyes.

  “He admitted it, what more evidence do you need?”

  “Mrs. Wellington, there are different levels of assault. I’ll need to see more to determine what sort of charges to file.”

  “You want to see my ass?” she gasped in shock, her mouth dropping open.

  “Well, yes. That would help,” Chase admitted, taking out a small camera. “Photographing the injury is a useful tool,” he said dryly.

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” she snapped, taking a step back in revulsion.

  “Not at all, now if you’d like to bend over that stool, we can get started, or we can go into another room.”

  “I’ll tell you where you can go, mister,” she snarled, putting both hands on his chest and trying to push him from the room.

  “Travis, is she always so volatile?” Chase asked, taking both of Claire’s wrists and holding them with one hand.

  “She has her moments,” Travis conceded, sliding the omelet from the pan and onto a plate. “I’m just sort of minding her as a favor to George. Care to join us for dinner?”

  “No thanks. Corey’s probably waiting for me. Mrs. Wellington, unless you’re willing to provide substantiating evidence, I don’t see how the charges will stick.”

  “He admitted it,” she hissed from between clenched teeth.

  “Perhaps it was self-defense?” Chase asked hopefully, glancing at Travis and still holding the struggling Claire’s hands.

  “She did kick me,” Travis acknowledged. “Right in the knee and it was quite painful. Old football injury you know,” he said, bending to rub his knee.

  “It was the other knee,” she pointed out, backing away when Chase released her.

  “Oh, so you admit you assaulted him first?”

  “I admit nothing,” Claire snapped. “I plead the fifth.”

  “Look, Mrs. Wellington. You’re perfectly within your rights to file a complaint against Mr. Forrester. You say he spanked you and he admitted to it. Legally it’s a form of assault. I won’t embarrass you by taking any pictures of your bottom, and if you’d like you can go down to the station where a female officer will do that. However, I suggest you do it quickly. The report said he only used his hand and not an implement of any kind, so most likely any signs will fade quickly.

  “I doubt the complaint will go anywhere as you two seem to have some sort of relationship and he’s not keeping you prisoner. Also, the fact that you kicked him first will mitigate most of your complaint. I suggest you think it over and decide whether you want the courts of New York to have access to what went on here tonight, or other aspects of your personal life.”

  “I understand,” Claire sighed in defeat.

  “Travis
, good seeing you and I suggest the next time anything like this happens you don’t give her your cellphone. Things can get messy.”

  “Thanks, Chase.”

  “I’ll let myself out. Night.”

  Chapter Five

  Travis placed a third of the omelet on Claire’s plate while she watched him warily.

  “Sit down and eat,” he instructed, handing her some utensils.

  “I’d rather stand,” she replied sarcastically, pulling the plate closer.

  “Suit yourself.”

  They ate in silence. When they were finished and Travis began to clean up, Claire moved behind the island and gave him a hip shot, pushing him out of the way.

  “I’ll do my part,” she informed him. “I have nowhere else to go.”

  Travis nodded and moved to the doorway where he leaned against the casing and watched her curiously.

  “What?” she demanded

  “Nothing. I was just wondering if I should hide the butcher knives.”

  “Too bloody,” she replied, twirling the sauté pan in her hand. “I’m more of an over the head with a frying pan kind of girl.”

  “Forewarned is forearmed,” he replied over his shoulder as he left the room.

  When she’d finished cleaning up, she got her cigarettes out of her purse and went out onto the terrace. Lighting one she inhaled deeply, watching the city come to life. New York was always loud and brassy, but there was a special magic at night as the lights came on. From here she could see the east river in the distance, watch the huge yachts lit up like holiday decorations.

  She’d been to many parties on ships like that when George was alive, each more lavish than the last. The richest of the rich, all trying to outdo and out shine each other. Had they been like that, she and George? Caught up in their privileged lives, drinking too much, laughing too loud? She realized she’d been, not so much George. He worked hard to provide everything she wanted and she’d… what? Taken it all for granted, for sure, but had she given back, other than writing a big fat check, giving away money she hadn’t earned? What was her personal contribution? Coordinating charity events? Why… because she genuinely gave a shit or because her name would be on the society page along with a photo of her wearing an outrageously expensive gown?