by KT Morrison
Kate ducked down an alley, between two low medieval stone buildings and made her way through the dark, headed for the people and the busy-ness she could see at the end of the cobblestone alleyway.
She got out to the other side and something made her look back. She swore she could see someone, just a black shape moving along the alley behind her. Was someone following her? She felt slightly alarmed. Like, had she not been quicker, someone could have grabbed her in that dark space and raped her.
Walking through that dangerous alley, cigarette in hand, by herself, brought back a sudden nostalgic rush through her that stopped her in her tracks. Young Kate. Kate on the prowl. Kate at eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Dangerous Kate. Box cutter, cigarettes, and a can of beer. Out every night, having fun, hurting, being hurt, fucking, getting fucked. A lifetime ago.
This night, was this who she would have been if she hadn't met and married Mitch? It wasn't better, just more alive, more dangerous. She could have been raped back there or could have fucked up the bloke who tried. She was in a fight with her stud boyfriend, she was flirting with a handsome Spanish race car driver. This whole world was just one crazy opportunity after another. A chance to discover your passion.
She found herself in a busy marketplace stuffed with stalls, people selling religious items, candles and Saints and whatnot, trinkets, scarves and jewelry, even olive oil and prosciutto. The cigarette was done, she got it down to the filter and she threw it in the gutter.
There were eyes on her again, she could feel them. She saw him, found him, the one thing still in all this late-night bustle. Prospero looking at her, standing in the market. She felt a tingle when he smiled.
She actually blushed. She couldn't believe it. But he'd really taken her by surprise. She lowered her head and smiled, submitting, not like Kate at all. She'd liked hanging with Prospero down at the bar. He was funny, or he seemed funny, his English wasn't great, but his accent was sexy as hell. Slim and elegant, dressed so finely. Was she lying to herself, telling herself that she didn't think of other men when she was with Omar? Maybe she would always think of other men.
When she looked up Prospero was still at the stall but he’d drawn a silk scarf hanging on the stall across his face. Covering himself as if he were spying on her. It made her smile again, bigger.
Kate turned and led him down the busy market. Her hips were working and she could feel his eyes on them, she wanted him to want her. She would stop and run her hand over things in the stall and each time she would see him do the same a few stalls back. But he was getting closer.
There was music getting louder up ahead, that strange Renaissance procession having gone around the village in a circle and now she was going to intersect it again. She wasn't sure at all where she was leading Prospero but she was curious to find out.
A big hand came out of the crowd, spread across her chest and stopped her dead. Her head came up slowly. It was Omar. He wasn't looking at her. His face was grim, looking out over the top of her head at the man who’d been following her. Omar must have wondered what they had been about to do, but she honestly didn't know.
Kate glanced over her shoulder saw Prospero smile and shrug, diminutive but still arrogant, and he turned right and headed out of the market. Nothing had happened, she didn't do anything, she wasn't going to apologize or even feel guilty. She looked at Omar blankly, indignant.
Omar took her wrist and pulled her through the market. Her shoe came off and she left it behind hobbling along on one bare foot now. Fuck him. Nothing happened. She wasn't his. They weren't a couple. She was married for Christ's sake. He pulled her roughly into an alley and threw her back up against a wall.
“Ow, Omar, for fuck’s sake.”
He put both hands around her neck and he crushed her. Her eyes went wide. She grabbed his wrists but he was so strong his control over her was complete. She couldn't break free, she couldn't swallow, speak or scream. His lips went over hers and he parted them forcefully with his tongue. Just as she faded to black he loosened his grip and her head pounded as the blood found its way back to her brain again.
He held her against the dirty wall with just one hand now. She grabbed his wrist with both her hands trying to ease some of the pressure. He was regarding her slowly, looking in her eyes. He was filled with hate, disgust.
His other hand went up under her skirt and grabbed a handful of her panties. He wrenched them down hard, very hard, taking three times before they tore free. She felt them cut into her, felt her flesh jiggle from his force. His big fingers were prodding and touching between her legs, she felt her tampon being pulled out of her and he threw it aside into the dark of the alley.
She heard his zipper being pulled down and she tried to shake her head, tell him to stop. She felt his cock, half hard, hanging between them, felt it hot against her thigh. She squeezed her legs together. She was shaking her head at him, a tear streamed out of an eye and she blinked it away.
His knee forced in between her legs and they came apart. She could see happy people walking, lit up by the festival lights, just a dozen feet away. His free hand gripped her roughly on her inner thigh just above her knee and he forced her other leg up, then out to the side held against the alley wall.
Her heart was pounding, she could see his chest heaving too. His cock was slapping against her inner thigh. She slid a hand down between them and she squeezed it, saw him tremble at her touch. She helped him find her hole, guided his tip between her legs while he moved his hips with her. He put his other hand over her mouth to silence her. She wasn't going to cry out. She wanted him.
He slammed himself into her hard. She wailed into his hand, blew a bubble from her nose. He strained, forcing himself into her. It burned, it throbbed, it hurt her so badly. She bit at his palm but her teeth couldn't get his flesh. He was punishing her, hurting her on purpose with his size. He wanted to remind her who was in charge here.
She heard wet belching, bubbling from her insides as he forced that big thing inside her. She slid her hands up his arms and over his back. She scratched him as he slid out, wanting him back inside her. She let him fuck her like that, let him regain his pride. She didn't fuck him back, let him do it to her. She explored it, felt the feeling behind it. She was being dominated, being taught a lesson; Omar wouldn't share her with anyone. He wasn't Mitch. He was an animal.
He was done in a minute. He exploded inside her, launching hot stream after stream, filling her up. His face was trembling before her. She wanted him to kiss her but she saw that anger in his face slowly change to shame. She'd like to tell him it was okay, she wanted him, but maybe this was better.
He slid himself out of her and released his hold on her throat. She slumped down the wall until her rump came to rest on her heels. She heaved for air, clutched at her throat, looked away from him.
His cock glistened, dark from her insides and he struggled to get it back in his pants, staining the front of them. He turned and walked out of the alley, left her there in the dirt with his semen leaking out of her. She was stunned. She hadn't been violated, she wanted him. But she still wanted him now. To stay. But he left her. Put his seed in her and dropped her to the dirt and left her to fend for herself.
She put her face in her hands, then smoothed her hair back, shook her head.
The alley darkened again, someone coming back in. Omar, with her shoe. He came to her, stood over her with his hand held out. She looked at him, smiled then took it, and he helped her up and walked her to the car.
2
Kiley held the Agrix Illinois Regional Sales Award, felt the solid weight of it in her hand—had to be about five pounds—then she hurtled it as hard as she could into the centre of her bookcase on the other side of the room. It exploded through the glass cabinet doors along the top and came apart in a twinkling splash of glass and cheap gold plastic. The square black base shot back at her, wobbling funny on its axis, took one funny bounce, and the corner scooped out a chunk of her flesh on her shin just below h
er kneecap.
“Ah, fuck,” she yelled and she went down hard. She grabbed the hunk of black plastic—why were those corners so sharp anyway—and she threw it at her desk and it knocked over the lamp and tumbled into her apartment window. The lamp landed on her files and they tipped over, knocking her Jakobsen-Mueller manuals over, each about four inches thick, and they toppled her laptop onto the floor.
She laughed; she was glad. Good. Fuck her computer. She grabbed the top of her lamp and knocked the shade from it, pulled the plug from the wall. Gnarls Barkley blared from her stereo and she knew she only had a few minutes before someone called the cops.
She swung the lamp around her, smashing her pictures on the wall, her shelves, her awards on the shelves stacked neatly between her books; she swung it wildly, cleared the things remaining on her desk right off onto the floor in one swipe. She went on like that, swinging the heavy base of the lamp—naked except for a cotton T-shirt, her hair wet and clinging to her from the shower—smashing the things that felt familiar to her, hurting their friendly faces. She was going to throw them out anyway, why not teach them a lesson about how fragile it all is?
In the end, heaving and out of breath, she pulled the plug on her stereo and the room went quiet. Crazy, indeed. Her feet were bleeding, cut from glass and sharp, smashed bits on the floor. Her shoulder and back ached from her tantrum, already wrecked from her tumble off Jay's gate.
She looked down at the floor and took inventory of her destruction. She was satisfied. She would like to cry but she knew the tears wouldn't come. She had cried all day and frankly smashing everything she owned had seemed to cheer her up a little.
On the floor, right between her feet, she noticed something looking back up at her. The severed porcelain head of a smiling, little orange and cream kitty. She got to her knees on the floor and picked it up and held it out to look at it. It was Fabulous. Literally Fabulous. That was the name of the little kitten she had when she was eight.
Her mom had mailed her this porcelain cat two years ago with a note—Doesn't this remind you of Fabulous? And it really did. But she was so embarrassed to display it she'd hidden it in the glass cupboard of her bookshelves. She wasn’t done crying at all. The tears came again and she squeezed Fabulous’ head in her hand and held it over her heart, looking up at the ceiling wishing she was home.
“God, shit,” she cried out. Then she crawled around on her hands and knees until she found the rest of Fabulous. She'd been broken into five pieces. She gathered them up and went into her bathroom to her jewelry box. She had some Krazy Glue in there she bought when she pulled the gem off of one of her favourite earrings.
She pieced her cat back together, sniffling while she went. She never knew one could feel so homesick. She was so lonely it was overwhelming. She felt so alone. She desperately needed someone to put their arms around her, to squeeze her just a little and let her know everything was going to be all right. She wanted to see her mom, even her brothers. She wanted a tea and a Mars bar. Her mom’s shepherd’s pie. A pint at the pub. A night out with Kate. She wanted to talk to Mitch.
She left Fabulous to dry on her sink. She looked like she was going to be okay, maybe eight more lives left in her. Kiley went to her desk and picked up her laptop. She opened it and was relieved when the screen came on, showed her a grey Apple. It booted up fine.
She opened her browser, went to her travel folder, opened up her favourite travel site and booked the first flight to Heathrow. If these Jakobsen-Mueller fucks wanted to ask questions about her personal life they could just come to London. She was going home.
*
If she had to hear about the budget one more fucking time Kate was going to hurl. She could hear Omar’s deep voice behind her, an octave lower than even the other gravelly men from his team. Talking in French about money. How they were going to pinch here, save there. If she picked up any French this week it would be about being cheap.
The budget was only fifty-thousand euros. She bought luggage last year that cost about that and she just put it on her credit card. No one said a thing. No one being Mitch. Push it away Kate, push it away.
She was sitting outside at a street side café on Viale Dante Alighieri in Scarperia e San Piero. The seating actually on the street, three planters separating them from the one-way traffic. The green painted iron table she was sitting on had a nasty wobble and every time one of the guys would get up to do something a coffee would spill over the edge of a cup. She'd stopped cleaning up. They were all away from the table, huddled behind her, going on in their language. Preparing themselves for this important breakfast meeting. She was enjoying the solitude.
The clanging of a church bell went off like a bomb above her, scared the shit out of her. She spilled her coffee. “Jesus Christ,” she said and she wiped the table yet another time. It went off again, clang-clang, loud enough to shake the stone under her feet. She looked up at the old stucco tower across the narrow brick paved street, standing tall in the three-way intersection. It was ten in the morning, was this son of a bitch really going to go on like this ten times? She put her hands over her ears.
This was a big morning for Omar. This get-together over a coffee was a hundred times more important than the race on Saturday. This was entirely the reason he’d come here to Italy. They'd been invited to coffee by Valente Riva-Lucci, some oily tanned executive with pure white hair, who’d called this morning at eight. Omar was electrified; he was nervous, yet aggressive, he told Kate all about the guy, showed her online on his laptop. He was the F3 Euro-something-director, but more importantly he was the President of the Federation of racing jerkoffs. Whatever it was it was very important to Omar, and Omar made Kate come out, he said he needed her to sit with him.
*
The very rational part of Omar, the one that made the best decisions for him so far, told him he had to get away from Kate. He’d laid in bed this morning with her, his head pounding from the alcohol, and he’d been presented with an idea. How much would Mitch pay to get his wife back?
Then he turned to watch her sleep next to him. Her flawless face, troubled but passive, eyes closed, turned to him submissive and sweet. She had one arm up behind her head, sleeping on her forearm. She was bare, one large perfect breast above the sheet, her nipple tightened very slightly. His heart swelled for her. He could never give her up.
He watched her now over Herve’s shoulder. Hands over her ears, scared of the big church sounds like a little kid. He'd fallen for her. It hurt him to think of her. She was going to make him crazy.
Kate turned her head and he saw her sweet face in profile while she watched the quiet traffic on the street. He'd had to have her by his side today. He couldn't bear to leave her alone. He wanted to be seen with her too. Wanted Valente Riva-Lucci to meet her, see her, know that this is the kind of woman that falls for Omar.
This was it. This meeting was why he'd spent the last of his money to come here. It was nothing really—it was friendly, just a coffee. But this man was important. And he was the one who called Omar. Nothing would come from today. Nothing tangible. But the intangible was tremendous. This was the first step on a path that would take him where he wanted to go.
Herve stopped mid-sentence and nodded with his chin to something behind Omar. Omar looked around behind him. Across the street, in the blue early morning shade, the doors opened on a pristine Alfa Romeo Spider, maybe a 1966. He saw the pure white hair on the tanned man getting out. They all took their seats.
Omar looked across at Kate. He hoped she understood how huge this was. He thought she did. Her face gave nothing away. She was bland, maybe uncaring. His heart tightened, afraid that she might not be sharing his excitement over this. He wanted that connection with her. He wanted a teammate, a partner. She looked around herself coolly. She was toxic. She was dangerous. He was afraid that he'd fallen in love with her.
3
Prospero had been furious that Omar had neglected to invite him to the meeting with Valente R
iva-Lucci. Kate could see that he was still mad. Sitting in the cockpit of that dangerous looking black race car waving his arms around, helmet in hand, long hair shining in the sun. Omar and some of the others still around the car while Prospero complained about something with the car, unhappy about his last lap. Only it wasn't about the car, Kate could tell.
It was Thursday afternoon, two days before the race, and Omar and his crew had the track for a few hours to run some tests and make sure everything had travelled well. Kate sat in the stands, ten rows up, right across from the pit. She could see them all clearly, even make out their voices when the car wasn't around. She was the lone spectator in a stadium that held fifty thousand.
Prospero flung his helmet down on the asphalt, something plastic on it broke, something white, the size of a piece of gum, shot straight up over Omar. Mohammed moved around awkwardly on the other side of the car trying to chase down the helmet which seemed to still be bouncing around back there.
Omar shrugged, stayed cool. Prospero was gesturing now, both hands open, pointing down towards the wheels complaining about the handling or something. Omar spoke over his shoulder to one of his crew standing at a computer, they talked back and forth a bit. Omar went to the front wheels, his hands went over the metal that held the smooth fat tires to the glossy black body. He said something to Herve and he was under the car in a moment with a pouch of tools.
Prospero had missed a great meeting. It has gone well with the man from the Racing Federation. Kate had played her part well. They’d all done their part to charm him, Kate batting her eyes and touching his arm as she talked but kept herself glued to Omar. She put on a great performance, behaving how a man like Valente thought a woman should behave. Omar did his thing, all in French, Kate sat and watched him admiringly looked to see that Valente saw her. It was mean to exclude Prospero if the meeting had been as important as he said it was. It was turning out that Omar could be quite mean.
