THAT MAN 8

by Nelle L’Amour

  When Marcy learned about this disheartening situation, she did something we never dreamed of. Something so selfless, so loving I owed her forever. She offered to try to get impregnated with Jen’s fertilized eggs and carry our baby. Though she was almost forty, she was in excellent physical health and her hormone levels were comparable to those of a twenty-year old—which made me think that my newly divorced sister must be horny as hell. Just to assure us (and likely herself too), she had another trusted gynecologist substantiate her fitness and ability to carry a child to term. Not only could she carry a child, but with her brick house uterus, she was still capable of carrying twins.

  Throughout September, we’d gone through fertility treatments to maximize the quality and quantity of Jen’s eggs. She produced three, all A+ and in a petri dish, after jerking off, I fertilized all of them. Mr. Burns’s sperm were not only swimmers; they were Olympic champions. Two of the embryos were transplanted into Marcy’s uterus, the other frozen for the future. Needless to say, my tiger and I were nervous Nellies, the timely trip to Scotland somewhat easing our anxiety. Exactly one month to the day after we got Scout, Marcy called us to tell us some news. She was pregnant! And on that afternoon, we all went on an outing to celebrate and to look at houses. In nine months, Scout would have his own yard, and we’d have a baby! To not jinx things, we mutually agreed that we wouldn’t tell all our friends and family members the exciting news until Christmas Day. Our special gift to each and every one.

  Life was good! Work was good! Sex was good! And it was all only going to get better. Both Jen and I couldn’t wait for the new addition to our family. Any fears we had about Scout being jealous of the baby, be it a boy or girl (we wanted to be surprised) or being a danger were assuaged by our visits to Jaime and Gloria and their twins, Payton and Pauline, at their Malibu beach house.

  More than anything, Scout loved the beach. It was a joy to watch him romp in the waves and race across the sand, chasing squawking seagulls. But what gave both Jen and me the most happiness was watching him interact with the rambunctious twins, who were in the midst of their terrible twos. No matter what they did to him—be it pull his tail, try to ride him, or throw a handful of sand at him—he remained calm. It was obvious he understood they did not mean harm. And when he played catch with them with his chewed up tennis ball and lay down protectively by their side during naps, it was even more obvious he adored them. Scout was not just good with kids; he was great with them. He’d passed that test with flying colors.

  And then the next big test came. I was going away on a weeklong business trip to Las Vegas for the National Association of Broadcaster’s Digital Conference, where I’d see many of our affiliate managers from around the country, including my favorite, Vera Nichols, who headed up our very profitable Vegas station.

  “Come with me, tiger,” I insisted, “even for a couple days. Vera and her husband would love to see you and have us to their house for dinner.”

  Fresh from our morning shower together (and our morning quickie), Jen in her fluffy robe, stood before the bathroom mirror blow drying her wet, shoulder-length chestnut hair. Scout, as usual, was seated on the floor beside her, barking wildly at the dryer as if it were some kind of foe. Much like my parents’ gardeners’ leaf blowers, it drove him crazy.

  “Baby, I wish I could,” she shouted, making herself heard above the loud hum of the hairdryer and Scout’s woofs. “But I can’t. We’re behind. We have to wrap up post-production on Lauren Blakely’s Well Hung, and I have some important authors flying in from the UK to pitch their books.” A pause. “Plus, I have my final public speaking class on Sunday.”

  My tiger hadn’t talked much about the latter for whatever reason. I supposed the sessions were going well though I hadn’t asked. Standing next to her, a towel wrapped around my waist, I applied some product into my already blown hair while I looked at myself in the mirror. Man, I was handsome. I had to admit it. Even when a frown tugged at my lips.

  “C’mon, baby. You can move a few things around.”

  I heard her sigh as she switched off the blow dryer, and Scout calmed down. “Honestly, Blake, I can’t.” Grabbing an elastic band, she swept her hair up into a high ponytail. “It involves too many people and with the holidays coming, everyone wants to wrap things up so they can take time off.”

  My lips twitched with resignation. And disappointment. I had been looking forward to going to Vegas with my tiger, and at first when I mentioned the trip, she thought she could come with me—if all went to schedule. Sin City was a special place for us . . . the city where I first realized I was madly in love with her. I’d followed her there on a business trip, but business had turned into pleasure. And something much more the night I held her in my arms and we slow-danced to a lounge singer’s rendition of “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” Our forever song. The fond memory spun in my head, but in lieu of a smile, a frustrated breath blew out of my mouth. Admittedly, I understood Jen’s decision. As the head of My Sex-TV, my tiger had both responsibilities and deadlines, and she didn’t take them lightly. And of course, things didn’t stay on schedule. They never did. The female lead of the steamy telenovela had come down with the flu so production had to be halted for a week. Then, the male lead, whom she’d kissed over and over in retakes, got it too. Yet another week of delays.

  From the day I met Jen, what could go wrong would go wrong. So, was our pattern. Somehow, we always triumphed over adversity and came out stronger.

  A small consolation. I heaved another breath of resignation. I had no choice. I was going to Vegas by myself.

  I really hated leaving my wife alone, especially now that she was going to be the mother of my child. Our child. Usually, when I went away on a business trip, she stayed with Libby or her BFF came over. But this time Libby was away on a business trip and then was going to visit her boyfriend Everett in France. We still hadn’t hooked her up with Chasehole, because she was, as she put it, “unavailable.”

  “Jen, why don’t you stay with Chaz and Jeffrey? They’ll let you bring Scout. Or how about my parents?”

  No matter how hard I tried to convince her, my tiger out-and-out refused. Even my two last-ditch efforts failed. “Baby, aren’t you going to be so lonely here without me?” Followed by: “Aren’t you going to be scared staying here all by yourself?” “Blake,” she retorted as she applied a light coat of mascara to her already long, thick eyelashes, “we live in a high-security building where there’s never been a problem, and plus now we have Scout. I’ll be here for him, and he’ll be here for me.”

  I let it go. For the first time since we’d gotten Scout, Jen would be staying in the condo alone without me. It was a chance to test Scout’s mettle—to revisit the reason we got him in the first place. To be Jen’s protector.

  I wasn’t sure. Doubt crept into my bones as my departure date crept closer.

  Three days later, my bags were packed. After a glorious night of passionate lovemaking, I kissed my still-in-bed wife good-bye.

  “I love you, baby. Stay safe. I’ll be back at the end of the week, but I’ll call you every chance I have.” Not telling her that I planned to have Skype sex with her nightly, I kissed her again, and she let out a groggy, contented moan. “I love you too. Have a safe trip and give Vera and Steve—and their son Josh—a big hug from me.”

  As she closed her eyes to grab another short half-hour of sleep, I tiptoed out of the room with my luggage, Scout trotting behind me.

  I fed our ravenous dog before I made my way to the airport for my seven a.m. flight.

  “Take good care of her, boy!” Bending down, I scratched him behind his ears, a favorite spot.

  He looked up to me with those big brown puppy eyes, and stared at me earnestly. Wagging his tail as if he were saying, “I promise. Scout’s honor.”

  I gave him the three-finger salute and then was out the door.

  Chapter 20

  Jennifer

  The doorbell rang. Jetting to the door be
fore I could get there in my heels, Scout barked madly. The bell was a trigger for his sometimes manic behavior. He barked anytime someone rang the bell or knocked, except for Blake’s grandma whose scrumptious homemade food he could smell from the second she stepped out of the elevator. When Grandma came by, he squealed and his tail wagged into a blur. For all others, he was almost rabid, showing his fangs with non-stop snarls, growls, and woofs.

  The bell rang again. I knew who it was. Krystal Clare. My public speaking coach, who was here for our last and final Sunday session. With Blake still away in Vegas on a business trip, it was the first time Scout was home with me at this time instead of being in obedience school or on a long walk with him.

  “Scout,” I admonished, stumbling to the door in my high heels and stiff business attire, which Krystal still insisted I wear. “Calm down. Stop barking. It’s someone I work with.”

  Nothing I could do or say could calm him down. Holding him back by his leather collar (he never wore his choke chain in the house), I managed to crank open the door halfway. Scout almost managed to get out, startling my instructor. His growl and her shriek collided in my ears. She flinched, jumping back a foot.

  “Oh my God! Put that beast away! I hate dogs!”

  I held Scout back with all my might as he continued to growl. Ready to attack. I’d never seen such a vehement reaction to anyone at the door.

  “Bad!” I yelled at my beloved dog, my sharp tone stabbing me with guilt.

  Scout ignored my one word though he knew it well. Blake had used it numerous times when he stole my underwear and even I had when he’d rummaged through the garbage and left a total mess on the kitchen floor. And on the occasional time he peed or pooped in the house.

  “Krystal, I’m so sorry. He doesn’t know you.”

  “I don’t give a damn! Get him away from me! Now!” Her harsh voice was nothing like I’d ever heard before. Though it reeked of fear, it felt more like a threat.

  With all the muscle power I could muster, I dragged Scout into our bedroom, closing the door behind me after promising him a treat for good behavior. When I returned, Krystal had let herself into the condo and was setting up her equipment. We’d covered a lot of ground. Reciting a speech from memory. Communicating with a mic in my hand. Responding to interview questions, be it prepared ones or impromptu. Presenting a PowerPoint. And reading off a teleprompter. Today, I was going to practice one last and final time with a teleprompter, delivering a speech I’d prepared.

  With Scout still yelping in the bedroom, I took my place behind the lectern while Krystal settled into her usual chair to observe me. The video camera, perched on a tripod next to her, was aimed at me, and in front of me was a portable teleprompter.

  “Begin,” ordered Krystal with a clap of her hands. Over the course of my sessions with her, she’d grown more demanding. And short-tempered. And instead of growing more confident with my public speaking skills, I’d grown more insecure. She’d criticized and berated me. Rarely complimenting me to make me feel good. As much as I wanted to, I didn’t tell Blake. He’d courageously made it through Scout’s obedience school with drill sergeant Martha, and the two of them had graduated with flying colors. If they could do it, I could do it. Make it through Krystal Clare’s public speaking course and prove to both Blake and his father that I had what it took to bring My Sin-TV to the next level.

  My gaze stayed on Krystal as she crossed one ankle over the other and folded her hands on her lap. Today, she was wearing a white pantsuit with a Christmas-red blouse and red-soled pumps. Her monogrammed briefcase was on the floor beside her within an arm’s reach. Her eyes bored into mine. Anxiously, I fiddled with Blake’s beautiful unicorn pin, which I’d pinned on the lapel of my jacket for good luck.

  “What are you waiting for?” she snapped. “The teleprompter is loaded.”

  I refrained from clearing my throat and gazed at the two screens in front of me. Half of the speech I’d prepared would appear on the right one, half on the left one, the lines alternating. Though one would think reading from a teleprompter would be a breeze and make speech-giving way easier, it was actually challenging. You had to seamlessly shift your vision from one screen to the other while maintaining eye contact with your audience, tricking those who were watching into thinking you knew your speech by heart. The final speech that Krystal had asked me to write had been a challenging one. One that tested my courage and emotions. It was an imaginary farewell address to Conquest Broadcasting. A good-bye to my job as the head of My Sin-TV. Ready to start, I focused on the right teleprompter.

  “I have a confession. A big one. When I came to Conquest Broadcasting, I had no idea what this job would entail. I did not know that it would dramatically change my life. And completely change that of others.”

  So far, so good. I spoke slowly and clearly with conviction, pausing for dramatic effect and punching certain words to sound dynamic. And throwing in a smile for good measure. Feeling secure, I subtly shifted my eyes to the left screen as the next lines of my speech popped up.

  “I did something unforgiveable.”

  Wait! Something’s wrong. I wrote unimaginable. It must be an error. Some kind of autocorrect thing. I paused as confusion washed over me.

  “Continue!” ordered Krystal. “I don’t have all day.”

  With an uncomfortable feeling looming in the pit of my stomach, I resumed. Except my mouth went dry as I read the next line, unable to get the words out.

  I cost an innocent man, not only his job, but also his life.

  “Speak up, Jennifer,” hissed Krystal. “I can’t hear you.”

  Facing her, I blinked hard. My heartbeat sped up. “This is not what I wrote.”

  Krystal snorted. “Of course you didn’t. I did!”

  My eyes stayed fixated on her. I could feel the blood draining from my face, my pulse pounding in my ears as I silently read the next lines.

  No, he didn’t deserve to be fired from his job. Lose the career he’d worked his ass off for. Or to be brutally murdered.

  My head spinning, I couldn’t go on. I looked at the woman sitting before me straight in the eye. “Who are you?”

  Scout’s relentless woofs clogged my ears as my heart thudded awaiting her response.

  A slow, wicked smile slithered across her face. “Duh! Krystal Clare.” Then a beat. “Maybe I should clarify?” She put air quotes around the last word, emphasizing the first syllable. My stomach lurched in anticipation.

  “Krystal Clare,” she repeated and then the shocker. “Springer.”

  The surname sliced through the fog of my brain like a bolt of lightning and a paralyzing electric current ran down my spine. My legs turning to jelly, my bones to liquid, I gripped the edges of the lectern for support. “You’re Don Springer’s wife?” I stammered.

  She rolled her eyes and smirked. That familiar smirk that had tugged at my brain, week after week. No, she wasn’t his wife.

  The telling smirk morphed into a more telling snarl. “I’m his sister, you stupid bitch. And you killed my brother!”

  My lips quivered and every muscle in my body shook as the words sunk in. It took me several moments to reply. “I didn’t kill your brother!”

  “Bullshit!”

  The nightmarish events of that life-changing night whirled around in my mind like a maelstrom. Unbeknownst to me, the deranged game show producer had broken out of the Vegas prison where he was being held for assault and made his way to the house I shared with my best friend Libby, who wasn’t home. His tight, suffocating grip around my neck . . . my escape from him on my crutches . . . his ruthless pursuit . . . my struggle on the floor as he tried to rape me . . . then kill me with his knife and he would have if Blake hadn’t shown up in the nick of time. The image of Blake stabbing Springer with my crutch over and over until all life ebbed out of him played on a loop in my head.

  “My husband did! He saved me from being killed by the bastard!”

  “How dare you call my brother a bastar
d?”

  “He was! A sick bastard! A rapist!” Actually no one other than Blake knew that. Springer had almost raped me when I was in college and then again while I was overseeing his perverted game show, Wheel of Pain, which Blake, my hero, circumvented before firing him. To protect me, we’d kept his sexual assaults out of the news and spun the final chapter of the story into a botched up robbery attempt, the motive revenge, with Blake killing him in self-defense. His body was autopsied and then cremated. Blake and I moved on, never knowing he had a next of kin.

  Krystal’s eyes flooded with fury, her face turning as screaming red as her blouse. “I don’t believe you!”

  “It’s the truth, Krystal. Your brother engaged in sexual violence. He got off on hurting women. Emotionally and physically. I wasn’t the only victim. Just the lucky one who got away.” Twice.

  She glowered at me, a crease forming between her tightly knitted brows, a dark cloud of bitterness falling over her face. “It wasn’t his fault! Our mother was a crack whore. She sexually abused him. Made him do things to her against his will. Disgusting, terrible things and sometimes she physically harmed him. Smashing empty liquor bottles over his head . . . putting out lit cigarettes against his skin . . . clawing his face with her ragged nails until he bled. Threatening she’d harm me if he didn’t oblige. He hated her and grew to hate all women. Except for me. His little sister who took care of him. Whom he loved and protected. Adored and supported.”