Dying for Revenge (35 page)

“That’s the way people dance down here.”

“I could go back and kill him right now.”

“Don’t.”

“Why are you protecting him?”

“That’s the way they dance down here, means nothing.”

“Well, you’re not from down here.”

Silence.

She said, “You have me here working for a bitch you used to fuck. Not cool. Not cool at all.”

A frown covered her face. She wondered which was harder, raising a husband or raising a baby.

A moment passed before he said, “You’re deceptive.”

Her heart raced. She swallowed, then asked, “What have I done that’s deceptive?”

“What haven’t you done?”

“Over a dance? Get over it.”

“That wasn’t a dance.”

“Did you not see everyone dancing the same way?”

“I was married to only one woman in that room.”

Silence.

He said, “Gideon should be here in the next day or so.”

“So the Gideon thing is back on.”

“He took the bait.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“While you were fucking around I was setting things up.”

“From Barbados.”

“Everything is moving as planned.”

“So you’re buddy-buddy with the hat-wearing, dapper fellows from Detroit.”

Her husband coughed a little. “Most of them aren’t from Detroit.”

“Where are they from?”

“All over. She would be stupid to use people from her own city. Too traceable.”

“Where did she find her crew?”

“Probably on the Internet.”

“Wouldn’t doubt it. Craigslist is one-stop shopping.”

Matthew said, “Was joking.”

“I know. Wherever they are from, you’re their new best friend.”

“Let’s just say I have their attention.”

“You killed two of their friends.”

“Coworkers.”

“Same difference.”

“Fear works when respect won’t do.”

“Where are they now?”

“Wendy’s.”

“I see. They went up on Popeshead to hook up with some exotic and reasonably priced whores.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“They are gone to get fucked.”

“Looks like you were trying to do the same.”

She licked around the inside of her mouth. “I don’t like it when you are rough with me like that.”

“The guy you were dry-fucking in front of the whole island was a lot rougher than that.”

“That sure got your dick hard.”

“You just don’t know how lucky you are.”

“And you can’t keep cutting up my clothes.”

“Clothes I paid for.”

“You were too rough with me.”

“And you were just as rough with that motherfucker who was all up inside your ass.”

“He wasn’t in my ass.”

“Like it was a parking space.”

“This outfit is—was Ralph Lauren.”

“I don’t care if it was Ralph Cramden.”

“And you can’t keep choking me while you’re fucking me.”

“You like that.”

“Not the rough way you do it.”

“It turns you on.”

“Not when you are angry.”

“Makes you come real good.”

“I want to come hard, not die coming.”

“You think I give a shit?”

“I don’t like it when you do that, just grab me and stick your dick inside me.”

“Since that is the only pussy I get and I’m married to it, I will be allowed to get this pussy anytime I want it and any way I want to have it. You can feel the same way about this cock over here.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“We’re married. I don’t have to give a fuck what you like.”

Silence.

“Am I in on this Gideon contract or have I been sidelined?”

“You never explained what happened in London.”

“I did.”

“Not to my satisfaction.”

“The bitch from Detroit doesn’t want me on the job.”

“She’s wondering if you have some connection to Gideon, maybe a double-cross.”

“That bitch is delusional.”

“You’re needed. She set something up that she needs you to facilitate.”

“I’m
needed
.
Facilitate
. What the hell does that mean?”

“Means I need you to go to Rituals and meet somebody.”

“What is Rituals? Is that a church or something?”

“I have no idea. Find out and be there at noon.”

“Who am I meeting at Rituals?”

“They will know you.”

“What am I meeting them for?”

“They know that too.”

Silence.

She asked, “Are you setting me up, Matthew?”

“What, you don’t trust me? If you don’t trust me, that means I shouldn’t trust you.”

Silence.

She whispered, “Why did you stop?”

He didn’t answer.

She said, “I didn’t want you to stop. I never want you to stop.”

He didn’t answer.

“Am I not attractive to you anymore?”

No answer.

“Make love to me.”

No answer.

“Since that is the only pussy you’re going to get and you’re married to it, come get it.”

No response.

She crawled to him, kissed him, kissed him until he kissed her back, moved his knife, took him inside her mouth, made him hard, pulled him on top of her. He tried to pull away, but she didn’t let him.

“Since that is the only cock I get and I’m married to it, I will be allowed to get that cock anytime I want it and any way I want to have it. And I want it right now. Stop pretending. Your cock is so damn hard. Look at it. You want me. You want to get up inside of me. Come on, be mad inside me. Fuck me.”

He gave in, kissed her, came to his wife.

She whispered, “You know you want this.”

He filled her up, fucked her hard.

She said, “Slow down, Matthew.”

He moaned.

She ran her hands across his face. “This what you want?”

He moaned louder.

She whispered, “What do you want me to do to make it right, baby?”

He moaned, her ragged and ripped clothing hanging from her body, his pants at his ankles.

Her husband told her to move her ass for him the way she had moved her ass for that island man, slapped her ass until she started to wine. He grunted, repeated for her to move her ass like she was doing another fuck dance, if she could fuck dance for a so-called stranger in a crowded room she could fuck dance for the man she married when they were alone. Her ass dipped and rotated as he spanked her, corporal punishment for a naughty and disrespectful wife, for a frustrating wife, spanked and fucked her, her orgasm rising, making her pant, moving her toward a summer solstice.

Matthew came, his volume lacking, but his load feeling heavy and deep as it flowed inside her.

She held him, shivered, moaned for him to keep moving until her orgasm arrived.

The rapture consumed her. The summer solstice so beautiful.

She held him for a while. Held him until the heat was too much to stand.

She rolled away from him, caught her breath, her head on his stomach, looked at his sweaty face.

This energy. It was the energy she had grown up under. The powerful energy of conflict.

She didn’t know how to get away from that type of energy.

And if she did, she didn’t know if she could survive without it.

It was hard being a wife when you knew you were cut from the cloth of a mistress. She would be more comfortable being a mistress. Marriage was a full-time gig. She didn’t like working that hard. But she would try. She would do her best.

She cleared her throat, asked, “How do I know who to meet?”

“Meet?”

“At Rituals.”

He pulled her face up to his, kissed her, put his tongue deep inside her mouth. She loved it, the kiss, her body expecting him to take her again. Wanted him to take her, show her passion, show her he loved her in that primitive way. Then he pulled away. Stared in her eyes, his stare unreadable, disturbing.

That knife still at his side.

He took a breath. A harsh breath that brought the negativity back in a rush.

Defensiveness rose. The good-feeling moment over.

She asked, “What was that?”

“You’re not the most discreet person on the island.”

“What does that mean?”

“They will know you.”

He pulled up his pants, penis still swollen, damp with sex.

He said, “You drive me crazy.”

“You do the same.”

He paused, looked at her, his expression telling her he was frustrated, disappointed, unhappy.

She asked, “What’s the problem?”

“You barely made it up the hill.”

“What hill?”

“When we walked up the hill to get to Pigeon Point. You barely made it.”

“I had been up all night. I was tired.”

“You’re getting fat.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s why you’re so slow.”

“I’m not slow.”

“Your center of gravity is off.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ass gets any bigger you’ll qualify for handicapped parking.”

She snapped. “Black men like it. Black men
love
it.”

“Well, you’re not married to a black man, are you?”

“Not this marriage.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means what it means.”

“Death do us part.”

“Is that a threat?”

“That shit you did tonight, do it again and find out.”

He picked up his blade and walked toward the door, his pace urgent.

She asked, “Where are you going?”

“Where were you when I got to Antigua? Where were you all night?”

“I was high. I got a room so I wouldn’t have to drive. Then you called.”

“How many lies can you tell?”

“I did.”

“Where?”

“Siboney.”

“What charge card did you put it on?”

“Paid cash.”

“That’s convenient.”

“I dumped the weapons. Bought some E. Smoked a joint. Was stressed. Got a room on the beach. Would’ve come back here after all that work, but it’s a long drive from one side of the island to the other. Woke up in the middle of the night. Woke up when you started calling me and came back here.”

“If you were loaded, had a room, why didn’t you wait until morning?”

She blew air, didn’t answer.

“Who were you with?”

“Nobody.”

He walked to the door.

She said, “Show me your ticket.”

“What ticket?”

“Your plane ticket to Barbados.”

“You know I don’t keep a paper trail.”

“Why should I?”

She felt him glaring down on her, knife in hand.

He walked out of the room.

She stared at the ceiling. Nervous. Clothes shredded. Tattered like they used to be when she was a child. No matter how she dressed herself, no matter how nice she looked, that feeling never left.

She was afraid.

Afraid of her lies being revealed. Afraid of her unhappiness being revealed.

Afraid of having to go back to being who she used to be.

Afraid of growing old, knowing how unkind the world was to the poor, the ugly, and the aged.

She shifted, felt pain. Breasts were tender. Maybe Matthew had been too rough with them.

Tears in her eyes. Sex no longer calmed the savage beast inside her husband.

Didn’t calm the beast that lived inside her.

Hormones on fire.

She closed her eyes, searched for peace, craved food.

Twenty-eight

power, passion, murder

Panted hard. Her feet in stirrups. The doctor told her to breathe, to push, her contractions intense. Matthew was at her side. Her belly swollen, the end of nine months of pregnancy. Pushing and begging for an epidural. Pain so intense. She pushed and pushed. Until the baby came out.

Matthew was smiling. His smile disintegrated. Became a look of horror as he looked at her.

The baby was beautiful.

But the baby was blacker than asphalt.

Matthew pulled out his blade. El Matador cut everyone who got in his way, cut doctors and nurses, pushed everything aside, came after her, tears in his eyes, teeth clenched, blade held high.

 

She jerked awake from her nightmare, woke up reaching for her gun, woke with the sheets tangled around her legs, woke up blocking her neck from an imaginary knife, woke up falling off the bed, woke up trying to run away.

She woke up from her stream of nightmares, woke up alone.

In a fit, terrified, she called out for her husband, made it to her feet, and searched for Matthew, the room freezing, twenty degrees Celsius, yet she sweated like she was in a sauna.

It was nine in the morning.

Matthew had walked out, hadn’t come back.

She looked down, still had on the ripped clothes she had worn last night. The nightmare had been too real, sent her to the mirror to check herself. She washed her face, pulled off her ripped clothing, pulled on a colorful robe, then she stepped out onto the balcony, the sun bright, island heat already unbearable. She caught her breath and looked out toward the yachts, the lush hills and rolling tropical mountains, nervous, the nightmares forcing her to think about the young lover who would never make love again.

She swallowed and thought about how her husband had come inside her, counting the days since her last cycle.

Remembering her trip to Barbados as well.

And the condom her lover had used when she was at Siboney.

She was sure it had been compromised, that it had leaked.

Her hand covered her stomach. That nightmare. Blacker than asphalt.

She called the front desk, asked where there was a pharmacy. When the woman at the front desk tried to be helpful and asked what she needed, the words hung in her throat; she couldn’t say it.