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Authors: Victor McGlothin

BOOK: Sleep Don't Come Easy
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Ties That Bind
F
atema Morris had to pee. And then she had to throw up. She forced open her eyes, squinting and trying desperately to focus on the digital clock on the nightstand next to her bed. It was one-thirty in the afternoon. She groaned miserably, then slowly managed to sit up and swing her feet over the side of the bed. The jackhammer assaulting her head pounded so hard she fell back and covered her face with a pillow. A few minutes later, she still had to pee and the bed was spinning so fast, she really had to throw up. How the hell was she going to make it to the bathroom without releasing bodily fluids? The shrill sound of the phone ringing pierced her brain like an ice pick, damn near killing her.
“Hello,” she answered, grunting irritably.
“Well, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty.” She recognized his voice and immediately regretted answering that phone. “I was worried about you, sweetheart, and was wondering if you wanted me to send the coroner over to see if you were still breathing,” he teased.
“I can't talk right now,” she told him, as she hurried into the bathroom.
“You sound like shit,” he felt the need to say.
Fatema didn't know which end to put into the toilet first, but ended up sitting down to relieve herself and started to hang up.
“I take it you don't remember last night?” he questioned, unaware of the peril she was in.
That question certainly got her attention, though. No, she didn't remember last night. She'd been drunk off her ass last night, so how was she supposed to remember anything about it?
She searched through the fog of her memories to try and piece together an evening in which she probably embarrassed the hell out of herself, and would undoubtedly end up lamenting. “Party,” she mumbled. “The Christmas party at that little club in LoDo.” Vague images flashed in her mind, but nothing cohesive. It suddenly dawned on her that he wouldn't be asking her about last night if he hadn't played some crucial role in it. “You were there?”
He chuckled, sarcastically. “Of course I was there, baby. You called me, and invited me to the party. Don't you remember?”
She hated when he did that condescending thing, knowing full well he knew the answer to the question before he'd even asked it.
“I did?” she asked, disgusted with herself. “Why would I do that? I thought you divorced me.”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” he gloated. “But that doesn't mean I don't still care. Besides, you were lonely, missed the hell out of me, apologized profusely for having been such a terrible and inconsiderate wife, and you were too drunk to drive and needed a ride home. So I accepted your apology and undying gratitude and love, and showed up like the knight in shining armor that I am.”
Fatema slumped on the toilet, and shook her head. “You sure it was me who called?” she asked shamefully, hating herself more than she hated anyone, even him. “Why in the hell would I call you, Drew, of all people?”
“Now, now,” he said, trying to console her. “What's a designated driver between divorced people?”
Her stomach made a gurgling sound, and the taste of last night's liquor rose like bile in her throat. Fatema reached up into the medicine cabinet and found the Pepto. She drank it straight with no chaser, right out of the bottle, and then wiped the pink mustache from her top lip with the back of her hand. One last question bubbled in her guts. “Did we fuck?” A dreadful feeling overwhelmed her, as she waited for him to answer.
“Like champions, baby,” he said proudly.
Fatema nearly fell off the throne, but held on tight to the sink and caught herself.
“You rode with the best of them, cowgirl, slobbering all over yourself and me too, come to think of it. I swear, it was the stuff dreams are made of.”
Fatema rolled her eyes and groaned.
“But don't worry,” he assured her. “It's over, and regardless of what you might think, I knew I'd respect you in the morning. I'd like to think you feel the same way about me.”
“I hate you, Drew,” she muttered disgusted. “I hate you so much.”
“Hate me!” he said aghast. “How can you? Last night you loved every inch of me, Fatema. You loved me from the top of my head to the soles of my feet and everywhere in between, girl—just like a porn star.”
“Shut up!”
“You professed your love to me at least six times . . . no, more than that, but I lost count after like seven.”
“Why'd you call me, Drew?” Fatema burped, threatening to vomit any second. “To gloat? To what? To make me feel like shit?”
“No.” He sounded sincere. “To thank you, Fatema, that's all. I had a lovely evening and I wanted to let you know how much I appreciated it. And besides, I figured that as drunk as you were, you'd probably wake up feeling like shit whether I called or not.”
She took another drink from the Pepto bottle. “I'm hanging up now, and if you ever call me again—”
“I thought you said you loved me?”
“I swear I'll wait outside your apartment and smash your girlfriend underneath the wheels of my Mini Cooper.”
“Now that's just evil.”
“You're evil! You're an evil, evil man, Andrew Vincent, and I never want to see you again!”
“Call me if you need anything,” he blurted out quickly before she hung up on him.
By day, and when she was sober, she'd convinced herself that she was over her ex-husband, but sometimes at night or after she'd had one too many butter babies and tequila shots, she realized that deep down, she really wasn't, and something about alcohol and that eight pack of his resurrected ferocious memories and stirred her loins viciously enough to drop her to her knees. Like magic, his number rolled off her fingertips and into her cell phone and everything after that was a blur of resentment and regret.
They'd been divorced for less than a year, but she'd left him long before their marriage ended. She and Drew met when she hired him as her personal trainer, and he was a decent guy, good-looking, with dreams of a family, owning some real estate, and growing old together. Fatema dreamed of becoming the first black female correspondent on
60 Minutes
, hosting her own morning show in New York City, or being the next great White House correspondent and best friends with Michelle Obama. She put her career first, over their marriage, then had the nerve to get pissed off when she found out he was cheating on her with a tall willowy redhead from the gym.
Fatema sat at her kitchen table drinking her third cup of black coffee, still nursing her migraine and feeling plenty damned pissed at herself for the hangover, which could've been avoided, and for messing around with Drew's ass, which also could have been avoided had she been sober and in her right mind. She ran her hand through the tangled nest on her head and sighed. Her life had gone to hell, racing out of control at lightning speed, headed straight for a cliff, and she just stood there, watching the whole thing happen. Was it any wonder that she drank too much, or was still having an affair with her ex, who was damn near married to somebody else? Fatema had lost track of herself and her goals.
She was nine the first time she stood in front of her mirror talking into a hairbrush and pretending to be a reporter. Fatema had a goal back then, but she didn't have one anymore. She used to pour everything into her job, but one day she woke up and realized she had nothing to show for all her efforts except an ex-husband, a one-bedroom condo, and a Mini Cooper that she adored the same way other women adored children or animals. Fatema had emptied all of her passion into the stories she'd put entirely too much faith in, expecting to be rewarded for her daring insight and vision, only to have her passion doused the last time one of her stories was passed over for an award, and it dawned on her that it was the rewards that mattered to her more than the heart of a good story. Her motive for choosing this career had been skewed from the beginning and one day, she just accepted the fact that she'd become a reporter for all the wrong reasons.
She turned on the television to drown out the sound of her own nagging thoughts. Debra Byers was one of the premier anchors of Channel 4's evening news, and Fatema despised her. The woman looked like a rodent, sunburned, with a thin hapless look in her eyes. Deb was a robot with no drive or passion of her own, and yet, here she was, the news darling of Denver, Colorado, with her picture plastered on billboards and the sides of city buses. Success. How do you spell it? B-O-R-I-N-G.
“The body of a young woman was found early this morning by a driver crossing the Corona overpass, just off of Speer Boulevard, southwest of Downtown Denver. The woman has been identified as twenty-seven-year-old Toni Robbins, a city government employee who volunteered regularly at a local homeless shelter.”
Fatema sat frozen with her mouth hanging open. She couldn't believe it. “No,” she cried out, covering her mouth with her hands.
Toni's photograph flashed on the television. The young woman smiled, looking vibrant and promising. Fatema knew that picture well. She'd seen it many times on Toni's dresser years ago, when the two of them had shared a small apartment together in Denver's Capitol Hill neighborhood.
The lead detective, Bruce Baldwin, appeared on screen. “The family of Miss Robbins was notified this morning,” he explained stoically. “This case has our full attention, and we won't rest until the killer is behind bars.”
“Toni was incredibly special,” Nelson Monroe, Director of The Broadway Shelter of Denver, told reporters. Visibly shaken by her death, he worked overtime to maintain his composure. “She . . . uh,” his voice cracked, “worked alongside me and my staff at the Shelter two, sometimes three days a week. Toni was a caring, generous person and something like this shouldn't happen to someone like her.” He walked away, shaking his head. “It's a shame. It's terrible.”
Deb Byers gravely finished up her report. “Police are investigating all leads in this case, and are asking anyone who might have seen or heard anything to call the number at the bottom of your screen immediately.”
Fatema hadn't realized she was crying. Tears streamed down her face, and she struggled to catch her breath. Disbelief wrestled with the shock of seeing Toni's picture and hearing her name on the news in the same sentence with the word “killed.” Who would do—why?
Her phone rang and she picked it up without thinking. “Hello?” she sobbed.
It was Drew. “Did you see the news?” he asked solemnly.
Fatema couldn't speak, but she didn't need to.
“Do I need to come over there?” he asked tenderly.
Fatema didn't answer, but she needed him, and he knew it.
“I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
King of Kings
N
ever let them see you sweat.
Or mourn.
Or covet something you can no longer have.
Lucas Shaw sat in the study of his palatial Cherry Hills home, staring blankly at the fifty-two-inch plasma television mounted on the wall, watching the story unfold about the death of a young woman.
“Becoming Mayor is the first step, Lucas,” his father-in-law told him a year ago after he'd won his campaign for the Mayor of Denver. “The senate is calling out to you, son, and I say you need to consider answering the call.”
It was an idea he relished. One that was spoonfed to him by a man who only expected the best for his daughter because the best was what she was accustomed to. Senator Lucas Shaw was out there waiting for Mayor Shaw to catch up to him, and Lucas had been riding that locomotive to the ultimate prize for the last fifteen years of his career, allowing no one or anything to hinder his progress, until she came along.
His eyes glistened with tears as one news story melted into another, but all he could see was her face, smiling back at him. He heard her laughter in his ears, felt her touch on his skin, and tasted her in his mouth. Until she'd come along, Lucas had never known the truth of loving a woman, or being loved by one. He'd never yearned so deeply for anyone's company, or the sound of another person's voice. Toni had come into his life and threatened to derail him and everything he'd worked so hard to achieve, without even trying.
He closed his eyes and recalled the last time they were intimate. Lucas fought to reject this vision, but it wouldn't let him. She was such a beautiful woman; beautiful in a natural, quiet and delicate way.
He took a deep breath, and slowly released it.
“Nothing about us should work,” she had said quietly, lying naked on top of him. He was inside her, rigid and long, wet with her juices. Making love to her was a thing to be savored and unrushed.
Her long, dark hair hung past her face and brushed lightly against his skin. Toni's caramel complexion glistened with perspiration, and her dark, wide eyes bore into his.
“Everything about us works,” he assured her, gently rubbing his fingers along her spine, and down to the curve of her plump behind.
Toni arched her back then gazed back at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
“You're a married man, Mr. Mayor. And that doesn't work.”
He pulled her to him, and filled her mouth with his tongue, then rolled her over, and braced himself over her. “I work hard for you,” he insisted. “I will always work hard for you.”
Lucas knelt between her thighs and took hold of her hips. He moved down and kissed the space between her breasts, then gobbled up one nipple, and then the other. Toni rolled her hips against him, and moaned her pleasure.
The best hotels.
The best restaurants.
The best . . . the best . . . the best.
She was his delicious secret.
She helped him to maintain sanity in an insane world.
She gave him peace, where there was none.
She loved him for who he wasn't, more than for who he was.
And then she dared to take it all away from him.
“I don't even know you anymore, Lucas. You're crazy, and I can't believe I ever fell for a man like you.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? A man like me?”
“I've seen a side of you that—scares me, worries me—that doesn't make sense to me. You'll do anything to get what you want, and it doesn't matter who you hurt in the process. Does it?”
He had no answer to give, and she didn't wait around for one.
 
Lucas dried his eyes, and turned off the television. As if on cue, his wife knocked lightly on the door before opening it. “Don't forget we have to be at the Feldmans' at seven-thirty. It's six-thirty now, Lucas,” she informed him, then left as abruptly as she'd come in.
He sighed, surprisingly relieved, yet brokenhearted. The thought of living without her, knowing she was living in the same city, and working in the same building as he was, and knowing that he couldn't have her, had been incomprehensible. Lucas guessed the old adage really did hold some solace after all. He couldn't have her, and now, no one else could either. Unfortunately, he found comfort in that.

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