The Eternal Engagement (9 page)

CHAPTER 20

Steven

 

“M
ona, baby!” Steven called out from the bathroom. “Your water is almost ready.”

Turning off the cold water, he noticed the house was quiet. She was probably sitting in the living room in his recliner. That was her preferred place to unwind. It was his favorite place to watch
Maury, Family Feud,
or sports when she wasn't sitting there. Damn, he loved some Mona Lisa. There was no way he'd let her abandon him.

Steven was glad Mona's mother ostracized her. Made it easy for him to isolate his wife, keep their private life private.

He didn't have any sob stories about not being loved as a kid. His childhood was awesome. His father hadn't walked out on his mother. His parents were happily married for thirty years, living in the same Selma house he grew up in. He was never bullied as a kid, straight-A student. Voted most likely to succeed in high school. Being successful and making lots of money weren't the same. Steven had learned that on the streets watching drug dealers. They made him smart about making money the legal way.

Bounty hunting made him debt free. The right assassination contract could afford him an early retirement in three years at the age of thirty, but was the money worth risking losing Mona?

Was he remorseful for the murders he'd committed? It wasn't personal. It was business. If he hadn't pulled the trigger, someone else would've. Would he kill again? For two reasons. If his or Mona's life or livelihood was threatened, and if the price was right.

“Mona, baby,” he called out. Again, there was no answer.

Her wanting out of his life was a reasonable request. Had it been any other woman, he would've packed her things for her, took or sent her any place she wanted to go. Steven smiled, picturing Mona in their second-grade class blowing big pink bubbles with her gum. When the bubble burst and covered her mouth, oh, how he wanted to be that piece of gum. Her head had a dozen long, pretty plaits with twice as many bows and barrettes. From that day and eight consecutive years after, at the beginning of class he gave her a piece of Hubba Bubba. The day he stopped was when he saw her bite his gum in the middle, then mouth-feed William Lincoln the other half.

“Mona!” he yelled, entering their bedroom. Her black bag was still on the bed where he'd tossed it, but most of its contents were gone.

He searched the kitchen and living room, but no Mona. After opening the front door, he stepped onto the porch, stared at the driveway. Her car was gone. “What the fuck? She can't be serious,” he muttered between his teeth. “I should've followed my first mind and blocked her car in.”

“Hey, Steven,” Ms. Velma, or Mama V as others called her, yelled from her neighboring porch.

“Hey, Ms. Velma. You seen Mona?” He called her Ms. Velma out of respect, but the only person he addressed as Mama was his mother.

“She left. Drove away from here as though her life depended on her getting to or from something. Either that or she broke a nail.” Ms. Velma laughed. “You know how these young girls are. Always in a hurry,” she said, then pointed. “See the tire marks in the street? That there's hers. If y'all don't feel like cooking tonight, I got some ribs smokin' on my grill. Come get a slab.”

“Thanks, Ms. Velma. I might take you up on that offer,” he said, going inside.

He opened the liquor cabinet, gripped a bottle of 101 proof Wild Turkey whiskey by the neck, yanked off the top, pressed the opening to his lips, then turned his liquid lunch upside down. With each gulp his throat burned like fire. He didn't stop gulping until the bottle was near empty and his head was on full.

He made his way to his recliner, flopped down on the cold black leather, sat the bottle beside the lever, then propped his feet up. A slab of ribs wasn't what Steven needed. He needed his rib. Mona Lisa.

CHAPTER 21

Mona

 

 

A
woman should know what her man is thinking well before he thinks it. Most men are predictable, and Steven Cunningham was no exception. Most of the time Mona was right about her husband. The one thing she hadn't foreseen or detected was his motivation to kill.

When did he get caught up? Why didn't the cowards who'd paid Steven do their own damn dirty work? Her Steven wasn't perfect, but he didn't grow up gang banging either. Intentionally taking a person's life was out of character for the sensitive guy that gave her bubble gum in school for eight years straight. He definitely wasn't raised in a thugish way. His parents took him to church almost every Sunday. If Steven could sing, he would've been a choirboy.

Steven knew now that she was gone, his first recourse would be to sit in his recliner, then gobble a bottle of Wild Turkey, not necessarily in that order. The more he drank, the clearer his thoughts would become, or so he'd imagine. There were three times that he consumed to the point of almost passing out, and each time he'd taken a life. Tonight wasn't that kind of night for him.

He'd probably wait until he was functionally sober, drive around town looking for her car, then show up at her job tomorrow. If he didn't find her, he'd think she was running out of fear, long gone, headed up or down Interstate 5. Mona didn't have to run. She wasn't afraid of him killing or hurting her. If he did, it would be a first. She was surprised he hadn't called yet but was certain he would before midnight.

The drive from Steven's house to her first destination was less than twenty minutes with traffic. En route she stopped at the Bank of America on Chester Avenue, went inside, opened her purse, presented her California driver's license, and withdrew five thousand dollars from her account. That was the first time, since saying, “I do,” to Steven that she'd touched any of her two point five million dollar savings.

Her cell phone chimed, rang, chimed, rang. Dang. Sarah wasn't dead, she was in custody. Mona silenced her phone. She'd check it later.

She carelessly married Steven at the Selma courthouse when they were both twenty-two. What in the hell was she thinking? Her mother was right. Mona hadn't given much thought to being Steven's wife.

Most of her friends had gotten hitched right after high school and had babies. When she hadn't received a phone call or letter from Lincoln, Mona had momentarily lost hope of their getting back together. No one had heard from Lincoln, not even his grandparents, so he had to have reenlisted, gotten out, or was dead.

Liking the way Steven had his own house, and enough money to take her on vacations and take care of her, Mona didn't think marrying Steven seemed like a bad decision. She would've gotten an annulment if Lincoln had come home or had she not witnessed Calvin's murder. Lincoln should be out by now. Maybe he was already discharged. She'd give Lincoln time to come around. Holding on to false hope was her way of escaping reality. Mona could wait a few years to get pregnant by Lincoln, again. Having kids with Steven was not happening, ever.

“I'd also like to apply for a credit card as well as a Visa debit card,” Mona said.

“Sure thing, Ms. Ellington,” the teller said.

Mona didn't have to request that the teller remove Steven's last name because she'd never put his name on either—the Selma or Bakersfield—bank account or any of her stocks, bonds, and certificates of deposit.

Her father had told her, “Mona, there's nothing worse than wanting to leave and not having enough money to go.” Now she understood what her dad had meant. He'd be proud that she'd taken his advice. Though her mom's advice differed, her mom should be happy too. Mona had enough money to stay gone.

“Oh, I'm in between residences so hold my cards here. Call me at the number on file when they're ready to be picked up,” Mona insisted, then wrote her cell phone number on a deposit slip. “Is this the number you have?”

“Yes, it is, Ms. Ellington,” the teller said, placing her cash in the money counter. She checked, double-checked, then ran her five thousand dollars through the machine a final time before putting the cash in front of Mona along with an envelope.

Stuffing the money into the envelope, then inside her purse, Mona left.

There were no worries about her bank statements going to Steven's house. Soon as they settled in Bakersfield, she got a post office box near her job at the lab and a safety deposit box at the bank. But she'd thought it more efficient to pick up her cards than to have them mailed.

Steven had paid for her every need and want, while her desire to be with Lincoln remained unfulfilled. What made people hold on to first loves forever? Since she believed that her desires dictated her happiness, it was time for Mona to accept responsibility for her daily sorrow and move on.

The ache in her chest, the worry lines that had developed on her twenty-seven-year-old forehead, and the heaviness of a once outrageously joyful spirit were coaxing her into a life of depression. Sex with Steven was great. He knew how to satisfy her in bed, but even while enjoying climaxing, she was no longer excited about him.

After driving a few blocks to the hotel, she parked her car in the rear of the open lot, entered the back door, then approached the receptionist. “I'd like a room for a week.”

“What name is your reservation under?” the girl asked. She appeared younger than Mona.

“I don't have a reservation. I said I'd like a room, for a week.”

“No problem. Let me check.” She tapped on her keyboard, then said, “Great, we have availability. Would you like a king or two double beds?”

“A king,” Mona said, scanning the lobby, front entrance, and the bar area. She turned around each time the elevator doors behind her opened or closed.

“Are you okay, ma'am?” the receptionist asked.

“I'm fine. Just expecting someone,” Mona said, not knowing if she was lying or not.

“Certainly. May I see your credit card and ID?” the girl asked.

Mona observed her name tag, then handed the receptionist her driver's license. “Tiffany, I don't have a credit card that I care to give you. I'm paying cash.”

“Sorry, ma'am,” Tiffany replied. “We need a credit card for your incidentals.”

Sternly, Mona replied, “There won't be any incidentals. And cash is legal tender everywhere in the U.S.” Mona paid for her room, got her key, then headed to the bar for a much-needed drink.

She wasn't running from Steven; her decision was to leave him. There was a difference. Leaving her new hometown, she'd do in her own time, not his. And no matter what he said, regardless of what he did, and she didn't care how amazing his mind-blowing orgasms were, she was never going back to him.

CHAPTER 22

Steven

 

W
hen all failed and he felt there was no way out, he'd call his mother.

Tempted to phone Mona first, he sat in his recliner contemplating how he could make her life hell until she'd come home where she belonged. A wife's place was beside her husband. What man would want her if he knew what she'd done?

For better or worse was what Mona had legally agreed to at the courthouse. One option was to frame her like he'd done Sarah. That would be extreme yet effective, but Mona wouldn't go down without a knock-down, rake-his-ass-over-the-coals-and-drag-him-into-the-quicksand-pit-too kinda fight. He hated to admit it, but Mona had become better than him at his own job. His wife was one step ahead of brilliant.

Mona was many things, but she wasn't a passive woman. Trying to frame her would no doubt eventually backfire on him. Cutting off her credit cards and cell phone wouldn't equate to cutting her off. He didn't make enough money to make her wealthy, but in addition to making her financially independent, Steven let Mona keep all the money she made on her nine-to-five jobs. Steven never wanted Mona Lisa to want for anything except him.

“This is fucked up!” he cried out loud, then turned the whiskey bottle upside down.

Steven held his phone, retrieved his list of favorites, then dialed the first number.

“Hey, Buttercup. I was just thinking about you. Everything okay?” his mom asked.

“I guess, Ma.”

“Well, if you have to guess, tell me what's wrong. You haven't lost that good job at the oil company, have you?”

Any job paying over fifty thousand dollars was considered good to most people in the South. If his mother knew how much he made bounty hunting, she'd swear he was working for the godfather himself. If that were her guess, she'd be close to being right.

“No, Ma.” He wasn't lying. They didn't have a chance to fire him because they'd never hired him. Suit. Tie. Meetings. Sitting behind a desk in an office with a dreary view of downtown Bakersfield wouldn't have lasted three minutes.

The upside was Bakersfield was a bounty hunter's paradise. Probation offenders, drug dealers ditching court while out on bail, and the long list of everyday citizens with unknown warrants were one step away from having to post bail. One step away from skipping out on bail. They put him one step away from getting another contract. With a population of almost three hundred forty thousand, the residents made his job easy because most offenders in Bakersfield never left Bakersfield.

“Then what's the problem? Is it one of those guy things? I can put your daddy on the phone. You don't have men hitting on you, do you?”

Steven laughed. He didn't have anything against same-sex relationships. Business was profitable and he didn't discriminate. When it came to slapping on the handcuffs, he didn't care about gender or sexual preferences.

“No, Ma. I'd rather talk to you. Mona left me and I'm not sure when or if she's coming back.”

“Aw, Buttercup, is that all? I knew this was coming,” his mom said. “I'm surprised it took her so long.”

What did she mean by that? How could she have known? Why hadn't his mother warned him?

Steven frowned, sat on the edge of the recliner, stared at Mona's picture on the wall. Looking at his wife's picture made him hate her more. But he wasn't angry with Katherine Clinton. In a way, they were aiding one another. Katherine could use the money and he needed her assistance. He owed Katherine ten grand for using her influence to personally interview Detective Davenport, but he never wanted the McKenny story to make national news. He had to find out why she'd done that. Had to make sure Davenport hadn't linked Calvin's murder to the other two. Maybe he should've used a different bank account for each of the cashier's checks.

“But, Ma. I'm a good husband. I've been nothing but good to Mona. You know that. I don't deserve this.” He wanted to add the word
shit,
but Steven never cursed while speaking to or in the presence of his parents.

“You men are all alike. This isn't about you. Sometimes a woman needs to find herself. Mona went from her mother's house to yours. She married you the same day you proposed. Except for when she was in college, she's never lived on her own, and even then you said she had a roommate. I'm surprised it took her this long. Y'all been knowing each other since second grade. And then you go and drag her all the way cross country where she doesn't have friends. Give her space to find out who she is. And you need to take advantage of her time away and do the same.”

Maybe his mother had been drinking too. Steven eyed Mona's 24 x 36 framed picture on the living room wall. “How much time?” He feared the longer Mona stayed gone, she'd get comfortable being away from him and never come back.

“Six months tops.”

Six what?
To find out who she was? For real? And he should do the same? He'd never taken time to figure himself out. Didn't see the point in doing that. “Mona needs to come home now, Ma.”

“How long she been gone?”

Steven checked the time on his cell, then answered, “An hour.”

His mother laughed. “Buttercup, you're funny. Mona loves you. She'll come back to you. You didn't hit her, did you? We raised you better than that. Please tell me you didn't—”

He interrupted, “No, Ma. You know I'd never do that.”

Steven never saw his parents fight. They never argued, at least not around him. His parents weren't the norm in Selma. A lot of the Southern men abuse their women and their wives. He loved Mona too much to physically hurt her. But if she didn't come back, he would not have mercy on her soul.

Six months? His mother never gave him bad advice. He could give Mona that much space hoping she'd be back in a week. One hundred and eighty-two days from today—he counted the days on his phone, then calendared the exact date and time. If she hadn't come back by 12:00 a.m. Thanksgiving Day, her time was up.

No matter where she was, he'd find her. In six months, she might not matter.

“You want me and your dad to come visit you?” his mom asked, not waiting for his answer. “We'll be there Memorial Day. Your daddy needs to get out the house anyway. We need to do something with all this money you keep sending us besides adding on rooms to the house. And you need to keep a clear head. Now, don't get so upset you lose that good job with the oil company. If you do, Mona will leave you for sure. You know how her mama raised her not to be with a man that can't take care of her. And you're not gonna embarrass us. No, siree. Give that girl six months to be on her own. Be patient. She'll come back to you, Buttercup. I love your daddy to death, but I sure wish I hadn't gone straight from my parents' house to his. Speaking of death, you saw the news today? I can't believe that Sarah McKenny girl was arrested for killing her—”

“Ma, I've gotta go find Mona. See y'all Memorial Day. Love you. Tell Dad I love him too. Bye.”