The Housewife Assassin's Handbook (24 page)

“Trisha brought her over to me. She was so proud, introducing ‘Daddy’ to Phyllis.”

My weak laugh does little to tamp down the anger welling inside me. “I’ll bet that didn’t go well! It’s not as if Phyllis has forgotten Carl—”

“Apparently he didn’t make as big of an impression on her as you presumed. After she lectured me for desertion, she conceded that I’d grown handsomer with age—or that it was time for new eyeglasses. I guess people believe what they want to, right? Especially if it makes their loved ones happy.”

I control the overwhelming urge to pummel the smirk off his face.

Instead, I shove him down onto the bed—

I can’t let him suspect the truth: that Carl walks among us.

That Carl now comes between us.

But no, he wants to be on top. He pushes me off, holding me by my wrists as his mouth suckles my breasts. His free hand roams randomly over my body: gently massaging, probing, rubbing, tickling me, and driving me wild in anticipation…

I can’t let this happen. I’ve got to take control—

I do, with my lips, until I know his cock is about to burst. Then I climb onto it—

“Okay, sure,” he mutters gruffly, “but I want you backward.”

Yep, works for me, too. That way, I don’t have to look at his face.

I feel his hands gently massaging my lower back. A finger traces my spine. Another probes me as I rise and fall with his thrusts. His hands circle my inner thigh, my cunt—

It’s hard to despise him when he makes my entire body ache for him; when it begs to be one with him—

My orgasm clenches him so tightly that we moan in unison.

Even when we are spent, I can’t quit crying.

He holds me in his arms. There I stay for the longest time.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

I don’t want his pity.

I want his scalp.

That night as Jack’s gentle snores rock our bedroom, I slip out of bed and tiptoe to his dresser. From his sock drawer I pull out the tiny ring box holding the anti-detonator key chain. I take the key chain out, and hide it in my purse.

This way Carl has what he needs to stop Jack, when the time comes. 

Chapter 18

Trash Talk

Putting out the trash is a dirty job, but let’s face it—someone has to do it.

Whereas many smart wives are able to cajole their husbands into taking on this duty, what happens when the debris that must be eliminated is (ahem) him?

Rule of thumb: Do your best to ensure his demise doesn’t leave a lot of clean up. After all, messy is as messy does! Have a body bag on hand prior to disposal. He won’t question its presence if it is storing out-of-season attire in the back of your closet. Talk about recycling!

Ryan has called everyone into the office. Turns out we’ve had a break in the case, although he won’t say what it is; at least, not yet.

I’ve never seen Ryan look so harried. “The intel we’re getting is that the Quorum mission goes down sometime within the next ten days. We’re down to the wire, people! Who’s got something? Anything?”

Our silence saddens him. His eyes scan Acme’s conference room: Jack, Emma, Abu, Arnie, and the other operatives—our ghosts, cutouts, surveillance and tech detail—all of whom have been scouring the oblivious citizens—the unusual suspects—of placid Hilldale.

If only they knew what I do: that Carl is close enough to borrow a cup of sugar.

The sweetest kind of all.

Still, I refuse to believe that Ryan is in on Jack’s scheme.

I only wish I found it just as hard to believe Jack’s duplicity.

I have no choice.

“All the bugs are planted, boss,” Arnie assures Ryan. “Maybe we’ll overhear something soon that tips us off.”

Ryan hits his fist with an open hand. “‘Soon’ may not be soon enough. The bomb is small enough to get by security undetected. Our intel says it’s a nanobomb.”

Ryan knows this, too?

I shift my eyes to catch Jack’s expression. It is placid. Not good.

At this point, nothing surprises me about that man.

Emma frowns. “What’s the source of this intel, anyway?”

My thoughts exactly. Is she suspicious of it because, like Jack, she is a double agent? I can’t believe that. My guess is that Carl has found a way to feed whatever he’s finding out to Ryan. If so, then I can trust him—

But only when Carl tells me the time is right to do so.

As we get up to leave, Ryan walks over. “Donna, will you join me for a moment?”

Nodding, I notice that Jack is watching me out of the corner of his eye.

I follow Ryan into his office, making sure to close the door behind me.

He takes his time, fidgeting with some files on his desk. Then finally, “You didn’t seem yourself in there.”

I let that sink in.

“Donna, if you have any concerns about this mission, you know I’m here for you. Anything at all. If, for example, this thing with Jack makes you uncomfortable—”

“What thing with Jack?”

“His … pretending to be Carl. I mean … have the two of you…” Now Ryan is blushing.

What a guy. Sweet, sincere, caring Ryan—

Whom I can’t trust.

At least, not yet.

If and when that time comes, what will I say? How will he react when I tell him that Carl is alive?

Or that Jack is a double agent and that there may be others inside Acme, too?

But I can’t tell him right now. If, like Jack, Ryan is also a Quorum operative, I’ll be writing my own death warrant.

So instead I shrug and head for the door.

Jack is nowhere to be found. I’m guessing he left with Emma.

I’ll ask her to pick up the kids today. When she does, I’ll plant a ghost in her computer, so that I can trace her keystrokes.

“I love it when the Rave-On lady comes calling,” Carl whispers in my ear as he strips me of my jacket.

Jack insists I continue knocking on doors in the futile attempt to find the Quorum. That’s okay. These days I gladly leave the house under any pretext. I can’t stand being near him anyway.

My refuge is in my real husband’s arms.

But I can’t understand why Carl is turning my pockets inside out and going through my purse.

“What, do you think I’m bugged or something?” I mutter.

“Remember, you’re hosting a double agent. Can’t be too careful, can we?”

Now that business is over, it’s playtime. Because he is too impatient to fiddle with the buttons on my skirt, he lifts it so that it bunches up around my waist as he carries me into his bedroom.

It saddens me to see his place so devoid of life. There is nothing personal in it at all—

Except for a baseball that is sitting on his dresser, encased in a glass box.

It brings a smile to my lips. I remember all the baseball trophies and autographed balls that once lined the brick-and-plank bookcases in his bachelor pad. Their new home is the shelves in our son’s room.

They have inspired Jeff toward his own personal best.

 Carl places me gently on the bed. When I try to sit up, though, he pulls me back down, tossing my purse out of reach, untangling my arms from my blouse, pulling off my skirt, my stockings and garter, my bra—

Then he notices the locket.

He smiles. Then he kisses my neck.

There we lay as he plays with my nude body: massaging my nipples until they grow larger and stiffer, sucking the lobes of my ears, tracing a path between my breasts to my bellybutton, and then to my mound—

Until I moan for joy.

“I love being here with you, but we have to be more careful,” I gasp as I snuggle beside him.  “I think Jack is getting suspicious. I’ve cleared you as a suspect, but should he follow me, it will blow your cover.”

Carl’s laugh is cruel. “I’d love him to walk in on us, right now, just to show him what he’s not getting.”

I turn my back to him. I can’t let him see my regret: at losing him.

At losing myself, to Jack.

I’d prefer to show Carl what he’s been missing out on, all these years. To do this, I take him in hand, make him grow stiff and large, then I mount him.

You see, he is my plaything, too.

His groans of pleasure are music to my ears.

When I know he is spent, I lean back into his arms. “Did you miss this?”

His smile fades. “More than anything.”

“You should have taken us with you. We could have just run away.” There, I’ve finally said it. Does it relieve me of my anger that he left me behind?

Not really.

He must know that, too. Why else would he ask, “Do you hate me, Donna?”

Do I tell him the truth?

Of course not. “No, Carl. I hate the Quorum. For coming between us.”

His laughter is deep with pain. “I don’t see it that way. Frankly, I think it’s made us stronger. We are better people because of it.”

“Oh yeah? How do you figure that?”

He strokes my cheek gently. “When all is said and done, we’ll not only have survived, we’ll be sitting on top—just you and me.”

“On top of what? You make it sound like a game or something.”

“Hell, Donna, it is a game: run by politicians who set policies dictated by the corporate thugs who put them in Congress. They tell us to jump, and like sheep, we ask how high. When, finally, it all comes crashing down around their ears, who do you think will be left standing? Those of us who are fearless, that’s who.”

“‘Fearless’? That’s an odd way of putting it.”

“No it’s not. You’ve got to be fearless to call their bluff, to make them blink. To make them pay.”

“You’re supposed to know your enemy, Carl; I get it. But that doesn’t mean you have to respect it. You know better than anyone that the Quorum is run by evil men. They kill innocent people for no reason—”

“There’s a reason, alright. Every move on the board is well planned.”

“Oh yeah? What is the Quorum’s reason, Carl? Tell me that.”

“There’s a big payday in terrorism.” The fierce look in his eyes scares me. “Just look at the United States since 9/11. Chasing terrorists has beefed up the Defense Department’s budget. The military industrial complex has reaped record profits. Terrorism has allowed us to invade rogue nations that are built on oil. And never forget: a scared society is a meek society. Terrorism scares the world's supposed democracies into acting stupid about how and where they spend their money.” His grin has no soul. “Even bin Laden’s demise hasn’t slowed down the response to it. There will always be a boogie man. Politicians need one. The Quorum sees it as a role of a lifetime. So why not get paid well for taking it on?”

“And you’ve taken on the Quorum—for all the heartache it’s caused us.”

He cradles me in his arms. “I’m sorry, Donna. You’ll have to trust that I’ve done the right thing for all of us.”

I may not like the reason, but at least now I know why.

As we lay there, I realize that, for the first time in years, despite what I’ve just been told I now truly feel safe.

My husband will never let anyone hurt me.

And I’ll protect him, too.

Always. 

“Oh! That reminds me: I’ve got a surprise for you.” Naked, I jump out of bed and reach for my purse, where I pull out the anti-detonator-on-a-keychain, and toss it his way.