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Authors: Eric Pete

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BOOK: Crushed Ice
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Chapter 22
Three Years Ago
 
 
I was parked on Eads Street, sitting alone in the dark. Scarface's lyrics to “I Seen a Man Die” had me in an introspective mood as I watched the house. While others were struggling through finals, I was concentrating on my master's thesis. This was one of my first jobs free of Jason's reigns. A young man going solo, feeling his way in the world. I didn't have to be here, but I wanted to.
One of those “If a tree falls in the forest and no one's there to hear it . . .” situations. Had what I planned really brought things to this moment?
The doctor returned to his restored Oak Cliff home an hour ago, having rushed inside after leaving his office early.
His name?
Not important.
The home was a piece of history, built in the early 1900s. He and his wife bought it a little over two years ago for around half a million.
His mistress paid me forty thousand, a down payment of a sort on her own future home. A home with the doctor—except he was never leaving his precious wife for her. No matter how exquisite the head she gave him. No matter how well they cliqued. No matter how much of himself he shared. There was a part she would never possess.
She knew that, but refused to accept it. Her goal was to make his wife no longer so precious; no longer free of taint. Maybe he'd change his mind then.
Desperation with a checkbook had found its instrument in me.
Last week, the doctor had received a few hang-up calls to set things up. The hired actor played his part. Brash and physical to the doctor's cool and calculating, he was the perfect foil. He met the doctor today at an outdoor location, telling him where to find the evidence of their trysts inside their home—the used condom and stained panties, false evidence I'd planted when the cable repairman allowed me to accompany him as a helper yesterday.
The doctor would be devastated, but ready to move on when the dust settled. But in addition to being proud, men can be possessive and territorial. Add guilt to that mix, and things can become unpredictable, something neither I nor his mistress had completely factored into this.
In my haste to accept the job, I hadn't spent enough time learning whether the doctor was prone to violence. Sloppy. For all I knew, he could be waiting with a butcher knife.
I was being silly. The man had a professional career to think about.
Her Audi TT arrived, parking in front of the house as its headlights went out. Nothing stirred inside the home. No lights came on that I could see. From her tiny trunk, his wife removed two small grocery bags, probably intent on preparing dinner.
Such devotion and innocence. I almost felt sorry for her. A tinge of guilt crept in, growing the closer she came to the front door.
As she put her key in the door and opened it, I imagine she only saw the faint spark of the cigarette lighter. Probably didn't smell the natural gas just before her world exploded in a cascading inferno of flame and exploding glass, and his world ended.
Fini.
The explosion shook the block, setting off car ala-rms. I saw her on the ground amidst the smoldering debris, her blouse afire as she rolled around, writhing in pain.
Before my mind had registered it, I was sprinting down the street.
All I heard were her screams as I pulled her to safety, swatting out the fire on her clothing as we went.
“It's going to be all right,” I repeated, a mantra more for me than her. She didn't listen, just kept screaming as she kept her hands cupped to her face.
When I managed to move her hands away, I realized how wrong I was.
Her frantic sobs were haunting.
Her eyes.
“Oh my God,” I muttered as I witnessed her by the light of the burning structure.
She had shrapnel in her eyes.
Collette was her name.
Chapter 23
One month ago . . . Dallas
 
 
We were at the game in Irving. The final season in the old stadium. Perfect timing for them to come to town.
We greeted them with boos, as we should, the roar and rush of a crowd reviling these black-and-silver pirates intent on stealing a win from The Boys.
On all the beer, hot dogs, and Dr. Pepper in the place, that wasn't going to happen.
I marveled at how her senses handled everything, how she kept from being overwhelmed by all the voices, sounds, and smells. She held my hand tightly, as if she knew I was curious, and wanted to convey those sensations and what she was experiencing to me.
“Having a good time?” I asked.
“Totally,” she replied with as warm a smile as I'd ever seen grace her beautiful face. “I haven't done this since . . .”
“Since some other guy asked you out to a football game?” I clumsily joked.
She swung her free hand, managing to land a fist on my shoulder. “I'm trying to enjoy things and you keep coming with the jokes. What's the score?” she asked.
“Twenty-one to six,” I answered.
“We're winning, right?”
“Can't you tell from the crowd?”
In spite of the expected ass-whipping, something was off with Oakland's performance. I turned my binoculars toward the field, curious as to how large my role might be in it all. Andre Martin, Oakland's star wide receiver, fumbled the ball on what was a sure touchdown pass. The home crowd whipped up into another frenzy of cheers and laughs. When the Dallas player said something to him about it, Andre blew up and shoved him. The referee called a penalty for his extra effort. When he kept yapping, another personal foul was tossed on.
For a man who had grown into a marketable role model recently, Andre was certainly regressing. Team chemistry in disarray and a meltdown on display. When he got to the sideline, Oakland's coach told Andre, in not so nice terms, to take the bench. Any chance of Oakland at least making the game respectable was slip-sliding away.
On Dallas's next possession, they threw an interception, a result of the football bouncing into the air when it struck someone's helmet. Oakland was fading, but still had a shot. Rather than putting Andre in to redeem himself, the coach turned to San Antonio Jackson.
In Las Vegas, San Antonio said he wanted to ruin Andre's life, take away what Andre
thought
he had. San Antonio was showing just how determined he was to make that a reality.
“Touchdown, Oakland,” the announcer delivered as San Antonio celebrated another eviscerating swipe across Andre's wounded psyche. I wondered how news of the photos had been presented to him. If San Antonio were really out for revenge, he probably leaked word about Andre to their teammates. Death by tiny cuts, as they all reassessed their relationships with their once-rising star.
Andre had a towel draped over his head, ignoring the celebratory atmosphere. I smirked, continuing to watch as San Antonio played for the network cameras. The man was a good actor. He came over by the bench, where the lone Andre dwelled, placing his hand on his shoulder like the big brother he used to be.
Before Andre's betrayal.
Before San Antonio sought me out to deal with that betrayal.
When San Antonio tried to talk to Andre, Andre attacked him, shoving San Antonio into a Gatorade bucket. To the world, it seemed an ungrateful, jealous teammate was biting the hand that fed him. It had to bring San Antonio some level of satisfaction at this point.
“You're being too quiet, Chris. What am I missing?” Collette asked.
“Just the end of the game,” I said as I lowered my binoculars. I placed her hand on my bicep, resting my hand atop hers to lead her from the stadium.
 
 
We shared a light dinner before returning to her apartment. After dinner, she was up for company and asked if I'd stay awhile. Of course, I obliged. As reluctant as I was to admit it, there was nothing I wouldn't do for her. Her dimly lit place was earthier than mine—rich colors and textures, from deep burgundy walls to imported bamboo table lamps, provided an intimacy that exuded warmth and class. The strategically placed potted ferns showed evidence of the love that had been given to them. All from someone who relied on memories past, of a hidden sight. Made me ashamed of my spartan existence, the empty vessel I was. Maybe that's what I wanted . . . needed from her: someone to make me feel something.
I imagined that everything in here was fixed, set according to a system that allowed Collette to live a normal life. I feared moving anything out of place, but curiously eyed her reading material. Several James Patterson novels—of course, both in Braille and audio—sat in a convenient location next to a CD on erotic massage techniques. I smiled to myself at that one, knowing how expressive she could be with her hands in the most mundane of situations. My mind wandering in a devious direction, I almost missed the other Patterson work. It was a regular print edition. Basic worn, printed words with nothing spectacular to it—except for the burn marks on the margins and secondary smell of smoke when I put it to my nose.
Apparently, she and Patterson went back much longer than she and I. Advantage: the real author.
I heard the rushing water as Sophia showered. Down the darkened hall, I could just make out the railing installed along the wall. Rather than enter the abyss in search of her, I sat back down, turning on the TV to pass the time. ESPN News had highlights from the Oakland/Dallas game that evening. In particular, the sideline fight, which was the tantalizing side story to Oakland's loss. I fished my laptop from my backpack on the side of the sofa. Opening it, I sent digital photos of Andre Martin to the website 4Shizzle—the same ones I'd given to San Antonio Jackson back in Vegas, timing this to further his purposes and reinforce the negative buzz he wanted.
Wakey. Wakey. Someone's got a present for you, I casually typed as the dialogue box opened between me and my paying customer.
And it's not even Christmas. You “sound” like you're in a good mood.
What can I say? Things are good. Life is good.
You must be getting some. Trying to make me jealous. Let me look at what you sent.
I waited while she uploaded the images somewhere on the East Coast. Allowed her to digest what the pixels told her.
Who's that?
Andre Martin. Heard of him? I asked sarcastically.
Damn. Didn't recognize bottom boy with his face all contorted. Hurts so good, I guess.
The other pic is of more suitable quality.
This is some heavy shit. Wasn't he just on ESPN actin' the ass?
IDK.
Think this had anything to do with his stank attitude in the game?
IDK. I'm just a nobody sending u pictures.
U are SO full of shit. Who's the muscle-bound so-and-so putting the lumber to him?
Not important, I typed.
If it's not important, then why did you obscure him?
She was a quick one. Like Jason.
Because you're not paying me for that, I replied.
How can you be sure I'm paying you for this anyway? Might be photoshopped.
U know better.
Not so cheerful now, huh? Can't even make out the tats on the man's arm, the anonymous cyber-editor complained. I smell a bigger story. If I offer more $$$, would you consider giving me the unedited pics?
Not yet . . . at least.
Collette returned, fresh from her shower. “What are you doing?” she asked as she felt for the arm of the sofa. I resisted the urge to help, having been scolded by her too often.
“Checking the news and outlining the next chapter,” I replied. She had to have heard my keystrokes. No point in being totally dishonest.
Are you there?
Gotta run.
I'll let you hit it then quit it this time, but don't get used to it.
LOL. Funny. Will be in touch.
Collette sat next to me, smelling of sweet oils and gardenia, her curly hair wet from the shower. She rested snugly in her soft cotton robe. I abruptly ended my online talk, feeling guilty about the lurid images that I'd just shared. Made me think of her cousin Sophia for the briefest of moments. But she was long gone from the equation; everything in balance now with the absence of that random variable.
“You promised,” she complained, acknowledging the faint whir of my laptop's cooling fan. “Do you ever stop working?”
“Sorry. It's a bad habit of mine, but pays the bills.”
“What's it . . . about?” she asked, kissing my ear ever so subtly, her irritation subsided. Made me wonder what else she'd been doing while in the shower. In spite of my desires, rushing was not something I wanted to do with Collette. Slow and easy had been my way since this courtship began months ago.
“I'm not . . . supposed to tell you. Remember?”
“Just this once. Please, Chris. Share something of yourself with me. I've never been able to ask this of a real writer before.”
“Okay. It's about a bad man who does bad things,” I relented, closing my eyes as Collette sucked on my neck. It was so soft, so subtle that I almost didn't feel it until she'd been well on her way.
“Does he pay the price in the end?” she whispered, pausing from her groove.
“I don't know yet. It's too early in the book,” I replied as my pulse sped. It was hard lying to her about what was a blank screen with no story on it.
“Maybe he finds redemption.”
Not meaning to, I laughed. Killed the vibe dead. “That's how you want it to end?” I asked.
“I suppose. But it's not my story to tell.”
“It could be. Want me to write it that way for you?”
“No. Then it wouldn't be yours. And I don't want you to do something just for me. James Patterson wouldn't.”
“That's just it. I'm no Patterson. You should have someone doing something just for you. You're special, Collette. Special to me. And I would write the story that way if you want me to. I mean it.”
She sighed, taking my hand in hers and rubbing it vigorously. “Y'know, it's been too long since someone's treated me like this. Thank you.”
“You're welcome,” I replied before kissing her on the forehead. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened . . . with . . . ?”
“Now?” Although absent of sight, she knew where my eyes were focused.
“If it still bothers you, you don't have to.” My voice wavered, too pushy in my attempt at intimacy. Images of that night ran through my mind as, absent her dark shades, I noticed the faint physical scars that remained. This was her home. No need to wear them.
“It doesn't. It's just that I'm not sure myself. Still,” she replied. She smiled, albeit a nervous one. “One day, my husband did something completely out of character and it resulted in this. I suppose I never really knew him.”
“Probably vice versa. He didn't know you. Or how special you really are.”
Collette giggled nervously. “You knew Myron?” she joked, grazing the truth in her ignorance.
“That's his name?” James. His middle name was James. Graduated third from the top of his class in medical school.
“
Was
his name.”
“Oh. I'm sorry about having you relive—”
“Stop,” she interrupted. “Just stop. I don't want any sadness or regret spoiling our day, Chris. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma'am,” I said with a laugh. She took her bare foot, sidling it comfortably beneath the bend of my leg. I gently ran my hand across her leg, massaging her calf. Things grew quiet as I turned off her television, allowing me to hear the soft moan escaping her lips.
“Chris?” she called out as I moved my hand up her thigh.
“Yes?”
“What are we doing?”
“Living,” I replied, sensing the tremors building within her as I rubbed her clit.
“Loving?”
“Yes.”
“I . . . I want you,” she said.
I lifted Collette from the sofa, carrying her in my arms as if she were precious cargo. As we entered the abyss of her hallway, I left the lights off. Light wasn't needed, for I held my torch to keep the darkness at bay.
BOOK: Crushed Ice
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