Cougar Mom

by Eve Langlais

  Dealing with Tommy had that effect on people. He could be a mean man, especially when drunk. Even worse, she could see it coming. He’d have an evil light in his eyes. His lips would pull into an awful sneer. And the words that spilled from his mouth were designed to hurt as much as his fists.

  She hated the nights he stayed until the bar closed because that meant he came home. Better when he spent his time elsewhere. She didn’t care who he slept with. It saved her from him. A respite that would get her killed if she ever told him how she really felt.

  Escape seemed utterly impossible.

  Forget the cops. They couldn’t help. Tommy knew it and taunted her with the knowledge.

  “Call them,” he said, eyeing her in a way she knew ended with her getting hurt. “Dial nine-one-one, and I promise I will slice myself,”—he held out the switchblade, waggling the shiny weapon—“and tell them you attacked me.”

  The cops might not believe him, but there might be enough doubt that they wouldn’t put Tommy in jail. In the best-case scenario, they’d offer to put her in a shelter. It wouldn’t keep her safe from Tommy.

  When he said he wouldn’t let her leave, he meant it. He’d kill her if she dared try.

  She pretended to sleep despite the second slam of the door as he shut it. Tommy really didn’t care about anyone else. Over time, she’d learned that bullies always did those things on purpose, hoping for just a tiny bit of defiance so they could justify their slaps.

  At times, she wanted to hit him back. Punch him in the face and see how he liked it.

  The satisfaction wouldn’t be worth dying for, however, and one important thing stopped her. She couldn’t leave her children motherless.

  Tommy stomped into the bedroom, construction boots still on. He might be a raging, abusive drunk, but he did go to work. Hungover on Mondays, cleaning up enough during the week so he was just an asshole. Then payday arrived, and by Sunday, he was a hungover blob on the couch, moaning for her to be quiet.

  She remained curled on her side, feigning sleep. She mustn’t even twitch. She remembered to breathe shallowly. Let him think she slept hard. It wouldn’t take him long to pass out once his head hit the pillow. He just needed to lie down.

  Thump. Thump. Boots hit the floor. Then the shush of material followed. Tommy flung himself into bed, and her body rocked. It was hard to pretend to roll with it and fall into a natural, sleeping position.

  Not for the first time, she wondered how it had gotten to this point. She blamed a dumb, young brain, and a shitty home life. A mother who didn’t give a shit about her three kids with different dads. A stepdad who creeped her out.

  She wanted to leave but didn’t comprehend how. She’d met Tommy when she was too immature to know better. He wasn’t as violent then. He’d pick her up from the house on his bike, and they’d ride, the wind in her hair—because only pussies wore helmets, at least according to Tommy.

  When she got pregnant, he’d promised to love them both, forever and ever.

  Those were the days that he’d fooled her. When a different Tommy promised her the world. The name-calling and slaps came later when, at age twenty-one, Tommy could legally get drunk. She should have left then. Instead, she’d had another kid. Hoped the old Tommy would come back.

  He got worse, and now she was trapped. To survive, she had to play nice.

  At least it was the end of the weekend, the cycle would reset for a few days. A bit of time where she might not want to sob.

  The blankets were yanked from her so that Tommy might wrap himself.

  She couldn’t help but shiver.

  He must have been watching because he verbally reacted. “Frigid fucking cunt.”

  Never the start to a good conversation. She tried to pretend sleep a while longer.

  He shoved at her, hard enough that she yelped. No more faking. “Hey, Tommy. You’re home.” She could barely muster the fake sleepy enthusiasm he expected.

  “Where else would I be? I pay for this dump.”

  Actually, she contributed too, but pointing that out was a guaranteed slap.

  “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “No, you’re not, you frigid, lying bitch. And I’ve had it. I’m done living with you,” he declared.

  Could it be? Was he finally leaving? She held her breath.

  “You and those brats are why I work so hard. Get up. Work. Go to bed. A guy never has time to have fun.”

  She could have pointed out the hours he spent on the couch watching television. Used to be they went for walks and out for ice cream. Rides on his bike and watching the sunset. “I’m sorry you have to work so hard.” Never mind the fact that her days weren’t any easier.

  “You should be sorry. Look at what I come home to. A shitty dump and a cold cunt.” His voice turned mean.

  She’d be sporting bruises in the morning if she didn’t do something right now. But he reeked of booze, sweat, and urine.

  “I think we should both go to sleep and talk about it in the morning.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do. I’ll go to bed when I fucking please.” He spat as he spoke, the spittle hitting her face because he just had to get close to her.

  Why couldn’t he just go to sleep? Permanently, would be nice.

  “Go to sleep, Tommy. Or don’t. That’s up to you, but I have to get some rest because I need to get up with the kids in the morning.”

  “Those fucking brats. They don’t even look like me.”

  Those so-called brats were his despite what he liked to think when drunk. Ages one and three. They tied her tighter to Tommy than she liked. She’d really wanted to leave after the first child, but he always found a way to drag her back in.

  He threw out her birth control, and along came number two. She wished she’d had the gumption to run while her belly was still flat.

  But he threatened to hunt them down and kill them if she did. As he said, “If I can’t have you, no one will.”

  To prove a point, he sent her a picture the following day of him parked in front of the sitter’s—Mrs. Alvarez, who minded her babies while she worked, in exchange for housework.

  A shelter wouldn’t save her from Tommy. He’d be a threat until the day one of them died.

  The heavy stench of beer hit her in the face. Fetid and ripe. He grabbed her by the upper body, his thick fingers digging into her flesh. He leaned close, and everything about him stank.

  “It’s time you earned your keep.”

  “I pay for more than my fair share. More than you, sometimes.” She couldn’t help the bitter words.

  Whack. The blow caused her to bite her lip. She glared at him.

  “Want another one?” he snapped. “Now get on your knees and greet me like a proper girlfriend should.”

  “I am not blowing you. It is the middle of the night, and I have to be up in less than two hours.” Because the crack of dawn for some reason woke Donovan, no matter how she tried to black out the window in the other room. A two-bedroom for a steal because of the subway tracks running behind the building. On a warm day with the windows open, you could sometimes catch a breeze.

  “You are such a fucking loser. In bed early. Always fucking tired. I’m tired, I work hard. But I still know how to have fun.”

  “Is that what you call getting drunk?”

  “I drink because you’re fucking boring. You do nothing.”

  “I have fun with the children.”

  “Leeches,” he snapped. “Should have been the load you swallowed, maybe then you’d be fun again.”

  She almost replied, “I grew up.” But he wouldn’t like that. She’d already pushed him too far. She needed to rein in her tongue and placate him.

  “Why don’t you get some sleep and, in the morning, I’ll keep the kids quiet so you can rest. Then how about some nachos for the game?”

  “Ain’t nachos without beer.”

  “With beer,” she promised. Which meant cutting a few things off the grocery list. She’d have
to hit the food bank again. But the bribe worked.

  Tommy rolled off her and heaved a soft sigh. Crisis averted.

  Until the door opened, and Donovan, her baby boy in superhero pajamas, stood there, moaning. “I don’t feel good.”

  Tommy went off like a bomb.

  “Get the fuck back to bed, you little whiner.” The harsh rebuke hit their son.

  Donovan began to sniffle, and a still very drunk Tommy hauled himself out of bed, wearing only his boxers.

  He advanced on Donovan, who began to back away in fear. He didn’t often see this side of Tommy. The daddy he knew, while abrupt, wasn’t usually this drunk when the kids were awake. Donovan didn’t budge when Tommy reached for him.

  “Get the fuck to bed.”

  “Don’t you dare touch him,” she yelled. She didn’t make it out of bed quickly enough before her son hit the floor hard, shoved by his father.

  Tommy whirled, and his smile held a hint of wickedness as if he’d finally gotten what he wanted. “Are you going to tell me what I can do? I’m his father. I can do whatever I like.”

  Between one heartbeat and the next, he was on her, hand on her throat, bending her back, making her gasp with the fear and pain of it.

  Donovan didn’t like it at all. He ran for Tommy and pounded on him with tiny fists.

  “No hurt my mommy.”

  Tommy kicked his leg and sent his son flying. The little body flew. Like literally lifted off the floor, and then hit. Her baby slammed against the wall hard and then fell to the worn parquet floor. Donovan didn’t move.

  She froze. Blinked as Tommy continued choking her.

  Had he just killed her baby? Her sweet Donovan?

  My.

  Baby.

  The strength came from out of nowhere. A place she’d never been able to touch before. A well of rage and grief swamped her. She broke out of Tommy’s hold and ducked under his arm when he would have grabbed her again. She ran for Donovan and scooped him up as she bolted for the other room, a living room with a small kitchenette attached.

  In her arms, Donovan’s breath hitched. He was alive but petrified with fear. Hurting, too. Because of Tommy.

  He’d almost killed her baby.

  That’s it. I’m done. It was one thing to hurt her, but not the children. Never the children.

  Rather than flee, she set Donovan down in the kitchen. She couldn’t leave, not without Caroline.

  Tommy stomped out of the bedroom, his once-flat belly already starting to pooch. His rictus of anger shone clearly in the light from the subway line that came through the dirty window.

  He’d torn down the blind a month ago, and she’d not been able to afford to replace it.

  “I’m going to call the cops,” she stated.

  “With what phone?” he sneered.

  She actually had a reply for that. She reached into the box of healthy cereal he’d never touch and pulled out a prepaid cellphone she’d bought on a clearance rack and kept charged for emergencies—such as this. “With this one.”

  “Proof you’ve been plotting to have me taken to jail. You want to take my kids from me. Ungrateful bitch. After all I’ve done for you.”

  Donovan whimpered at her feet and drew Tommy’s hard glare.

  “You should have been nicer to me.” He didn’t head for her but the other bedroom, the one with the baby.

  She didn’t think at that point. Next thing she recalled, she hung from his back like one of those monkeys seen in documentaries. But those sweet creatures weren’t stabbing anyone.

  She had her fingers around the hilt of the kitchen knife sticking out of Tommy’s flesh. He staggered inches from the crib he’d salvaged during one of his nice days.

  She slid from his back, knife in hand, panting as he turned and gaped at her. In his eyes, she saw the one thing she’d craved for a while now.

  Fear.

  About time he knew how it felt.

  “Help me. Call. Nine-one-one.” His breathing hitched and blood bubbled at his lips. He reached out pleading hands to her. She took a step back. She wasn’t about to get too close.

  She stood and watched until he stopped moving, then called the emergency line. Once she hung up, she grabbed the baby, who’d somehow remained asleep. She sat in the living room with Donovan snuggled close when the cops arrived, kicking open the door.

  The jolt of memory as they rushed in screaming, “Don’t move or we’ll shoot,” roused her from a deep sleep. The disorientation proved extreme as her past as Anita, the battered girlfriend, vied with the present, which involved a throbbing head.

  Great. Another lump. What would she forget this time? Her sweet babies, solemn-eyed Donovan, and dimply cheeked Caroline? Maybe the fact that she hadn’t been Anita in a long time.

  Hold on.

  She blinked as she realized, I know my name. Knew her current name, and all the past ones. Could see Donovan and Caroline in her mind’s eye.

  She remembered everything. The despair as she sat in the jail cell, not at the thought of spending her life behind bars, but upset because she would lose her babies. At the time, she’d consoled herself with the fact that at least Tommy couldn’t hurt them anymore.

  And then she ended up getting a second chance. Recruited by Marie. Brought into the Killer Mom fold, where she excelled at her job. It was more wonderful than she could have imagined. Flying to fancy destinations, seducing the occasional billionaire, and discovering a sense of purpose and pride that made her days with Tommy seem like a distant nightmare.

  But the one thing she never did get over was her fear of commitment. Oh, she’d gotten married. A few times, as a matter of fact, almost all a result of deep undercover operations. Meredith, the name she’d chosen upon her rebirth, didn’t have the same hang-ups about sex that other women did.

  For one, she never attached any emotion to it. Not anymore. Sex was like exercise. Grunt a little. Sweat a little. If the guy wasn’t incompetent, maybe even climax. When it came time to walk away, she did so without looking back.

  In the case of some of her husbands, she killed them when she was done using them. Accidents were an excellent way to cover up the mission’s completion. An unfortunate mishap where he slipped and cracked his head before falling into the pool and drowning. Another had a heart attack behind the wheel. The third had been murdered by his mistress, who was double-crossing him.

  Meredith had lived a full life, and her children had gotten nothing but the best, never knowing she led the life she did. She’d made enough that she could retire, especially given that her children had finished prep school and gone on to university, both graduating with honors and landing decent jobs.

  But then what would she do? Stay at home and bake all day? She still felt young and energetic. She might live another thirty or forty years. She wasn’t ready to retire.

  The throb in her head lessened, and she rolled to her back, noticing that she was untethered and lying on a bed in a small room with a round window. A cabin on a boat. A nice one, but not exactly superb. She’d travelled on much nicer vessels.

  As to how she’d gotten here… She moved from the past into the now. She recalled leaving Hugo, the naked sprawl of his limbs a temptation. What was it about the man that made her lady parts melt?

  Had he been the one to knock her out? No, because she recalled hitching a ride on her way to breakfast from a resort employee. At least she’d thought he worked there. And then, stupid Ariel—not Meredith because she would have known how to spot a fake cab driver—was attacked. Meredith wanted to groan at her naivety. The good news…she’d gotten her memories back, which meant she wasn’t helpless anymore.

  Rising, she noticed that she still wore the same summer dress she had on before, if creased from lying on it. Standing on feet that had lost the sandals she wore, she felt the slight rocking of the boat.

  Glancing out the porthole, she couldn’t see much, couldn’t even tell the time of day. She might have been out for hours or minutes. The g
ood news was that whoever had kidnapped her evidently wanted her alive.

  The door opened at her touch, and she found herself in a richly appointed room that might have been nicer without the gun pointed at her.

  “About time you woke up.”

  “I’m sorry, do we know each other?” she asked, facing the driver of the golf cart. He still had the thick beard and mustache, but he’d ditched the resort uniform for khakis and a button-up shirt, the fasteners open halfway down his chest.

  “We never had a chance to meet because you killed my father and took what should have been mine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Hugo woke alone in the bed with the hideous flowered coverlet. No red hair on the pillow beside him. No morning cuddle or sex. Meredith had left.

  Probably for the best. So, why did it burn? Usually, he was the one sneaking off, leaving Gerome to get rid of overnight guests. He hated the awkwardness that came when he had to douse their expectations. In that moment, he understood how humiliating it could feel.

  He dressed, cursing his stupidity and weakness in hunting her down the day before. She had to have seen through the lame excuse he’d used in returning her swimsuit because he couldn’t just show up and say “hi.” Couldn’t admit that he wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

  Still wasn’t. Their last time had been even better if possible. Her body a perfect fit to his. But good sex wasn’t enough. He needed trust, too.

  Despite taking more time to get dressed than his simple garments warranted, she didn’t return, and he felt pathetic stalling. Hugo returned home and spent a few hours pretending to work, but in actuality, he wondered what Meredith did. Did she think of him at all? Remember the pleasure of their bodies coming together, their rhythm impeccable?

  Would she perhaps be the one to hunt him down? Was it wrong to hope that she would?

  And what of the fact that he’d slept? Soundly. Deeply. Past the witching hour and right until dawn. The second time with her. Not something that ever happened with anyone else.

  He didn’t recall any nightmares. Didn’t suddenly wake, his eyes wide and staring, hearing his sister’s voice on the phone. The pleading. The gunshot.