Drop Dead, Gorgeous

by J. D. Mason

“It’s hard to smile sometimes,” he responded, lovingly stroking her hair. He lost himself in the dark pools of her eyes. “But you—you make me smile, lovely Dominga.”

  She wrapped her luscious lips around the head of his cock, and Edgar gave himself fully to her. He was hers in a way that he had never belonged to Annette. He was weak with Dominga, like clay in her hands that she could mold into any shape she wanted him to be, and he loved it. He loved her for it.

  “I love tasting you,” she told him.

  He loved tasting her too. Edgar pulled her up from the end of the bed, turned her over on her back, spread her legs, and lowered his face, burying it between the heavenly space between her caramel thighs. There was no sweeter taste, no aroma more sensual than her. Dominga was his fantasy. She was the kind of woman a man dreamed of loving and of loving him.

  “I love you,” he said, looking up at her, his face covered in her juices.

  She bit her bottom lip, and then smiled, batting thick, dark lashes at him. “I can tell.”

  He became impatient for Annette to die, but he knew that she would. Eventually, she did, and Edgar and his children buried the woman he’d spent so many years of his life with. But he had a new future waiting for him in Dominga. And as soon as he could, to the protests of his children, he married her. She became his, and Edgar’s obsession began to take over, and swallowed them both. Dominga began to resent him for it, and he resented her for possessing him like a demon. He began to watch her, to track her every move. She was a passionate, beautiful woman, and young—so damn young. Too young.

  Dominga waited until he was away on business to misbehave and take a lover, a black man, Isaac. Isaac was a tall, dark, handsome Cuban and every chance she got, Dominga disappeared with Isaac, but she had no idea that Edgar was watching.

  “Edgar! Por favor no! Vamos, Edgar. Por favor, voy a estar con ustedes! Please no! Let’s go, Edgar. Please, I’ll be with you!”

  Edgar pulled the trigger. Isaac’s body folded and dropped to the floor.

  “Edgar?” Dominga was shaking. Her lips were trembling, and he stared at them, wondering if she’d used them to make love to Isaac, the way she’d made love with him.

  He and Jordan Gatewood weren’t so differnet. Both of them had loved women who had betrayed and mocked them, women who had toyed with their devotion and crushed them. Lonnie Adebayo was to Jordan what Dominga had been to Edgar, and just like Jordan, Edgar destroyed that woman with his bare hands. Unlike Lonnie, however, Dominga had no guardian angels watching over her. The thought of shooting her the way he’d shot her lover never occurred to Edgar. He did use that gun, though, beating her with it until there was no trace of her beautiful face.

  Edgar moved mechanically. Edgar thought methodically, as he systematically removed her hands and feet, using a hacksaw he’d had in the trunk of his car. She couldn’t be identified, he reasoned. Without hands and feet, and face. When he finished, Edgar put the hands and feet in plastic bags, went to the bathroom and washed his face and hands. Dominga was dead. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, thinking that thought over and over again, waiting for it to sink in, but it couldn’t. Something inside him blocked it. Dominga was gone.

  He left Isaac in that dirty, tiny house of his. Edgar didn’t care about Isaac or if they found him or could identify him. Let them. Dominga was his wife. Dominga was gone. Dominga was his—

  He carried her to the car, wrapped in a blanket from the bed. It smelled of sex. Her sex. Edgar was careful not to get her blood in his SUV. There was so much blood. But he was careful. He drove to Corpus because it was close. He opened the plastic bag and dropped the hands and feet into the water and Edgar stood there and watched them sink. And moments later, he watched her sink too. Dominga was gone.

  He filed divorce papers a few weeks later. Nobody questioned the fact that beautiful, young Dominga left him. After all, Edgar was too old for her. Poor Edgar, with his broken heart, and silly notions that beautiful Dominga loved him for anything other than his money.

  * * *

  Guilt doesn’t adhere to the rules of time. Most things fade with time: regret, eyesight, memories. But guilt feeds on time, and as it feeds, it grows, and when it runs out of time, it begins to gnaw on the guilty. Dominga was the only woman he’d ever loved. Dominga was the last woman he’d made love to. She was the only one he could ever make himself truly want.

  “Edgar?” Bridgette had come down the stairs and found him sitting in the library. “Baby, it’s late,” she said, sweetly rubbing his shoulders. Bridgette was a toy at best, an amusement that he lavished with gifts and money, but she meant nothing to him. “You should come to bed.”

  He platonically patted her hand. “I’ll be up shortly, sweetheart,” he promised.

  She sighed, and quietly left him sitting there alone, in the dark.

  Lonnie Adebayo was a smart woman. Jordan had failed to mention how smart. Edgar had suspected that she was cunning, but he had underestimated her too. She had been savvy enough to do what he would’ve done in her position. She’d studied her enemy, Jordan, and she’d made the connection between him and Edgar. He had no idea how she’d done it, but she’d done it and that was all that mattered. And then she’d done something else extraordinary. She’d set Jordan aside, and turned her attention to Edgar.

  From their meeting, he could tell that most of what she said to him was her just pissing in the wind. She didn’t know the details, but she had a theory and put it to the test. She had her finger on the big picture and it was the big picture that mattered. So what would she do with what she knew about Edgar, or what she suspected she knew? Would she go to the press and resurrect Dominga? And if she did, would they believe her enough to even be curious? Edgar was an old man. Did he really care anymore?

  He picked up the slip of paper she’d casually left him with her number on it, and dialed it.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  Edgar had played these types of games for longer than she’d been alive, so he knew the rules. He knew them well.

  “What do you want from me?” he reluctantly asked.

  It was a simple question. That’s all it needed to be.

  “Proof.”

  “Of what?”

  “Desi Green’s lineage.”

  “Why?” he asked curtly.

  “Do you really care?”

  Edgar thought about it. “No.”

  Like the Cat That Collared Me

  “We’ve got you on the camera in the parking lot of the supermarket where you and Colette met up, leaving your car and climbing into hers the evening that Ed Brewer and Jake Boston were shot, Frank, corroborating Colette’s version of what happened.”

  They’d caught Frank coming out of San Antonio, driving down Highway 35 headed toward Laredo. He’d taken what was left in his bank account and filled up his gas tank, hoping to make it across the border before they caught up with him.

  “She said that you and she were taking money from Reggie Rodriguez, in exchange for letting his people deal without being arrested.”

  Chuck Baldwin was the detective questioning Frank. Frank remembered when Baldwin first came on the force. He was young and scared—now look at him, all large and in charge and shit.

  “Ed and Jake wanted a piece of the action? Is that true?”

  Frank had the right to remain silent. So, he did.

  “According to Colette, the two of you weren’t getting all that much from Reggie. Maybe Ed and Jake thought you were cleaning up more than you were?”

  Reggie gave them a grand a week, which was change considering how much he was bringing in, but Chuck didn’t need to know that.

  “Maybe it’s just me, but if the two of you weren’t getting much from Reggie, then why bother to shoot Ed and Jake at all?”

  Because Jake was a hothead, who pulled his gun first. And Colette was a methhead who pulled her gun next. Ed was looking out for Jake, and Frank was looking out for Colette. One thing led to another, and all of a
sudden, the whole world turned upside down. Chuck didn’t need to know all of that either.

  “I’ll be honest, Frank,” he said with a sigh. “This isn’t looking too good for you, man. Colette’s adamant about her side of the story, and the only reason she’s telling it at all is because she knows she’s going down for Reggie, and she figures that she might as well take you with her. Now, if I were you, I’d speak up now. Say something to help yourself out here, Frank. Don’t let her take you down with that sinking ship without a fight, man. It ain’t worth it.”

  Chuck Baldwin was a good man, a good cop. He had Frank almost convinced right now that he really did care about what happened to him. If Frank hadn’t seen this ploy so many times before in the past, he might’ve fallen for it, but he knew better than to say shit. If they wanted to prove he shot those men then they’d have to do it in court. Frank made up his mind to do all his talking through his public defender.

  A few days later, Frank and Colette appeared together in the courtroom, awaiting their bail hearings. She looked at him as the two were brought into the courtroom together. They locked on to each other, and Colette’s eyes filled with tears. She mouthed “I’m sorry” to him. Frank turned away.

  His hands and ankles were cuffed. Frank was a fuckin’ criminal. A year ago, they were giving him a plaque and pats on the back. “It’s been good working with you, Frank. Man, you are going to be missed around here. If you ever change your mind and want to come back, just give us a call. We’ll keep your locker warm.”

  Colette was led up to stand in front of the judge first. Some vague-looking public defender appeared like a rabbit out of a hat next to her. The district attorney rattled off the charges, making Colette sound like a regular mass murderer. Then her defense lawyer mumbled some kind of half-assed plea for leniency and bail, which the judge revoked. Colette broke down crying, and two police officers scooped her up, and dragged her out of the room.

  It was Frank’s turn, and with each step, his stomach turned. It was almost over. Frank had been living in denial for so long that now he was starting to feel a sense of relief that this whole thing was coming to an end. It reminded him of having a bad tooth that needed to come out. His knees threatened to give out from under him as the realization was finally setting in that he was going to prison for killing those men. And when it was all said and done, Frank stood to lose his life.

  He fixed his eyes on the gavel sitting in front of that judge. Frank barely even noticed his lawyer sidling up next to him. He heard the shuffling of papers, and the nauseating sound of that judge’s voice as he read off the charges in front of everyone in that courtroom. He was numb and detached from this whole scene, because he already knew how it was going to end.

  “Your Honor, my client is charged with this crime based only on the heresay of another defendant,” he heard his lawyer say, loud and clear. This one didn’t mutter under his breath. Frank looked at him. This one looked like he was wearing a million dollars.

  “A defendant who was also arrested for taking the life of another victim in a crime of which, according to the CTPD (Cotton, Texas Police Department), my client had no involvement whatsoever. Until recently, Mr. Ross was a decorated officer with said police department, with exemplary annual performance reviews and a spotless record.”

  “He’s accused of killing two other exemplary police officers, Your Honor,” the prosecuting attorney retorted.

  “Ah, yes,” Frank’s attorney said pompously, holding up a document in his hand. “A Mr. Edward Brewer, placed on disciplinary suspension twice for citizen complaints of unnecessary roughness, and Jake Boston, who transferred to the Cotton Police Department from the El Paso Police Department, where he was also placed on a leave of absence pending investigation for domestic violence against his then girlfriend.”

  “Your honor, the victims are not on trial here,” the DA argued.

  “Neither is my client.”

  “Not yet,” the DA’s representative snapped.

  “That’s enough,” the judge commanded. He took his time considering Frank, and then made the decision. “Bail set at one million.” He raised his gavel and struck it down on the bench.

  Frank’s heart sank into his stomach. “A million fuckin’ dollars?” he murmured.

  “The angels are on your side today, Ross.” his expensive-looking lawyer said matter-of-factly, packing up his briefcase. “You’ll be out within the hour.” He glanced at Frank, and then followed him as he was led out by the uniformed officers.

  Like the Devil in the Church

  “But you canceled the last board meeting, Jordan,” June said, taking two steps to every one of his to try and keep up with him as he walked back toward his office. “We’re all anxious to get this over with, and by the numbers, if we’re going to do this, then we have to do it now, before someone else comes in and snatches Anton right out from under our noses.”

  His patience with her was running thin. “This isn’t up for debate, June,” he snapped. “Reschedule the meeting for next week, after I’ve had a chance to take a look at some things.” She followed him into his office and closed the door behind them.

  “June.” He spun around and glared at her.

  She put her hand on her hip. “Jordan.”

  Jordan glanced at his watch. He didn’t have time for this shit now. He’d agreed to meet with Edgar for lunch. “We’ll talk about this later. I have a meeting.”

  “Just tell me what it is that’s keeping you from wanting to move on this now? Anton is in a prime spot for us to come in and sweep it out from under Jorgensen’s feet. It’s done, and it’s going at a bargain price,” she said, sounding like a used-car salesman on late-night television.

  “I have my reasons,” he said simply.

  “Why can’t you share them with me? Why can’t you share them with the board? Maybe if you did then they’d be willing to take a step back and do it your way, but because you don’t, and with everything I’ve shown them…”

  “Numbers!” he said, suddenly snapping. June and her damn numbers were starting to get to him in the worst way. “This business isn’t just about numbers, June! How many times do I have to tell you that? And how many more times do I have to tell you to respect me and my position and to stop selling that shit to my board members?”

  “Your board members, Jordan? How about our board members? This is my company too, and I have every right to be here as you.”

  “But you haven’t been here, baby sister,” he retorted. “You’ve been in Atlanta, with your husband and your kids, running your little nonprofit,” he said condescendingly. “I’ve been here, June!” He drove his finger down on top of his desk. “For damn near thirty years, I have been here, carrying this damn company on my back to where it is now! These people have seen what I can do! They have trusted what I can do until you came along and started to undermine that!”

  “I’m not undermining anything, Jordan! I’m just—”

  “Forgetting your goddamned place, June. That’s what you’re doing.” Jordan was hitting some serious nerves in his sister, and he could see from the look in her eyes that he’d crossed a line. He quickly composed himself. “There is an order to things, June. You’ve got to know that. You’re a smart woman, and I know you understand what I’m saying. I’ve headed up this company since before you graduated high school, and it’s taken me a very long time, but I think I’ve figured out what I’m doing. A corporation this size needs good, strong, and unshakable leadership. We both can’t go around pounding our chests and acting like each one of us, in our own right, is in charge. We do that and we’ll rip this company apart from the inside out, June.”

  “You know that’s not what I’m trying to do,” she said defensively, folding her arms across her chest. “But I’m also not trying to let the opportunity to grow GII into one of the largest and most profitable oil companies in the world pass us by, either.” She paused. “You’ve been preoccupied, Jordan. I can see it. We all can. I don�
��t know what’s going on with you, but something is, and I’m just worried that you might not be your usual, clear-thinking self. That’s all.”

  Now, she’d offended him. “There’s nothing going on with me that I would ever allow to get in the way of me running this company.”

  “Are you and Claire alright?” she asked, concerned. “I’ve spoken to her a few times, even tried to get her to go out for a drink or lunch. Seems she’s good at avoiding people.”

  “Claire’s fine,” he said dismissively.

  “Are you fine, big brother?” She was pushing, and he didn’t appreciate it. “I know you, Jordan. I’ve studied you my whole life.” June smiled. “I know when something’s bothering you, and something is.”

  June thought she knew him. She knew an idea that was Jordan. He was her big brother, the one who looked out for her, took care of her, and threatened to beat up any boy that she brought home because she believed she was in love. But she didn’t know that Jordan was only her half brother. That her father was the namesake for this company, and his was a broken-down old man living in some no-name town who had handed over Jordan and his mother to another man out of shame and guilt. June had no idea that Julian never gave a shit about him. That Jordan was the part of the package he had no choice but to take when he made up his mind that he wanted Olivia Tunson. No. June didn’t know any of these things. And she didn’t need to know them.

  She didn’t have any idea that he’d nearly killed a woman with his own hands and that that woman was out for revenge now, or that death and killing were nothing new to him. She didn’t know that he had brothers, and probably cousins and nieces and nephews, completely unrelated to her. June had no idea what kind of man Jordan really was. If she did, she’d have skipped her happy ass out of his office and staked a claim to her father’s corporation.

  “Claire and I are trying to have a baby,” he said, thinking that the word baby to a woman would be like kryptonite to Superman, and that it would get her off of him.