by AB Plum
Dead is what I’ll be if I go through with concocting my dessert.
Holding hands with my daughters, I imagine presenting their father with the chocolate pie piled high with vanilla-infused whipped cream. I’ll serve it on the Georg Jensen silver platter, presented over two hundred years ago to Michael’s aristocratic great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather by the Danish Crown.
Will the aristocratic-in-his-own-mind grandson ever guess the special ingredient?
Liberty, my thoroughbred mare catches sight of me and canters across the paddock. Two more mares follow her. All three whinny in noisy, delighted welcomes. The two girls drop my hands and race for the horses. They check over their shoulders and urge me to hurry.
They have no idea I’m planning their father’s ultimate humiliation.
Hot and cold needles jab my little toe, but I wave and yell, “Yahooo.”
When Michael finishes his piece of chocolate pie, I’ll announce the secret ingredient.
Two heaping tablespoons of dog shit.
How will he kill me?
Slowly, I am sure.
Unfortunately, after fifteen years of mastering torture, he never leaves physical scars or bruises or legal proof. I bite my bottom lip until I taste blood.
Liberty nips my hair, pulling it out of its pony tail, and chomps on the ends.
As I stagger backward, Alexandra and Anastaysa howl.
“Owww,” I cry in mock pain, loving their laughter.
“Oooh, poor baby,” they chant in unison. “Poor Mamá.”
“What kind of wimp do you think I am?” Shoulders back, I tap my chest. “I’m tough. Hard-as-nails tough. Let’s race to the pond, then go home and make dessert for dinner.”
“What, what, what?”
“I’m thinking chocolate chip cookies.” There’s a hitch in my voice as I let go of the dog-shit pie, but I add in a stronger tone, “Nothing beats chocolate chip cookies.”
For the sake of my two daughters and son who adore their sperm donor, I can’t give in to my hurt ego. I need to stay alive. Feed his belief he has broken me.
Surviving tonight will be the first step.
Piece of cake. But oh how I wish it was a piece of pie—chocolate, laced with dog shit.
Laughing, I hobble after my daughters.
Would it surprise Michael to know his dog-shit gift is the best thing he’s ever given me?
No dog-shit pie tonight, but I think I’ve figured out how to give him his just desserts.
Chapter 15
HE
“Hello, Mister Roma—”
“You said you understand confidentiality.” Taking time to call Tracy on my way back to my meeting makes me even later so I extend no small courtesies.
The sound of an indrawn breath, then she speaks as if she’s swallowing tears. “You called sooner than I expec—you’ve checked all my references?” Her voice carries the eagerness of an innocent child. God, how did she ever fool any man running his own business?
“I want to make you an offer.” Vomit rises in my throat as I jog through the back door.
She squeals, and I almost drop the phone. “When?”
“Tonight. But we have to settle a few issues. Nothing big, but you’ve been around. No office visits after hours until you’re a bona fide employee.”
“I understand. How about if we meet at my place?”
“Too big a risk.” The oil coating each word should warn her.
“I’ve read about your fabulous penthouse . . .”
Why simulate coyness when you’ve hooked the sucker?
“A couple of execs came in unexpectedly an hour ago.” A lie, but I infuse the words with disappointment.
“You’re too well known for a local hotel.”
I imagine her pouting. “Come on, let’s get creative.”
She sighs. Long. Dramatically. “What about a friend’s place?”
“How about the San Antonio entrance to Shoreline Park?” I speak in a rush—like a horny kid hit by lightning. Instead of like a CEO with no time for explanations. “At six o’clock, it’s dark. No one will see us. I’ll bring wine. Or do you prefer champagne to celebrate?”
“Either, but—”
“Do you know where I’m talking about? It’s extremely private.”
“I know it. Sometimes I hike into the park from that entrance.” She hesitates, then blurts, “What the heck? To prove what a great sport I am, I’ll even arrive early.”
“Excellent. Work calls.” The regret in my voice sounds so phony, I’m shocked she doesn’t throw the phone down and start screaming. “I’ll be wearing my hazmat suit.”
“Your hazmat suit?” she repeats like an angry parrot.
“Okay.” I inject a pissy note in my reply. “Who cares about time? I’ll change first.”
“Or . . . you can change in my car.” She giggles. “Now that’s an option I like.”
*****
The air in the sterile, movie-set lab of stainless steel tables and anemic walls and buzzing fluorescents projects ultraclean. At 4:15, unable to sit still, I interrupt Sam Barrett’s monologue and tell him, the five other lab managers, and the techs to go home. Sam draws in his chin and sputters. For an instant, I see the wrinkles of AnnaSophia’s friend. My gut twists. I rein in my imagination and ease back in my chair.
No one swallows. No one speaks. No one breathes.
The spell breaks with someone’s applause. Soon everyone claps and cheers. Why not? They’ll become millionaires from this deal because of me—not because of Sam. They float out—dazed and euphoric. Sam bustles over, but I keep my eyes pointedly fixed elsewhere. The rebuff hovers between us—an inescapable reminder of who runs this circus. He mutters good night, a chastised penitent leaving the confessional. The door snicks shut behind him.
Electricity tingles from my fingertips to my toes. I stand, inhale, stretch. I don’t need an excuse for breaking all the rules and regs by leaving the lab in my hazmat suit. Still, I prefer no witnesses. So I walk back and forth between several tables, peer into a couple of scopes, stop at the windows bringing in the approaching night. What a shame my father can’t survey my kingdom. Would he finally admit I’ve done him proud? What would he think about my decision to handle Tracy?
My reflection stares back at me—a space creature in neon-green hazmat gear. My father would stare at me and lament my brother’s death. As for Tracy, he wouldn’t give a damn.
What are the chances she has a weak heart? Her seeing me in my space suit could save me a lot of trouble if she went into cardiac arrest. The thought brings a smile. I text Regan.
The wall clock reads 4:30. Full winter darkness just minutes away. No moonlight will brighten the darkness of this night. Serendipitous? I chuckle, crack the door into the hallway and check left and right. Experience has taught me to take no foolish chances. My whole body, fueled by excitement, feels lighter than an unleashed balloon.
When Regan’s text confirms her departure, I wait ten more minutes, enter my private elevator, and extend my arms. No signs of a quiver. No sweat or body odor. No upset gut. One more hour and my number one problem disappears.
With no time to lose, I uncork cold bottles of Dom Perignon and Kistler Chardonnay, placing them next to the picnic basket already packed with cloth napkins, silverware, and china. Iced oysters, lobster-stuffed mushrooms, macadamia nuts, crostini with whipped feta, and olives come from the fridge. The company chef has laid them out beautifully on individual plates.
When I unlock a drawer behind my desk, the hazmat gloves exaggerate a slight tremor in my hand. Exhilaration pumps into me, but my hand steadies as I remove the salt spoon and the 300-milligram vial of crushed oxycodone. I spike the Chardonnay and champagne with 100 milligrams each of the tasteless white powder, add two crushed Xanax tabs and dissolve two Rohypnol caps. Enough “good stuff” to stun an elephant. I re-cork the bottles with silver stoppers. My secret ingredient goes into everything except the nuts, olives, and oysters.
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These three treats I’ll consume—if Tracy questions my restraint.
Mentally, I rehearse my opening. “The chef made the stuffed shrimp just for you on my orders. You strike me as a lobster-kind-of girl.”
The elevator descent gives me the sensation of levitating. The picnic basket and my briefcase keep me balanced, but I swear my feet float above the floor in the deserted parking garage. A thorough scan reveals three parked cars—all mine—the Benz, a Corvette, and the Veneno. One hundred and fifty Unleashed employees have left the building.
No communication from Dimitri means he has executed the plan perfectly.
At thirty-two minutes past five, I set the picnic hamper and my briefcase on the backseat of the Benz. I remove the hazmat mask and gloves, stuffing them between my seat and the door. Next, I remove the empty Nordstrom box from the trunk and stand it behind the passenger seat. Finally, I climb behind the steering wheel, start the engine, and smile at the security guard.
He informs me about a glitch in the security system, assures me it’s under control, opens the gate manually and salutes me as I drive out.
Solved, the problem of video evidence of me leaving in my hazmat gear.
Soon, very soon, I’ll solve the problem of AnnaSophia as easily.
*****
A dozen non-descript cars sit in the poorly lit parking lot of Scimetrx—a start-up running on half a shoestring. Fluorescent lights illuminate parking near the front door, but Dimitri has left the black, 1999 Toyota Avalon exactly where I asked—in the shadows of a tree. I park the Benz on the other side.
This is it. No backing out now. I’ve come too far . . . No options left.
The pressure in my gut becomes almost unbearable even though my perfect plan is proving flawless. My breath inside my mask rasps. Forcing my mind to go blank, I fumble on the gloves. The suit squeaks as I remove the Avalon’s key from under the front floor mat. I offload the picnic basket and my briefcase. Fog wafts in from the Bay’s marshes, but my suit blocks the nip that always chills Silicon Valley after sunset.
If Tracy has the car heater on, I may pass out before our first glass of wine.
At the park entrance, I dim the headlights. Parked in the most tree-protected place. Obviously experienced at clandestine rendezvous. My lip curls. Shells and gravel crunch under the tires—barely audible because of the music rocking her Fusion in its own earthquake.
Expecting the quiet of a Buddhist monastery, I feel my eardrums explode. I choke the steering wheel until it shudders. Some shred of logic warns I’m about to break the wheel off the steering column. I take a deep breath. And another. And another. In my rush to throw open the door and get out, I trip, landing on one knee.
Mental fragments unwind. In the park. The old lady. Her damn mutt. That stench. Caca on my clothes. The loss of face in front of Enrique and Jorge—peons, yes—but for all I know, they snickered behind my back to each other or rolled their eyes or cocked an eyebrow the way Latinos do when they’re laughing at el hombre.
Someday, someday, someday sooner than later, they will tell someone.
Word of my humiliation will get out. AnnaSophia will hear and trace the incident back to when the cheating bitch sucker punched me with proof of her public betrayal.
“. . . my lips are sealed. You’d have to pry them open surgically.” Tracy’s words clang.
I stand. I may be unable to change the past, but I can certainly orchestrate the future. Jerking the picnic basket off the backseat, I tromp to her car and rap on the driver’s window.
Her squeal seals her fate. In that moment, I hate her. More than I hate AnnaSophia. More than I hated my brother. Or my mother.
Why the phony, school-girl squeal?
Stupid cow. Didn't I call? Warn I was coming directly from the lab? Didn't I breathe like a horny adolescent? Groan I wanted to see her so badly I’d change my lab clothes later?
The world will not mourn the loss of one more fool.
Of course she hasn't locked the car doors. How did she ever think she could work for me? She has the brain of a recently lobotomized goose. My eardrums bleed from the music’s throb. I get in her toy car less deftly than I’d imagined.
“Need a . . . hand?” she offers in that breathless, lounge-singer tone I loathe.
I reject her overture with a headshake and lower the volume.
“Gotta say, your outfit’s sort of . . . sexy.” She giggles then twists a CZ the size of a grapefruit—one of her eighty damn earrings.
“Glad you noticed.” I set the generic wine glasses on the console of her stupid Fusion. My legs bang the steering wheel. My head bumps the roof. Thank God, this won’t take long.
She giggles again. “Wearing your suit outside the lab’s a no-no, isn’t it?”
Wordlessly, but staring deep into her eyes, I pour her a full glass of the Kistler. Too pricey at a hundred dollars a bottle for a conniving, manipulative bitch with another fake diamond impaled in her tongue and fake boobs popping out of her open blouse.
“Smells expensive.” She sniffs the contents of her wineglass, then swirls the wine.
My gorge rises, but I whisper, “Don’t wait. Zin’s my drink.”
“Nice.” She gulps half the glass and turns the bottle toward her, never questioning why it’s already open. “How’d you know I prefer Chardonnay?”
“You told me. I brought the zin and champagne—just to be ready.”
She giggles and bats her eyes. “I bet you’re always ready.”
My breathing speeds up. Careful, careful. Don’t outsmart myself. I offer her a plate. “Lobster-stuffed shrimp. I ordered them from the company chef especially for our celebration.”
“You are soooo sweet.” She clinks her half-empty glass against mine, finishes hers then pops a mushroom in her mouth. Chewing like the cow she is, she asks, “Want me to help you get undr—more comfy?”
“What’s the hurry?” Pissed my dick is throbbing to the beat of the damn music—not from her boobs which don't compare with AnnaSophia's firm, round, real beauties—I refill her glass and pass her a linen napkin with three lobster-stuffed shrimp.
She pops the hors d'oeuvres, pats her mouth, taps her chest. “How unbelievable you went to all this trouble . . . for . . . me.”
“You’re worth all the trouble.” I swallow some zin—in case she actually gets suspicious.
“That wine is . . . wun…ful…der. May I . . . smother mush?” She bats her mascaraed lashes, holds out her napkin and palms another shrimp off the serving plate.
“My pleasure.” I shoot her the kind of high-wattage smile middle-aged, randy men flash hookers they meet in a bar and lay two mushrooms on the napkin. “More wine?”
“Why not? I won’t be driving for a while.” She slurs the words. Her glass wobbles.
“No, you won’t be driving for a while.” Not now or ever. I splash wine into her glass. The light from the dash confirms pencil lead is bigger than her pupils.
“No offense, but . . .” She yawns, making no effort to cover her mouth. She straightens, wiggles her shoulders, drains her glass, and sighs. The sigh morphs into another yawn.
“Let me give you a refill.”
“Hmmmm?” She squints, shakes her head, and lays it against the headrest. “Tired.”
“Rest.” Forever and ever.
Patience raveling, I glance at the clock on the dash. Only 6:15?
Her breathing is shallow. Ragged, but Jesus, most people would be unconscious after slamming back two-thirds of a doctored bottle of wine. Factor in the half-dozen drugged appetizers, and I should be on my way to AnnaSophia by now.
I resist the urge to pinch her nostrils. Help her along the way.
Patience, patience, patience. Confident she’s drunk her last drink, I toss her leftovers in a standard take-out box, re-cork the zin, and repack the picnic basket. Her snoring and gurgling quicken my pulse. I open my briefcase and remove the single sheet of paper.
“Want me to read you this?” I hol
d the paper in front of her nose. “It’s an email. From me. To you. A letter of rejection.”
No response. The rise and fall of her chest is more irregular and definitely slower. Eight breaths per minute. The final sign.
“Okay, you wouldn’t like what I said anyway. Luckily, now you don’t have to bear the humiliation of unemployment.”
I lay the paper on the dash and pour what’s left of the Chardonnay into her glass. Next, I spill half the contents down her cleavage and wrap her fingers around the stem, taking my time, showing no disrespect. Her skin is waxy and cold, but her heart keeps pumping.
On a whim, as a test of her consciousness, I remove the biggest earring.
Her mouth drops open—exposing that obscene tongue-ring. She exhales one last breath—a bark, followed by a snort.
“Yessss.” It’s over. I toss the earring in my briefcase and raise the volume on the CD player to its previous ear-splitting level. Covering my ears, I stare at her lifeless body.
Who’d have thought she was so damned resistant?
Chapter 16
SHE
“Mamá, these cookies look like horse patties.” Alexandra scowls at four dozen chocolate chip cookies cooling on the granite bake station. The fragrance of butter and sugar fail to refute her statement. Or soften her expression. Or temper her condescension.
“They do not.” Magnus sticks out his tongue at Alexandra.
“Hey.” I push an auburn curl off his damp forehead. Thank God he did not inherit the copper color of my hair. “Would you like it if I stuck out my tongue at you?”
“Alexandra’s being mean.” Tears well in his gray eyes, then dribble down his cheeks.
My scalp tightens. He’s too sensitive—a character flaw in a five-year-old boy his father considers a future business magnate. I tap his small, bony chin, tipping it up so that our eyes meet. “Remember, you did stick out your tongue.”
“Right. So I wasn’t being mean, but you are being such a baaaaby,” Alexandra taunts, curling her bottom lip.