by T. F. Jacobs
Her feet.
Thick, long legs.
Toned belly, full breasts.
Gorgeous round face.
But it’s not Lexi.
She looks down at the glass. At my bloody hand.
“David,” she shrieks.
She grabs a towel and brings it to my hand. She ties it and uses another towel to sweep away the glass.
Then she sits at my side. Holds up my hand on her leg.
She leans in and rests her head on my shoulder.
I turn, taking her in.
“Get out,” I say.
She lifts her head, puzzled.
“What? I’m just trying to help—”
I cut her off. “No. You have to leave.”
She stares. Wonders if I’m joking.
“Get out!” I shout.
She shudders, then gets to her feet.
She walks out of the restroom, and I hear footsteps in the living room.
A moment later, the front door slams shut.
I’m alone.
Chapter 12
Tuesday has become my least favorite day.
No, I take that back. Every day is my least favorite day.
I’m sitting outside Rebecca’s office.
When I returned yesterday I called Brit and told her the deed was done. Needless to say, she was pleased. I couldn’t bring myself to watch the video of the senator, Rachel, and myself, but I uploaded it to a remote server Brit gave me and left the copies of the bill in the PO Box she specified. This morning I found a new thumb drive on my doorstep, so I put it behind the fridge with the other one.
How much longer do I have to do this? How much further does it go? Ford implied we are already working with the White House, but what does that mean? Advisors? Health Board? Vice president? The president? A good lawyer always plans for every possible scenario. If my case can go further than it will based on what we already have, I have to get it there.
The door opens and I see Rebecca standing tall, wearing stilettos and a short blue dress that hugs the curves of her body. She’s wearing pink makeup on her naturally almond-colored skin.
“David,” she says through a smile. “Come.”
She gestures for me to join her inside, and I do, a bit surprised by her pleasant tone. She makes her way around her glass desk, the green of the Pasadena Country Club in full view behind her.
We take our seats.
“Sounds like you have been a very good boy.”
Her eyes are fixed on me.
“My assistant spoke to Senator Ford’s assistant. She said that things went perfectly, and that the senator would be pushing forward our proposal very soon. Good boy. Or should I say bad boy?”
My eyes narrow in anger. She knows.
Her hand moves from her chin slowly down her neck. Her shoulder. Her breasts.
She lets out a throaty laugh.
I hate her. She thinks any guy would give his right testicle to screw her. She looks fantastic, I’ll give her that. But I wouldn’t screw her if she were the last woman on earth. And yet she’s the one with a multi-million-dollar house and exotic sports cars. She’s the boss who makes American True Care do what it does.
“Senator Ford alluded to American True Care having ties to the White House already. Is it true?” I demand. I’m done with her games.
“Uh, uh, uh. No, no, David. I call the shots. You do what you’re told. Remember?” Baby talk again.
It takes every fiber of my being not to stand up to her.
“Sorry, Rebecca.”
“You’re asking too many questions, just like Kevin did when he started working with the White House. If you want to get to that level, you have to earn it.”
So she’s saying we are in with the White House? I want to press further, but I know I’ll be pushing my luck.
“My work thus far isn’t good enough?”
She stares at me, incredulous.
“Listen, fuck face, I ask the questions. Got it?” Her voice is back to the throaty condescending one I know so well.
Threats to make the world go round.
“Got it.”
“Good. You’ll get your next assignment later this week. Most likely Sacramento. Now get the fuck out of my office.”
There goes the pleasant attitude she started with. Sacramento isn’t what I need right now either. I need bigger. But I can’t say anything else—she’s made that much clear.
I stand and smile, then turn toward the door.
She sticks up her fist and then flips me off on my way out.
. . .
I’m back inside my office, glancing out into the parking lot below at the Audis, BMWs, and Range Rovers. The money being flaunted is brought to us by the average American Joes just trying to make sure they are covered in the chance they get sick or hurt.
I pull out my burner phone. I need to tell Brit about Kevin. Rebecca all but said he was the one pulling the strings for the White House. If we can link American True Care to the White House, we will surely have what we need to bring the company down.
But I have to wonder if American True Care did something to Kevin. Ever since I got the lobbyist position, Rebecca has threatened me not to mess up any of these deals, but I never believed she would do anything more than simply fire me. Now I’m not so sure. Something about the way she talks of Kevin makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Even if I can track this Kevin guy down, it’s doubtful we’ll get him to cooperate. But I have to try.
The phone rings four times, then disconnects.
Dammit.
A moment later, my BlackBerry rings. Why would she call me on my work phone?
“This is David.”
“Come to my office, asshole.” The pompous Bronx accent is instantly recognizable: Stan, my old boss.
He hangs up.
What the hell is this about?
I open my door and make my way past the sea of cubicles I used to belong to, then stand in front of his office. His assistant isn’t there to greet me, so I knock.
“Yeah,” Stan calls through the door.
I walk in, then glance around the room. Stan isn’t here.
What the . . . ?
The door slams shut behind me.
When I turn around to see him, Stan locks the door.
He faces me. He’s red, and beads of sweat run down his balding head. His short and stocky frame looks even thicker than I remember, and there are sweat pockets all over his shirt.
“Stan?” I ask.
“Sit the fuck down, ass hat.”
I cock my head to the side. I understand he’s probably still mad over the envelope I gave him, but that was a while ago. I never even saw whatever was inside. We moved on.
He darts for his desk, and I casually make my way to the seat across from him.
The picture of him, his wife, and daughters is flipped upside down. Does that mean something happened?
“You smug son of a bitch,” he says, the Bronx in him coming out strong.
“What are you talking about, Stan?”
“Don’t play coy with me. You sit there in your fancy suit with your fancy office, while you do this to me. To me! The man who got you the job. The man who brought you on to American True Care out of college. I went to your wife’s funeral, for crying out loud. And this is how you treat me.”
I’m lost. This has to be about something else, but what?
“Stan. What are you talking about?”
He stands. His eyes fuming.
“The pictures, fucker.”
“Pictures?”
He reaches under his desk, and when his arm rises my heart skips. A gun is aimed square at my head.
I leap to my feet.
“Wow! Stan, hold up.”
His words are slow and deliberate. “Sit. Your. Ass. Down.”
I sit.
I watch the barrel of the gun, my nerves fluttering wildly, my breathing stopped.
“You leak tho
se pictures to my Facebook?” He’s screaming now.
“Stan, I didn’t do anything. Hold on a second. Why would I even do that?”
He stares, and the gun trembles in his hand. His face is redder than blood and pouring with sweat.
“You are the only one who saw those pictures. My wife is on Facebook. My mother. My daughters!” I can barely understand him under the thickness of his accent.
“Stan, I am sure they will understand. Now hold on. I swear I didn’t give those photos to anyone.”
His eyes bulge. He shakes his head from side to side.
“You son of a bitch. I knew I should have fired you the moment you said that shit at the funeral.”
My mind searches for ways out of this. I’m afraid. But a small part of me, the part that feels crippled with guilt over what happened with Rachel in that hotel room, wants me to let it happen. Let myself be killed. I betrayed Lexi. I deserve this. But is this how I really want it all to end?
His gun is surprisingly steady, aimed at my head. He’s not of sound mind. I think he might even be drunk. The desk is too heavy to push into him. There are no fire alarms on the wall. If I scream for help it will be too late.
I have to talk him down.
“Stan, I apologize for that. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
He screams.
“Who said you get to play God? Huh?”
“No one is playing God. Stan, I am telling you the truth. I didn’t give the photos to anyone.”
“Bullshit. You are the only person that has seen those. I don’t know how you did either. The only copy was in an e-mail I deleted years ago. There are absolutely no traces anywhere, yet somehow you happened to find them. And the first thought that crossed your mind is that you would blackmail me with them. Well, I am here to tell you you’re done. When you mess with me, I kill you. I thought about calling one of my buddies to kidnap you so that we could take turns curb-stomping your head, but I figured this was more fitting. The place it all started.” He’s rambling. Tears are falling from his eyes, and his expressions are too exaggerated. He’s not drunk—he’s high.
“Stan. Please listen to me—”
But before I can finish my thought he lowers the gun and pushes his computer monitor toward me.
“You leaked these,” his voice cracks from stress.
I look closer, thinking my eyes are playing a trick on me.
But they aren’t.
Utter disgust washes over me.
The pictures are of Stan and a boy who is probably no older than ten. They are in a kid’s bedroom. Stan is forcing the kid to perform oral sex, and the kid is crying.
I look away.
“He asked for it!” Stan screams.
I’m silent. I want to take the gun out of his hand and beat the living shit out of him. This man deserves to die. I’ve always known he was scum. But a child? Now I see why Brit didn’t want me to see the pictures. I don’t know if I would have been able to go through with it. I would have gone to the police.
“Stan,” I say. My words are slow, collected. “Put the gun down.”
“No one understands.” He’s crying now. “My sister is gonna crush my skull when she sees these pictures of me and her son. Best-case scenario I go to jail. My life is over. And it’s all because of you.”
I want to snap back and tell him that I never made him do that. That I would kill him on the spot if I caught him doing what he did. But if I speak to him that way, he will shoot me. I’m about to be killed by someone who deserves a spot in hell right alongside Hitler. If there even is a hell. And maybe I’ve done wrong too, but now I see that it’s people like Stan who really deserve to die.
“Stan. Let’s just think this through. We are both lawyers. Maybe there is a way out of this.”
His eyes lock on mine. He glares.
Scoffs. Tears still running down his face.
He wipes them away. He’s absolutely hysterical. I can see him thinking through his options. They are tearing at his insides.
He looks back at me. Raises the gun.
He fumbles around the desk toward me, barrel fixed on my head the entire time.
He comes within inches of me. I can smell the bitter sweat and feel the humidity of his body next to mine. He looks up at me from his five-foot-four vantage.
His hand shakes.
“Open your mouth.”
I watch him. The gun at my head.
He snaps. “I said, open your fucking mouth.”
I do it.
My breathing is uncontrollable. I can feel sweat dripping down my forehead too.
One wrong move and he’ll pull the trigger.
I need to stop him, but how?
He puts the gun to my mouth, then forces it in.
The cold metal presses against my tongue. I choke out of instinct as he presses it farther along the roof of my mouth toward my throat.
I can barely breathe fast enough out of my nose.
Stan shakes, his eyes fixed on my mouth.
“This is what you get, you son of a bitch.” He’s screaming now.
Please! Someone outside has to hear this.
I picture Lexi on the hospital bed, balding and frail before her last surgery.
I picture our first date together.
Graduating law school.
Our wedding.
Her funeral.
I picture me in my forties sitting on a couch. In my fifties mowing a lawn. In my sixties playing golf.
But none of it is real. I’m here in the room with Stan. These are my last seconds of life before I join Lexi in the ground and the nothingness that follows.
Stan is convulsing from his harsh sobs. The gun quivers against my teeth. I’m crying, afraid of the pain the bullet will cause. The blood that will spew out. The hole it will leave in my head.
I see fear in his eyes too. Fear in his hysterics.
“You fucker,” he yells.
He pulls the gun from my mouth, and before I even realize what has happened, an ear-shattering crack fills my eardrums. Blood splatters across the room, and my head goes numb.
Nothingness engulfs me.
My eyes can’t move.
My face is cold.
I’m convulsing and I can’t stop. My legs quiver and fingers pulse. Eyes go in and out of focus with every heartbeat.
I stare.
Stan is slumped on the floor at my feet. The pistol lies limp in his unmoving hand.
There’s red everywhere. Shards of white spread throughout the room.
Stan’s body lies lifeless. His fat belly protruding on the floor.
My eyes stay fixed on his head, but it’s gone. Or part of it is at least.
The entire right side of his face is missing. The left side is intact, eye shut and blood oozing all over. The right side is red and black, with a hole in the middle.
A black hole.
No eye.
No nose.
Teeth gone.
Just a hole.
The door opens and I can’t take my eyes off him.
I can’t tell if I’m even breathing.
There’s blood on my face. A tangy acidic taste in my mouth. Red splattered across my suit.
“Call 911!” someone yells.
A scream follows.
Footsteps and running.
More screams.
More voices.
Chaos and commotion envelop the room as I stand completely still, eyes fixed on what remains of Stan.
. . .
I’m sitting shirtless in a wood-backed chair, a towel wrapped around my body.
My hair is wet.
Cameras flash from inside the office.
Dozens of police personnel move around me.
“We’ll let you know if we have any more questions,” a calming woman’s voice says from beside me. She’s wearing a blue suit and white shirt, her badge at her belt. I think she said her name was Dana.
I can’t remember; she’s the seventh person I�
��ve talked too.
The first officer on scene. Then his boss. Then a detective. Then another detective.
I’ve talked to so many people that I’ve lost track.
I gave them my full cooperation, and lucky for me, Stan’s room had a camera in the corner. Turns out American True Care already had their eyes on him after an alleged sexual harassment charge by one of the other lawyers.
I watched the video once, but that was enough.
The police concluded he was high and possibly drunk. They are also opening an investigation into the photos and wanted to know if I knew anything, but I truthfully told them I’d never seen them in my life before he showed me them.
They prodded to find out why he would have threatened me, and I told them I had no clue. My only thought was that he was upset over me calling him out about how much of an asshole he was at my wife’s funeral.
They asked me a couple hundred questions, many of them exactly the same, trying to trip me up. But my answers were resolute.
And finally, after five hours, I’m allowed to go.
I leave behind my suit coat, tie, and shirt for evidence, then head down the bleak hall.
. . .
Stan’s suicide still hasn’t fully caught up to me.
I’m lucky to be standing. Truthfully, I don’t know why he didn’t shoot me first. He hated me. Truly hated me.
I’m glad he did it. Of all the sick people I know in the world, he tops the list. A child? His own nephew? He deserved what he got. But now his wife and kids will be the ones to suffer. To live through the torture and humiliation.
Thinking about it more, I don’t know if I would have been able to blackmail him if I’d seen the photos. Knowing what I do now. He got what he deserved, but his wife and kids and nephew didn’t deserve this.
I have to wonder who’s to blame for leaking them to the Internet. I only had the photos in hard copy, not digital.
My instincts tell me there is only one person it could be.
Brit.
But why?
Stan got me the lobbyist position. Why leak those photos? Moral revenge?
Something doesn’t feel right.
I try her number again on my drive home, but she doesn’t pick up.
When I get to my apartment, I toss my keys onto the counter and change out of my pants.
I take a long, steaming shower, letting the water beat against my back.
I dry off and dress, then make my way to the living room. My stomach has been turned inside out all day, disgusted at the mental image ingrained in my brain, and I can’t face eating. I can still see the hole in the side of Stan’s face. The black abyss. The endless blood.