Home Wrecker

by Dwayne S. Joseph

  Bitch.

  Marlene said, “Steve’s going to tell people that I set him up. I just know it. My family, my friends . . . they’re all going to look at me differently.”

  “Fuck your family and fuck your friends, Marlene. Shit.”

  “I just—”

  “Marlene, I have to go. I have bigger things to deal with.”

  “But what about the other clients?”

  “What about them?”

  “She’s probably going to tell their husbands too.”

  In my bathroom, the glass had been shattered, my makeup completely ruined, everything in the medicine cabinet and underneath the sink had been emptied, opened and spilled. Tiles in my shower were cracked. My glass doors broken.

  Bitch, I thought again. Fucking pathetic bitch.

  I said, “Get your shit together, Marlene, and then call them and make sure they get their shit together too.”

  I hung up the phone without another word. I was standing back within the ruins of my living room.

  Kyra.

  I said her name over and over in my head.

  She’d done what no one had been able to do in a long time: she’d gotten under my skin.

  I took a breath. Clenched my jaws. Balled my hands into fists again.

  Bitch.

  I exhaled slowly, trying to center myself. I needed to center myself. Needed to follow the advice I’d given Marlene. I needed to get my shit together because I could feel myself losing it, and that was something I hadn’t done in a long, long time.

  I took another deep breath and let it out. As I did, my silver Sidekick rang. Marlene had just called me on my black one. Silver was for business. I hadn’t taken on any new clients recently. There was only one person that could have been calling me.

  I hit the TALK button, but didn’t say anything.

  Kyra said, “How do you like the new look of your home, bitch?”

  I clenched my jaws and balled my hand into a tight fist again. Her voice and the scene around me: I was supposed to have been trying to keep my composure, but the combination was making it damn hard. I said, “I assume Myles kicked you out on your ass?”

  Kyra laughed. “You should have taken the fucking money.”

  I thought about the sex and the three hundred thousand Myles had given me and said, “Myles fucked me and gave me three hundred thousand dollars. I did take your money, bitch. And more.”

  “You fucking trick! You have no idea what you’ve brought on yourself. Your apartment was just for starters.”

  “You didn’t accomplish shit by coming here, Kyra, because I can buy back everything you’ve destroyed. What the fuck can you buy back now?”

  Kyra laughed again.

  Something about it made bumps rise from my skin.

  “No idea, you whore. You have no idea what you’re in for.”

  “Let me give you some good advice, Kyra. Don’t fuck with me anymore. I’m not the one you want to fuck with. Believe me.”

  “No, let me give you some advice,” she said, her tone ominous. “Watch your back.”

  “Talk doesn’t mean shit to me, Kyra.”

  Kyra chuckled. “You just don’t know, bitch. I’ll be doing a whole lot more than talking.”

  “Threats don’t scare me.”

  “I’m not threatening you, ho! I’m promising that you’re going to regret ever going to Myles.”

  “You know where I live, Kyra. Bring it.”

  “Trust me, Lisette, you will regret those words.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I ended the call and threw the Sidekick across the room. My heart was pounding. Beads of sweat had formed on my forehead. My hands were shaking. I took a breath and held it in an attempt to calm down again. Closed my eyes and counted backwards from one hundred. Told myself to relax. Calm down. Pleaded with myself to not lose it any more than I already had. Not again.

  Years ago with my ex, I’d lost it. Lost it bad. The day I’d gotten medieval on him is one I’d never forget. That was the day Lisette had truly been born.

  I exhaled and as I did, the memories of that moment came flooding back in my mind.

  His living room.

  Lights dimmed low.

  Music playing from the CD player. Luther. “Always and Forever.”

  It was supposed to have been a romantic evening. He’d been promoted at work. He wanted to celebrate.

  We were dancing, kissing. As we did, his hands slid beneath the skirt I had on, and his fingers made their way up. But it was that time of the month for me, so before he could go too far, I stopped him. Told him it was the first of my seven days. Said he couldn’t have me, but I’d make sure he had a happy ending.

  One thing about my ex: after the first six months of bliss, he became an ass. When he drank, he became worse. Before the wine we’d shared, he’d damn near had a bottle of Henny by himself. He was drunk, horny, and not interested in what time of the month it was.

  He grabbed me. Told me he didn’t give a shit about a happy ending. He wanted his pussy. I pushed him away from me. Told him again that we couldn’t have intercourse. He backhanded me across the mouth. I don’t know why, but I’d endured the abuse before.

  But that night . . .

  I don’t know what was particularly different about it, but that night, instead of taking it, I raised my head, then my hand, which I’d balled up, and hit him back. Hard.

  The shock in his eyes, I’d never forget. He couldn’t believe that I’d hit him. He called me a fucking bitch, and this time, punched me. I almost went down, and maybe on a different day I would have, but that night, instead of falling, I caught my balance, let out a growl from somewhere deep within me, and lunged toward him.

  I punched.

  I kicked.

  I kneed.

  I spat.

  I bit.

  He was stronger, taller, and outweighed me by at least fifty pounds, but that night, his strength and size meant nothing. He couldn’t contain me. He couldn’t handle the rage I’d been harboring deep inside for so long. Years of rage. Rage against my father for fucking me with his eyes. Rage against my mother for abandoning me to be violated. He couldn’t handle it.

  And neither could I.

  That’s when the Lisette that I am now came to be. My former self would never have bitten flesh from his hand. She would never have dug her fingers into his eye sockets. Most certainly, she would never have grabbed the marble paperweight in the shape of a Black Power fist and used that to bash him in his head over and over and over again. The former Lisette would have been lying on her back, letting her ex swim in her bloody sea.

  That night . . .

  My ex died.

  I haven’t been that person since.

  I should have gone to jail. Should be there now. But the way my lawyer presented it, I was a battered woman who’d been defending herself. The jury, which consisted of six women, sided with me and I was found not guilty.

  I took slow, deep breaths.

  I had to get it together.

  For her sake, Kyra needed to be more mouth than action.

  21

  “Why did you set me up?” I was working late, going over a few preliminary designs for another pop princess the company had signed as a client.

  Julianna.

  She was supposed to be the new Madonna, only with a better voice and a more brazen persona than the Material Girl ever had.

  I’d seen a few of her videos. Caught a couple of performances on TV. She had a stronger voice. But the passion and delivery weren’t there. As for her persona: Madonna knew how to slap you in the face with what she had, but she also knew how to make you admire what she had been doing whether you wanted to or not. She was sexy and worked her entire package so well, she became a legend.

  Julianna had sex appeal, but she didn’t know how to work it at all. Her videos, her performances. . . the way she presented herself to the fans and the media—everything about her was in your face. Part of the reason fo
r that had to do with the fact that she was only eighteen years old. Let’s face it, she wasn’t yet a woman. The other part of the reason for her over-the-top persona had to do with the pressure within the industry. These days, if you wanted to make it to the top of the charts, you pretty much had to strip and fuck in the videos. Julianna had potential, but unless she grew balls and stopped letting everyone else run her show, she was going to end up fading as quickly as Brittney Spears’ good-girl reputation.

  I put down the red pen I’d been making notes with and looked up. Steve was standing in the doorway. Despite having put on a couple of pounds, he was still an appealing white man. I couldn’t help it: my mind drifted back to the last office visit he’d made.

  I said, “I didn’t set you up, Steve. You did that all by yourself.”

  Steve’s eyes closed a fraction. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “You fucking bitch,” he said, his voice laced with venom. “You set me up.” He took a step toward my desk. I thought about the dream I’d had where the tables had been turned and I’d been the one being set up. “What the fuck did I ever do to you?”

  My eyes on his, I said, “Nothing.”

  Steve took another step forward. “Then why? Why did you have to fuck up my life?”

  I stared at him as he took heavy breaths. He wanted to reach across my desk and wrap his fingers around my throat. He wanted to squeeze until there was no life left. I could see it in his eyes. I could see it in his body language. I thought of the dream again. He’d had balls in the dream, but in real life it was a different story.

  I said, “I didn’t fuck up your life, Steve. You did that yourself when you decided that you had to have my pussy.”

  Steve slammed his palms on my desktop. “You conniving whore! You knew what you were doing to me! You knew I couldn’t resist you!”

  I rolled my chair back and stood up. “Couldn’t you?” I walked around the desk slowly. Behind the anger, behind the rage, there’d been something else in Steve’s eyes. Something that, no matter how bitter he was, would never go away.

  Lust.

  I stood in front of him and stared up at him. There was so much anger, yet still so much desire radiating from him. “Why couldn’t you resist me, Steve?”

  He clenched his jaws and tried not to peruse my body. He didn’t want to be turned on. Didn’t want to think about me riding him again. But I could tell that’s exactly what he was doing. Imagining me on top. On the couch again. Undisturbed. Fucking hard. Fucking deep.

  I licked my lips. Put my hand over his hard crotch. “Why?” I asked again.

  Steve swallowed saliva and cleared his throat. “You’re . . . you’re . . .”

  I licked my lips again. “I’m?”

  Steve’s dick jumped. I squeezed it. Made it jump and grow more. “What am I, Steve?”

  He swallowed saliva again. Said, “You’re . . . a bitch.”

  My hand still squeezing him, I stepped toward him and put my lips right beside his earlobe. “You don’t mean that,” I whispered as I massaged.

  He nodded slowly. “I do. I mean . . . it. You’re a . . . a . . . a fucking bitch.”

  I licked the bottom of his earlobe. “You know what, Steve? I’d rather be a fucking bitch than a fucking pussy like you. Now, get the fuck out of my office.”

  I let go of his crotch and walked back to my chair.

  Steve clenched his jaws again and flared his thin nostrils. “You fucking bitch. I’m not going to let you get away with this.”

  “Unless you want your ass to be escorted out by two very hefty black men, I suggest you do what I said and get the fuck out. Now.” I kept my eyes on him and reached for the phone as he glared back at me with evil intent in his eyes.

  He shook his head. He wanted to say to hell with the security guards and dive across the desk to get at me. It was obvious in his eyes and in the scowl he gave me.

  He shook his head again, thought about it for another second, and then backpedaled toward the door. He hated me, but he wasn’t that stupid.

  “This isn’t over, Lisette. You can’t just fuck with people’s lives and get away with it. You’re not as untouchable as you think you are.”

  “Three seconds, Steve.” I pressed one of the buttons on the key pad. “And don’t think about coming back.”

  Steve gave me another menacing stare. It actually gave me the chills. I pressed another number.

  “You’re going to fucking pay, bitch.”

  “You mean the way you did?”

  Steve clenched his jaws. His body language said he was ready to charge.

  I pressed another button and said, “One more number and security will be here in less than a minute.”

  Steve bared his teeth, called me a bitch again, and then finally turned, opened the door and walked out.

  I stood still behind my desk for several seconds with my finger inches above the last number. Again, the dream ran through my mind. I’d handled Steve with a lot of bravado, but the truth of the matter was, I had been nervous.

  When I was sure that he wasn’t coming back, I put the phone back down in the cradle and sat down. I grabbed my pen again to get back to looking at the preliminary designs for Julianna’s line. That’s when I noticed my hands were shaking.

  I put the pen down, laid my palms flat on my desk top.

  I breathed.

  Tried to relax.

  Tried not to think about the dream or that bitch again.

  Tried not to think about the look in Steve’s eyes.

  Tried to get centered.

  A few minutes later, I gathered the designs, grabbed my purse and my car keys.

  Breathing and relaxing hadn’t done shit for me.

  I needed the gym. I needed to work out my anxiety.

  I left and went to the gym and worked on my arms and back. I ran the treadmill for an hour and a half. Then I moved to the StairMaster for another hour. Climbed until the burning in my legs and hips demanded that I stop. When my body and mind both had enough, I called it a day and headed home. My plan was to wash off the sweat in my new shower I’d had installed, sit on my new leather sofa, have a glass of wine, and finish going over the preliminary designs.

  That never happened.

  22

  Thunder exploding. Lightning crackling, brightening the black sky for seconds at a time.

  Raindrops, falling fast, heavy and hard.

  I watched all of this as I lay on the ground, while the rain beat down on me. Barely conscious, I bled from the back of my head, my nose, and my mouth. I took a slow breath. It was a painful one. Felt like my insides were on fire. I coughed and the temperature of the fire increased.

  Tears snaked from my eyes and mixed with the rain water pooling on the concrete around me. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice—I took another breath. Inhaling and exhaling hurt so badly, I swore I wasn’t going to take another. I was just going to lay still, let my swelling right eye close completely, let whatever air in my body I had left sigh away, and then die. As lightning cracked, as thunder boomed, that’s what I decided to do. But . . .

  As badly as my upper body was hurting.

  As badly as my lower body... my lower body . . . my . . . lower . . . body . . .

  As badly as I wanted to give in to the pain I was enduring.

  As badly as I wanted to give up.

  I just couldn’t, because despite the pain and agony, two facts remained. One—I was still breathing, and two—because I was, that meant that the bitch hadn’t succeeded.

  I tried to move, but a sharp pain where my ribs were made it too difficult. I waited for a few seconds, and then after another pain-filled breath, I tried to ignore the pain and will myself to move. Unfortunately, at that moment, my will just wasn’t strong enough, and so I just lay still beneath the storm.

  Unmoving.

  Breathing.

  Hurting.

  Thinking.

  Remembering . . .

  Leaving the gym. Hurrying
across the virtually empty parking lot through the downpour to my car, which I’d always made a habit of parking in the farthest lane to give my legs one extra workout. Had I known a monsoon was coming, I would have parked much closer.

  I was hurrying, but I was hurrying slowly. I was tired. Physically drained from the workout I’d put my body through. Mentally drained from the thoughts about Kyra and her threats, to Steve and his.

  On the StairMaster I said to hell with Julianna and the designs. I just wanted to get home, take a hot shower, listen to the new Pink Martini CD I’d bought, stretch out on my couch in my satin robe with nothing on underneath, have a glass of Brunello Di Montalcino, and relax. That’s where my focus was. Not on the rain. Not on thunder and lightning. Not on the person coming up behind me as I opened my car door.

  Simultaneously, thunder exploded, lightning flashed, and something hit me hard in the back of my head. I fell forward against my car. As I did, my assailant hit me in my ribs, then grabbed me by my shoulders, pulled me back, and then slammed me into my car repeatedly.

  I was dazed and on the verge of passing out from the blow to my head, but somehow my survival instincts kicked in, and when the attacker went to slam me forward again, I snapped my head back, ramming it into their shoulder just enough forcing them to let me go. My legs were unsteady, but I managed to turn around and face my attacker.

  Wide, thick shoulders. At least six foot tall. Dressed in all black, with a black ski mask and black gloves on. Without question, my attacker was male.

  I got into my fighting stance, balled my fists and quickly swung out at him, connecting with a left cross in his face before he could attack me again. I followed that up with a hard kick to the side of his left knee. In the movies, the assailant usually went down after that. Real life was different.

  Still on his feet, he swung out with a right of his own, hitting me in my mouth and splitting my lip instantly. Next he caught me in my nose with a left, and then another right in my eye. Before I could register how badly the punches had hurt, he lunged forward and rammed his shoulder into my midsection, sending me staggering backward. I tried to keep my balance, but I lost my footing on the flooded ground and fell backward, where the back of my head took another blow as it bounced off of the concrete.