by Holly Hood
“You don’t look it!” Delaney leapt from the couch. “It’s been three years since the day she was attacked. And you don’t look upset at all. You left her there to die. You wanted to kill her!”
Sam stood up. Delaney threw her hand forward pleading with him to stay where he was. Her eyes were filled with rage as she stared at the man she thought she loved. The man she thought she knew all about at one time. She didn’t know what was worse. The fact he cheated, lied, or attempted to kill her best friend. Or how he led her to believe she loved him for all that he wasn’t.
“Stay where you are,” Delaney ordered. But Sam refused to listen. He hated seeing her so shaken up. He hated being so ugly and awful in her eyes. He took hold of her shoulders, his hands clamping down firmly. She fought against his stare, but it only took a few seconds before he gained control. He calmed her quickly, stroking her hair as he held her to his chest trying to release all the fear from her body. All the fear he caused. Her body soaked in all that Sam was like a powerful substance.
“I love you. You have to know that I wanted to be good for you. I would never hurt you, Delaney. You are and always will be the one great thing in my life, even if you hate me.” He kissed her cheek. She nodded.
“I love you too, Sam.” She mumbled. Sam knew it was her heart talking, and when all was said and done she would go back to using her head and forget about her feelings for him.
“I wanted to be with you so bad. I wanted to marry you. I wanted to do everything with you. Even make love to you.” He squeezed her tight, his heart aching at the thought of never holding her again.
“I want all that too, Sam.” Delaney slurred. “Make love to me now. I don’t want to be with anyone but you.”
Sam laughed softly. “You’re only saying this because you’re under a trance. You won’t feel like this for long.”
Delaney pulled away looking into his eyes. “But I want to feel this way forever. Please, I don’t ever want to lose you.” She begged, pressing her lips delicately into his. She closed her eyes, tears escaping.
“That’s the problem. You can’t feel like this forever.” Sam lifted her chin, placing a soft kiss on her lips, brushing her hair from her heavy eyes. “I need you to forget about me, because I don’t have it in me to hurt you. So please just forget about me.”
The thought of killing Delaney was sickening. Sam knew what he had to do. He had to get her far away from his house and hope he was able to make Delaney forget what had happened. Even if it didn’t work, the further away she was the faster he could take off.
Temptations
Tad Johnson was an average guy. He held an average job, was raised catholic, and played football all through high school. He had one dog. An old beat up pickup truck and the most bothersome laugh, a cross between a cough and a sneeze. Rose hated it.
Rose closed her eyes, resting her hand against her temple. She drug her French fry through the blob of ketchup on her plate.
“Can you believe that?” Tad asked. He let out one more insufferable guffaw. Rose pursed her lips, slowly opening her eyes and acting alive and in the moment.
“No, I can’t believe Gary would forget Beth’s birthday. Its nuts,” she muttered, staring out the window of the diner. Tad made horrible slurping sounds with his milkshake and this only grated Rose’s nerves even more.
She was in a bad mood ever since Sam’s brother had visited two days ago. She was still debating on whether she should call Delaney and tell her the odd story she heard or just let it go. She feared for her safety. And she feared Sam’s brother was testing her, trying to see if she would cave and confess to Delaney all that she knew. Maybe it was a trap. She never imagined she could ever go through with telling Delaney about Sam and her connection. As much as it pained her, it opened up to many wounds for her. It wouldn’t just ruin Delaney’s life it would ruin hers too. So she did the only thing she could and that was threatening Sam. It might have been phony threats but he didn’t know that.
“Well, I must be getting back to work. But I’ll see you tonight for bowling right?” Tad said, dragging himself from the booth, his massive six foot three frame shadowing the table. He waited patiently for Rose to pull her attention away from her cell phone.
Rose looked up. Smiling the instant he smiled at her. It was out of habit anymore. She studied his thick mess of blonde curls that he kept cropped with just enough curl to give him an easy style. One she thought was old fashioned and made him look like a naïve school boy instead of the man he was now. But she preferred to live with it then say anything.
“Of course, see you at seven.” She closed her eyes, anticipating the sloppy kiss he placed on her lips. She grabbed the back of his head, trying to slow him down. Her head falling back as his tongue practically slid down her throat. She could taste the onions on his breath and the remaining root beer shake in his mouth. Finally when she couldn’t take it any longer, she pushed his face away pretending she needed to fiddle with the barrette in her hair.
Tad wasn’t awful. There were plenty of awful men in their town. He wasn’t one of them. He just failed to pay attention to Rose. He thought being a charming guy with manners was enough. One that respected his girl and took care of her sexual needs was enough to make her happy. But he really knew nothing about Rose. They did the basics: ate together a couple times a week, bowled with the same friends every other week. And occasionally sang karaoke on Fridays. Sundays they shared a movie in her one bedroom apartment. And when Tad was feeling playful he invited her over—usually on Thursdays to have some “special” time as he liked to call it. Special time to Tad was showering, coming into his bedroom in his towel. Turning on some old jazz tunes that only gave Rose a headache and made her feel like she was living in the dark ages. And then Rose would watch from her spot on his bed while he disrobed. She never understood why Tad thought staring at his stark white body naked was a turn on. He wasn’t powerfully built, he was a bit hairy and he always left his socks on.
And after ten minutes of heavy petting, Tad would climb on top of her, his black socks chafing her ankles, his fist gripping the pillow on either side of her head, as he grunted like a wild boar until climax. His sweaty body dropping on top of her before sliding to the side and in about five minutes he was snoring. That was Rose’s life in a nutshell. Why she cared to hold on to it was straightforward. She didn’t like change, she feared change. And the one time she tried to do something out of the ordinary she was attacked and left for dead. Change proved fatal.
Rose stared at her cell phone. She tapped her feet nervously, debating calling Delaney, the only friend that stuck around through everything in her life. All of her other friends went away to College and never lifted a phone to even say hello to Rose.
Rose lifted her phone, texting quickly: Just wanted to say hello. And see how you’re doing. She hit send, and climbed out of the booth. She grabbed her red apron heading back into the kitchen. She had to finish her shift.
***
Frankie needed a drink. He pounded his fist on the counter. “Whiskey neat.”
The busty bartender did a sashay to the liquor bottles.
She sat Frankie’s drink down. “You look wore out.”
“This is what I get for doing favors. Dark circles.” He downed the drink, sliding it back to the bartender. She poured him another sending it back.
“Rack em’ up, Dylan,” the guy at the pool table said, drawing Frankie’s awareness. The name Dylan struck a chord with him.
His eyes darkened at the sight of her. She stumbled around the pool table, in tattered jean shorts and an olive green camisole. Brown boots to her shins and messy hair. She drew in her bottom lip, concentrating on the balls in front of her, the tall male with her, lounging around in the corner without a care in the world, as if he was superior to all the commotion around him.
Frankie turned in his bar stool. Watching Dylan round the table and take a seat next to him and all his blasphemous tattoos. She flipped her hair over
her shoulder, accepting the jack daniels he plied her with. He chalked his stick, and leaned over the table to get a better aim at the balls, another guy joining in on the game. The guy rested several bills on the table, which signaled he was up for a challenge.
“Top left, mate. I sink it that hundred is mine,” Mr. Tattoo said with a thick Australian brogue. Frankie smirked, swirling his whiskey. He watched the man sink the ball with ease, pocketing the cash before the loser could object.
Mr. Tattoo rounded the table, sliding a hand around the back of Dylan’s neck. He pecked her lips. Frankie’s blood boiled. He shook his head, turning back to the bar. He wasn’t going to let this guy get under his skin.
“Another whiskey?” the bartender asked. Frankie rubbed the back of his neck, pleading with his mind to just let it go. Dylan was there at the bar with another man, it was none of his concern. Cheers sounded behind him as the con artist sunk another shot and took another victims cash. Frankie gritted his teeth. He lifted his drink, holding it tightly in his grip. He tried steadying his nerves, throwing his head back and downing his whiskey. He stood up taking the new whiskey with him.
Dylan was accepting another Jack Daniels as Frankie approached the pool table. He lifted the money from the table stuffing it back into the next opponent’s shirt pocket. He took his pool stick without asking permission and rested his whiskey on the edge of the table near the corner pocket. This was enough for everyone to back off that was waiting for their turn.
Dylan eyed Frankie looking a bit nervous. She sucked in her bottom lip, pulling on her little black jacket.
“Are you a betting man?” Tattoo asked, his dark eyes boring into Frankie and his devilish good looks. It wasn’t that this man was ugly. He just wasn’t on Frankie’s level.
“I wouldn’t be over here if I wasn’t,” Frankie replied, chalking his stick.
“The name is Mitchell. Yours?”
Frankie smirked. He pulled a large wad of cash from his pocket. “Frankie.”
Mitchell nodded amiably at the large quantity of cash on Frankie’s end. He could be anything he wanted with that much money.
“What were you looking for?” Mitchell asked, resting his pool stick on the table. His eyes glazing over at the wad of cash that he was so certain was about to be his. Frankie set the entire chunk down.
“If I make this next shot I get my cash and your girl.” Frankie didn’t bother looking at Dylan as he set the rules for the game. “And if I don’t sink this shot, this will all be yours.”
Mitchell chuckled, looking over at Dylan. “A bets a bet, babe. There’s no way this man is up for the challenge.” He nodded, picking up his pool stick.
Frankie licked his lips. “Heck. I’ll even let you pick the shot. That’s how lucky I’m feeling.”
Mitchell shook his head in disbelief. The bartender stopped what she was doing watching Frankie toy with the new guy.
Frankie pulled his jacket off. Dylan took a seat watching in skepticism.
“Have you ever heard of a Masse shot?” Mitchell asked. He wasn’t an idiot. He was going to feel Frankie out before he got in over his head.
Frankie walked around the table, eyeing the balls. “Of course. That’s when I spin the cue and miss the rail and all the poor defenseless balls on the table.”
Mitchell agreed. “Then you know that’s absolutely impossible. Well that’s what I got for you.” He pushed the cue into the balls scattering them all across the table. Finally he took the cue ball and set it in the center in a throng of disorder. Knowing fool well this wasn’t any ordinary game. He was making his own rules to get his hands on the money.
Frankie scrubbed his chin, pretending to really be trying to figure it out. He dropped down, judging the shot, but secretly was checking out Dylan’s legs. He turned his head to the left, then the right. And finally took his position. Mitchell stood on the opposite end of the table, arms crossed, a shit eating grin on his face.
Frankie drew back, the stick gliding through his fingers. The ball spun flawlessly like a sphere-shaped cyclone. Mitchell watched closely, waiting for the ball to come in contact with something. Frankie rounded the table.
Dylan anxiously chewed on her nail. She watched Frankie crack the pool stick over his knee.
Frankie wrapped an arm around the Mitchell’s neck, tossing his body over the balls on the table in one quick movement before anyone around him could even think to react. “Well I guess we will never know who won.”
Mitchell sat up. Stunned Frankie had the courage to challenge him. He wasn’t your average everyday guy.
“Do you know who I am?” Mitchell asked, climbing down off the table, the bar silent at this point. Everyone’s eyes were on Frankie and Mitchell.
“Yeah, you’re the man who just lost a bet,” Frankie said. “We’ll be leaving now.”
Dylan dropped down from the bar stool, happy to be leaving with Frankie.
“I don’t think you want to do that,” Mitchell said from behind them. Frankie slipped his jacket on calm and composed.
“What’s that? Taking my money and your girl and hitting the road?”
Frankie brushed past him and pocketed his cash. He grabbed the end of the broken pool stick just in the nick of time. Mitchell tried to grab a hold of him, Frankie spun around, hitting him in the forearm with the jagged edge of the stick before Mitchell could get a hand on him. Mitchell yelped, pulling back in pain. In total shock that Frankie had just impaled him with the sharp wood.
Dylan’s eyes were huge.
Mitchell told his men to back off. He didn’t travel alone. But now he was having a hard time choosing whether to make an example out of Frankie or to figure out what caused this man to have such valor to want to take him on. Did he think he could just get away with slighting him in front of god and everyone?
Frankie tossed the bloodied stick on the pool table and moved past Mitchell. Mitchell studied him closely. The memorable grin sent shockwaves to his memory.
“This is all fun and games, Mitchell. Let us drink,” Amarus said, taking Mitchell at the elbow and leading him through the dark tavern. Past busty blondes and the stench of sweat mixed with old lager.
“You rob me blind and then you call me your friend?” Mitchell questioned the tall lanky man with hair as dark as the midnight sky.
And the same grin Mitchell thought. He couldn’t believe he was laying eyes on a progeny of Amarus Petrakis.
One of Mitchell’s men stepped forward blocking the exit as Frankie attempted to leave. Frankie crossed his arms, staring up at the enormous brute preventing him from leaving. He was surprised after he shanked Mitchell this man was still willing to stand up for him.
“Let him go,” Mitchell said, raising a hand and waving Frankie out of the bar. Frankie raised an eyebrow confused with Mitchell’s quick change of heart. He wasn’t going to complain, saved him the headache. But he couldn’t shake the feeling something wasn’t right.
“So where did you pick up that one?” Frankie asked Dylan as he unlocked his car door. He shot her an amused grin, “Such great taste, a hustler.”
Dylan frowned. She buckled her seat belt. “What can I say, I like living on the edge. Besides, you weren’t coming around anymore.”
“You’re just asking for trouble. That guy had wrong written all over him. That’s the kind of man who leaves your body in some dumpster when he’s done with you,” Frankie informed her.
“I was only hanging around for the drinks. And how would you know such a thing?”
Frankie raised an eyebrow, refusing to answer that question. “Do you have some kind of death wish?”
Dylan pulled a rubber band from her wrist with her teeth, tying her hair up on the top of her head. She dug two bobby pins from her pocket securing her bangs and finally looked at Frankie. “I’m not afraid of anybody. I’m a big girl.”
“Oh are you?”
“Yeah. I am.” She brought up a knee, resting her hand on it. Frankie studied the cracked and chipped
black nail polish that she probably thought was mysterious and edgy.
“You’re an idiot.”
Dylan turned her gaze to the window, watching the whir of passing trees and cars. “So are you. That’s why we’re perfect for each other.”
Frankie laughed. Shaking his head. She never let up.
Emotions
The sports station blared. Delaney readjusted her head against the door. It was rather hard and made it difficult to get comfortable. The hum from the passing cars on the expressway vibrated her eardrum. She was dazed and still pretty groggy from Sam’s handiwork.
She could barely stay conscious long enough to figure out why she was in his car, just as her senses tried to salvage what was left of her frame of mind she drifted back to sleep. Her eyelids grew heavy and the last fight she had in her left, she was out—again.