The Housewife Assassin's Terrorist TV Guide

by Josie Brown

  For the most part. He succeeds in ripping my dress’s halter strap.

  Fuck that! It’s vintage!

  When I whip around, the gun is pointed at an easy target: his heart.

  He stops dead in his tracks.

  “Kiss the floor,” I command. “Feel free to lick it.”

  He’s seething, but slowly, he falls onto the concrete.

  I put my knee in the center of his back and then pull the cuffs from his rear pocket, jerk his wrists behind him, and snap them shut. “Jesus, you still have a hard-on?” I roll my eyes.

  At that second, he lifts up—

  Tossing me off of him.

  I drop the gun. James scrambles for it, but so do I.

  I reach it first. I slam it into his thick skull.

  He falls backward. His head wallops the concrete floor. He’s out like a light.

  I stumble to my feet, breathing heavily. James is still out cold when I pull the handcuffs’ key from his pants pocket. I take off the cuffs, but I take them with me as a souvenir. Why leave them so that he can use them on poor Patty or one of the kids?

  And, of course, I take my thong.

  I slam the door behind me.

  I put on my thong before heading toward the front door. But I stop when I reach the kitchen because it hits me: I was never here.

  I mean, let’s face it: he’ll never admit to it, so why should I?

  I walk out the door with the picnic basket. Tonight, we’ll have chicken.

  I hustle to my car, unlock it, drop the picnic basket on the back floor, and then sink into the driver’s seat.

  I’m still breathing so heavily that, at first, I don’t hear the tap on my window.

  When I jump in my seat, I almost drop my hand holding up my halter top, but I catch the falling strap before it slips out of my hand.

  It’s Ariel.

  Busted.

  She’s dressed for a run. Connor is cooing in his BOB Ironman jogging stroller.

  “Did you forget our coffee meet-up today?”

  “I…got tied up.” I feel my cheeks flush at my lie. More like shackled. Tomato, to-mah-toe…

  “Yes, I…I know. I saw you leaving the Garretts’ home just now.” Ariel uses little Connor’s fussiness as her excuse to avoid looking me in the eye. “It’s okay. I get it. You’ll do whatever it takes to win. I just wished you’d have had the courtesy to call me so that I wasn’t sitting around for an hour, looking like some celebrity idiot who…who had been stood up.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ariel! Truly I am. Since Patty was in surgery, I thought dropping off some chicken and fixings would be appreciated—”

  “Please, Donna, don’t take me for a fool!” She taps the side view mirror. “Your lipstick is smeared.”

  I check the mirror. Egad, she’s right. I look like a crazed clown. “James…tried to take some liberties.”

  “Let me guess. Next, you’re going to try to tell me that you put up a fight.” She rolls her eyes. “I suppose what Penelope said about you is right. You have no boundaries.”

  “Speaking of no boundaries, are you aware that Franklin—”

  Ariel holds up her hand. “Stop right there! Are you going to claim now that Franklin came on to you too? Have you no decency? Do you truly believe that being the most lascivious person on the show will help you win it?” She shakes furiously. “You won’t be sullying my sweet, decent husband with unmerited claims of extracurricular activities with you!” She steels herself, then adds: “I feel sorry for poor Jack. He’s so kind, and yet you’re ruining his life—all because of your greediness!”

  Okay, that does it. To open the door, I must let loose of the strap—

  Ouch! I flash Ariel…

  Mortified, she shakes with anger as I fumble to grab my broken strap. On the other hand, her son reaches toward me, begging, “Bobba! Bobba!”

  I guess he’ll take what he can get since Mama’s wells have run dry.

  And are made of silicone gel.

  Furious, she runs down the street with the stroller.

  No doubt, my little escapade will be the talk of the next Housewives coffee klatch. As the topic of conversation, I don’t expect an invitation.

  Still, it’s her word against mine. And certainly, James will deny it. Without video footage to back it up, whom would they believe: the woman they aspire to be, or the one they fear will damage their marriage?

  Don’t answer that.

  I start the car and head home.

  Jack’s car isn’t in the garage.

  Yes, I’m angry. It’s past noon. At some point, you’d think Brin would have to get back to the control booth to supervise the editing that makes the rest of us look as nasty as she is.

  I hold my halter top while carefully getting out of my SUV. I don’t need the cameras catching a nip slip.

  Thank goodness I’m able to unlock the door from the garage into the laundry room with one hand. My body aches from the struggle with James, so I climb the stairs slowly to the bedroom.

  Strange. The door is open—

  Because Jack is in there.

  His shirt is off. Just above his hip is a bite mark.

  My God, Brin plays rough.

  He catches my eye in the mirror. He walks toward me, but no. I’m not ready to discuss anything right now, so I turn and head down the hall.

  He grabs me by the elbow of the arm that holds up my halter.

  “Donna, please! We need to talk.”

  No shit.

  I don’t turn to face Jack until I hear his sigh.

  At least he doesn’t flinch at my glare. “Okay, start talking.”

  Chapter 14

  Full House

  “You’re in big trouble, Mister!”

  —Michelle Tanner

  Ah, the joys of large family! Let us count them:

  First, since there are never enough bathrooms in a home filled with children, you are forced to learn how to hold your water like a camel. (This also comes in handy wherever you’ll find long lavatory lines, such as on airplanes, sports stadiums, and port-a-potties at outdoor wedding venues.)

  Next, you are resigned to accepting hand-me-downs. (Yes, you went Boho before it was fashionable! Pat yourself on the back for being ahead of the fashion curve, even if it lasted only through the years the Olsen Twins were fashion mavens.)

  And, finally, you have an exceptional cast for your online reality show.

  Now, if a network comes knocking with a contract, the real family feud begins!

  Jack leans against the wall. For Jack, this is a defensive position, allowing him to keep his back from any possible adversaries.

  Right now, I am the adversary. The nail file in my hand makes me so, as does the doubt in my eyes.

  “Where is your car?” I ask nonchalantly.

  “Down the block. Too many cameras out front. I didn’t want anyone seeing me enter the house.”

  To document that he hasn’t been home all night.

  Noting my scowl, he goes right to the point: “Brin had a proposition for me.”

  “I’ve no doubt about that,” I mutter.

  “And…I didn’t say no to it.”

  “Oh.” I feel as if my heart has stopped beating altogether. Slowly, I drop onto the bed.

  “She wanted to…okay, now, how do I say this?” He looks up at the ceiling as if he’ll find the words floating somewhere up there. Finally, he takes a deep breath: “When the show ends this Sunday, she wants to spin the Craigs off into our own show.”

  She…what?

  The breath I thought had already left my body gathers into a gale force when I declare, “I hope you told her ‘HELL NO’!”

  “In fact, I told her we’d give it serious consideration. We’ve got to do all we can to stay on the show.” He shrugs.

  “And?” I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Make that pants. His.

  “She was appreciative.”

  “I’ll just bet,” I mutter.

  “You’ll
be delighted to hear that Brin Patterson is all talk and no action.”

  “Yes, truly delighted!” Oh, dear! The way I’m holding my nail file could be misconstrued as a weapon.

  Or, in Jack’s case construed. He takes a step back.

  “Did it take you all night to figure this out?” I purr.

  “I was in Brin's office an hour and a half, tops. It would have been shorter, but the show’s assistant producers interrupt her constantly. Seriously, I didn’t realize that there were so many decisions to make when producing a television show that is partially broadcast live. And to think they have to do it for another four nights, too!” He shakes his head in wonder.

  “And with the possibility of some terrorist assault taking place too,” I remind him.

  “Yeah, well, I guess it’s why Addison pays her half-a-mil per episode. Which brings me to why I also get paid pretty handsomely as well—albeit, not half a mil.” He holds something up. I recognize it immediately: a scanner, like the one I’ve used to hack our suspects’ cell phones. “On the other hand, I do get numerous opportunities to get shot at, drugged, or blown up.” The thought makes him wince. “Jesus, maybe I’m in the wrong business!”

  “Has her cell phone checked out?”

  “Arnie’s on it now.”

  I take a deep breath. Now, for the at least half-a-million dollar question: “So then, how did you spend the rest of your night?”

  “Like I said: getting shot at, drugged, and blown up.”

  I feel my jaw dropping. “Who? Where? What the hell happened?”

  Jack paces the room. “As I was walking out of Brin’s office, Ryan called. We got a mysterious lead—an anonymous text message suggesting that we’d find our suspect in a warehouse facility in Long Beach. Instead, we walked in on the owners of a meth lab divvying up their latest deal. Let’s just say that mayhem ensued.” He points to his lower back at the bite I had presumed was a love nip from Brin.

  I take a closer look, and then I shrug. “She hides the fact that she’s a little long in the tooth, but even Brin isn’t this much of an animal.”

  “A Doberman. His master shot him up by mistake—along with the rest of the lab. It’ll be on the evening news tonight.” He winces from the pain. “I’m just glad he was high enough that it affected his aim. So were the DEA agents who cleaned up after us. The blast took him out, so one less asshole the state needs to prosecute.”

  “I’m just glad you walked away in one piece.” I try to keep the tremble out of my voice.

  He hears it anyway. He takes me in his arms. “So, I’m forgiven?”

  “Sure—as long as you aren’t becoming addicted to the fame and fortune that comes with having your very own reality show.”

  “Like you, I can’t wait until we’re incognito again—and undercover.” He grins wickedly at the double entendre. His adoration shines in his eyes—

  Until they hone in on the hand that holds up the broken halter.

  Ouch! Here it comes…

  “Why do you feel the need to hold up your strap like that?”

  “It…broke.”

  “Ah.” He nods slowly. “Not while you were at the grocery store, I take it.”

  “Thank goodness, no! If it had, Brin would have the lead-in for the show tonight.”

  I force a giggle, but Jack isn’t buying it. He takes the few steps he needs to be at my side.

  Instinctively, I take a step backward toward the dresser so that he can’t see the bruise on the back of my arm.

  Jack sees it anyway, through the mirror behind me. He grimaces. “James did this? I take it you didn’t run into him in the condiments aisle of our local supermarket.” He frowns as he strokes the bruise gently with two fingers. “He’s not very subtle, is he?”

  I flinch. “Abusers never are. It’s okay. I made sure he got the hint that, unlike Patty, I wasn’t just going to stand there and take it.”

  “Good.” Jack’s relief shows itself in the tightness of his hug. He sighs. “Did you get near enough to his cell phone to scan it?”

  I nod. “And, lucky me, I also got to check out James' arsenal.”

  “Is it large enough to put him on the INTERPOL Watch List?”

  “Let’s just say he’s a bit paranoid.” I shake my head. “As much as I despise him, I also feel sorry for him. Jack, I think he has PTSD. My guess is that it cost him his job and”—I pause to find the right words—“makes him such a bully to everyone in his life. It’s why his wife and children are giving up hope.” I hold up the scanner. “I guess we’ll know soon.” I glance at myself in the mirror. “Before I hit up our next suspect, I’d better change into something a little more presentable, and then mosey on down to the store again and fill up my picnic basket.”

  Jack takes my broken strap. Fingering it gently, he asks, “Who’s next on the agenda?”

  “Roger.” I roll my eyes. “What do you think? Should I use his books as an icebreaker? Aren’t authors always hungry to hear praise about their books?”

  Jack laughs. “Considering his ego, you could talk about the color of his eyes, and he’d think you were putty in his hands. Unfortunately, you won’t find him at home—or Peter or Gerald, for that matter. They’re in Beverly Hills, getting fitted for their wedding tuxes—on the show’s dime.”

  “You weren’t invited?”

  “I passed on the honor. I told them I had a hot wife to go home to.”

  “Yeah, well, too bad James passed too.” I shudder. “Gee, thanks for burnishing my reputation as Hilldale’s Number One ’ho-tart.”

  “We’re in it to win it, right?”

  I tap my chin in mock contemplation. “Then maybe we text Arnie to take the bedroom off his fake webcam loop.”

  “Just the bedroom?” he chides me “Why stop there? Do you think the love we have can be contained in just one room?”

  “You’re so right. What the heck are we waiting for? We don’t have to be at the Housewives’ mansion until nine, right? Between all the operating room drama and the husbands getting fit for tuxes, we’ve got the whole afternoon off!” I let my halter strap drop.

  “Ah, there they are!’” He sighs admiringly at my breasts. “I’ve missed you, my fair ladies! Even one night away seems like an eternity!”

  I double over with laughter.

  “And let’s not forget the best lady part south of the border—” He lifts my skirt, and then nods approvingly of what he sees beneath it. “Hey, when did you a buy this cute little polka-dot thong?”

  I curtsey. “I’ve been waiting to wear it with just the right outfit. Who knew I’d find it in my slut gear collection?”

  “The way she pilfers your clothes, probably Mary. I’d guess Aunt Phyllis has coveted it too.” Jack circles me approvingly. “It is the crowning height of whore couture.”

  “Yeah, well, in any case, I’m sure Penelope would approve because it makes her case. It screams ‘neighborhood harlot’.”

  He laughs. “She’d be so jealous that she’d run out and get one herself.” He picks up the halter’s ends. “Although, I doubt she’ll fit into it now. From what Brin said, she’ll be so inflated that it looks as if she’ll be walking behind two zeppelins.” He shakes his head at the thought. “For that matter, Cassandra will be unrecognizable too.”

  “What do you mean? She was adamant that she wasn’t going!”

  “She changed her mind. In fact, I was there when Brin got her call. Apparently, Franklin convinced her that it was for the good of her marriage, if not the show.”

  I frown. “How noble of him.” Suddenly, the thought of Ariel’s anxiety of the effect of the show on her marriage saddens me. Stroking Jack’s chest, I whisper, “Was a one-in-six shot for a year with no mortgage payments worth it? How many marriages will break up because of this show?”

  Jack tilts my face toward his. “I know one that will survive, no matter what.”

  His kiss is so tender that it moves me to tears.

  As he wipes them away
, I think about the others who have been competing against us. They seem so desperate; so disconnected from each other—

  So lonely.

  On the other hand, we share a love that grows with each passing day.

  We revel in our adoration for each other.

  Our mutual respect is demonstrated by each loving act.

  And our love has been tested in too many ways to count.

  Not even twelve million viewers can get between us.

  Suddenly, the realization hits me: we’ve already won.

  Each other.

  The buzz of our phones breaks the silence in our bedroom.

  The most Pavlovian of all instincts kicks in: simultaneously we reach for them.

  “Ryan,” we mutter in unison.

  “I’m not disturbing anything, am I?” he asks.

  Something tells me he knows better.

  By the way in which Jack's head rises to the webcam in the ceiling, he must think so too. “Nah. Donna and I are just shooting the breeze,” he drawls nonchalantly.

  “Good. Then she won’t mind making it over to Roger and Sienna’s place. Another direct text correspondence was traced from the terrorist—this time to Roger’s home ISP. Since he’s getting fitted for a tux, she shouldn’t have to worry about, er, running into him.”

  “Works for me.” Not. I sigh. “I’ll get right over there.”

  Jack waits until Ryan hangs up before muttering, “I guess you should change into something more…appropriate.”

  Black yoga pants and a zip-up jacket that matches will have to do.

  And thank goodness, no picnic basket.

  If I’m too late, Jack promises to pick up the kids.

  I don’t plan on it. I’d like to go with him. If they’ve had as rough a day as us, they’ll appreciate seeing both their parents.

  Together. And still in love.

  By the time I jog onto Roger and Sienna’s street, Arnie has done his bit: the security system is off, the camera feeds to the TV show are looped, and he has verified that they don’t have a dog.

  “Just a cat—a white Persian that they keep indoors,” he warns me.