Amy laughed back. Then, as was often the case, laughter became the catalyst to let go. Domino held Amy while she cried, tears in his own eyes.
When their mourning passed, they took a seat at a nearby bench, a good view of Patrick’s tombstone from where they sat.
Loving husband, father, son, and savior the tombstone read.
Amy had chosen those precise words herself. She had hesitated on the savior part, worrying that it would be a constant reminder of the horrific ordeal they’d endured. But it had been Domino who’d swayed her, claiming it was a testament to the brave man she’d married—a man who’d given his life in order to save his family. Amy had needed less than a minute to consider Domino’s words; her husband was forever etched a savior shortly after.
“What’s going on up there today?” Domino asked, pointing to Amy’s head.
Amy rested her head on Domino’s shoulder. “Same as always I guess. At least the same after I come here.”
“Can you remember the good stuff yet?”
“Of course.”
“I mean more good than bad.”
Amy paused, thought about it. “The bad doesn’t really get to me here. Seems strange to say in such a place, but I feel more at peace here.”
“Not strange,” Domino said. “This is a place of rest and peace.”
Amy nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“You meant what you said last night,” Domino said.
“About what?”
“Being okay about killing Monica.”
Amy sat upright and looked at Domino. “Damn right.”
Domino succumbed to the smirk he’d suppressed the night before. The smirk soon dissolved, and Domino was staring off into something unpleasant.
“What?” Amy said.
Domino shook his head. “Nothing, I’m good. It was the least I could do.”
“What was?”
“Letting you kill that bitch.” He went quiet again after that, his eyes unblinking and back to the bad place.
Amy turned against the bench, faced Domino. “This is what I was talking about last night. You heard what Carrie said at breakfast. My family is having an easier time letting go than you are. You can’t feel responsible forever, Domino. Hell, if you want to blame someone, blame me. I was the one who had to get a stupid massage and put everyone in trouble.”
“But I was the one who let you.”
Amy gave a small smile. “If you’d said no, I would have eventually worn you down. If Patrick were here, he’d agree.”
Domino didn’t smile back. “But he’s not here.”
Amy shook her head as if disappointed. “You know, you talked such a good game last night about moving onward, building a new life, doing right by Patrick. Why not take some of your own advice? Let it go.”
“How can you say that? How can you possibly expect me to forget?”
“I didn’t say forget it—I said let it go. There’s a difference.”
Domino grumbled under his breath.
“Didn’t you experience anything like this in the Marines? Patrick told me some of the things you’ve done. You’ve lost men before.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“War is chaos. You can fight chaos, but you can never control it. I was supposed to be in control of your situation.”
“Well who’s to say my situation wasn’t chaos? If I hadn’t gone for that massage, who’s to say those assholes wouldn’t have found another way? A worse way? A way that might mean you and I wouldn’t be here having this conversation?”
“And who’s to say if I didn’t let you go for that massage that I wouldn’t have eventually gotten the drop on them first? Killed every last one of those motherfuckers without a single hair being harmed on Patrick’s head?”
Amy threw up her hands. “Yeah, who’s to say? Answer? No one. Know why? Because it’s over. It’s done. Are you going to let hindsight keep kicking your ass like this? I thought you were supposed to be a big bad motherfucker. Right now you’re acting like a little bitch.”
Domino threw his head back and barked out a deep laugh. “Goddamn, girl, you are one piece of work.” He started nodding. “Yes…yes I now believe you would have worn me down and gotten your massage one way or the other.”
Amy laughed with him. A moment of silence followed.
“It’s time to let go, Domino. I’m not talking about forgetting, I’m talking about letting go, granting yourself forgiveness. Trust me, it’s the only way you won’t go crazy.” She paused a moment, letting it sink in. “Besides, you’re too damn big for my sofa anyway—I’m going to have to buy a new one.”
Domino gave what came out as a courtesy chuckle, sound only, no affect.
When no response seemed forthcoming, Amy said, “Why not go back to work? Work helps me during tough times.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be good to anyone right now.”
“How about a vacation then? Maybe go visit your family in Tallahassee.”
Domino absorbed her suggestion quietly, his expression not unlike his visit to the bad place.
Now it was Amy who pointed to his head. “What’s going on up there?”
He blinked. “I like the idea of going home…I just don’t know if I’m ready to leave you and the kids just yet.”
“So what are you going to do? Keep crashing on my sofa? Keep shelling out cash for a room on the nights you don’t? You can keep subletting your place in New York if you want, but Jesus, Domino, you gotta do something. The kids and I will be fine. I highly doubt those whackos have any more family…” She smirked and punched him on the arm. “We nailed ’em all.”
Domino forced a smile. “Yeah.”
Chapter 6
Domino ordered his eighth bourbon of the night. Jack Daniels neat. Half a pint of Yeungling Lager was in his right hand, his left anxious for the encore on the bourbon.
The bartender came over with his drink. “You alright, Dom?”
Domino had become somewhat of a regular at Vici’s Bar and Grille ever since he’d started devoting the last year of his life to looking out for Amy and the kids. The place was right up the street from Amy’s new place, and it was enough of a dive where Domino could park himself in a corner in nothing but sweats and a tee and take his medicine without bother.
“I’m good,” he told Sam.
Sam knocked on the bar, smiled and said, “If you need anything.”
Domino nodded and took a solid pull on his warm Jack, chasing it down with the frosty Yeungling. He burped and looked around, his vision starting to fuzz.
He spotted a group of guys in their mid-twenties at the end of the bar. One wore a tee one size too small, highlighting the kid’s massive arms and chest—the physique of a bodybuilder, not a fighter. Muscles had two buddies with him, not as big as Muscles, but compensating with an exceptional aura of douche-baggery—this fact made evident at the expense of some little guy keeping to himself.
Domino couldn’t hear what was being said from where he sat, but the body language of the three guys said it all: they were tormenting this little guy for having the audacity to sit alone. Tormenting him until the inevitable punch was thrown, either in the bar, or when they followed him outside to his car. Domino had seen similar scenarios play out countless times.
Tonight it irked him like no other.
He drained the remainder of his Jack, followed it with the remainder of his beer, then headed down the length of the bar.
All three douches spotted Domino’s arrival, but acted as if they didn’t.
Cowards. Big fucking surprise.
“How’s it going?” Domino asked.
One of the douches, not Muscles, nodded and said, “Good.”
Domino said, “Was I talking to you?”
All three douches exchanged looks.
Domino looked at the victim. “How’s it going?”
The victim, nervous, not sure how to reply, muttered that he was fine.<
br />
And then Christmas came early. Muscles spoke.
“You gotta problem, man?”
“Y’all like playing games, huh?” Domino said.
All three douches exchanged looks again.
“Wanna know what I like?” Domino said. “I like playing games with pussies who like playing games.”
Muscles said, “Who the fuck you calling a—”
Domino hit Muscles with a left hook to the jaw.
Hit Douche Two with a straight right on the point of the chin.
Snatched Douche Three by the collar and pulled him into a head-butt that destroyed his face.
It had started and ended in seconds. All three men lay on the floor, asleep.
Muscles twitched. Douche Two was literally snoring. Douche Three’s face looked concaved, blood erupting from what used to be his nose.
Shania Twain was the only one talking, going on about feeling like a woman. Nobody else dared speak or move. Everyone avoided eye contact with the incident as though witnesses to a murder. This heightened by the fact that the murderer was still in the room, with seemingly no intention of leaving. When and if he did leave, there would be excited chatter and gawking. When and if.
Domino patted the victim on the back. The victim flinched.
Domino headed back to his stool at the other end of the bar. He pointed to his empty glasses. “Refill, Sam?”
Sam held up his hands as if a gun had been pulled on him. “I think you better go, Dom.”
“What for? Motherfuckers were playing games.” He pointed to the victim at the other end of the bar. “I was protecting my boy, right? I was protecting you, right?”
The victim nodded quickly, afraid.
Domino nodded to himself. “I was protecting him from people who play games.” He swayed, held up his bourbon glass. “Sam?”
Sam, hands still up, pointed over Domino’s shoulder.
Domino turned and faced three police officers.
Chapter 7
Domino sat alone in the cell, elbows on his knees, head down, muttering to himself.
The Tredyffrin Township Police Department knew Domino, knew of his reputation, and treated him with a good deal of respect. They’d agreed to release him to Amy instead of making him sober up until morning. They didn’t cuff him to the cell’s bench or take his shoelaces.
Domino heard Amy’s voice first. Heard her chatting to one of the officers on-duty, the officer re-telling the night’s events. He then heard Amy’s approach, not hurried steps, or angry steps, but strolling steps, oddly enough. The steps of someone taking their time in the guaranteed chance to say I told ya so.
She had. She would. And she’d be right. But damn if he’d give anything not to hear a word of it right now. That and another drink. He feared the impending hangover almost as much as he did Amy’s gaze, which was now upon him. Yet, to his delight, she did not wear a smarmy face. Did not look as if she was about to wag her finger at him, tell him what for. Instead she looked sad. And Domino wondered if perhaps he’d prefer the smarmy talking-to. Better to be spanked and done with it than to deal with guilt and disappointment.
“Hi,” she said.
Domino stood and swayed. His huge frame seemed to exaggerate his drunkenness. “Hi.”
“Didn’t think I would ever see you drunk,” she said.
“I’m as human as the next man,” he said.
“You’re nothing like the next man.”
“A guy can’t have a drink?”
“Of course. Send three guys to the hospital? Not so much.”
Domino slumped back down onto the bench and dropped his head again. “How bad?” he asked.
“Apparently one has a broken jaw; another looks like he tried to kiss a wall going eighty.”
Domino chuckled.
“Glad you think it’s funny. Their lawyers are probably drooling at the prospects right now.”
Domino nodded, head still down.
“So let me guess,” Amy began, “three guys started picking on a little guy, it stirred things up—as if they needed stirring—and you saw red.”
Domino lifted his head.
“Whose faces were they wearing when you hit them?” Amy asked. “Arty’s? The father’s? Monica’s? Maybe one for each of them?”
Domino shrugged his thick shoulders.
“So what’s the plan then? You gonna be the first black Batman? Chase bad guys by night so you can try and fill the hole you feel about Patrick?”
Domino chuckled and dropped his head again.
“Keep laughing, Domino. You’re lucky you didn’t kill those guys.”
“I’m not—” He lifted his head, stifling a smile. “I’m not laughing.”
“Now you’re going to insult my intelligence.”
Domino held up a hand, shook his head, trying to force out some of the drunkenness. “No—I’m sorry.”
A minute of silence. Domino struggled with eye contact. Amy never broke hers.
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry,” Amy said. “I know you’re sorry.”
Domino stood and approached the bars. Amy reached a hand through and Domino took it.
“And I know you think you’re helping us—the kids and I. But you’re hurting yourself. You’re willingly taking two steps back every time you resign yourself to my couch. I’m not asking you to stop loving us, but I am asking you to consider something: if you continue along this path, you and I both know it will take you to a dark place. A bad place.” She squeezed his hand. “What good would you be to us then?”
The bad place. He’d already been. Short visits though, fleeting visits. How long until he took residence?
Domino took Amy’s hand in both of his. “I’m always going to love you and the kids.”
“And we’re always going to love you.”
“But I need to let it go,” he asked more than stated.
“Yes.”
“I’m never gonna forget.”
Amy shrugged. “How could you?”
Domino sighed. “So what now?”
“I still like my vacation idea. Although your funds may be limited after you deal with the mess you caused tonight.”
“I got money.”
“Okay, high roller, how about: it may be irrelevant after the mess you caused tonight. Your butt’ll be stuck in a cell.”
“I’ll get a slap.”
“I wish I had your optimism.”
“Nothing optimistic about the way I been feeling lately.”
Amy gave a sympathetic smile. “You ready to go?”
“Take me to my hotel. I don’t want the kids to see me drunk.”
“They’re with the Lamberts.”
“Shit. What they must think.”
Amy squeezed his hand. “I didn’t tell them anything.”
Domino still shook his head.
Amy called the officer over.
Chapter 8
Stratton Grove Youth Ranch for Girls
Drayton, Virginia
Monica Kemp drove a brand new Lexus along the lengthy gravel driveway that lead into the Stratton Grove Youth Ranch for Girls. Giant, healthy pines lined both sides of the road, stacked tight together, affording minor glimpses beyond. Eager parents no doubt admired the unending rows of pines and felt welcomed by their beauty. Felt that the power of nature could indeed benefit their troubled child.
Monica saw the pines for what they were: sentries.
Today, Monica would be Belinda Cole, a journalist doing a report on rural residential facilities that catered to troubled teenage girls. Belinda Cole would have red hair and green eyes, and she would have all the proper credentials the ranch had requested she bring when she’d spoken to them the day before.
Despite her proper credentials, Monica did not expect deep scrutiny from the ranch. The place was relatively new, still building its reputation. Stephanie Sands, Vice Chairman on the Board of Directors, had seemed eager when Monica spoke to her on the phone. This became even more apparent
when Stephanie Sands herself greeted Monica upon arrival.
Monica exited her Lexus and gave the approaching Vice Chairman a quick scan. She wondered if more money had gone into the ranch or into Stephanie Sands’ plastic surgeon. A custom tailored suit that was likely taking its first trip outside corporate did a fair job at hiding all the right trouble spots.
“Mrs. Cole?” Stephanie Sands asked, her PR smile incapable of crinkling the drum-tight skin surrounding her blue eyes.
Monica switched her bag to her left shoulder and shook Stephanie’s hand. “It’s Miss Cole,” Monica said with a smile.
“Oh, I beg your pardon.”
Monica waved it off. “No problem. Still waiting for Mr. Right.”
The generic laugh they shared made Monica’s skin crawl. She thought about shooting the woman and dumping her in the Lexus, moving along to the next youth ranch on her list.
“You’re a Mrs. though, yes?” Monica said. “Your husband is Jacob Sands? Chairman?”
“Done your homework I see. Going to make my job much easier.”
Monica shifted her bag back to her right shoulder. “Well, I’d like to get started right away, if that’s okay, Stephanie.”
“Absolutely. But I’m going to have to insist you call me Mrs. Sands in front of the students. We are very big on respect here at Stratton Grove, and we always find it best to lead by example.”
Come back later and carve Stephanie into her forehead.
“Of course,” Monica said.
Stephanie Sands smiled and splayed a bejeweled hand towards the facility. “Super. Follow me.”
***
Stephanie Sands gave Monica a complete tour of the Stratton Grove Youth Ranch for Girls. Monica thought it looked like some kind of summer camp she’d seen on TV. Each building and cabin, despite more modern interiors for some, presented a rustic exterior. Deliberate, Monica thought. Like the pine sentries on the way in. It all depended on whose eyes you were wearing. Optimistic parents saw rustic and rural, i.e., a way to instill structure and discipline into their children in the ideal environment. Kids saw rustic and rural, i.e., we’re out in the middle of fucking nowhere.
Bad Games: Hellbent - A Dark Psychological Thriller (Bad Games) Page 3