Eye for an Eye (11 page)

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Authors: Dwayne S. Joseph

BOOK: Eye for an Eye
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21
Soon.
So very soon that bitch is going to get it.
Everything is falling into place beautifully. Of course I knew that things would because I put my plan together meticulously. Ts crossed. Is dotted. This is going to be the perfect revenge. When it all blows up in her face, she is going to shit herself. It's painful having to wait everything out. Painful in so many ways.
Bitch.
Look at her. She thinks she's so goddamned tough with her kickboxing. Bitch. She can kick and punch all she wants . . . that shit's not going to help her. Nothing will.
I scream out and slam my hands down on my steering wheel viciously to release my pent-up anger and hatred. As perfect as everything is going, my control is still threatening to slip away.
I stare at her as she talks to Steve, and strangle my steering wheel. I can't hear what she's saying but she's obviously talking down to him.
What a coward.
Be a real fucking man and put her in her goddamned place.
Pussy. Weakling. Just like everyone else, he plays into her hands. People just don't get it. She's not that damned good. She's not untouchable. She's not invincible. She can be brought down and brought down hard. I'll show them. All in due time. And that drives me fucking nuts!
I scream out and rattle my steering wheel this time.
“Breathe,” I tell myself. “Goddamn it, will you just fucking breathe. You can't act now. You can't open the car, run over to her, and make her bleed. You can't make her look you in the eye as she dies. But soon you can. Soon you can reveal everything to her just before she takes her last breath.”
Soon.
But until then, just breathe. Just calm the fuck down.
I scream out again. Rage rides the wave of my hot breath. It's a good thing no one is around. They'd think I'm crazy, psycho. Some kind of nut. They wouldn't understand my pain, my suffering. My need for retribution. People see me breathing, moving, walking, talking, but they don't really see me at all. If they did, they'd cry out and run away from me. They'd see the horror. They'd see the zombie that I am.
Oh, so very fucking soon.
I let go of my steering wheel and shove my hands in my hair and grab a handful of it in both hands. I pull. Wince and smile as I do. It hurts and feels good at the same time. Pain and pleasure. Pleasure and fucking pain. They go hand in hand like life and death. Like her death and my life. Her death is going to be my rebirth. Until that moment, I'll just continue being the walking dead. Plotting. Waiting. It's all going to be so worth it. That final moment. I've relived it over and over in my mind and my dreams.
Bitch.
I stare at her. She's still talking down to him.
“Hit her, you fucking coward!”
I growl and pull harder on my tufts of hair. My scalp stings and itches. It almost feels like I've made it bleed.
“It's coming, you whore!” I say, screaming the last word. “Do you hear me? Your time is coming!”
I scream out once more and lash out on my steering wheel again. One, two, three, four, five times.
I'm breathing heavily. I'm on the verge of hyperventilating. I really need to get it together. I know this. There are things that still need to be done. Chess pieces–pawns–that need to be moved. Before I can yell out check-fucking-mate. I need to get a grip.
I look at myself in my rearview mirror. Cold, brown eyes stare back at me with satisfied approval.
You're doing a good job
, they say.
Keep it up.
The moment is coming. That bitch and everything around her is going to come tumbling the fuck down.
Just make your moves
.
I give my eyes a nod and then look away and put my attention back on her. She's walking away from Steve now. I momentarily look from her to him. He's standing like an old man. Shoulders dropped, back bowed, head hanging low. Christ he's soft.
I look back at her. She walks to her car as if she's the queen of the fucking world. Arrogant, narcissistic bitch. I can't wait to bring her down.
I reach for my cell phone and press speed dial number two. My eyes are on her as I wait for my call to be answered, which it is after the second ring.
“Hey, you.”
I ask, “Did you deliver the package?”
“Hello to you too.”
I roll my eyes. “Did you deliver the fucking package?”
“Not yet. I was waiting for word from you.”
“Deliver it tomorrow.”
I end the call and toss my cell on the passenger seat and watch her drive away in her fancy car.
“You took everything away from me and I'm going to return the favor twentyfold, you bitch.”
I put my hand to my head and run my hand through my hair, massaging my scalp. When I pull my hand away, spots of blood are on my fingertips.
It's going to be her blood soon.
Very, very soon.
22
Asshole.
I should have reared back and leveled him just for the hell of it. Should have sent his balls up into his throat. Put his dick on a long if not permanent vacation. Ass. If it weren't for Benjamin, Steve would have had to resort to selling drugs or his ass to make money to pay me to keep my mouth shut. I still should have made him do that. Still should have made him sink as low as he had to just to save his sorry ass.
I left him standing in the parking lot with homicidal thoughts running through my mind. I felt like whipping my car around to run his ass over before I exited the lot. Wanted to make him be the one lying bloody and in pain on the concrete. After all, turnabout was fair play.
But as bad as I wanted to, I didn't.
I just kept my fingers tight around the leather of my steering wheel, kept my foot pressed down on the gas, and forced my eyes to remain focused on the road in front of me.
Forward ever. Backward never.
An old saying I'd heard a former coworker from Trinidad say just before he quit without giving two weeks' notice.
Forward ever. Backward never.
Steve was behind me.
Fuck him and the piece of shit that he was. He'd wasted enough of my time. I wouldn't let him waste any more.
Banishing him from my mind, I set my sights back on Ryan Scott. In a few days I was going to fuck things up for him. But before then, I had time to put in.
I drove home with my thoughts back on the hotel room and the sex we had.
The intensity.
The heat.
We taught one another a lesson as we fucked. Did our damnedest to prove a point.
Each time Ryan drove up into me, he was telling me that he hadn't just been all talk. That he was the motherfucking man. That no matter how hard I tried, I was going to remember his Mandingo dick, just like they all did. And just like the others, I was going to go back for more, because he was long, strong, and could go all night long.
I rode him, contradicting his every thrust. He wasn't the man. I just let him think he was. It wasn't that I wasn't going to forget his dick, it was that he wasn't going to be able to get my sweet, black pussy off of his mind. He may have been long and strong, but each time I pushed down and worked my hips, I showed him that there was no way in hell he was going to be able to keep up with me.
It had been a fiery battle of wits.
And we were going to go at it again.
It was all part of the job.
Something I needlessly told myself when I pulled into the underground garage in my condominium complex, when I rode the elevator fifteen flights up to my floor, when I washed off the workout sweat, and one final time when I pulled Ryan's card out of my purse and dialed his cell.
This was work.
This was my job.
“Hello?”
“I thought your phone didn't accept calls from blocked numbers.”
“I changed my settings since we last talked.”
I nodded and hit play on my iPod. Pink Martini began to play. Some people were addicted to drugs. Some to alcohol and cigarettes. I was addicted to Pink Martini. Had to listen to them multiple times daily. Had to have my fix.
I walked into my bedroom as they played. I was naked. Air drying. I stepped into my walk-in closet and said, “That was a smart move.”
Ryan said, “I like to think I'm a smart man.”
I smiled. He was witty. Quick on his feet.
I rummaged through my clothing, looking for an outfit. Something sexy, chic. I said, “Is the ball and chain locked around your ankle tonight?”
“Shouldn't I be the one asking you out?”
“I never asked you out.”
“You got me there.”
“And so the answer to my question is . . . ?”
“My answer is . . . I have a skeleton key.”
I removed a strapless red dress from the hanger rack. I'd worn it once before. A year ago. Used it to entice a politician who loved to put his hands on his wife. Red had been his favorite color. Had no doubt his color of choice had since changed. I put the dress back and said, “I'm hungry.”
“I could go for a bite myself.”
“Just a bite?”
“Trust me,” Ryan said, his voice cocksure, “It would be one hell of a bite.”
I smiled.
He was very quick on his feet.
I said, “I'm feeling Mexican.”
“Have you ever been to La Esquina in Little Italy?”
“Once or twice.”
“They have great food, great ambiance.”
“Yes they do.”
‘I'll make reservations.”
“I'll be there at nine.”
He said, “I'll be there at eight-thirty.”
I ended the call and settled on a pair of tight jeans. I bought them the previous week at the National Jean Company. It was a bargain at $260. I looked through my tops and chose a black halter top. A pair of black sandals with a four-inch heel completed the ensemble.
I stepped out of the closet and laid the outfit on the satin sheets of my bed. I loved the feel of satin on my skin as I slept naked at night.
Ryan Scott.
He ran through my mind as Pink Martini played.
I wouldn't feel satin on my skin that night, but I would feel something else.
For the job.
Only for the job.
23
“You give the word ‘sexy' a run for its money.”
Standing in front of La Esquina. People sat in simple chairs at round, red tables in the street-level taqueria, eating fish tacos and Mexican tortas. Some were dressed up, but many were in shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops, sipping Coronas and Budweisers.
To those who'd never been there, La Esquina looked like nothing more than what it appeared to be–a hangout spot. A place to unwind and relax and chill with friends. A place to grab a quick bite to eat before club hopping began, or the last place to go to once the club hopping ended.
If you were looking for a fancy restaurant to dine in and you didn't know anything about the well-known establishment, you'd most likely walk or drive right past it without giving it a second glance. Out-of-towners never ate there unless they were taken there, or enticed to go there by a guide book. But if you were a New Yorker–a true New Yorker–then you knew all about La Esquina and the thirty–seat café with shelves lined with books and old vinyl. You also knew about the hidden passageway that led to an elaborate underground, dungeonesque restaurant and lounge accessible only through a back door. You had to have a reservation to get in, and flip-flops and shorts weren't allowed.
I'd taken the subway to get there. Didn't feel like driving. Just hopped on the 6 to Spring Street.
I looked at Ryan.
He was dressed in stylish, loose-fitting blue jeans, a white V-neck T-shirt, sand-colored blazer on top, with brown, square-toed, leather shoes on his feet. He looked like an A-list actor dressed casual cool for a night out on the town.
I said, “Thank you.”
He gave me the once-over again. “Damn. It's very nice to see you again.” He gave me his Terrance Howard smile and then leaned toward me to give me a kiss. I pulled back before he could. We looked good together, but we weren't an item.
Surprise and disappointment flashed in his pupils momentarily.
I said, “Did you make the reservation?”
“I did.”
“Lead the way.”
His line of vision went up and down on me again before he said, “Follow me.”
We made our way through the taqueria to the back door, confirmed our reservation with the hostess, and were taken to a table in the middle. As it usually is, the restaurant and lounge were packed with well-to-do twenty-, thirty-, and forty-somethings all out having a good, sophisticated time.
Our waitress, a svelte Latina with attractive eyes, sexy lips, ample hips, and full, firm breasts, took our drink orders–a sangria for me, since I was feeling Mexican, and a Corona for Ryan–and walked away.
Ryan knew the right moves to make.
Had I been a man looking to impress a woman, the restaurant, with its dimmed lighting, Mexican murals on the wall, and Latin music playing, would have been the type of place I would have chosen too. Had I not been on the job, I would have been impressed.
But I was on the job.
“So, how many women do you bring here a week?”
He laughed. “You say that as if I'm some kind of playa.”
I cocked an eyebrow and said don't bullshit me with my eyes. “Aren't you?”
“I'm no saint,” he said. “But I'm definitely not a player.”
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
Ryan said, “I'm serious.”
“So your coming on to me–”
“Was strictly because I felt an immediate connection with you. And based on what happened the other night, you obviously felt it too.”
“How do you know that I wasn't just horny?”
“Because you used my card tonight.”
“Maybe I just needed to have my itch scratched one more time.”
Ryan looked at me. His eyes intense, focused. He said, “And maybe you're just scared to admit that possibly, for the first time, you've met your match.”
I looked at him as he watched me with an I-dare-you-to-counter-that gaze.
Very quick on his feet, indeed.
The waitress returned with our drinks and asked if we were ready to order. As neither one of us had bothered to look through our menus, we told her that we needed a few additional minutes. The waitress walked away. Ryan's eyes trailed behind her.
“Thinking about passing her your card?”
Ryan smiled. “Just admiring her outfit.”
“The hostess has the same outfit on, but you didn't give her a second glance.”
Ryan took a swallow of his Corona. “The hostess is over two hundred pounds,” he said.
I thought about Fat Jim. He'd rescued me after my encounter with Steve. I rewarded him by presenting him with a lucrative modeling contract from a former celebrity client of mine. Bryant “Big Man” Drew. He'd launched his own very successful clothing line for plus-sized men. Fat Jim became the face of the line and was now a very rich man and a catalyst for making the Big Man the “It” Man. He was also one of the nicest, most genuine persons I knew. He, along with Marlene and Aida, was a friend.
I said, “She could be one of the nicest people you ever meet.”
Ryan said, “She'd still be over two hundred pounds.”
“You're ignorant.”
“I'm honest. Something most people aren't.”
“You're still an asshole,” I said, meaning it.
“And you're sitting with me,” he countered.
“I should call your wife.”
“If you do that you won't be able to have that itch scratched anymore.”
“I assure you . . . I could find another scratching post.”
“Maybe so. But it definitely wouldn't be as good.”
“You should tone that confidence down a notch. You could get your feelings hurt.”
Ryan smiled. “You used the card. I don't have to take it down at all.”
I closed my eyes a bit.
Thought about why I was there with him.
Shante Hunt. His sister-in-law. She hired me to bring him down because he was an arrogant son–of-a-bitch who'd come on to her. Her brother-in-law. It was complete disrespect that she'd turned down and then told her sister about. Her sister, disbelieving or denying the truth, lashed out at Shante and now they weren't speaking. Shante wanted proof that Ryan couldn't be trusted to give to her sibling.
That's why I was sitting in front of Ryan Scott.
It had nothing to do with the fact that other thoughts had been on my mind when I'd used his card.
Nothing at all.
The waitress returned. We still hadn't picked up our menus. We had her wait as we did.
I looked at Ryan.
He looked at me.
Sex hovered between us.
Thick.
Raw.
Food was the last thing on our minds.
“Are you still hungry?” Ryan asked.
I swallowed down my sangria. Licked my lips. Nodded. Said, “I am.”
He clenched his jaw, then looked up at the waitress. “We'll take the check.”
 
A half hour later, we were at the Mercer hotel in SoHo. It was a hotel his company used often to put his “clients” up in.
We were in the loft-like room fucking on a chaise. My legs were wrapped around his waist. My pussy constricting around his shaft as he jackhammered in and out of me.
He was scratching the hell out of my itch. Showing me just how ignorant he could be.
I used the card for the job.
That's what I told myself between each deep and painfully pleasurable thrust.
For the job.
For the job.
For the . . .
Shit it was so good.
So hard.
So deep.
So goddamned deep.
I dug my nails into his back. Left marks there to match the ones I'd left on his chest. I bit down on my bottom lip. Shivered.
I tightened my walls.
Felt his shaft pulsate.
Made him say, “Shit, I like that.”
Then I spread my legs.
Made him say, “Goddamn that's good. Open them wider.”
I did.
Ryan pounded me even harder. Went deeper.
I erupted as he slammed into me. Felt like a geyser shooting hot water into the air.
I moaned.
I gasped.
Demanded to be fucked harder.
Told myself again that I was there for the job.
For the . . .
I arched my back.
Cursed as he pounded against my pelvic bone and came.
He collapsed on top of me and told me not to move as he bucked several times.
I lay still, my heart beating heavily, my pussy electric, throbbing, on fire.
For the job.
That went through my mind as we fucked again before going our separate ways.

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