Authors: Devon Scott
He arrives at the home he used to share with his wife, back when life was simple and honest—no deceit, no lies. The reddish brick colonial stands majestic in the nighttime air, the cul-de-sac quiet and dark, save for the flashing blue and red lights from the cruiser sitting in the driveway.
Ryan pulls up alongside and cuts the engine before jumping out. A cop’s flashlight is in his face almost immediately.
“I’m the one who phoned this in. I’m the husband.”
“Let me see some identification,” the cop responds.
“Is she safe? Is my wife okay?”
“Sir, identification please.” The cop’s tone is firm.
Ryan pulls his wallet out and proffers his license. The cop shines his light on it for a moment, then back up at Ryan’s face. Satisfied, he returns the license to Ryan.
“No one’s home—or so it seems. The place is locked up tight. Can you let us in?”
Ryan shrugs. “I don’t have the key…” and as an afterthought he adds, “anymore.” Then says, “Let me see if the garage code’s changed.”
He scrambles up the drive to the garage door, flips up the plastic sleeve hiding the keypad, and punches in four numbers.
Nothing.
Shit.
Ryan turns to the cop and shrugs sheepishly.
“Let’s see if she still keeps a key out back.”
He jogs around the house, passing azaleas, the odor of fresh mulch hanging in the air. Onto the deck and over to one of a half dozen potted plants. Lifts one up.
Nothing.
Another, then another—Ryan checks them all.
No spare key.
“Nothing more we can do here,” the partner says. “Place appears secure; no signs of a break in.”
“But where is she?!” Ryan exclaims.
“We have no idea. Here’s my card. You can call me day or night should you require further assistance.” The cop heads down the deck stairs. Ryan follows.
“But what about this woman? She’s crazy.”
“Your wife?” the first cop asks.
Ryan glares at him.
“No, the one stalking her—and me!”
“Sir, I’d suggest you file a restraining order against this person if you think you or your wife’s safety is in danger. The county courthouse opens at eight-thirty, and you can get an emergency order the same day.”
Ryan stands in the driveway, watching them go.
A moment later, another car pulls up, an unmarked sedan with its lights flashing.
A beefy black guy emerges, Glock slung on his hip.
“You Ryan?”
“Yeah. Luther sent you?”
“Yup. Name’s Chris. What’s the deal?”
Ryan briefs him. Chris takes it all in, nodding as Ryan provides the details.
“Where do you think your wife is now?”
“Haven’t a clue.” Ryan doesn’t mention the thought that has been nagging him for close to forty minutes now—that she’s with Tyler. “I called our…um, best friends. They don’t answer either. She could have gone over there.”
“Where do they live?”
“Not too far from here—about twenty minutes at this time of morning.”
Chris pulls out his cell phone.
“You want me to go check them out?”
Ryan shakes his head.
“Naw, I’m sure they’re fine…”
“You sure?” His stare bores into Ryan. “If you’re worried, then it’s better to err on the side of caution. Won’t be no trouble for me to swing by.”
“It’s cool. I appreciate it, though.”
Chris nods.
“K. Give me your cell number.”
Ryan does. Chris dials and Ryan’s phone rings.
“Now you have my digits. Holler if you need me.”
“Will do. Thanks again.”
Chris returns to his vehicle, kills the flashing lights, and backs away. Ryan is left standing in the driveway, alone.
He knows he should go to Miles and Olivia’s, but will feel foolish if Carly’s not there. He whips out his cell again and speed dials his wife’s number.
Nothing.
Tries Miles and Olivia again.
Nothing.
A freight train out of control.
Dials Reese.
His call goes immediately to voice mail.
Jumping into his car, Ryan knows what his next move will be.
The drive takes under fifteen minutes. The sky is already beginning to lighten, black indigo giving way to a deep ocean blue. Soon now, heaven will show itself in all of its glory. Ryan hopes by then he won’t be too late.
No one is answering their phones.
Not Carly, not Olivia and Miles, not even Reese.
He’s given up, taking the shiny metal thing that fits into the palm of his hand and dropping it on the seat beside him.
He turns the radio on, but the music at this time of morning merely aggravates. So, he drives in silence instead.
Turning onto their street, Ryan steers his vehicle to a stop in the driveway.
Olivia and Miles’ home.
The lights are off. The street is dead silent. Only tree limbs move to the wind’s dance, a low howling that seems to whistle as it attacks branches and leaves.
Ryan cuts the engine, gets out. Goes to the front door, and without fanfare, rings the bell.
Then again.
And again.
Nothing.
Peering though the window doesn’t buy him a thing.
He rings them up via his cell again.
Nothing.
He goes around back, onto the deck. Out here, the wind is more pronounced. Out here, it screams, throwing up haunting shadows that dance on the weathered wood. Ryan goes to the bay window and door. Instantly, his heart rate spikes.
Right side, six inches up from the door handle, a pane is missing.
Ryan jumps back, his boots crunching on shattered glass.
He checks the handle and it gives.
Heart rate spikes again.
Should he call the police? Luther?
No time.
Ryan sucks in a breath and enters.
It is as he remembers.
Suddenly, it is all coming back to him.
Try as he might to thrust these thoughts out of his mind, and instead concentrate on the task at hand, something inside him won’t let him.
The images come back like a rushing stream; they invade his psyche all at once.
The party…
He was in fact just standing there, head pounding from a night of crabs, Coronas, apple martinis, and cigar smoking. Just the last two were more than enough to make his head spin.
One-thirty in the morning, standing in the kitchen of his best friends’ home, Olivia and Miles asleep upstairs, Carly crashed on the futon in the level below—and Ryan, his cottonmouth and tongue begging for moisture as he rummaged through the fridge searching for something to drink. He found a liter of Sprite and, not having the strength to search for a cup, tipped the bottle to his lips and hungrily drank.
As he dropped it into the refrigerator slot, he stepped back to close the door.
That’s when he saw her.
Olivia.
What he saw took his breath away.
Ryan moves forward slowly from the kitchen. Dancing shadows from outside paint disturbing images onto the carpet and floor. Ryan stays close to the walls, knees bent, gripping the black handle of a long carving knife he found in the sink, its gleaming blade pointing in front of him, the only usable weapon he could find. He steps down into the living room, considers calling out the names of the home’s occupants, but thinks better of it.
Olivia was clad in a button-down shirt—little else. The shirt hung open. He could see the dark patch of pubic hair that spread over her mound—and a large purplish nipple peeked out from the side of the shirt. Her hair hung free, locs surrounding her beautiful darkened face. Between her lips hung a burnt-out cigar. She moved forward on her toes, like a dancer; she seemed to glide toward him effortlessly. He glanced quickly toward the closed doorway that led to the basement stairs. Behind her, the back of the family room couch was sprinkled in shadows; the rest of the room was indigo.
Like it is now. Dappled in shadows. The effect is eerie. He feels terror crawling up his limbs. Not only from the present, but also from the past…
Ryan wrestles to admonish these thoughts that roost in his brain, threatening to incapacitate him.
He needs to stay sharp.
He desperately needs to focus.
Ryan couldn’t wrestle his gaze from her body, which seemed to writhe as she moved near—the illusion of a serpent—and the fullness of her spoke to him. Not like Carly, certainly not overweight. Just curvy hips, meat on the bones like his mama. Legs and thighs that spoke of substance and full breasts that hung invitingly. When she was within touching distance, her eyes never leaving his, the cigar now inches from his face, his cock swelling in his boxers with the certainty of a raging flood, he reached for her. Her legs parted, her eyes unblinking. His fingers traced a line down the cotton fabric of the man’s shirt, past buttons, parting the halves, and resting a hand lightly on her breast. Gently, he circled the hard nipple before dipping down farther past her navel, which—
A sound. Distinctive. Coming from upstairs.
This, he is certain.
Ryan moves cat-like to the other side of the room. The pulse at his temple is pounding now. His heart is in overdrive, adrenaline being pumped to every corner of his extremities. He should call for help.
Backup is what he needs.
She reached out and expertly slipped her hand inside his shorts. His cock came alive as she palmed the bulbous head, stroking the shaft, raking her fingers lightly over his balls. He reached out, finding her opening effortlessly, slipping a finger inside. His thumb found her clit and began a rhythmic massage. Her legs parted farther. He pulled out abruptly and brought a glazed finger to his mouth. Tasting her, sucking in her juice, eyes never leaving hers.
Up the stairs now, staying close to the edge, wanting to take them two at a time, but knowing this would give his position away.
He knows not what awaits him at the top of the stairs. It could be anything…or anyone. But Ryan knows all of this—everything that has transpired—every single thing that is about to happen—is his doing.
It is his fault.
A snowball rolling down a hill…
Becoming an avalanche…
A freight train out of control…
Her hands spread lengthwise along the edge of the furniture, her back bending forward and down, lifting up the shirt in the process—Miles’ shirt. She spread her legs wide, exhibiting in all of its splendor her heart-shaped, chocolate-colored ass.
At the top of the stairs he pauses, hearing it again.
A sound.
Distinctive. Rustling-like.
Inching closer to their bedroom, a bedroom that Miles and Olivia shared during happier times, times when they all were part of a family.
Ryan and Carly.
Miles and Olivia.
He gripped himself decisively, readying to impale his hardness into the wetness of her sweet cavern.
His ear goes quietly to the door, gripping the knife with purpose.
God, protect me from what’s on the other side of this door.
His other hand reaches for the doorknob, inhaling a breath and exhaling silently, preparing himself for his destiny.
Suddenly unable to contain his hunger, he lunged forward with a purpose that surprised even him.
Ryan thrusts the door open.
Spies Olivia alone on the bed.
It is her eyes that find him first. He will never forget that look. For as long as he lives, Ryan will never be able to shake that image from his brain.
Olivia’s wrists are bound behind her, mouth gagged with a dirty white sock, and her legs held open by a broomstick that is bound to each ankle with electrical cord. He has to blink to be sure, but this is no dream—a beer bottle is inserted deep inside her, almost to the hilt.
It is the gaping look from her that Ryan will never forget.
The heartrending stare that speaks volumes.
You did this to me, it says.
An avalanche…
A freight train careering out of control…
Ryan groans audibly, dropping the knife while reaching hastily for his cell.
It’s been a long time since he’s laid eyes on Miles.
He seems to have aged. Worry lines traverse his face.
Olivia, too.
They sit together, estranged husband and wife, huddled on the couch while being interviewed by two police officers. Olivia’s stare is vacant, lips mashed together while her husband does most of the talking. They make little eye contact—Olivia and Ryan. She has made it clear he is no longer welcomed here.
Can you blame her?
A pair of patrolmen have Ryan sequestered in the hallway, going over his story.
Olivia has provided a description to the police. It’s Reese, no question.
“So let me get this straight,” a tall, well-conditioned cop the color of butterscotch asks, while his partner, a shorter but equally fit white patrol officer, eyes Ryan with outward disdain. “This woman, Reese, she’s your girlfriend?”
“No. We used to—” Ryan searches for the right word.
“Date?”
Ryan doesn’t answer.
“Friends with benefits?” This coming from the white partner. Then adds, “And just so I’m clear,” he consults the pad in his hand, “you’re married, right?”
Ryan gulps. “Right.”
“So you think she’s in danger—your wife?”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Have you put out an APB or something on Reese? She’s crazy! She’s responsible for this and for Miles’ injuries, too. She all but confessed to that crime. And don’t forget the fact that she’s done time…for damn assault!”
The black cop eyes Ryan, but says nothing. He walks away for a moment, going into the living room. Ryan can see all of them from where he stands. Miles is consulting with the three officers; Olivia’s stare remains vacant, poking through his flesh as if he’s a ghost.
The black cop returns.
“We’re putting out an APB on Reese. She’s considered armed and dangerous. We won’t take any chances with this one.”
Ryan nods.
“What about my wife?”
“Can’t do much until she’s located,” the white cop replies, flipping closed his notepad, signaling the interview is over.
“I’ll go back to our…um, her house, to see if she shows.”
“No, go home. I’m sure she’s among friends and is fine,” says the black cop. “Olivia’s given us the name of your wife’s friend—a Tyler Nichols—we’ll check him out now, see if she’s with him. If not, we play the waiting game…until she turns up.” His hands spread wide as if in offering; his eyes have softened a bit.
The white cop, on the other hand, is feeling no such compassion.
“Hopefully Tyler’s not a friend with benefits,” he says with a smirk. “Know what I mean, partner?” Stare locked onto Ryan.
No longer wanted, no longer needed, he announces his departure.
No one sees him to the front door.
He’s shut the car door and turned the ignition when Miles raps on the driver’s side window.
It startles Ryan. He fumbles for the switch, lowers the window.
“How long have you known?” Miles says.
“Known what?”
“That Reese was responsible for my assault.” His face is level with Ryan’s, eyes unblinking.
Ryan hesitates, ponders the question.
“Not going to kick your ass or anything, Ryan. Just trying to understand how it came to this—you not having my back. I know things are fucked up between us—all of us—but there was a time when we were friends, when I’d have done anything for you…”
“Yeah…”
“Was it two days, two weeks, two months? How long have you known?”
“Look, Miles, I never knew for sure until tonight…an hour ago…”
Miles pulls a loc from his eyes.
“Regardless of what went down between us that night after the party, I’d never in a million years do anything to hurt you or your wife. And I’d never put you or Carly in harm’s way. Know that. I may be many things, Ryan, but I’m not
that.
…”
Ryan can’t look him in the eyes. So, he pans his stare away.
“Miles, I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry—”
But he’s already walked away.