Traffic zips behind me as I stand in front of Franky’s building in Hunter’s Point. My reflection stares back at me—a suave, good-looking son-of-a-bitch dressed in black from head to toe and a pocket full of cash. What I’m doing is sneaky, and Angie would probably fry my balls for going behind her back, but to move forward, I need information on her husband. 

The care home where Ana lives must cost a pretty penny each month, and if Angie’s husband put her there, he can’t be that bad. Right? Someone who doesn’t give a shit wouldn’t go through the trouble. So I find it hard to believe he’s as vile as Angie claims. 

Stepping forward, I remove my shades and press the intercom button. It takes a while before Franky’s voice crackles on the other end.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Miguel. Angie’s friend. I’ve got a job for you.”

“I’m not open for business.”

“I’ve got cash.” 

“Fine.”

The door buzzes, and I yank it open before Frankie can change her mind. I cross the glossy marble floor and enter the elevator, which takes me to the top level. Unlike last time, I don’t have to wait for Franky to pry open the gate for her penthouse. She’s waiting as soon as the elevator door slides open. 

“Where’s Angie?” She adjusts her glasses. By the look of her oversized sweater, bare legs, and messy bun, I’m guessing it’s her day off.

“Doing whatever bullshit Angie likes to do.”

“I see.” Frankie turns on her heels and heads for the living room, where a half-naked guy is sprawled across the couch. He’s hypnotized by the video game he’s playing on the gigantic flat-screen TV and doesn’t notice me as Frankie nudges aside one of the cats and nestles into him. “So, what do you want, Miguel?”

“Information on Angie’s husband.” I sink onto the opposite end from them.

“Like what?”

“Whatever you’ve got.”

“How much cash do you have?” She crosses her legs like a pretzel, and doesn’t bother to adjust her sweater, even though it has ridden up her thighs and I can see her bright orange underwear.

“Will this do?” I pull out the wad from my pocket and slap it on the coffee table. Franky sizes it up like a donut she’s unsure about eating, but the way she purses her mouth tells me she’s doing calculations in her head.

“That’s enough cash to get you a background check, and miscellaneous records.”

“Miscellaneous?”

“Whatever I can dig up from things like medical records, bank transactions, phone records, etc,” she explains.

“I can work with that.”

“Cool. I’ll have it ready for you in a few days.” She scoots forward and grabs the stack of cash, then flashes her gaze to me. “You can go now.”

“Guess I’ll see myself out…” 

“Later.” 

When I make it outside, part of me feels lighter knowing this will balance the scales between Angie and me. She dug up dirt on my ex to dangle in my face, and now I’ll have information to tease her with too. 

Speaking of teasing, I need to get back to the basement and check on dear old Richie. 

∆∆∆

By the time I make it across town, my stomach is gurgling with hunger, so I stop at my favorite taqueria a few blocks from my apartment. It’s the same one Angie called me a snob for liking, so while I chomp down on an epic burrito, I take a selfie and hold it in a way that shows off my middle finger and send it to her. Shortly after, I recieve a text.

Angie: Fuck off!

Smirking, I wipe the guac from my mouth and bang out a reply.

Me: Make me.

It’s childish, I know, but I’m feeling a little sassy now that I’ll be getting dirt on Angie’s ex-husband soon. Something about taking back control makes me want to pound my chest like an ape—or maybe just pound a vag. Either will work.

Half of the burrito is left, so I take a few more bites, then wrap up the rest to feed to Richie. He doesn’t deserve a full meal, but I can’t let him starve. Yet. Grabbing the tray from the table, I gather up the used napkins, and turn to search for the trash receptacle, but my stomach punches through the titled floor instead.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen my ex. In fact, the last time we were face to face, a police officer was asking me why I smashed my first through a coffee table. Celia is still obnoxiously beautiful. 

I hate it. 

I hate how my heart twists at the site of her big round eyes, and caramel waves parted down the middle to drape her arms. Not to mention how fucking amazing her tits always look in ribbed, white tank tops. This one is tied at the waist to show her flat stomach, and it reminds me how I used to kiss my way up her abdomen. Fuck.

Fuuuuck. This encounter would be so much easier if she looked like shit. But no. Instead she’s wearing tiny jean shorts which show off her perfect legs and hips—the ones I used to hold onto in bed—the one her girlfriend now grabs. 

“Hi…” Celia says, the corners of her mouth twisting with a twitch as her eyes dart around the taqueria. “What are you doing here?”

“Eating.” I grip the tray.

“Cool. Well… bye.”

The brown cascade of hair whips behind her as she spins to leave, and like a moron, I call out to her. “Celia, wait!”

It freezes her in her tracks, and she dares a look over her shoulder, but her breath appears labored as her nostrils flare. Then, she turns to face me, her fists balled at her sides as if she expects to defend herself. Am I really that scary? Because I’d like to think I’m a cuddly kitten. So I approach slowly, my hands in surrender.

“I just wanted to say it’s good to see you, and I’m sorry about the coffee table incident.”

“Yeah, well, don’t think a little apology will get me to drop the restraining order.” She raises her chin.

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Right.”

“It’s not. I’ve been going to therapy and I realize I have a lot of unresolved anger because of my step dad, but I’m working through it.”

“I don’t know what you expect from me, but it won’t be forgiveness.” 

“Of course,” I smirk and rub my chin. Stepping closer, I drag my gaze from her hips to her mouth, then up to her eyes. I shouldn’t admire her with such an appetite, but she has always summoned the lion in me. “Guess you’ll always be stubborn.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her brows furrow, but the scowl tugging her lips into a straight line, softens. Criticism always causes her spine to wilt like an unwatered flower. It’s her mommy issues, and desire to please.

“I was always the problem in the relationship,” I continue. “Because you could never own up to yours. Stubborn as ever.” 

“I’m not stubborn.”

“Said the donkey,” I grin, and flick my gaze to her pouty plump mouth. It might be nerves, but she licks her lips, so I lick mine before going back to her eyes. 

The lion in me stirs. She might be in a relationship with her best friend, but I know deep down I’m her kryptonite. The night I broke her girlfriend’s coffee table was minutes after I banged Celia’s brains out on the couch. She’ll never admit it, but it was her guilt that caused the argument, and for me to lose my shit.

“I… should go,” she says.

“I see you still can’t own up to your mistakes, Celia, but hey, that’s ok. Never change.”

“I do own up to my mistakes!” 

“Sure you do.” I wink, but it’s taking everything not to spill the dirt Angie found on her. “I did always find your stubbornness hot.”

“Stay away from me.” She backs up, but I step forward.

“You know what I think you’re truly scared of? You’re worried I’ll tell your jealous little girlfriend that we fucked on her couch.”

“Leave Sapphire out of this!” 

“Bingo.” I wink. “I hit the nail right on the head with that one.”

However, right as the words disperse into the carne asada infused atmosphere, something dawns on me. Celia didn’t file a restraining order because I punched through her ass-face girlfriend’s coffee table. She did it so I can’t go near Sapphire and spill the beans. 

“I feel sorry for you,” I say, and Celia scrunches her face.

“Well, don’t. I’ve never been happier.”

“Then you must be a psychopath because I don’t know how you can keep your lies and secrets bottled up, and say you’re happy with a straight face.”

“I don’t have any secrets.” Celia raises her chin, but I chuckle and boop her nose.

“Careful. You’re going to poke someone’s eye out with that thing.”

Tossing the tray into the bin, I walk away from her and don’t look back until I’ve made it outside. Celia remains where I left her, with steam practically rolling off her bare shoulders as she clenches her fists. She might be a mountain of chaos, but I’m the mist that bleeds through her forest and consumes her soil right down to the roots.

I’ll be hearing from her soon. I just know it.

By the time I make it to the dungeon underneath my mother’s basement, the sun has started to set, and the leftover burrito is cold. Richie looks like hell, with fresh snot dribbling past his lips and coating the dry boogers crusted on his chin. His eyes are red, his hair is soaked in sweat, and he definitely pissed himself several times because it smells like a skunk died in here.

“Boy, do you stink!” I wave my hand in front of my nose.

“Fuck you!” Richie shouts, but instead it comes out as a wheeze, like a dog who spent the day barking in the yard. “Let me go.”

“Yeah, about that…” I make a pouty face. “I don’t think you’ve absorbed the situation at hand. You’re not leaving.”

“I’ll give you money! Name the price and I’ll write the check.”

“A check? Do you think I’m an imbecile?”

“Then cash! However much you want. I’m good for it.”

“Richie…” I sigh and unwrap whats left of the burrito. “You’re not listening.” When he opens his mouth to protest, I shove the burrito inside. “Now, eat.”

Unfortunately for him, he begins choking and coughing, causing the rice and beans to spew all over the ground. With one hard thwack to his back, the rest of the burrito shoots out like a cannon across the dungeon.

“Are you trying to kill me!” Richie croaks.

“Now you’re getting it.” I pat his back, but I’m not done with him tonight. So I cross over to my workbench and rummage for tools. The metals clang in the darkness, and I might even toy with them a bit just to make Richie piss himself again. I can hear his pathetic attempts to break free from the restraints, but it won’t work. 

“You keep straining yourself like that, and you’ll end up fainting,” I sigh, and caress a pair of rusty pliers on the table. 

“Fuck you. Let me go!”

“Do you think the more you ask, I’ll eventually say yes? Because I’ve got bad news for you…” 

I reach for the surgical knife, and hold it up to the lantern light. The blade is dull, but with enough pressure, it will slice through flesh. Richie begins sputtering nonsense, and he still assumes he can negotiate with me, which is cute. 

I lie. It’s not cute. It’s proof how dense he is, and I have to wonder why Mindy can’t get over him. 

When I turn around to face him, his pallor has turned maroon with how hard he’s straining against the binds fastening him the chair. 

“You’re either going to faint or accidentally shit yourself, if you don’t stop.” I tap his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Read for a little fun?”

“Fuck you!” He spits.

“I’ll take that a yes,” I say, and tear open his expensive Armani shirt, which was white a few nights ago, but now looks like the sweaty yellow stains on a pillow. “Aw, look, not a single chest hair!”

“Fuck. You.”

“No. Fuck you.” Using the rusty pliers, I pinch one of his nipples, eliciting a howl from Richie. “That’s it. Cry like the little girl that you are.” 

“Why are you doing this!” 

But I ignore him and bring the dull surgical knife up to his nipple and begin sawing it off. The scream Richie releases could set off car alarms because of how piercing it is, and it’s just too bad I’ve sound proofed this place so thoroughly, no one will hear him.

“You know what?” I tap my chin. “Your little pre-pubescent boy-chest looks uneven now. I should cut off the other nipple.”

“No, no, please. No!”

However, Richie’s scream turns soundless as his mouth hangs open, his eyes wide in terror, and breath wheezes from his lungs as the other nipple is lopped off. I roll them both in my palm, then toss them into the air and catch the tiny fleshy pebbles. Crimson rivulets trickle down his abdomen, while snot, tears, and drool drip onto his chest. 

“Ah, come on, man. It’s not that bad,” I say and grip his hair so he’ll look at me. “But hey, now you know the pain your ex-wife felt when you beat her face bloody.”

“So this is about her,” he sputters

“It’s about you being a piece of shit.”

“You’re gonna pay. I’m not some nobody you can fuck with. You won’t get away with this.”

“No, I think I will.” I smile. “Now eat up!”

Slapping my palm against his mouth, I smash his nipples through his lips, but he jerks his head back and forth, trying to fight it. I keep my hand clamped, and manage to get them past his teeth.

“Eat!” 

I step back, and Richie spits out his nipples. They bounce off my boots, leaving dots of his slobber on the leather. This was fun, but it’s getting late. Walking back to the workbench, I set the tools down and let Richie know I’ll be back.

“When?” he asks.

“Soon.”

Moonlight sweeps the rooftops of the homes in my mother’s neighborhood, and in the distance, a dog barks in someone’s yard as I creep in the dark. The living room light glows in the window, and I should probably knock on the door to say hello like a good, loving son. But she doesn’t know I dropped by, and for now I need to keep it that way until I can move Richie to an alternate location down south.

My pocket buzzes, so I slide out my phone to check the message. It’s Angie, and she wants to meet for drinks. I had planned on going home, but I suppose I can make a detour if it means I get to bang my frustrations out on her later. However, I like playing hard to get.

Me: What do I get in return if I meet you at the bar?

Angie: If you get me drunk enough, I’ll let you bend me over your couch.

Well, that was easy. Guess I have a date.