A snivel hits my ears when I enter the damp confines. The basement hasn’t been converted, so unlike the seemingly spring-ish day outside, it is cold and damp, the perfect flu aggravator.
A cold isn’t the cause of the sniveling, though.
It is the whine of a man in fear for his life.
Good.
He’s only alive because I still have a use for him.
I drag over a chair, the wooden legs sawing like the strenuous effort of the lungs of the man watching my every move. His left eye is almost swollen shut, his lips are cracked and bleeding, and the stains on his pants have me grateful I’ve not yet had the floors done.
Piss is impossible to get out of pricy wooden floorboards.
Blood is much easier.
With one of the chair’s legs balancing on two exposed toes, I take a seat.
The man bound to a rickety chair cries out, his eyes bulging as his long toe and middle toe collapse under the brunt of my weight.
His sobs make him incoherent. Since I need to hear his pathetic excuse in person, I pull out the bloody handkerchief I stuffed into his mouth before leaning in close.
I’m an inch from his bloodied and bruised face when I ask, “What is this I hear about you wanting her houseandher dog?”
11
MIRANDA
Shiloh, my business partner, who isn’t actually my business partner since she refuses to accept the title, slips into my car before fighting past her crazy curls to grab the seat belt latch.
“I was starting to think you weren’t coming. You are usually half an hour early…” She stops talking with the silver part of the belt suspended in midair.
I start to panic that I wear harlot well when she slings her eyes to me so fast that I’m certain she’ll be out of commission for a month with whiplash.
She doesn’t speak. She just stares, her gawk a cross between admiration and disgust.
The cause of her alarm dawns when she murmurs, “It worked.”
Since she isn’t asking a question, more summarizing, I remain quiet.
“The teddy worked.”
She looks like she wants to vomit. Since it is a rare expression for her to wear, I double the urge by waggling my brows.
Shiloh pushes past the carrot I’m dangling in front of her, going straight for the juicy slice of cake our out-of-town meetings usually inspire.
Roy has me on a banned list at all bakeries and cafes within fifteen miles of our home.
“Nope. No. I refuse to believe it.” She finishes latching her belt so I can begin our trip to our latest client’s chosen wedding location. “I’ve known Roy for as long as I’ve known your sexy ass. He doesn’t havethis”—she wiggles her perfectly polished nails in my face—“in him.” I roll my eyes when she says, “Where the hell has my I-haven’t-climaxed-in-my-entire-adult-life boss gone? This hussy ain’t her.”
She sniffs me, doubling the heat of the stare of the person stopped at the traffic light next to us. He looks as desperate to take a bite out of Shiloh’s booty as Nero was mine last night.
“How many times did you orgasm over the weekend? From the sweat slicking your skin, I’d say over half a dozen.” She tsks, her head cracking side to side. “So I stand by my statement. Roy does not havethisin him.”
I hold on for as long as I can before breaking the news, and then I try to take the non-adulterous route.
“Roy filed for divorce on day zero of the four-day anniversary-moon vacation I forced him to take so we could spend some quality time together.”
Shiloh scoffs, but that’s the beginning and end of her reply.
