Authors: Dwayne S. Joseph

Eye for an Eye (6 page)

BOOK: Eye for an Eye

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Bitch.

Look at her sitting there with her client. Arrogant bitch. She thinks she's so goddamned special. So perfect. I want to go over there so bad. I want to beat on her over and over and over again. I want to cut her and make her bleed. Want to choke her until she passes out. Wait for her to regain consciousness and then beat, cut, and choke her all over again. I want to do it for days. Want that whore, bitch to suffer. I want to make her ass beg for mercy, beg for her pathetic life.

Oh, how I want that.

I can't stop my leg from bouncing. My muscles are taut. They want me to give in. They want me to allow them to function on their own. They want to take me over there so bad. I clamp my hand down around my thigh, right above my knee, and squeeze.

Stop bouncing. I can't do this yet. Not here. Not now. It's not time yet.

I've thought about it night and day for six months. I've gone over the how, when, and where for six fucking months.

Six months of hell.

God, I want to hurt her so bad.

I want her to feel the pain that she's made me feel. The heartache. The emptiness. The loneliness I've had to endure. I want to look directly into her eyes as her life extinguishes the way mine did.

Hell.

Pure goddamned hell.

I squeeze. Feel the ache in my leg. I'm gripping so tightly, I'm causing trauma to the muscle. I'll have a bruise tomorrow. Another one to add to the collection of bruises, cuts, and scars I've accumulated.

I watch her.

I can't hear what she's saying, but I know the words coming out of her mouth are laced with pompous ignorance. Fucking bitch. Fucking whore. Fucking prostitute. She doesn't know how lucky she is. She could die right here and now. But I have to wait and that kills me. Makes me hate her even more. She likes to have everything go her way. I hate making her think that it is. But I have to. Revenge will look, smell, taste, and feel so much better if I wait. If I stick to the plan.

My leg bounces. Says fuck the plan. Do it now.

Now!

I squeeze. My cotton slacks don't prevent my nails from digging into my flesh.

Bitch. I'm going to kill you and it will be all your fault.

God, I can't wait until that moment comes. I'm going to savor it. I'm going to replay and relive it in my mind over and over.

I take a breath, hold it for a moment, and then let it out slowly. Look at her. Arrogantly plotting out how to ruin someone else's life.

You're going to pay for what you've done to me, bitch.

My leg stops bouncing and I unclasp my fingers from around it. My body is in tune with my mind now. It understands that patience is the key to salvation. Patience will deliver to me the freedom that I need to move on. It will be hard, but at least then, without her in the world, I can try. But only when she's no longer a part of this world.

My leg starts to bounce again. I clamp my fingers around it again and squeeze. My muscles hurt. I wince. But I enjoy the pain. It's sadistic, I know.

I wasn't always this way. Before the pain she'd caused, I was sane. I was happy. I was living a life filled with love. The sun shone and brought heat and light to every one of my days. I looked forward to the beauty of sunrise and the imminence of sunset, knowing that I would be blessed with the magnificence of sunrise again.

But then that bitch took it all away.

She got rid of the sun and brought the cold and the darkness.

I hate her.

I wince and grit my teeth, I'm squeezing my leg so hard. I'm sure I'm going to limp when I leave. But that's OK. I'll squeeze and deny my muscles the pleasure of getting up and ending her life now, because the pleasure will be so much sweeter when the time comes.

Be patient. Breathe and be patient.

Stick to the plan.

She'll get hers.

I promise.

I watch her. I squeeze my leg again. Shit, it hurts.

Fucking bitch.

“Hi, Lisette.”

I'd just finished my meeting with Shante Hunt and was folding a cashier's check she'd given me for $37,000 dollars. Half now. The rest when she had Ryan Scott by the balls. The sum was commonplace to me now, but the sensation of holding that much money at one time was still intoxicating.

Ruining marriages was a very lucrative business.

I looked up to see Rebecca Stantin standing in front of me. She was the wife of pastor extraordinaire Bruce Stantin. He was a charismatic womanizer and abuser, who had everyone fooled. He preached the Word of God on Sundays, and verbally and physically abused his wife Monday through Saturday.

Rebecca had come to me because she wanted explicit photographs of the good minister committing the sin of adultery. She wanted to use those photographs as leverage to not only get out of the marriage, but to walk away with as large a settlement as well. She was seeking peace and freedom. I'd given her the photos she wanted, but before I let her walk away, I showed her how she could have that peace and freedom while staying in a marriage that had practically given her the key to the city.

I said, “Rebecca.”

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

“I'm actually about to leave.”

“Please?” she asked. “I promise I won't take up too much of your time. I just have something I want to discuss with you.”

I looked at my watch. I met with clients typically no more than three times. The first meeting was to go over the particulars and to collect half of the payment. The second meeting, if necessary or requested, was to provide an update and to finalize how the setup was to take place. The third meeting was the last. I provided the proof they wanted, collected the other half of my payment, and then said goodbye. I never met with them again.

I said, “I have two minutes.”

Rebecca smiled and pulled out a chair and sat down across from me. “I appreciate this,” she said.

I gave her a half smile. “So . . . how can I help you?”

“Did Marlene tell you I called?”

“She did.”

“Oh, OK,” she said. “So . . . I saw you sitting with someone. Was she a new client?”

I closed my eyes a bit. “I don't discuss my business, Rebecca. You know this.”

She gave me an apologetic frown. “You're right. I apologize.”

“So you said you had business to discuss. Is this about your husband?”

“Ex,” she said.

“Well . . . soon-to-be ex?”

She held up her hand. There was no diamond on her ring finger.

It surprised me. “You left him?”

Rebecca smiled. “I did.”

“And how did he take it?”

“With a tight lip and a clenched jaw. I haven't used the photos, but I told him if he gives me any grief that I will, without hesitation.”

“Good for you.”

Rebecca smiled and then leaned forward. “Being the first lady was nice, but I didn't want to be the first lady anymore.”

“OK.”

“Lisette . . .” She paused and looked at me intently, as though she had a big secret she were about to divulge.

I said, “Yes?”

“I want to do what you do.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“What you did for me changed my life, Lisette. Before you I was like a zombie, walking around without aim, without purpose. I was dead inside. But when I used those pictures in the way you suggested, and got the results I got, something came to life inside of me. It was like a bulb just came on and brought to light a path I'd been desperately searching for, but had never been able to find.

“What you did was so powerful and so empowering. You helped give me total control. More importantly, you gave me my dignity back. I could pay you from now 'til eternity, and I'd still never really be able to repay you for what you've done.”

“And now you want to do what I do?”

“Yes! I want to give women the empowerment that you gave me. I want to give them their dignity back.”

I looked at Rebecca with a hard stare. Her eyes were alive with excitement, with passion. She'd been blind but now she could see. And with her eyes wide open, she now wanted to go on a crusade doing what I did.

I shook my head.

I was a home wrecker not because I was on some moral crusade. I was a home wrecker because I enjoyed doing it. I enjoyed playing men. I enjoyed making them bend to my will. Fucking them over the way they fucked over their wives and others pleased me. It wasn't about morals. It was about control. It wasn't about being on a crusade for the sake of womankind.

It was about self pleasure. It was about getting high off of making a man do what I wanted. It was the ultimate orgasm. Women just happened to be helped in the process of my masturbation.

Rebecca had no clue. No fucking idea.

I pushed my chair back and stood up, and looked down at her. I said, “Go home, Rebecca. And don't call anymore,” and then walked away.

She wanted to be a home wrecker. That was a joke.

Rebecca called my name. Said out loud that she could do it.

I ignored her and kept walking with Ryan Scott in my sights.

Ryan Scott.

Brother-in-law to Shante.

He was perusing a selection of Liz Claiborne dress slacks. He was going back and forth between beige and black, trying to decide which went better with a sepia-colored button-down shirt he was holding.

We were at Nordstrom. His favorite store. He liked to go there at least twice a week. I stood with a bag in my hand, pretending to browse through dress shirts, and watched him. He was about six-five with a gymnast's build. Broad shoulders, full biceps filling out the sleeves of a black T-shirt he had on. His forearms were thick; so were his wrists. His back was wide and trailed down to a thin waistline. He had the perfect V shape up top. His bottom wasn't too bad either, covered by a pair of khaki shorts that stopped just below his knees. He had nice calves. Not thin, but not overly thick, either. They were naturally well defined. He'd never had to deal with anyone accusing him of having chicken legs.

I watched the back of his well-proportioned bald head go from side to side. He was having a hard time with his decision. Style was obviously very important to him.

I'd been watching him for two weeks, utilizing all of the information Shante had given me. Her info had been thorough and incredibly accurate. She knew a lot about him. Almost too much. Honestly, had I not seen the look of disgust in her eyes, I would have surmised that her sister had been right to not believe her.

But I did see the look.

For the two weeks I'd studied him, I'd gotten to know his pattern very well. Shante had called him a creature of habit, and she'd been right. Gym in the morning, then work until lunchtime. Lunch hours were spent with coworkers, usually female. Mondays and Wednesdays he went to the mall around seven P.M. Tuesdays and Thursdays he worked late. On those nights, the same tall, blond female always left the office twenty minutes before he did, applying lipstick, her hair disheveled. On Fridays he did happy hour, and wouldn't come home until three in the A.M.

He reminded me of Marlene's ex-husband, Steve. He was bleeding Marlene dry of her strength and dignity before I set him up. Now Marlene was the one bleeding him dry with child support payments. I was bleeding him dry too, in $50,000 monthly installments. Payments to keep my mouth shut. Stay-out-of-jail money for fucking with the wrong bitch.

Ryan was a lot like Steve. Another pretty boy who thought his dick was golden. The Steves and Ryans of the world were predictable and very easy.

Shante had to go away for a month. When she came back she was going to take her sister out. It was supposed to be an attempt to smooth things over. Dinner and a movie to apologize. She wanted the moment filmed on that night. She was going to call me two days prior to ensure that everything would happen as planned.

I'd spent two weeks watching, studying, learning.

Now it was time to go to work.

I approached him. Stood off to his left shoulder. Said, “You're making the decision too hard.”

Ryan turned and looked at me with a set of deep-set, intense brown eyes. They were mysterious. Seemed as though something dark were lurking behind them. He stared at me momentarily before his line of sight dipped down and came back up. I had on a plum-colored sleeveless blouse that hugged my torso like a frightened child, a black mini-skirt that stopped an inch above my knees, no stockings, and black, open-toed sandals with a two-inch heel.

The corner of his mouth rose slightly as he said, “Excuse me?”

I pointed to the brown pair of slacks. “Those are the ones you should buy.”

He looked down to the beige pair and held them up a bit. “These? And why is that?”

“They go better with the shirt and that color isn't as secretive as black is.”

“Secretive?”

“Black is a concealing color. It's what overweight people wear to make themselves look thin. It's what people wear when they want to conceal flaws. You're obviously not overweight, nor do you have anything that needs to be . . . concealed.”

I let my line of sight trail shamelessly down to his crotch.

Ryan narrowed his eyes a bit and flexed his square jaw line.

So easy
, I thought.

I added, “I wouldn't lie to you.”

“Wouldn't you?” he asked with a cocky grin.

I shook my head. “I don't know you. I have no reason to lie.”

He stared at me with his intense eyes and then nodded and put down the black pair of slacks. He extended his hand. “I'm Ryan.”

I took his hand. “Lisette.”

He repeated my name. “Now you know me, Lisette,” he said, his I'm-the-man grin widening.

“I guess I do.”

“Does this mean you'll lie to me now?”

“I don't lie, Ryan,” I said very honestly.

“Don't you?”

“Lying is for people who have something to hide. I don't believe in hiding anything.” Again I dropped my line of vision to his crotch. I could practically see his dick jumping.

So, so easy.

“So . . . Lisette, just how long were you watching me struggle?”

“Long enough to know that you needed my help, Ryan.”

“Sure you aren't stalking me?”

I laughed. Not at his comment, which is what he assumed, but instead I laughed at him. He was truly full of himself. If I didn't have to wait until Shante got home, I could have had the job completed before the night was through.

But I had to wait.

I said, “I saw you and I approached you. I don't stalk.”

Ryan cleared his throat and cocked an eyebrow. “You're direct. I like that.”

“I don't like beating around the bush. And I don't have time for people who do.”

“We have a lot in common then.”

I looked at him.

He looked at me. Then looked me up and down.

Once again, I thought about how easy this was.

He said, “I'm married.”

I said, “I see the ring. And I never asked.”

“I just wanted to put that out there.”

“I don't know your wife, nor do I want to.”

Ryan nodded. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“Is there a husband or boyfriend in your life?”

“I don't do marriage or boyfriends,” I said. “I like to come and go as I please.”

Had the words come out for him to see, the word come would have been spelled “C-U-M.” I'd said it that sexually.

Ryan flared his nostrils. He said, “So, Lisette, do you plan on helping out any other men who may be struggling, or would you like to grab a bite to eat?”

“Isn't your wife expecting you home?”

“I thought my wife didn't matter to you.”

“She doesn't,” I said. “I just don't do drama.”

He shook his head. “There's no drama to worry about.”

I licked my lips. Gave him a seductive smile.

He stuck his chest out a bit. Flexed his arms.

His ego was out of control.

Just like Steve.

Just like all of the men.

“So . . . dinner?”

I licked my lips again and then shook my head. “Not tonight. I have some things to take care of.”

Ryan clenched his jaw and tried to keep his expression indifferent. He failed, but even if he had been able to, his body language would have given him away. He wasn't used to being turned down.

The tone of his voice edgier, he said, “What about tomorrow night?”

“Possibly.”

“How about I call you in the afternoon to see if that possibly has changed into a yes.”

“I don't give my number out.”

“Well then here . . .” He reached into his pocket and removed his wallet. From his wallet he pulled out a business card and offered it to me. “You call me tomorrow.”

“Are you sure you want to give that to me? I could be psycho, Ryan. I could start calling you at odd hours of the night. Your wife might not like that.”

Ryan flashed his arrogant smile. “I'm not worried,” he said. “Just make sure you call me tomorrow.”

“And if my possibly has changed to a no . . . do you still want me to call?”

Ryan shrugged. “I think I'll be able to handle it.”

“Are you sure? You don't look like a man who gets turned down too often.”

“It happens to the best of us.”

“Hmmm.”

“I will tell you this . . . If that possibly turns into a yes, I promise you a night you will remember for a long time.”

“Is that right?”

“You're not the only one who doesn't like to beat around the bush.”

I took the card, slipped it into my purse and said, “If I call, my number will come up as unavailable.”

“We have a problem,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “What's that?”

“My phone doesn't accept calls from numbers that are blocked. You're going to have to unblock your number when you call.”

I looked at him as he waited for me to answer.

He gave me an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, but I've had a bad experience before. You know how the saying goes: fool me once . . .”

I nodded and thought about Kyra. Thought about how I'd been burned. I said, “Unfortunately for you, I never unblock my number.”

“Not even this one time?”

My turn to shrug. “Fool me once . . .”

He smiled. It was macho and sexy. He held up his hand. “Sure you don't want to give me a chance? I give my scout's honor you have nothing to worry about.”

I looked at him as he waited for me to answer. I thought about it for a fleeting moment. I did have his number. I could call his wife and wreak havoc. But I had a little over a week to get him where I wanted him. And I didn't give in to anyone.

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

He frowned. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

“Fool me once . . .” I said again.

He sighed as his shoulders sagged. “I felt a connection. Would hate to lose it.”

I narrowed my eyes a bit.

He sighed again. “Another time, another place maybe?”

I shrugged. “It's a small world.” He held up the beige pair of slacks. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

“Anytime.”

He gave a smile filled with sex. “I'd welcome that.”

I turned around and walked away, leaving him hanging without a response. His eyes were on my ass. I could feel it.

He wouldn't care about a blocked number the next time.

BOOK: Eye for an Eye