Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller (2 page)

And believe me I did.

I just wondered, if the time ever came, if I’d have the balls to act on it; or would I end up turning a grand prize like Angela into another one of my consolation fantasies.

She’d managed to sneak up on me in the break room while I was in mid-gulp of a Dr. Pepper. Admirable task for a woman her size. I choked the gulp down, bubbles prickling my nose and eyes. “Thanks, Margaret. She’s new right?”

“Yes.”

“She filling out a waiver?”

A flash of contempt crinkled the corner of her mouth. “Of course.”

I swallowed her attitude and mumbled a thank you. She left.

I tossed the can of Dr. Pepper and headed towards my massage room for final touches. I lit some fragrant candles, dimmed the lights, and switched on the stereo system. Soft music with gentle sounds of nature soon floated from speakers above.

Good to go.

I closed the door behind me, put on a friendly face, and headed up front to greet my new client.

Guys are always the most amusing—incapable of hiding their apprehension when I first approach, the majority. It’s always a good laugh to get them on my table and wait for the first words out of their mouths to be both a test about my heterosexuality, and a rock-solid-goddamn confirmation of
their
heterosexuality:

“
The girls in this place are hot, man; you must love working here…”

Or something to that effect.

To which I routinely agree, but never without biting my tongue at the thought of casually telling them I was gay. I still might do that one day.

The new client was followed by a regular of mine—a sweet woman who’s been my client for over four years now. A pleasure to work with and always tips no less than twenty dollars, bless her.

But enough about all that. Only one client remained tonight…

I turned and faced her.

“Angela cancelled.”

Fuck.

I pulled a face of indifference over the disappointed one and hoped it didn’t look as transparent as it felt. “Oh yeah? She say why?”

She shrugged. “Nope—just said she wouldn’t be able to make it in.”

“Oh…okay.” I forced a smile. “I guess I can still make happy hour then, yeah?”

She actually smiled back—though hers appeared even more prosthetic than mine—and then headed back up front.

I didn’t know what to make of this. Clients cancel all the time, and sometimes, when I’m absolutely exhausted, it’s a blessing. Why did I feel as though I was obligated to an explanation as to why Angela cancelled?

If I were to be completely honest with myself, chances were that nothing would have happened tonight in our session that hadn’t happened already. It all came down to ego-stroking I guess. I was looking forward to an ego-stroke in my otherwise stroke-less life (take that comment as you will).

Yeah…I guess that made sense.

Dammit, no it didn’t. I wanted to see her. Touch her.
Smell
her.

Fuck.

Time for happy hour.

“Can I have a Jim Beam and a lager?”

“Rocks with the Beam?”

“No, neat please.”

She smiled and went to work on my drinks.

Fuck ice, man. I needed the process expedited, thank you. People were crowding next to me, and it was making me nuts. I entertained visions of smashing a beer bottle against the bar and ramming it into the face of anyone studying me, judging me.

I secretly envied all these people I loathed. Is that possible? To hate someone you envy? All these people were
happy
to be here; enjoying every moment to its fullest. I did not see frustration and despair on their faces. I saw contentment and a joy for life. Were they faking it like I was? There was a good chance that a lot of them were drunk, and we are all content and joyous when we are drunk. But what if they weren’t? What if they were just happy to be
who
they were and
where
they were?

The bartender set my whiskey and beer in front of me, and not a moment too soon. “Eleven dollars.”

I handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change, ensuring future compensation. She smiled back and even winked. I’d like to think it was a pass, but she was likely doing what I’d just done—ensuring future compensation.

Without pause, I began taking my medicine. No doubt after a few more rounds I would gradually build the nerve to mingle with some people, maybe even chat with a woman or two. That was the effect alcohol had on me: it was liquid hypocrisy. My cynical demeanor would blissfully melt away the more inebriated I became. It injected me with a feeling I wished I could bottle and consume every day without fear of hangover or deeper depression.

And trust me, that last one is huge.

Hangovers are one thing; they go away with aspirin, Gatorade, and greasy food. But what many people fail to grasp is that alcohol is a depressant; it brings you up, but boy does it also bring you down. And when you hate who you are, those feelings of inhibition that are so joyous the night before come back at you like a punch in the gut the next day for fear that you might have unknowingly let someone into your pathetic little world.

And yet for some reason, I was willing to swap a temporary high for those inevitable depths of depression, and I hadn’t the slightest fucking clue why. It was the American way I suppose. The get-rich-quick way, as opposed to the long, arduous route.

Oh well—fuck it. Cheers.

I found myself staring off into space, replaying the highlights of previous sessions over in my head. Her image was clear and strong. Very clear and strong. So clear and strong it was in front of me.

Literally.

Angela was standing outside; I could see her through one of the bar windows.

I shook my head to be sure what I saw was genuine.

It was her. She was there. But she wasn’t alone.

The window was small and did not reveal a lot, but from what I could make out, she seemed to be in a heated argument with someone.

I hurried off my stool and approached the window. I saw a look of fear on Angela’s face as a man approached her in an increasing state of agitation. Was this her husband maybe? Boyfriend? No. She was single—or so she told me. But that could have easily been a lie.

The situation grew more intense as the silent movie I watched elicited body language that told me a physical encounter was a good probability.

The alcohol in my blood forced me to act without consideration. I headed outside.

I decided to speak first. “Hey, Angela. Everything okay?”

The guy answered for her. “She’s fine, man. Fuck off.”

His response rattled me. No shouting, no uncontrollable anger. Confident and assured.

“Whoa—come on, man, relax,” I said.

He inched closer to me.

We stood about two feet apart, eyes stuck on one another. I had about two inches on him in height, but I would guess we weighed about the same. A good deal of his weight looked like muscle. He had a goatee and a shaved head. And while this particular look can be intimidating, it is a look often sported as a deterrent by pussies who can’t really fight. Problem was this guy also sported a crooked nose and scars running through both eyebrows. This told me he’d not only lost his violence-virginity some time ago, but there was a good chance he’d since become a slut.

“Don’t tell me to relax, bitch,” he said.

Fair enough.

I was tempted to look over at Angela to gauge her reaction to the whole situation, but was worried if I took my eyes off this guy he would crack me one.

I decided to address her directly, all the time maintaining eye contact with dickhead. “Angela, is everything okay? Do you know this guy?”

She finally spoke. “No. I was trying to drop a package off in the overnight slot.” She motioned over towards the FedEx rectangle fixed about ten yards from the bar. “He just started bothering me.”

Well there ya go. The guy was a complete stranger who was bothering
my
Angela. This was the kind of knight-in-shining-armor shit you saw in movies.

Dickhead smirked at me. “So maybe I was. The fuck are you gonna do, faggot?”

I refused to engage him in a bunch of macho bullshit before the inevitable punch was thrown. It’s a fucking fight; not a debate.

He inched closer. We were almost nose to nose.

He who draws first…

I slammed my forehead into his face. Heard and felt his nose crunch on impact. He staggered back, face pissing blood, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

I didn’t give him a chance. I rushed forward. He sensed me coming and covered up, preventing me from landing any decent shots at his jaw and putting him to sleep. I resorted to using my leg like a giant baseball bat, sweeping his legs out from under him. He hit the pavement hard. I immediately punted his head.
BOOM
—goodnight.

If it had been the movie, I would have stopped there. Gone and hugged the girl. But this was no movie; my rage was off its leash. I began stomping his head repeatedly, determined to flatten it like something out of a cartoon.

It wasn’t until my third or fourth stomp that a scream from a female onlooker pierced my red haze and stopped me cold. For all I knew this woman was screaming the whole time; I couldn’t hear a fucking thing except for my own heart pounding my ears like war drums. Initially, I expected the scream’s owner to be Angela, but it was not. She was gone and replaced with a woman I’d never seen before.

I whipped my head in all directions, wide-eyed, the spitting image of a disoriented lunatic I imagine. I desperately wanted to know where Angela had gone, but my urge to exit the barbaric scene I’d just caused finally surfaced and overrode all confusion. I ran to my car and was on the road in less than a minute.

I had no business driving with the combination of alcohol and adrenaline possessing my body, but the thought of stopping the car so soon after fleeing seemed absurd.

I would instead drive a few miles further, and then tuck my car away into a safe spot so I could gather my thoughts, stop my hands and legs from shaking, and talk my stomach out of showing me the whiskey and beer again.

It was not easy to snuff paranoid prospects like this. They came one after the other like previews before a film. My mind and body hummed with adrenaline. I needed to focus on my breathing if I ever hoped to process this mess.

In for five; hold for five; out for five. And repeat. A few more times. Better now.

What happened to Angela? She was gone when I’d finished with Dickhead, but surely she had to witness
some
of the chaos. Did I scare her? Was she grateful? Chances are she was
initially
grateful, but after witnessing the excessive job I was doing on the guy, she probably freaked and ran off.

I took another deep breath, held it, let it out slow, and began analyzing things as collectively as possible:

I couldn’t care less about stomping Dickhead. No regrets there.

I felt justified to step in and protect Angela as she clearly hinted at wanting help with Dickhead. All good there.

So that leaves only one possible explanation: Angela’s disappearance was due to my excessive use of force on Dickhead after he was incapacitated. That had to be it.