Two for Flinching Read online

  Special Smashwords Edition

  TWO FOR FLINCHING

  Todd Morgan

  Special Smashwords Edition

  TWO FOR FLINCHING

  Copyright © 2013 Todd Morgan This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover Art Design: Lesli Bass

  ISBN: 978-1-939337-46-7

  Published by: Telemachus Press, LLC at Smashwords

  http://www.telemachuspress.com

  http://www.smashwords.com

  Version 2013.01.21

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  About the author

  To Zachary,

  For teaching me the joy of life.

  TWO FOR FLINCHING

  He was upside down. A dream. Had to be. There was no beginning, no setting, no background, he was…just there. And he had that hazy, fuzzy, confused feeling, that things were going along without him. He tried to move, in the dream, and found that he couldn’t. His arms hurt, his legs, too, both behind him and held in place. He reasoned—in real life—that he must be lying on an arm and that feeling had been transferred to his dream.

  He had a sinking sensation, not falling, but sort of gently dropping, floating lower and lower. His head lolled to the side and he felt carpet rubbing his face. Holy shit, he thought, did I fall off the bed? He couldn’t remember drinking before going to sleep, that might explain it, and if he had gone on a bender, Maggie was going to raise hell when the sun came up.

  Something wet flowed over his hair and for the first time he became aware of the background noise. Water running. Maybe it was raining outside. Was a storm coming? He had no idea, no recollection of the weather—or even the season. Spring, summer, fall, or winter? It was probably from his wife’s sound machine, set to a gentle rain to block out the noise. Helluva dream. He couldn’t wait to wake up and tell somebody.

  Water ran into his nose and he began to wonder if he would ever wake up.

  Chapter One

  “It’s Steven.”

  “Figures,” she said, “a day late and a dollar short.”

  I looked again, the view distorted through the fish-eye lenses. Steven was banging loudly on the door. The door across the hall. Steven was a big guy, obviously in a rage, and I feared for whoever was on the other side of that door. I reached for the latch. “I’m going out there.”

  “You may want to put some pants on first.”

  I went to the chair, took my jeans and slid them on. Before opening the door (before committing myself) I looked through the peephole once more. The door had opened, a middle aged man stood with it still half closed. A middle aged woman was behind him, clutching a robe close to her as if it could somehow protect her. I angled my head and saw a hotel security guard hurrying down the hall.

  “Amber!” Steven screamed.

  The man held out his hands, imploring restraint, saying something I couldn’t hear. The security guard, a kid really, probably a student at the local college, stood uncertainly to the side. Steven yelled again, but all I could make out was, “My wife—“

  The man stood back and Steven pushed the security guard away. He took two steps into the room, quickly turned, and slammed the door behind him. The kid said something that started with, “Sir.” Steven hit the door with his fist, sounding like a rifle shot in the once quiet hallway. He shook off the guard and stormed away, the kid trailing in his wake.

  I went to the table next to the window and poured an inch of rum into the cheap plastic cup. The window looked over the front parking lot. Steven stomped out of the main entrance and got into the BMW he had left in a handicapped space. He drove through the lot to a Toyota Camry, turned his car around and backed into the Camry before driving away. I knocked back the rum.

  “He wrecked your car.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch.” Amber was on the king bed, leaning against the headboard, her muscular legs tucked under the cover up to her knees. “That’s it,” she said. “I’ve had it.”

  I poured another shot.

  “I’m leaving him.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m divorcing him, Beason. I’ve put up with his shit for too long. He has been stepping out on me since we got married. I finally do the same and he can’t handle it.”

  I knocked back the rum.

  She folded her arms beneath her bare breasts. “We’re so upside down on the house, two mortgage payments and we can barely afford one. The restaurant is bleeding money. I can’t carry him any longer. I’m going to leave him to stew in his own juices.”

  Steven had pulled out of the lot and driven away. My Jeep was parked in the back, next to a dumpster, so I was safe. Probably.

  “Come on.” Amber patted the bed next to her and gave me that devilish grin. “We’ve got time for one for the road.”

  I shook my head in disgust. Disgust at myself. And peeled off the jeans and climbed into bed.

  ***

  I slipped silently into the house, hit the button and winced as the gara
ge door rattled down. Blondie came running, in that peculiar lopsided gait of hers and jumped up on me. I pushed her down. She jumped on me again. I shrugged her off and went to the front door, taking the leash from its hook. Her excitement went into overdrive. She had been cooped up for far too long, an outside dog trapped indoors with way too much time between proper walks. I opened the door and she bounded out. I followed her, holding the leash. It was late and there wasn’t going to be anybody out for her to bother and she deserved a good run. And it wasn’t as if I was going to be able to sleep.

  Blondie ran down the front walk and turned left, afraid I was going to hook her with the leash. I walked behind her, easily following as she tore through the neighbor’s yard. I carried the leash because I knew she wouldn’t agree when the walk was over and would most likely have to drag her back to the house.

  It was too cold for the leather jacket, but it was what I had, so I zipped it tight and made the best of it. The stars were out, a crescent moon, the night bright and alive and still. Blondie began barking, howling at either a cat or some other night creature. I whistled at her and she took off, eager to find new prey. The subdivision was fairly new, single level and two story brick homes, the shrubs and young trees hanging mysteriously in the dark. There was no sidewalk, so I had to stay in the gutter next to the curb. Headlights flared behind me, shooting my shadow onto the road.

  The car stopped, the engine died and a door popped open and shut. I kept walking. I knew who it was, who it had to be. “Beason Camp. I should’ve known.”

  I stopped. There was no avoiding it. “Evening, Steven.”

  Steven’s arm was in a brace, from his hand halfway to his elbow. He wasn’t wearing the sling they gave him at the emergency room. Must have broken his hand punching that door. I’d once had a similar injury.

  “I should’ve known,” he said again.

  “Known what?”

  “Known that it was you.”

  “That it was me out walking my dog?”

  “That it was you fucking my wife.”

  I shook my head.

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He was a couple inches taller than me, six foot two, six foot three, and maybe thirty pounds bigger, two twenty, two thirty, much of it in his gut, but plenty in his chest and shoulders. He stepped closer. Even with the rum on my own breath, I could still smell the whisky coming from his. “I want my wife.”

  “Can’t help you, Steven.”

  He took a swing at me, a long, looping, drunken, punch with his good hand. I easily moved away, keeping my hands at my side. He threw another, this time with his injured hand. I should have let him connect, knowing the pain would drive him to his knees. I didn’t. He swung a few more times, charging after me. I kept moving back. I had an entire block behind me and then another.

  Eventually, he gave up. Winded, he put his hands on his knees and swore between breaths. I could tell he was crying. “Where is she?” he sobbed.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m not giving her up.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  Blondie had returned, sitting in the street. She was a lab mix, given to jumping on friends and strangers alike. Now, though, she just examined us with her head cocked to the side.

  “Go home, Steven.”

  “I’m going to find her.”

  “I hope so,” I said, “and when you do, you may want to consider seeing a counselor.”

  “Fuck you,” he said, breathing hard form the exertion or the tears, I couldn’t say. “Beason Camp. Marriage expert.”

  “Good night.” I hooked the leash to Blondie and left him with his tears in the street.

  I made sure Blondie had plenty of food and water and poured myself another shot. One for the road. I left my bomber jacket on the coat tree and climbed silently up the stairs. I stopped outside one of the closed doors, the door to the master bedroom. I don’t know how long I stood there, thinking yet not really thinking, vague memories of better times, before I opened the door across the hall and went into the tiny guest room.

  Chapter Two

  I was sitting at the table in the kitchen/dining room combo drinking coffee and reading the Chickasaw Falls Times when I heard activity upstairs. Shower running followed by blow drying. I had finished both sections, front page and sports—all fourteen pages of it—before she appeared on the stairs. Shoulder length brown hair, makeup artfully applied, dressed in a maroon sweater and a pair of Levis. Though I would never say it aloud, she was as pretty as her mother.

  “Morning, Uncle B.”

  “Good morning, Erin. How did you sleep?”

  “Ok. Had to stay up late to study for a test.” She went to the cabinet, took out a to-go mug, filled it from the pot and dumped enough sugar into it to put a diabetic in a coma. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “It was pretty late.”

  “Working on a case?”

  “Something like that.”

  More noise from the second floor, hurried footsteps and Blondie arose from her spot at my feet and started wagging her tail. The boss of the house came down the stairs, jet black hair wild, olive complexion and beauty a model would die for. “Hey, daddy.”

  “Hey, baby.” I stood, scooped her up in my arms and hugged her close. “Have a good night?”

  “Uh huh.” She rubbed sleep from her eyes. “Erin and me watched Alvin and the Chipmunks.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you want for breakfast?”

  “Chocolate pudding.”

  We negotiated a little and finally settled on Fruit Loops. I wasn’t too sure it was a step up from pudding, but at least she would get some calcium.

  “No milk.”

  “Part of the deal, Sarah.” I poured the cereal and milk into her favorite princess bowl and gave her the Dora the Explorer spoon. “It’s good for you.”

  She frowned. “Can I watch a show?”

  “Sure, honey.” I went to the living room and turned on the television. It was already set to the Cartoon Network.

  Erin said, “Can you drop her at preschool? I need to get there early today, study some more for my anatomy test. Oh, and I got a hot date tonight.”

  “Sure.” I sat at the table across from my daughter. “Hey, baby, I’ve got an idea.”

  “What?”

  “You want to go to school or would you like to cut and go with daddy? We can go to the gym and then you can go to daddy’s office.”

  She pursed her lips in deep thought. Sarah was old enough to start kindergarten in the fall, but she had a late birthday and I thought it would be better for her to wait. It would give her another year to grow, another year of maturity. I didn’t think it would matter much in elementary school, but it could be huge when she hit high school. Her mother hadn’t agreed, but my wife’s opinion was no longer a consideration.

  “Today is Peyton’s birthday. Her momma is bringing cupcakes.”

  “Okay. You can go to work with daddy another day.”

  Sarah shook her head, her long curls flying. “I can make her a pretty picture at your office and give it to her tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Yep,” she said proudly. “Sounds like a plan.”

  ***

  I took Sarah into the gym and let her run around while I shot. I was never a very good shooter—at least on a basketball court. I couldn’t dribble very well, either. But I’d had some athletic talent and was a good rebounder and a fair defender and had started for a middling high school team my last two years. I shot ball now to loosen up, reaching that age where you had to warm up before you could stretch. Sarah had decided to kick the basketball up and down the hardwood court. I went through my ten minutes of ritual stretching before dropping Sarah in the YMCA day care.

  I did my twenty minutes of penance on an elliptical machine, the resistance set at the maximum level. I followed that with a five minute cool
down on the treadmill. The Y was fairly deserted and I was able to get my lifting done in thirty minutes. After another five working the lonely heavy bag in the corner, it was time for a quick shower. I collected Sarah from the nursery and she broke for the gym. I followed. It wasn’t as if I had anywhere I needed to be.

  I stood under the basket in my jeans and sweatshirt, dribbling as she climbed the bleachers.

  “Beason,” a voice called from the door, “you still throwing up bricks?”

  Randall Rogers had been a teammate of mine, a year younger who had made the varsity as a freshman. The point guard, he could always shoot and dribble. Now, he was balding and coming to the gym to work off the twenty pounds he had somehow accumulated over the last ten years.

  “Hey, Randy,” I said, “some of us get better with age.”

  “Yeah, but can you still dunk?’

  I shrugged.

  He smiled. “See ya.”

  “Randy?”

  He turned, a hand on the door. “Yeah?”

  I took two steps, jumped and threw it down one handed. “I still got it.”

  Randall Rogers laughed all the way into the lobby.

  ***

  “Hello.”

  “Beason? This is Eric Hendricks. You covered up?”

  “I’ve got some time. What do you have?”

  “A big one.”

  “Injury or divorce?”

  “Divorce. Can you handle it?”

  “Sure.”

  “We need to move fast on this. I’m going to send you a package right now.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Beason? There is a big payday on this one. Don’t fuck it up.”

  “I’m on it.”

  ***