1. Gannon

    Gannon Contributor Contributor

    Jan 15, 2007
    Likes Received:
    Manchester, England

    Winners picklzzz & ferocious implosion Short Story Contest 105: Invading Privacy

    Discussion in 'Monthly Short Story Contest Archives' started by Gannon, Nov 21, 2011.

    picklzzz - Fly on the Wall

    I was always a bit too curious about other people. I often wondered, or even obsessed, about what drove them, what their innermost truths were. I don’t know what prompted this unnatural inquisitiveness, but sometimes it took hold of my attention like the jaws-of-life to a wrecked car, incessantly pulling and prodding until its contents were ultimately released. Wide-eyed on many nights, sleep but a whisper of hope extinguished by my churning speculations, I wished I could be a fly on the wall in others’ minds, sharing their secrets and desires, understanding their motivations, making sense of those I found senseless. However, when I finally got the chance, the experience was not what I imagined. It was much more terrifying.

    It had been a Tuesday in early September when my wish was granted. I was a passenger in my sister’s silver convertible coupe, enjoying the chance to be a part of her life again. Two years of therapy had somewhat convinced me that my disapproval of Darla’s choice of husband was not welcome and was eradicating any chance of a relationship between us.

    I did not accept Luke Colby in any way, mind you. His offensive behaviors I questioned on many occasions, to myself mostly but at times to her. However, pretending to approve of their marriage was the only way I could have my sister back; my shrink finally convinced me of that. I felt Darla was well worth the charade of niceties I was forced to display. Sometimes, I had to excuse myself to puke my guts out in the ladies’ room, but it was a small price to pay for the chance to be in her good graces again. It wasn’t hurting my figure either.

    We were rolling into the parking area near the baseball fields when Darla slammed on the brakes, almost causing a couple walking nearby to topple headfirst into the backseat.

    “What?” I cried, glancing toward the couple as they glared at us.

    “I forgot the mitts!” she yelled, punching into reverse and zig-zagging around a row of cars back towards the entrance.

    It was the first game of the season, and Darla’s principal at the elementary school where she taught had roped her into being the assistant coach that year. Although she was already overworked, he hadn’t accepted her refusal. So, instead of complaining, she embraced the challenge, putting all of her efforts into it.

    “Stop! You can’t go home now. They’re expecting you. Why don’t I go and get them while you get the kids ready?”

    She slammed the brakes again. “Yes! Great idea! Just hurry or they won’t be able to catch anything!”

    She jumped from the car, heaving a duffel bag over each shoulder and retrieving the bats from the backseat. “Thanks a million!” she called, heading over to the field.

    I wound my way through the subdivision and back to the main road, fighting the incoming traffic as teams arrived for their games. I hurried to Darla’s house, opening the garage with the remote in her visor. I was relieved to find it empty; I had no desire that day to trade pleasantries with Luke. My stomach was in good shape, and I could not afford the time to part with my lunch when Darla was waiting for me.

    I realized as I entered the house that Darla did not mention where she kept the mitts. I scanned the garage, but I didn’t see anything except a few cans of paint on a shelf and some basic tools perched on a workbench. There was a storage area in the yard, so I headed across the sunken living room towards it. As I cut through the foyer, a sparkle out of the corner of my eye stopped me cold.

    A chain attached to a quilted black purse hung off the corner of the foyer table, glinting in the light that poured in through the massive Palladian windows. It wasn’t exactly the style my sister would wear; the jewel-studded buckle, black tassels, and garish rhinestones clustered along the edging were characteristic of a clutch a teenager would select for her senior prom. Maybe Darla got it as a gift. I continued on, passing the stairway, and that’s when I heard the giggling.

    “Stop it, Luke! You’re hurting me!” a voice begged. “That tickles! I said, stop!”

    An animalistic sound reverberated through the two-story foyer, ricocheting off the crystal chandelier, followed by cry of delight. The voice sounded quite young, and more important, it certainly wasn’t Darla’s.

    “Seriously, Luke, we have to talk!”

    I crept up the stairs slowly with my ears pricked up like a dog’s. My face felt hot, and I pictured my shrink clucking his tongue at me. I pushed the image away, letting my curiosity escape his hold and my own

    “Okay, let’s talk. What is it you want me to say?”

    The girl’s voice was whiny and shrill. “You need to leave her, Luke. I can’t watch you go home to her every night like this. It’s not fair to me, and to us. You know I love you, but there’s so much I can take!”

    I peered through the spindles of the banister, getting a good look at my sister’s husband curled up with a blonde in nothing more than the bed sheets. Luke sat upright, his gaze almost meeting mine. I ducked down, my heart hammering in my chest. I waited without breathing.

    Luke sighed loudly, and then I heard footsteps. They were coming toward me.

    “You can’t rush these things. As I told you before, I’m working on it.” He sounded like he was practically standing over me. I stared at the fibers in the Berber carpeting, hoping to fade into them.

    After a beat, his voice retreated. I dared to take a breath, exhaling slowly.

    “What does that mean, exactly?” the girl’s voice demanded.

    Just then, I felt something grab me from behind. I let out a gasp and kicked away whatever had suddenly gripped me. I heard a yelp and turned to see Flozzie, my sister’s beloved Springer spaniel, tumbling down the stairs. I jumped up in horror, knowing as I did that it was too late, and as I witnessed the poor pooch make her final dismount onto the granite floor below, my sister’s husband charged out at me.

    “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, his hands on bare hips.

    I stuttered a bit, trying to explain, but the words were coming faster than my lips would allow. The gibberish I emitted sounded like those of a suffering dental patient trying to express discomfort as the dentist pressed on with his drill.

    Finally, my outrage erupted through my momentary fugue, and I pointed to the naked woman behind him. “What is she doing here? That’s the better question.”

    The girl glared at me, folding her arms across her overly-endowed chest. “Who the hell is she, Luke? Get her out of here!”

    I lunged then as if Luke wasn’t even there, and as the woman shrank back, hitting her head on the doorframe, Luke caught me. I pushed forward, but he was too strong.

    “Stop it!” he yelled, but I didn’t hear through the rage that boiled within me.

    I lurched again, kicking outward, clawing at his skin. His large hands clutched me until I could barely breathe, squeezing tighter and tighter as I fought against him. Then suddenly, they released, and instead of the breath I desperately needed, out came a scream stifled by my new reality. I flipped again and again, my face meeting with the strands of Berber as I twisted and bucked, until soon I joined Flozzie on the cold, hard floor of the foyer below.


    She doesn’t think I’m working on it, Luke thought. She’ll see soon enough just how hard I’m working to be with her.

    I saw his thoughts typed up in black squares on a screen, the way they appear on the t.v. at the bar when the sound is turned down. Luke stared at the back of Darla’s head as she leaned forward over someone, and he sneered. He pictured his hands wrapping around her slim, white throat. Somehow I saw this as it flashed on the screen of his mind.

    I followed Luke’s gaze past a weeping Darla until they landed on the person whose hand she held. It was like someone pulled the chair out from under me. As the monitors in the room started beeping wildly along with my frenzied heartbeats, I realized the hand she was holding was mine.

    The nurses rushed in then, pulling Darla from me, but instead of focusing on what they were doing and why I was laying there, Luke’s thoughts captured my attention as they appeared in a torrent across the screen.

    Let that bitch die, he pleaded fervently, clasping his hands together with his silent prayer. Things will be so much easier without her in the way. Then, only one more hurdle before I can get my hands on that money. Darla thinks she’s so clever, keeping it hidden from me all this time. Thinks I actually married her because I loved her. Hah! Pretty soon, it’ll finally be mine. And then, maybe I’ll bring Jessica along and maybe I won’t.

    “What’s happening?” Darla cried. She grasped Luke’ shirt until her knuckles were white, looking on as doctors came in to tend to me.

    “I don’t know,” he muttered, and I saw his prayers for my death continue rolling across the screen.


    I faded in and out of consciousness, but for some reason, I couldn’t open my eyes. Nor could I wiggle my toes, and the itch that started on the ball of my foot slowly crept upward, spreading and taunting every nerve, creeping closer and closer, until it was at my knee. I couldn’t bend to scratch it, so I lay there helpless while a scream worked its way from my throat. When I opened my mouth, nothing came out. The panic rushed at me in a wave, swirling and swelling until I thought my chest would implode. The beeping of the monitors roared in my ears, and soon I was fading into an abyss as the nurse injected something into my IV.

    My eyes snapped open, and the darkness dispersed. I was in a movie theater, popcorn in hand, staring at Darla as she wiped her eyes with a tissue.

    “What’s going to happen?” she asked, blowing her nose.

    Hopefully, her heart will stop. “I don’t know,” Luke said instead. “Nothing we can do right now. Let’s go home and get some rest.”

    Darla’s eyes widened. “You expect me to leave her like that?”

    “You can do whatever you want. But, I need to go.”

    Darla looked toward her husband in desperation, but he’d already turned towards the door. I felt as if I were watching an insipid drama on Lifetime and couldn’t change the channel. “Don’t leave us,” she called out, choking on her tears. The screen went blank. Luke was already gone.


    The popcorn was stale and too salty, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. I chewed on it anyway, watching Luke as he left the hospital. He weaved around light traffic, suddenly making a sharp left into a parking lot. Finding a spot, he bolted from the car, barreling past slower customers into the Walmart. He headed for the automotive aisle, humming an unfamiliar tune as he grabbed two large gas cans. From there, he headed toward the bedding aisle, picking up several packages of cheap white sheets.

    Next, he headed to a nearby gas station. He filled the two containers, threw them in the trunk, and made his way home. Parking on the street, he pressed the garage opener and lugged his purchases into the garage. Although he subsequently closed the door, the movie on my screen showed him stumbling around the garage to gather supplies.

    He stood on a ladder, tinkering with the motor that controlled the garage door. I threw my popcorn away, a kernel sticking in my throat.

    What the hell was he doing? I kept wondering, but I couldn’t ask him. There was no on in the theater to question, and my lips wouldn’t move anyway. I tried to get up to leave, but my arms wouldn’t budge. I looked down then, and I realized my wrists were bound to the seat with heavy chains. A chill curdled up my spine.

    Hands reached out of nowhere and held my head firmly upright, pried my eyes open, so that I was forced to watch Luke as he puttered around the garage, humming that nameless tune.

    He started ripping open the sheets from their packages, throwing them in a pile on the floor. He twisted each, knotting them haphazardly, and then he connected them. He picked up one of the gas cans and doused the fabric completely. He gathered up an end of the long chain of sheets gingerly, crawling up the ladder again, and he tied the end to the door’s motor. He carefully wound the sheets around the metal rail that connected the front of the door to the back, and then wrapped it around a stud so it fell down the wall.

    He poured the other container of gasoline in a line from the bottom of the sheet to the front of the garage, spreading out his markings until they covered nearly half the floor. He cleaned up after himself, tying up the packaging in a plastic bag and returning the tools to their box.

    He whistled his tune as he exited the back door. I saw him throw the plastic bag in his trunk before he raced off.

    There was an intermission in the movie of Luke’s mind. I was thankful for it. My wrists were released, and the hands that held me at attention relaxed.


    “Marie, please don’t leave me,” Darla was saying as my eyes fluttered open. She was a blob of dark hair, a hole in the center moving rapidly. I couldn’t focus exactly, but I knew it was her.

    I tried to reassure her I wasn’t going anywhere, but I was in the dental office again while the dentist pressed on with his drill. Spittle formed on my lips as I attempted to form words.

    “You’re awake!” she cried, and she gripped my hand tightly.

    “Don’” I gushed.

    “What? Don’t try to talk. Let me get a nurse!”

    She tried to let go of me, but somehow I held on.

    “Don’ go.” Why was it so hard to tell her?

    “I’m not going anywhere, Sweetie,” Darla said, stroking my forehead with her free hand. “I’m so glad to have you back! I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

    “D – “

    “Save your strength. You had a bad fall today. Really bad. Luke said you tripped over something on the stairway at my house and fell all the way down. You’ve been in a coma for several hours now.”

    “Don’ go home,” I finally spat out. My chest heaved with the exertion.

    “Of course I won’t,” Darla said. “I’m right here with you.”

    No! Don’t go home ever, I tried to say. It’s a deathtrap! Luke doesn’t care about you in the slightest! You’re in danger! Run far, far away! The more effort I put forth, the harder my heart beat, until suddenly I was floating. I saw Darla holding my hand; I looked down on my pale face as the monitors roared to life.

    As the doctor’s rushed in, Darla flung herself on top of me. I watched from above, my tears falling and dissipating as I drifted further and further away.

    “No, she was just awake! She spoke to me!” Darla cried as a large orderly pried her off my body.

    The orderly tried to comfort her, but when she insisted on lunging toward me again and again, he had to restrain her. A nurse injected something into her arm. She melted into a chair, watching in horror as the line went flat on the monitor.

    Hours later, unable to reach Luke, my sister drove home in a daze.

    I knew it was just a matter of time before she would be joining me. Although I couldn’t do anything about it, there were certainly far worse alternatives. Her life with that man, for one.

    Luke instructed Jessica to pull down the block so they’d have a good vantage point of his house. She looked at him quizzically, but he just told her to keep her eyes forward.

    His wife’s silver coupe pulled slowly into the driveway. “Here’s what I’m doing about our situation,” he said, and moments later, the garage exploded, sending up a large fireball into the sky so high that it warmed my face.

    My sister joined me in the theater, but now we had better things to watch.
  2. Gannon

    Gannon Contributor Contributor

    Jan 15, 2007
    Likes Received:
    Manchester, England
    ferociousimplosion - Curve Ball

    The engine revs down as Jeremy turns off the ignition. The parking lot is full of minivans, folded lawn chairs, and eight year old boys in blue and white striped shirts. He can smell hot dogs and baking dirt, and a nostalgic bubble bursts somewhere in the back of his head.
    He leans his arm behind the passenger seat and looks back. “You ready?” he asks the little boy in the back seat.
    “Yeah, dad,” Tommy answers, smacking his over-sized, little league baseball into his over-sized, hand-me-down glove.
    “And what are you going to do this time, buddy?” Jeremy can’t help but smile.
    This is Tommy’s team’s third and final game against the one other team that always has given them a hard time. Not only were the Fairgrove Turtles always beaten by the Jerico Yellow Jackets, but Tommy’s Turtle team had gotten repeatedly assaulted by the other boys. Each end of the game, they’d receive multiple bombardments of catcalls and harsh names that Jeremy hadn’t even heard as a kid. Tommy had come home many days with wedgie-ripped underwear to boot. Jeremy has never believed in violence, and his fatherly instinct has proved that the most effective tactic is to show his son, over and over again, the moves necessary to win a baseball game. Prevention is always better than reaction.
    Tommy slaps his ball into his glove once more, and shouts, “We’re going to kick their asses.”
    Jeremy freezes, trying to frown at this young and unexpected profanity. But his question comes out in the middle of a giggle. “Where did you hear that?”
    “Mom told me. She said that we had to win, but if we didn’t, we should kick their yellow…”
    “Don’t repeat it,” Jeremy interrupts, trying to be stern. It continues to surprise him that his son learns the harsher voices of the world not through his easy-going, responsible, baseball-loving dad, but from his trailer inhabiting, unemployed mother. This is one of their differences; Jeremy wants to raise Tommy to be someone important in the world, and Karen has wanted to raise him to be another version of herself.
    “What you have to do is remember how I showed you to hold the bat, Tommy,” Jeremy says, and gazes out again at the other parents, eager to take the credit for their kids ‘kicking the other team’s asses.’
    His eyes rest carelessly on a champagne-colored Cadillac, driving slowly between the painted yellow lines of parking spots. It doesn’t take any one of them, but drives through row after row, and Jeremy watches it for a few seconds. Peering into the driver-side window, he thinks he recognizes the upward curve of an expensive nose behind the wheel, and finds familiarity in a short net of sleek, bright red hair. A pit curdles in the middle of his stomach, and he feels himself gripping the wheel with white-knuckled tightness. But the car passes.
    It can’t be who he had thought it was. What in the world would she be doing here?
    “Dad,” Tommy calls, for what Jeremy recognizes to be the fourth or fifth time. “I said unlock the door so I can get out.”
    “Sorry, buddy,” he says, and pulls the lock button up.
    In the parking lot, Jeremy puts on his old baseball glove. He has waited eight years to be able to play catch with his own son, and now he has been doing it all season. They toss the ball between each other, and he tells Tommy to raise his glove a little higher. A chocolate lab puppy runs between them, and chases the ball when it hits the ground. Tommy laughs, and chases after the dog.
    At least he’s in a good mood for the game, Jeremy thinks. And then he feels a prickle run up the back of his spine. Turning around, he sees the Cadillac again, and watches as its driver steps out. It is exactly who he thought he saw just minutes before. The red hair stands out in the parking lot like a rose in the desert. He sees the long, manicured nails pass over the roof of the car, like they used to pass over him. Then the woman turns, and looks straight at him.
    In a second, he skids awkwardly to the side, putting his van in between himself and the woman. He thinks she saw him, but if he stays here, she may walk somewhere else. And what in the world is she doing at a baseball game?
    “Dad!” he hears, and then a rough pain hits the bottom of his jaw. Tommy’s baseball thunks to the ground, and Jeremy puts a hand to his face. Tommy stands just yards away, mouth gaping open, his fingers tickling the backside of the puppy’s jaw.
    Jeremy shakes his head. “Nice arm, buddy,” he says, and Tommy lets out a screaming giggle. The puppy barks, and rushes off to find its owner in the crowd of families. “Let’s go find your team,” he says, and tosses his glove in the driver-side window.
    They rush off into the crowd of people, and Jeremy leaves Tommy in the dugout with the other boys and their coach, Bob Milasky. Most of the boys have at least four inches on Tommy, but they all crowd around as he tells how he hit his dad in the face with a baseball.
    Jeremy moves to the bleachers, and sits in between a family of four and a younger couple. He talks with the man at these games, Brian, and greets him with a smile as he sits one row below him and his wife. Brian raises his plastic Diet Pepsi cup and smiles.
    “Big day for the Turtles,” he says, and his blonde wife smiles. “We’re taking all of the boys out for ice cream if they win. You alright with that, Jeremy?”
    Jeremy turns around and focuses on Brian’s wife’s hand, which is resting far too near her husband’s crotch. “Yeah,” he says. “Why don’t you take them out even if they don’t win? They’ve had a hard season, and these Yellow Jackets are pretty rough.”
    “True,” Brian replies, and opens his leg just a little further. If no one else had been watching, they wouldn’t have seen his wife’s hand slide just a little bit closer. “But then that doesn’t give them any incentive, does it?” Brian chuckles, and his wife’s chipper giggle flitters about the three of them.
    Jeremy has nothing else to say, so he forces a smile and returns his attention to the diamond. The umpire walks out and flips a coin. Yellow Jackets start the game. The Turtles in blue and white rush onto the diamond, and it takes them about five minutes as Coach Bob yells across the field to tell his players to get in the right positions. It takes a couple of tries.
    The first inning lasts twenty-seven minutes, and the Yellow Jackets score three home runs. The Turtles, true to form, retract into their shells and stay there. Jeremy gets into the game just like everybody else, cheering and giving hints to the boys, which probably never even reach their ears. Or if they did, the boys are too anxious to understand what is being yelled at them.
    The tiny Turtles do their best as Coach Bob sends out the smallest teammate first. Why send anyone bigger or stronger, when none of the boys have a batting average over ten percent? Jeremy cheers on the little boy, who gets to two strikes, and miraculously manages to bunt the ball to the left. He makes it to second base, pumping his scrawny arms and pulling up his pants with every other step. But the excitement gets to him, and he continues to third base, against the yells of his coach, teammates, and parents. The Yellow Jackets touch him calmly with the ball, and he returns to the dugout. It’s the most action the Turtles have had all season, and their fans cheer longer than expected.
    Jeremy’s nose turns as he catches a familiar scent – one he’s smelled once and planned never to recognize again. Slowly, he searches among the bleachers for its source. He hopes that his nose was just playing tricks on him, like one’s senses do in high-excitement situations. But his eyes finally rest on the culprit, a neon pink ashtray with purple flowers painted all over the sides, sitting on one of the bleachers a couple rows below him.
    It is the same ashtray that had sat on her desk at the office, the one beside which she had set her pink-tinted business card, with her number written on the back in loopy letters. “Call me if you need to unwind a little,” she had said. “I promise it will be worth it, for you and your wallet.” She brought that ashtray everywhere with her. It had even been in the car that night, when Jeremy had had too much of the bottle and not enough pride.
    He knows the smell of those cigarettes, some peach-flavored brand, and he sees the end of a peach-colored filter sticking out of the top of the ashtray. It tickles his nose and, despite his aversion to a second encounter, his crotch livens slightly with the memory.
    If she is here, now, he either has to make her leave, or avoid her completely. It would be horrible for the other parents to find out about his moment of drunken weakness, of loneliness and willingness to spend a few dollars in order not to be so. A baseball game was a horrible place for people to find out about that, with all of the children around. With Tommy around.
    Jeremy stands, and his feet fumble in between the bleachers in order to get down from his seat. His shoe passes precariously close to the ashtray, but he knows that kicking it would only cause a scene. Still, it would make him feel better.
    Making his way toward the concession stand, he searches among the ambling people who are either too anxious or too bored to sit and watch the game with their full attention. He looks through everybody, scanning over the tops of heads in search of that obviously artificial, bright red hair. There are only blondes and brunettes here, though, and Jeremy begins to think that perhaps he has missed her. She could have found herself at the wrong game, or the wrong venue, for that matter. There aren’t very many men willing to exercise their sexual curiosity at a stadium full of their wives, sons, and friends. He hopes that he is just overreacting, and decides that a hotdog will give him something with which to distract himself.
    Oh, the good old baseball dogs, he thinks to himself. That will help his anxious stomach, if nothing else. He stands in line behind a mother and her five children, who all scream at her for want of their own snacks. It takes her about three minutes to pull together the money from her purse, snaking out stray ones from the bottom, and not hesitating to smile at the cashier in casual apology.
    He finally gets up to the window, orders his hotdog, and reaches in the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet. Then he searches the other pocket, and has to put a reassuring hand to the pen pocket at his left breast. No wallet. He looks at the cashier and shrugs.
    “I’m sorry,” he says, and double-checks his back pockets, as if an apology would magically make his wallet reappear there. “No one has turned in a wallet then, have they?”
    “I haven’t seen anything, man. Sorry.”
    Jeremy eyes the cashier, a beak-nosed teenager with spiked black hair and the remnants of pubescent acne. He thanks the kid, and turns to walk back into the crowd, patting down his jeans.
    With nothing but an empty stomach, he returns to his seat on the bleachers in front of Brian and his wife. Brian now has his arm around his wife’s shoulders, and if no one else had been watching, they wouldn’t have seen his fingers grasping lightly at her left breast. Jeremy rubs his face in his hands, and props his elbows up on his knees. It is now top of the third, and the Yellow Jackets are carrying the game, thirteen to two. Their large batter is up, who looks like he is fourteen instead of eight, and Jeremy glances over at the Turtles’ dugout. If he were Tommy, or any of the other boys, he would be afraid to stand in the outfield while this beast of a kid was swinging metal objects around.
    Tommy is in the dugout now, with two other boys. He has never been very good at catching the ball; Jeremy has always had to tell him to raise his glove. But he sits there on the bench, slamming a baseball into his glove again, and mouthing encouragement to his tiny teammates out on the field. Jeremy watches his son, falling in love with him all over again. It happens almost every day.
    He doesn’t even notice she is there until her red hair blocks his view of Tommy. She is wearing a leopard-print miniskirt, red heels, and a black tank top that stands out in the sunshine. Jeremy leans quickly to the right to see his son, who is smiling in embarrassment and ogling the front of her shirt as she stands against the fence. She is talking to his son. She wraps a manicured hand around one of the fence posts, and Jeremy is finally able to move.
    “No,” he shouts, rising from the bleachers and knocking over Brian’s Diet Pepsi cup. Everyone around him jumps and turns, and the gigantic boy at bat swings heavily, missing the ball and letting the bat slip from his grip. The bat soars backwards over the fence, and comes to land on Brian’s head, severing his grasp from his wife’s breast. Brian stands in surprise, and his wife fondles him, cooing, as everyone else in the stands rise to make sure he is okay.
    Jeremy leaps down the bleachers, almost stepping on a little blonde girl’s fingers as she pulls her Barbie into her arms. He runs across the dirt to his son’s dugout, and tries to slip himself in between the woman and Tommy. He only manages to back up against the chain-link fence, and bounces back to nearly bump into her chest. Their faces are inches apart, and she bats her eyes at him in surprised amusement.
    “Mr. Hallot,” she says, and her voice is as smooth as her tongue was on him. He pushes that thought from his mind as he feels Tommy staring at the two of them.
    “What are you doing here?” he says gruffly, though his voice isn’t near as menacing as he would like it to be. She needs to be chased out of the stadium, but he doesn’t quite know how to be confrontational.
    “Only passing by,” she replies, and shifts her purse higher up onto her shoulder. “Your son was telling me just how much you’ve taught him about baseball this season. I didn’t know you enjoyed sports.”
    “Leave him out of this,” he says softly, and folds his arms. “What do you want?”
    “I just wanted to return this to you. You left it at our last…” She turns to look at Tommy at this, and gives him a sweet smile. “…meeting.” She holds out her hand to Jeremy, and her long fingernails unfurl to reveal his leather wallet, still bulging with his money, credit cards, and receipts.
    He stares at her for a minute, and reaches out to take it from her. She gives him a knowing smile that seems to say, ‘Propriety is the best method here, in front of your son.’
    “Thank you, Allison,” he tells her, and gives a weak and shaky little smile.
    “My pleasure, Mr. Hallot. I’ll see you in the office then, Monday.”
    Jeremy nods, and Allison turns from them, winking at Tommy and running long nails through her red hair. He sighs, and clenches his fist into the fence again.
    “Whoa dad,” Tommy says softly, and looks up at his father through the fence. “She almost kicked your ass.”
    “Don’t repeat that,” Jeremy says, still watching Allison as she walks away. Then he turns to Tommy and bends down to look him in the eye. “Go Turtles.”
  3. picklzzz

    picklzzz New Member

    Oct 22, 2011
    Likes Received:
    Congrats ferociousimplosion! I really enjoyed your story!

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