One in the Oven, One in the Chamber - Chapter 1.1

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Chapter One (1.1)

Endings

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“I’m late.” I’m talking to the top of Derek’s head. He’s stretched out in the chaise longue of my fifteen thousand dollar Poltrona Frau shoveling high-priced guac into his low-rent guac-hole.

“Where you goin’?” Slurp, crunch.

Jesus Christ, he’s sucking his fingers like they might return the favor. Stubby fingers. Dirt under the nails. My own are fisting up, and my blood is cruising right past nuclear, headed for heat death of the universe territory. I’m gonna crack a molar if this shitbag’s ‘recently released from prison’ eating habits bring the word “moist” to mind one more time.

Of course he was never actually in prison. He doesn’t even have that excuse. Just a slob. Easy on the eyes, though, and dynamite in the sack. Also, on the kitchen counter, the floor, and once in a particularly clean public restroom. But watching him wet-vac chip after dripping chip, I can’t remember why I thought he was a better idea than a pro. They leave when the fun is done. I bet they chew with their mouths closed. By definition, they have jobs. Fuck. Twenty-twenty hindsight. All I can do now is make better choices going forward. For starters, I can forget all about what I was gonna tell him. I was nuts to even consider it.

“I…uh...got a thing.”

“‘Kay.” Suck, slurp, moan.

Really. A moan of pleasure? “Yeah. You got a thing too.”

“Da fuck’s that supposed to mean?” He finally stops replenishing his mouth mush and looks at me. His ice-blue eyes are frosted with agitation. I like him that way; he works hard when he’s pissed. Thinks he’s showing me something.

My nethers are rebelling against my brain. Their neurons whispering. One more time won’t hurt. Who knows when you’ll get it again? Ms. Brain screams back. He didn’t even bother swallowing!

He's still gabbling but I'm not listening. Baby-shit-green mini-missiles launch from his tongue with every plosive, triggering my gag reflex. Really, being with Derek was like banging a homeless guy, and letting him move in. I remind myself I’m getting nothing from him that properly molded silicone and four D-cells can’t give me. Maybe six.

“It means I think you should ‘have a thing’ too, Derek. Go somewhere. Get out for a bit. Like, for a while. A long while. Forever, in fact. I’ll start packing.”

I head toward the main hall closet for a duffle before I can see another corn-chip crumb or diarrhea dribble escape his maw. I resist turning back at the bag crinkle, squealing leather, even the thud that is likely his bowl hitting the floor. He’s not going quietly.

“Millie! What the fuck? Where is this coming from?”

“From me. It was fun while it lasted, but we’re done. Sorry.” I'm not. I’m reaching up for the largest bag when he makes contact. Grabs my arm. Yanks me around. Deep breath. Maintain.

“This is crazy. You’re crazy. It’s like I don’t even know you. Last night everything’s great, now today, all of a sudden, we’re through?”

“Derek, I never made you any promises. It was a thing. Now it’s not. Now take your hand off me.”

I’m calm, controlled. I get why he’s so freaked out, but tough shit. He got what he wanted for six months. He got to play the big man, be a little rough, take it when he wanted, and have me beg like I needed it. He lived a fantasy where his dick was sooo magical. I fell at his feet, worshipped him, and put him up like royalty.

I'm trying to cut him some slack. He couldn’t have known I was living a fantasy too. One where I wasn’t in control; where I was weak and vulnerable. Maybe I’m a terrible feminist, but sometimes it’s exhausting being the top.

“Millie-”

“Don’t call me Millie. I hate that name. It’s Amelia.” He still has my arm and he squeezes harder. He’s trying. It’s pretty hard, but I’ve been hurt way worse. His other hand is braced against the closet molding over my shoulder, and he’s leaning in close. Stupid, amateur move. There’s impotence in his eyes, confusion. And like all bullies, the rage that impotence spawns. It’s gonna be ugly.

I already gave him one chance, which is one more than I ever give guys like him in my professional life. So I don’t bother repeating the request that he let go, I just ram the heel of my free palm right up under and into his nose. No real follow through. I’m not trying to kill the poor sucker, only evict him. It’s well broken though, and I’m instantly freed as both his hands whip toward the spigot I just opened on his face.

Gurgling, sputtering, he staggers back a step. I stride toward him, snatching his left thumb and pulling it with me as I circle around behind, shoving it up nearly to the base of his skull, my right hand already clutching his conveniently shaggy hair and dragging it down until my two hands are mere inches apart.

“Nope, wrong way. You keep that fountain over the hardwood.” I shove him forward into the safety zone, and steer him along the wall toward the door, giving as wide a berth as possible to the Persian rug. When we reach the door, I jiggle his head a little.

“You listening, Derek?” The whimper probably means ‘yes.’ “You had your chance to do this nicely. You declined. Now, open that door, and I’m gonna stick you in the hall, okay?” Another presumably affirmative mewl. “I’m gonna toss you out a bag with your shit in about ten minutes. You’re gonna take it and never darken my door again, because right now, only you and I know how pathetic you are. You leave quietly and it’ll stay that way. I see you again and I’ll upload the video of this little discussion to the internet and tag all your friends and family.”

This time it was more of a bleat. A decidedly interrogatory bleat.

“The whole place is rigged with video feeds. Do you think for one minute I’d trust you in my kingdom alone and unobserved? I’ve got months of recording, including the time you jacked off on the toilet with my red teddy, which would make lovely bonus footage for your mom. Should I email it, or post it to Eileen Jacobs at 1189 South Sarteano Drive in Meridian, Idaho?”

Bingo: a sob of submission.

Once he’s out the door--to which he of course has no keys--it only takes eight minutes to stuff a bag with the clothes and toiletries he has here. I’m about to toss it out after him when I reconsider. From the bathroom I retrieve two soft, clean, hand towels. In the kitchen I run one under cold water, wrap some crushed ice in it, and stuff it into a Ziploc. The other, I soak in hot water and wring out. I set them on top of the bag when I place it outside the door.

I’m not a monster.

My good deed for the day behind me, I lock back up and grimace at the blood trail. Close examination assures me the Persian is safe. Lucky Derek. Disposable gloves, Murphy’s Oil Soap, bucket of hot water, paper towels, plastic shopping bags, rags. On my knees, sopping up the last I’ll ever see of Derek, I decide a pro would have been cheaper in every way. I’d have had the bed to myself except when I didn’t want to. I wouldn’t have food bits strewn all over my furniture. The only hair in the drain would be mine. I wouldn’t be cleaning up blood in my own penthouse.

And I would never have come so perilously close to telling a pro what I almost told Derek: That there’s a little white stick on the bathroom vanity with one too many pink lines.

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Read Chapter 1.2

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Inspired by the fabululous @geke

Image courtesy of Pixabay

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Previously posted fiction:
Bound
First Night
Restoration
Peace
Let us Gather by the River

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