That Person

Well, well, well, look who's putting his money where his mouth is! If my handle looks familiar, it's because you've seen me as a somewhat frequent and usually critical commenter here in the land of wayward wives. I'm the guy who points out that controversy does not a good story make, and that nonsense narratives are only "thought provoking" if you're the type who doesn't have many thoughts. So, after years of lurking and dropping opinions every now and then, why am I suddenly throwing my hat into the ring? Three main reasons.

1: Pickings have been slim around here lately. It seems like everything that appears on the front page is either rancid garbage from people who write like they peaked in 3rd grade, or overblown nonsense trying to spread 5k words worth of actual content over 120k words and multiple parts. So I'm pulling a Thanos and doing it myself.

2: Way too many of you people, authors and commenters alike, take shots at stories that feature characters who aren't Joe Average. I am absolutely certain that the number of stories that author's notes that say "No ninjas or Navy SEALs here!", or feature lines like "I'm not a master spy, or Green Beret, or government spook" FAR outweighs the number of stories that actually have Special Forces, spooks and spies. But everyone wants to write about boring people doing boring shit, and act like they AREN'T part of the 99% around here. Your weirdly smug defensiveness is grating, and the people who actually write interesting characters either post sporadically, only show up for contests, or have lost their touch.

3: I despise RAAC. Not because I'm against forgiveness, but because I'm against bad writing. So I want to present my version of RAAC. Something with actual thought and effort behind it, and not just a lazy cop-out for the creatively challenged. No Magic Pussy Wands, open gaslighting or pathetic invertebrates here. Just accountability, remorse and resolve. Feel free to take notes.

Yes, I'm an asshole. I don't need or want you to like me. In fact, I prefer it if you don't. So you can be all up in your feelings as you type your comments, struggling to find something to actually criticize besides my attitude.

Peep the tags, and enjoy.

Even staring down the barrel of a full-blown panic attack, there was a tiny part of me that preened in the back of my mind as I pulled my Audi RS 7 into the driveway.

'I still got it!' it said, no doubt replaying the memories of me breaking at least fourteen different traffic laws like I was auditioning for a Transporter movie.

621 horsepower makes breaking the law easy. Having your life reamed out like the golden goose of a cartel whorehouse makes it even easier.

I got out of the car like I was stepping back on land after my first time out on a boat. My legs were wobbling so badly that the four-inch heels I could do gymnastics in threatened to break my ankles. But I managed to pilot my rebelling body up to the front door, fumbled with the keys, and all but fell into the house.

I froze as the solid thud of the door hitting the wall harder than it was ever meant to, and waited for a startled, "Vicky?!" to ring out. Marshall was one of those hotshots who practically set his own hours, so it wasn't uncommon for him to be home early. In the only act of cosmic mercy on this God-forsaken day, he'd chosen to stay in the office. Or at least out of the house.

Good.

"I can't... I can't deal with him right now," I rasped, stumbling into the dining room and nearly knocking over a chair while collapsing into it. And as my words caught up to me, I thought about how long it had been since I'd "dealt" with my husband of seven years.

When was the last time we'd sat at this table together?

When was the last time I heard a "good morning", or said a "good night"?

When was the last time I came home to the smell of something amazing wafting from the kitchen?

"... I need to think. I need to think!"

I needed a lot of things. And the longer the list grew, the shallower my breaths got.

I needed a plan. I needed a smoke. I needed a drink. I needed a whole bottle of Listerine. I needed a shower. I needed my forty-

"Shower!" I blurted out in a high-pitched screech like the crazy woman I had become. "Shower..."

I lurched up the stairs like a zombie, doing everything I could not to think about what I could still taste on my tongue, what was probably in my hair, and what I swore I could feel running down my thighs with every step. I thought Jack had pulled out, but riding the high of a paradigm shift he probably hadn't.

On pure autopilot I turned on the hot water in the shower, and disrobed. Because I wasn't thinking about the task, my mind wandered, and I remembered the shower being big enough for two people was a significant factor in us choosing this place. But I couldn't remember the last time two people had actually been in it. I couldn't even remember the last time I looked over to see Marshall openly ogling me as he brushed his teeth, or the last time I had sat in on one of his shower concerts.

I shook my head to derail that train of thought, and came back to the present just in time to see the stains on the $300 blouse now in my hands. Which reminded me of what was currently squishing around in my black silk panties. Which reminded me of how naughty and... powerful this set of lingerie made me feel over the last several months, knowing the effect it had on the men in my life.

Except Marshall, who hadn't seen it in...

"Burn it..." I mumbled, the pride I'd once felt now making my throat constrict. "Burn it all."

The whole outfit had to go. Now, in the cold light of day, in the crystal clarity of hindsight, I could see that it had to be destroyed. It, and several other carefully crafted ensembles that had become symbols of betrayal.

The ultimate betrayal of the man who saved me.

I tried to be normal. I tried to be just another face in the crowd, albeit an eyecatching one. Oh, how I tried. But those brief stints of playing pretend, no matter how numerous, hadn't prepared me for the slog, the grind, the unrelenting march of doing it full-time. On some level, I appreciated the irony of it all. Being held at gunpoint had nothing on the terror of a job interview with actual stakes. Sitting in a cubicle for eight hours left me more exhausted than navigating a literal jungle for days on end. And without the knowledge that I would never see these people again to act as a buffer, familiar voices stressed me out more than bullets cracking over my head ever had.

But despite all that, I thought I was adapting rather well. I wasn't the office weirdo who showed up at 8:00am, spoke to no one, and vanished at 5:00pm on the dot. I wasn't the recluse nobody ever saw outside of work. I'd been told I could be a little "intense" sometimes, especially if I was interrupted during an important task, but was it really abnormal for someone to be annoyed at having their concentration broken? Even now, walking through the supermarket, I drew no more attention than any other six-foot, well-built woman who took any level of pride in her appearance would.

I was secure in my normalcy.

Then I went down the cereal aisle, looked at a box of Cheerios, and asked myself a question.

What would look normal in my apartment?

Because one day I would pull the tri... I would actually pick one of the men that caught my eye, turn on the charm and eventually take them back to my place. And when that happened, it had to be normal. I couldn't risk having it all fall apart because some guy thought a childless woman with Trix in the pantry was a red flag, or that only psychopaths ate Raisen Bran. It would make them more critical, more observant, and might lead them to finding other things that could scare them off before I could establish them as my little quirks that they didn't need to worry about.

Because as much as every day interactions were wearing on me, I didn't want to scare off anyone I had gotten to know well enough to invite them over. I didn't want to find someone worthy of being let in, only to have them leave because a box of Froot Loops made them alert enough to wonder why the spoon drawer was so heavy, and find what was strapped underneath it. I didn't want to make a connection, only to end up alone again.

I was so tired of being alone.

Always alone.

Living alone, driving alone, eating alone, sleeping alone.

The wall of cereal loomed larger before me, expanding out to fill even my peripheral vision.

Crawling through mud alone, choking on sand alone, drowning in rushing water alone, shivering in the snow alone.

I couldn't breathe. Why couldn't I breathe?!

Bleeding alone, healing alone, screaming alone, breaking alone.

Alone...

My legs gave out. But instead of feeling my knees smash against the unforgiving floor, I felt an arm wrap around my waist and hold up my dead weight like a steel beam.

"You're alright. You're safe. Follow my voice. Come back."

The voice was just as solid as the arm, and it gave my mind something to hold onto. I let it guide me, let it pull me out of the dark. When my vision cleared, I looked at my savior and beheld a vision of male beauty.

High cheek bones, flowing black hair, dark complexion, full lips and hazel eyes that almost seemed to shine in the sterile white light of the supermarket. A blend of Black and Native American heritage that came together to produce someone on a spectrum of hot that bordered on inhuman. I had been face-to-face with actors, models and other men hand-picked to be where they were because of their looks, and this man topped them all in my eyes. So much so that the instant crush almost completely muted the voice in the back of my head telling me that though this was the first time I'd seen him up close, in the maybe ten minutes I had been in the store this was in fact the NINTH time I had seen him.

"... Victoria," I said after a not-normal amount of time gawking.

"Marshall," he replied with a little smile that was at odds with his furrowed brow. "You alright?"

I was more than alright, and it only got better from there. I discovered what it was like to be treated like a human being. To have someone ask "how are you" and not mean "can you do what I need you to do". To have someone ask me what she wanted to eat and not throw an MRE or a handful of protein bars in my face mid-sentence. To have someone give a damn about my existence.

So of course I snagged him. Or he snagged me. We snagged each other! First meeting on neutral ground to silently judge the other's menu selections. He brought me to his place and I saw his Frosted Flakes. I brought him to my place and he saw my Apple Jacks. We brought each other to the bedroom and saw God.

Cue seven years of wedded bliss.

"Six and a half..." my mouth moved before I was even consciously aware of the thought. The correction.

Six and a half years of wedded bliss. Because the last six months haven't been so stellar. Oh, if you had asked me just an hour ago, I would've been singing a different tune. One that was low and sultry, and just the right amount of cunty that got Jack throbbing. But now that my place on the board has been revealed, again, I could only wonder why the man I had the gall to call my husband was still around at all. Because if there was ever a man who could do better than a solid nine, it was Marshall Nightman.

But then if we factored in personality, I was closer to a... negative twenty-three, I'd say.

Because I'm a cheater. A traitor. I've taken the best man, the best person I've ever known, and made him a cuck-

It was sheer luck I was already halfway into the shower when the vomit rushed out of me. And I'm sure it was my imagination, but there seemed to be a disproportionate amount of off-white in the colors circling the drain. There was no way I swallowed that much. Today.

"Fuck!" the word tore out of me in a heaving sob as I crawled the rest of the way into the shower and just lay there under the stream like a dying animal too weak to find shelter from the rain. Fitting, since that's exactly what I felt like: an animal.

I'm not a wife, not a person, not a tool, not even a pawn. I'm a mangy fucking mutt brought in from the cold, tearing up the furniture and shitting on the floor while a wonderful man tries to love me. Tried to love me.

If my life followed some kind of demented script, this is the part where I'd ask myself, "Where did I go wrong?"

But I knew damn well where it happened. Knew the who, how, why and when as well.

Where? The office that came with my latest promotion and official induction into the rank of "Important Person".

Who? My direct boss and right hand of the CEO himself, Harold Janis. 41 years old, 6'3", a surprisingly jacked 220lbs, and wholly inferior to my 6'5", 260lb marble statue of a husband in every regard.

How? A vulnerability in me, a blind spot in my psyche that I was never aware of, but would've been obvious with just a little self-reflection the moment I found myself wanting something I shouldn't.

Why? I found another man who treated me like a human being, gave my otherwise well-fed ego an interesting new flavor to sample, and convinced me that I deserved more than perfection.

When? The moment he squeezed my shoulder and I swallowed the warning that was on my tongue.

"Mrs. Nightman, it's been a month and you still have that look on your face every time I see you. Like you're wondering why you're here. You EARNED it, Mrs. Nightman! If you won't believe your own eyes and ears, or the numbers, then believe ME!"

My heart soared with his assurances.

"You've done it again, Ms. Victoria! You know I hate saddling you with cleaning up after idiots with more bal-ambition than brains, but damn if you don't deliver every time! And just between you and me, I'm not the only one noticing. Ferguson mentioned you, by name, in the last conference call!"

I beamed under his praise.

"Victoria, you're putting the V in MVP! And might I say, looking amazing while doing it. Then again, I'm pretty sure you can make breathing look amazing... Yep! Stunning!"

I giggled at his attentions.

"God, Vicky, what are you DOING to me? It feels like you're trying to pull it off!... Fuck, I've never felt anything like... You're bringing your A-game, huh baby? Here's mine!"

I came like a freight train on his cock.

My pussy clenched at the memories, and I wanted to dig the traitorous thing out with an E-tool. There is no better lay than my husband, and I will die on that hill. But fuck if Harold isn't in the Top Ten himself, and the whole atmosphere surrounding the things I did with him...

Intoxicating? Irresistible? Addicting? I don't think there's a strong enough word in any language. I didn't stand a chance once I got there. But I never should've gotten there. I've been around predators all my life; how did I not recognize them? How did I let them split me off from my "herd" and box me in? Why didn't I fight back like the cornered prey that I was?

Helpful as ever, my pussy answered with another tremor as I finally stood up and reached for the body wash. But it was right. I let it happen because I wanted it. I wanted the praise, the attention, the lust. I wanted it from the man who I thought was only the second in my life to see more in me than an Amazonian bombshell. And once the hooks were in, I was far past mere "wanting". I had to own that if there was even the tiniest, infinitesimal fraction of a chance I could ever truly clean myself.

As much as I could ever be clean, anyway. I'd always been a dirty thing, stained in ways regular people don't believe exist outside of overblown thriller novels featuring Spec Ops antiheroes and half a dozen alphabet agencies. But I'd managed to coat myself in a whole new layer of filth.

Filth... Yeah, that's a word for what I've done. What I've become. Because it takes a true gutter-born piece of subhuman trash to take something as beautiful and priceless as the kindness and love I've been shown, the devotion and trust I've been given, and wipe their ass with it.

And it takes something even lower to keep wiping even after it's been told right to its face that it was just another conquest. The latest plaything for a couple of aging millionaires out to prove they could still score the old fashioned way, before aches and wrinkles forced them to go the other old fashioned way and enter their Sugar Daddy era.

And lower still is the creature that almost creams itself at the mere sight of a baby-faced new guy tenting his slacks while being chewed out.

"What. The fuck. Is THAT?" I growled at the sniveling rodent standing in front of my desk, pausing mid-rant to deliberately point at his straining crotch with a pinky.

"Oh, God! It's not... I'm sorry! I-!-!..." he tried to speak, tried to reach for something on my desk to cover himself, tried to turn his lower body away, tried to adjust himself without me seeing, and utterly failed at all of it.

Then he tried to run, and like a cat triggered by movement, I pounced.

"Freeze."

He did.

"Turn."

He did.

"Stay."

He did. But only until I stalked around the desk and into his personal space, at which point his legs decided to disobey both me and him and backed away. Right into the wall. Before he could even think about going for the door, my hand shot out like a viper and grabbed his jaw. I felt a little bad when the back of his head met the wall, but that washed away in a flood of juices when the sound that came out of his mouth wasn't a yelp, but a moan.

I made sure he could see the disgust on my face before I turned his eyes away and mine went down. Nothing to write home about, but the implications behind it gave me the most delightful tingles.

I turned his face back to me and took in his big, blue eyes, rounded cheeks, too-soft skin and hairless lips. Adorable in the most pathetic way. He was a scrawny thing, too; in my heels, he came up to my chin at 5'5", and if I really wanted to I was sure I could lift him up the wall right then and there...

With the idea in my head and too delicious to resist, I adjusted my grip under his chin and started to push up. His eyes somehow opened even wider and his hands came up like he was going to try and stop me. But he stopped short of any actual contact as he fought back his survival instincts and came off of his heels. If I kicked off my heels to get proper footing, there would've been air beneath his shoes. But as I looked down and saw an honest to goodness wet spot at the summit of Mt. Jackie-boy, I went weak in the knees, and everywhere else.

"Oh, so you're one of THOSE, huh?" I asked, mocking and expectant.

"One of... One of wh-what?"

"A little boyslut looking for a foot to crawl under," I sneered, then released his jaw in order to snatch a fistful of his copper hair and jerk his head down so he could see my feet and his erection in the same mental snapshot. "Will these do?"

Entranced, Jackie-boy could only nod stiffly. Poor guy probably barely had enough blood in THAT head to even comprehend words.

Stifling a giggle that would be unacceptable for a Dom, I locked the door, backed away, crossed my arms under my breasts and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well?"

He stood there for so long that I started to wonder if he had passed out on his feet. But then he slowly sank down to his knees, spread his fingers out on the carpet, and showed me what a good boy he was.

And to make sure my first taste of real power would never be forgotten, I gave him a nasty bruise with the point of my heel when nearly all my weight came down on him in the first spontaneous orgasm of my life.

Jack made things so much worse, and not just in the obvious ways. He revealed the resentment I told myself I didn't have. Yes, I had been conned by old pros, but there were no apparent downsides to where I had found myself, so what was there to be mad about? Plenty, as it turned out. And as I took that anger out on my new stress ball, it finally occurred to me what, or rather who I had been squeezing beforehand.

To once again sing his praises, because I will never NOT do that, Marshall wasn't one of those husbands who give wives ammo for booze-fueled Girls' Night roast sessions. He's not dull, he's not gross, he doesn't leave the toilet seat up, he doesn't forget anything, and he never missed an opportunity to make me feel wanted and loved.

He's not a selfish lover; one of his greatest pleasures is seeing me lose myself completely as he made me cum until I forgot how to talk.

He doesn't snore; more than once I've woken up in the middle of the night and had to make sure he was still alive because he's so damn quiet.

He doesn't make bad financial decisions without saying anything; we talk about them thoroughly and make them together, often after I've added at least a grand to the bill.

He doesn't have me following him around the house cleaning up after him; if anything, he makes me feel self-conscious about pulling my own weight, then when I go looking for a project I find that there's nothing to do. Cue me trying to convey my annoyance through narrow-eyed glares that are entirely ineffective with my mouth filled to capacity with dick.

There's nothing I could legitimately get mad at him for, yet that didn't stop me. It was to the point where I would literally study him like a goddamn Karen looking to get a dented box discount.

Imagine seeing a knife with an edge so ludicrously sharp, that a falling human hair would split in two under its own weight. Now imagine looking at that knife under an electron microscope at maximum magnification, seeing how jagged it really is and going, "Look at this bullshit!"

That's been me for... I can't really say how long.

Really, why was my husband still around?

"..."

The world around me started to narrow and expand all at once as terror unlike any I had felt in my adult life gripped me. I nearly bolted right out of the shower to run to the bedroom and make sure his things were still there. The only thing that stopped me was a vision of me slipping on the floor, cracking my head open on the sink and Marshall coming home to find my wet, crumpled body right next to my pile of soiled clothes. A better end than I deserved, but I couldn't let that be his final image of me.

If I could have my way, if there was any deity out there willing to take pity on a sinner willing to dedicate the rest of her days to repentance, the last Marshall would see of me would be my smiling, deeply wrinkled face as we left this world the same way we had traveled it for sixty or seventy years. Hand in hand, heart in heart.

So I fought the terror, I fought my body, and I forced it to take its time through sheer will. I padded down the hall, dripping like a rain cloud, shivered as I entered a bedroom that had once been as cozy as a fireplace and as hot as the core of a star, and ripped open our shared closet.

Suits, button-ups and merch shirts.

Dress shoes, boots and runners.

All still there.

I opened his underwear drawer.

Boxer briefs, socks and tank tops.

All still there.

I opened his nightstand.

FNX-45 Tactical, two fifteen-round magazines, and a Cold Steel SRK.

All still there.

He was still there.

I sat down heavily on the bed, making a mental note to break out the hair dryer later, and took several deep breaths.

"What do I do?"

As soon as the words left my mouth, the voice in the back of my head I had been studiously ignoring for months just laughed. And why wouldn't it? That was a stupid fucking question. I knew exactly what to do.

I knew what to do when that slimball Harold touched me, but I'm not that person anymore.

I knew what to do when Harold and Ferguson told me not to make waves if I didn't want to become the next big internet porn star. But I'm not that person anymore.

I knew what to do when Jack's sloppy, "good boy" blowjob was interrupted by me finally spotting the guy in the corner recording it all on his Pixel phone, and my hand immediately went from Jack's balls, to my hip to grab for what wasn't there. But I'm not that person anymore.

I knew what to do when I wrapped my legs around Jack's thrusting hips, fully intent on rearing up to ruin his cute little face with my forehead. But I'm not that person anymore.

I knew what to do when his little friend stuck his little pecker in my face, less than an inch from my teeth. But I'm not that person anymore.

I knew what to do when Harold fucking laughed at me when I told him what happened, and revealed that Jack was actually his nephew, thus above me on the totem pole and now effectively my pimp. But I'm not that person anymore.

I knew what to do when I stared at my other phone for twenty minutes, contemplating making the call that would take care of my problems. But I'm not that person anymore.

I'm not that person anymore.

I'm not THAT person anymore!

"I'M NOT THAT PERSON ANYMORE!"

Thick walls be damned, if the neighbors are home I'm sure they heard that. Fuck 'em. Sometimes an existential crisis isn't a quiet thing. And this WAS an existential crisis now.

Because if I'm not that person anymore, then who am I? Certainly not Victoria Nightman, the woman so overflowing with cosmic luck that she ran into her soulmate while having a panic attack in a grocery store. Nor am I Victoria Taylor, the ghost who rode into town with a paper trail that was only two weeks old, but spanned 28 years. If I wasn't them, then who was I? What was left?

The Whore. No, that's not right. I really did earn my promotions, and if nothing else I can say that I haven't taken any bonuses, pay raises or "gifts". I can't use money as an excuse for anything I did.

So The Slut, then. That's all that was left for me to be. The Traitorous Slut.

"God, I'm going to miss you," I croaked to the picture frame on my nightstand. "You probably won't miss me at this point, but I'm going to miss you so fucking much..."

It was a photo taken at Asaayi Lake in New Mexico four years ago. The day had gotten off to an awesome start with a bout of morning sex that still made my toes curl just thinking about it, and just got better from there. We had no plans, and that was the point; to explore in the car and on-foot, and see where the winds took us. We ended up at the lake in time for a late lunch. We were going to move on after eating, but something about the place just grabbed us and wouldn't let go. So we found a spot with only a couple of fishermen, cuddled up on the grass and took it all in.

We had just about reached full zen when the photographer who'd set up some thirty yards away to snap pictures of a pair of Golden Eagles basically snuck up on us.

"E-Excuse me?"

We both jolted a bit at the sudden voice and our heads snapped to the source in complete sync, probably looking just like the birds of prey sitting in the big tree on the opposite bank. The photographer flinched, but stood his ground.

"What's up?" Marshall asked, tone light but not necessarily friendly. He wasn't the biggest fan of people with cameras; I have personally witnessed over a dozen different instances of them either coming up to him with job offers for a modeling gig, or to try and sell him prints of himself snapped without his permission.

"Please forgive me, but you two are kinda..." he gestured at us in a way that meant nothing, yet said everything. "I couldn't resist, and I am SO sorry."

"Mm. Just delete it and we're cool," Marshall said flatly, any willingness to give the guy the benefit of the doubt gone.

"I did, I swear; I can show you if you want," the photographer replied hastily, holding out his camera.

Marshall stared at him for a moment, then I felt his steel cable muscles relax against me as he decided to take the man at his word.

"But I would like to make it up to you if I can."

"Go on," I chimed in, earning me an eye-roll from my husband, but no protest.

"I'd like to take a REAL photo of you two. Full magazine quality, just for you. Maybe something to put on your wall?"

Marshall and I shared a look, having a whole conversation without a single word spoken.

"Fine," my gorgeous man relented and set about adjusting his hair and clothes like it was a routine.

"Ah, actually, would you mind moving over there? The light's WAY better," camera guy pointed over to a sunny patch of ground a few more yards out from his bird watching setup.

We moved, and I had to agree with the guy who did this for a living; the light WAS so much better. It really made the blue highlights of Marshall's tight compression shirt pop, and what the sunlight did to his eyes... UNFFF.

As we were settling in, trying to find a pose that looked and felt natural, but didn't cause any odd shadows, one of the Golden Eagles snagged a fish from the surface of the lake. I guess the fish was a fighter, or the bird just didn't have a good grip, but either way it was right above us when it dropped its catch.

Marshall got a Rainbow Trout to the side of the head, camera guy got a story he'd be telling everyone for decades to come, and I got one of my most cherished memories.

My vision blurred with tears, but I could still see the picture clear as day in my head. My husband staring into the camera in utter bewilderment, wet hair sticking to his face and a fish flopping in his lap, and me in absolute shambles as I laughed like I had never laughed before or since.

We ended up getting a proper photo, blown up to the size of a movie poster and hung in the den, but THIS was the real prize of the day.

A prize that I had contaminated, along with everything else.

A few minutes later, dressed in black leggings and my husband's favorite Lorna Shore t-shirt, I was carrying a trash bag full of the things that needed to burn out to the car. But as I deposited the filth in the trunk and went to shut it, I heard the faint sound of a ringtone from inside the cabin.

The ringtone I was only vaguely familiar with because it was assigned to Harold, and he absolutely did not call me if it wasn't a work emergency.

"Fuck," I hissed as I ripped open the driver side door and nearly tore my purse apart trying to fish out my phone.

Sure enough, right there on the screen in bold white letters: Boss.

"What?" I snapped as I accepted the call.

"Hey, Vicky, just touching base," Harold said, and I wondered how I ever thought his voice was anything other than scummy. "It's pretty clear that you won't be coming back, at least today, and that's fine. Take a couple days; it's not like you haven't earned them! I just want to know that you aren't doing anything stupid."

"Define 'stupid'."

"Thinking about trying to expose us by going to HR, trying to record conversations, looking for others who've been where you are. Things like that. Or thinking that we're done with you."

"I'm done with you."

"You're not, and you won't be for a while," Harold laughed. "You're just too good, Vicky. Too good at your job, too good with your mouth, and that pussy! You think you can grip me that tight and I won't grip you tighter? Oh no, baby, you got us hooked, so you're still on the hook."

"Because otherwise you'll make me a star, right?" I actually laughed. I was already planning to make Victoria Nightman disappear forever, so I had options for making sure that material never got back to Marshall.

"Yeah, about that. After further review, we've found that we'd much rather keep your Greatest Hits in our private collection. Besides, that was only ever a short-term solution. That kind of thing works on the little girls who don't think they could ever recover from the shame. The ones with no confidence that they could find another six-figure job, or find another good man to settle down with, or regain the respect of their family and friends, or get the pastor to stop looking at them like he's surprised they didn't burst into flames upon entering the church. But that's not you, is it Vicky? Nah, you're a woman who could hop on OnlyFans right now and be a millionaire in a month. And STILL have corporate headhunters blowing up your email. You don't have any real friends or any living family, and considering how much I've heard you take God's name in vain, I have trouble seeing you as a believer. But you've got a good man, don't you Vicky?"

"..."

"Yeah, a man good enough to forgive what you've done, even if he saw it in crispy 4K, and ride into the sunset with you. Off to somewhere you can be just another smokeshow in the crowd. As long as you have good ol' Marshall, you'll be alright! But if you didn't..."

"..."

"They say true love conquers all, but I've always wondered about that. I mean, I think love would have a pretty hard time 'conquering' things like... Lead. Steel. Even wood, if it's moving fast enough. The laws of physics are a bitch sometimes, y'know?"

"..."

"Do you know, Vicky?"

"... Yes."

"Glad we understand each other! I'll let you get back to whatever it is you're doing. Like I said, take a few days off, enjoy yourself; enjoy your hubby! Been a while since you broke him off a piece, right? See you... Monday, maybe? Eh, just don't be a stranger and be sure to put in the PTO!"

"... I understand."

He had already hung up, but I continued to stare at the phone in my hand.

"I understand."

I tasted blood. I had bitten straight through my lip, and it was now running down my chin, dripping onto my wrist and Marshall's shirt.

"I understand."

I grabbed my purse, walked back into the house, got my other phone out of a secret compartment, and made the call.

If I can't be the Wife, or the Stranger, or the Slut, I guess there's only one person left for me to be.

Welcome back, Viv.

---

"Hi, baby! What're you doing hiding away like that? Don't you wanna have some fun with your favorite pussy?"

"Cunt!"

"That's also a word for it, yes."

"Crazy fucking bitch!"

"Oh, you have no idea, Harry. Well, you didn't."

"You shot me!"

"You tried to run."

"You fucking-GAH, FUCK!" Harold's furious growl turned to a shrill scream when the hands gripping his thigh slipped on all the blood and his left thumb went right into the ragged hole where his left knee used to be.

"No, Harry, no more of that," I wagged my finger as I sat down on the edge of his bed, grimacing at its disgustingly familiar firmness and high thread-count sheets.

"You... You don't have to do this..." Harold wheezed. I suspect that last shot of fresh agony sapped the attitude right out of him.

"I do. I most certainly do. And you have only yourself to blame."

"Oh, fuck you!" he sneered, having a bit of attitude left after all. "You wanted it just as much as me! Shit, MORE than me sometimes! You were supposed to be mine, you know that? I saw you, I got you, I earned you; Ferguson wasn't gonna get a taste unless he put his own work in. It was bad enough to have to call him in so I'd have someone to tag me out! But then there was Jack! You can't imagine how humiliating it was to need that little loser for backup!"

"Yeah, 'cause I don't know a damn thing about humiliation," I drawled, and he at least had the decency to look away. "But that's not what I'm talking about, Harry. I've come to terms with the seduction, the secrets, the depravity and all that. I've come to terms with how much I loved it. I'm not mad at you for that; I can't be. You set the trap, but in the end you just accepted what I offered. And if you had let it go, so would I. I would've cut all ties with you assholes and done everything in my power to, how did you put it? Ride into the sunset with my man, off to where nobody knew our names."

That wasn't true. I would love to say that it was, that I had the kind of inner strength needed to pull it all together and take control of my destiny. And maybe I did. What I DIDN'T have the strength, or rather the selfishness for, was to put my husband through what it would take for him to forgive me. Because all I would have to do is what I should've been doing all along; being the best wife I could be. HE would have to do all the heavy lifting of swallowing pride, rebuilding trust, and exorcising rage and bitterness. All for the sake of something that could only ever be a shadow of what we once had.

I've done enough damage. To him, anyway.

"But you didn't do that. What did you do, Harry? What did you do?!"

"Please, I-"

"You threatened him!"

I raised my suppressed FN 545 Tactical and took the big toe of his right foot off.

"You threatened my husband!"

Left ankle.

"My Marshall!"

Right shin and calf.

"MY EVERYTHING!"

Left thumb, right palm, right elbow, right knee, left shoulder, left ear. Had to pull that last one away from his eye.

I'm not done yet.

"You said it yourself, Harry; he's the only thing that really matters to me. You threatened to take him away, and now you're going to die for it. Just like Jack. Just like Kyle. Just like Ferguson. Just like the goons you all thought would keep you safe. Just like that sleazy little rat you had listening and watching as I burned my own home down around me."

"Stop! Stop, PLEASE!" Harold sobbed. "I-I'm sorry! It-It was all talk... I never would've really done-d-done anything to h-him! I swear! I jus-just... I wanted to keep you..."

"If you love something, let it go," I trotted out the trite quote that sounded good in my head, but tasted bitter on my tongue. "But you don't know what love is. Then again, I do, and I pissed all over it anyway. Guess that makes me worse, huh? Save a spot for me downstairs and we'll compare notes later."

"No... No, wait, please, I..." Harold's pleas petered out into pathetic mewls as he realized he had nothing to bargain with, and never did. "... I have money?"

Even Harold Janis, a man who was all about money, knew this was never about that. But he gave me yet another way to fuck with him before the end, and I took it.

"This is $2000 worth of gun right here, and it's on the lower end of my toys. I'm wearing $5000 worth of gear, and this is just what I had laying around. I drive a $150,000 car and live in a half-million dollar house, fully paid for. I've got more money than I'll ever need, and more than I'll ever want to spend; what's a bribe gonna do for me?"

Harold only sobbed again.

"Time to wrap things up, Harry. And I think we should end this last rendezvous the same way we ended so many others," I stood up from the bed and walked over to crouch in front of him. "Remember your favorite little 'closer'? The cleanup blowjob?" I pressed the tip of the suppressor into the deepest wound he had, twisted it a little to really coat it, then stood up and waved it in his face. "Make it shine, baby."

He kept his lips sealed, and to his credit the spark of defiance in his eyes was halfway to commendable.

I stomped on one of his ruined knees and forced the gun into his mouth up to the entrance of his throat when he screamed. I looked him in the eyes as I loomed, savoring the role-reversal, and pulled from the depths of my hate to give him the cruelest smile I could muster.

"Yeah, I see the appeal. Bye, Harry."

I squeezed the trigger.

And jolted like I had been hit with a cattle prod, frantically looking around the room.

Harold was still there, sat against the wall he had crawled back to, breathing labored in that oh, so familiar way that said a person was beyond help.

The pistol seemed to gain twenty pounds in my hand as a weariness I'd never known before washed over me. I regarded the dying man and felt rage bubbling under my skin. That's why I didn't want to be this person. Because this person is an angry, wrathful thing that takes every injustice done to her and seeks to give that hurt and suffering back to the world that dumped it on her. This person uses her trauma as a weapon in the name of payback, and has a terrible habit of superimposing someone else's face onto a target, turning a service rendered into a personal vendetta.

This person would absolutely make Harold spend his final moments getting skull-fucked by a.45, and laugh as she blew her 230-grain load down his gullet.

I'm sure one day I'll see Harold licking his own blood off my Big Black Glock. But it won't be today.

"Bye, Harry."

Forehead.

I don't know how long I sat there after the deed was done; I didn't bother looking at my watch or any of the clocks scattered throughout the McMansion. All I know is that a strange, hollow "thock" sound pulled me back to the present, right before the unmistakable sound of a gun hitting the hardwood flooring outside the bedroom ripped me back to full alertness.

I dropped off the bed into a low crouch and trained my gun on the door. One of the goons was apparently made of sterner stuff than... anyone else I had encountered tonight, and had crawled his way up at least one flight of stairs and down the long hall for his getback.

Only for someone to put a fucking tomahawk through the side of his skull.

In the total silence, I heard only the barest thump of footsteps approaching the door from the same direction the goon had come. Soon a large, gloved hand reached out from behind the frame and yanked the weapon free with a sound that almost made me wince. Then the owner of both leaned around the corner, and my next breath came out as a strangled gasp as I almost involuntarily pointed my gun away.

He looked like something out of a Purge movie, clad in a dark jacket over darker tactical gear, and wearing a full helmet that looked like the entire face was made of dark glass. Like a member of Daft Punk if they were a mercenary group. Now normally that's the kind of trying-too-hard shit that earns you the wrong kind of reputation in that field, but this guy was different. If he really was though I thought it was, then reputations didn't get more right or well-earned than his.

"Sloppy," he said in a digitally distorted voice after a brief staredown. Then he sheathed his tomahawk and walked away, again with footsteps far too quiet for the boots he was wearing.

I could only stare at the space where he had been.

If I had a bingo card for this year, none of the shit that's happened to me would've been on it anyway, so why not add a square for 'Meet Nezgani'?

Who's Nezgani? Oh, just a modern legend in the world of hired killers. One of best to ever do it, and that was according to people who were also part of that conversation. At least, that's what he was when I was still in the loop about these things. My info is nearly eight years out of date, but I think I just witnessed the proof that he's still the cream of the crop.

Don't have the slightest clue why he was there, but I felt lucky to be alive. For what that was worth, and however long it lasted.

---

I don't know why I went back to the house. It wasn't home anymore, and hadn't been for some time. Maybe it was the wounded animal running to familiar ground. Maybe I felt the need to torture myself one last time.

This person did use pain as goddamn jet fuel, after all.

Whatever the case, I took my time wandering and reminiscing. The stars had aligned to send Marshall on a rare business trip, giving me a prime opportunity for the cleanest break I could manage. I wished I could fully excise myself from his life and leave the house like I had never stepped foot in it, but that would require another use of controlled services and I didn't want word getting around faster than it already was. Plus, destroying or giving away my shit would be the closest he ever got to some kind of closure or catharsis.

My last order of business was to move my phone, cued up with my recorded confession marked "To My Husband", from the master bedroom to the dining room. I didn't want that space to be the scene of his destruction. Though I couldn't say the table where we had eaten so many great meals and had so many conversations was any better. In fact, I don't think there was a "better" in the whole house.

"We really did have something amazing," I mumbled as I rounded the corner into the kitchen. Then my lizard brain screamed that something was amiss, prompting me to look up and nearly drop the phone.

Nezgani was at the dining table, sitting in the dark and standing out because he was darker. My eyes flicked to the gun on the table in front of him. My gun that I had left there once I was sure there were no goons waiting for me. Then I looked at the magazine sitting next to it, and immediately knew that it belonged to the Glock 17 strapped under the spoon drawer. So unless I was willing to get into a knife fight with a guy infamous for his skill with melee weapons...

"Fuck," I breathed, not even aware that I'd said it out loud until he cocked his head at me. Part of me wanted to ask if that would save my life, because I'm pretty sure I knew why he was here. I approached slowly, keeping my hands above my waist and in plain view. "May I?"

"Su casa es su casa," came the digitally modulated reply along with a shrug.

I took a seat at the other end of the table, keeping my hands on the surface.

"I don't think there's anyone who wouldn't want those bastards dead, but I guess I figured if it hadn't happened already, it wasn't going to. I'm guessing I cost you a couple mil at least tonight, huh?"

You think kill-stealing is serious in Call of Duty? It starts WARS in the world of mercs and assassins. Because most contracts are just that: contracts. An agreement of service and payment between two parties. And as with any such contract, adding a third party to the mix tended to make things... messy.

If someone had a contract with Nezgani and decided he failed to uphold his end of the deal, they were well within their rights to void the agreement and walk away with a thorn removed practically for free. And for someone of Nezgani's caliber? A voided contract meant a hefty loss.

A loss I might be able to cover, but I'm gonna need all the money I've got, and probably more over the next few months. Or even years. Working off favors is extremely expensive, considering the entire point of them is that money doesn't change hands.

Because that's how this business of ours works. You want out? Fine; there's the door, have a nice life. Any official debts are suspended, outstanding contracts are shuffled to someone else, and you cease to exist as far as the underworld is concerned. Which means a chance at a normal life, but without any of the benefits of an abnormal one. No information brokers, no one-stop-shops for any weapon under the sun, no law enforcement or government connections, and no ready access to gear and gadgets that wouldn't be on the civilian market any time soon.

If you dare to use even one of the so called "controlled services", or call in a favor owed to the person you chose not to be anymore, you're back in the fold. And not only will EVERYONE know, but getting out won't be nearly so simple a second time around. ALL debts must be cleared, and that would certainly include something... difficult from whoever runs the service you used, as per tradition. An "Admonishment", I think it's called.

Sound familiar? Yeah, I'm a hundred percent sure at least one of the people behind John Wick was one of us. It's too close with too much to come from a civilian mind. Hell, the whole underworld probably signed off on those movies, seeing as how the rest of the world seeing it all as Hollywood bullshit could only benefit them.

I was so lost in what the future would hold for me, I almost forgot about my problem in the present.

"Money is the least of what you've cost me, Victoria," Nezgani said.

Then he reached up to his helmet and pushed two buttons around the back of the jaw on either side. The helmet popped open like it was spring-loaded, with the domed glass "face" coming up like a clamshell, and the rest of it visibly expanding outward. It reminded me of one of those high-end Iron Man helmets. And when he slipped it off of his head, I fainted. Eyes rolled back, head on the table, out cold.

Next thing I knew, something hard smacked me in the forehead and the brief little shock of pain jolted me out of my nap.

Nezgani had slid the Glock 17 mag across the table and right into my face. No, not "Nezgani"...

"Marshall?"

His lips moved, but I didn't hear it over the roaring in my ears as things I didn't even know I had catalogued suddenly slammed their way to the forefront of my mind, and cast our whole relationship in a new light.

I had a kitchen gun to his bathroom gun, and he had chosen Frosted Flakes to my Apple Jacks, but the similarities were absurd when I really thought about them. No living family left, and no friends because we were new in town. Nebulous military background that we didn't like to talk about. Degrees and certifications out the wazoo, but only the most generic stories from our school days, light on details and heavy on "I don't remember what/where/who". Some kind of experience with damn near everything, always explained away by some vague mention of an old job or hobby. Experts in multiple martial artists and Olympian-level athletes, but not a belt, trophy or medal to our names. Seemingly bottomless bank accounts that let us buy a nice home, luxury cars and overpriced guns, and blow through thousands of dollars in ammo on weekend range days without a care.

No wonder we got along so well; we were practically the same damn person! Even our tastes in guns and cars ran parallel; tactical.45s and sports sedans with way too much power.

"I know what you're thinking," Marshall said, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. "Was any of it real? That was in the back of my head until about halfway through the second year of our marriage. I clocked you the moment I saw you in the store, and I just knew you were going to be trouble."

"Ah, so me seeing you in passing and out of the corner of my eye, like, eight times had nothing to do with the store not being that big," I said, nodding to myself as another piece of a puzzle I hadn't known was unfinished slipped into place.

"Nope; I wanted you to know I was onto you. Whether you fucked off back to wherever you came from, or we met up to hash out whatever needed to be hashed out, either way I wanted to force your hand. Then you had a panic attack over cereal, and I knew what was going on."

"And you decided to take pity on me?"

"Yes," he replied without a hint of irony or condescension.

"Thank you. I always did my best to show you how grateful I was for that, but I'm not sure if I ever actually said it."

"Mm. You'll forgive me if I have a hard time believing that."

"That's fair. That's... more than fucking fair," my throat constricted and I felt that telltale sting in my eyes. "I... I don't suppose you care about the why?"

"I'm almost certain I know the 'why'."

"And that's the only reason I'm still alive?"

"I think we're two sides of the same coin," Marshall said, deliberately ignoring my question. "I don't know if I was always an orphan, or if I was orphaned, but I do know that I grew up in a training center. Our upbringing was brutal, but they made us WANT to go through it. They filled our heads with Van Damme, Chuck Norris, Schwarzenegger and Jackie Chan. They got us hooked on Splinter Cell, Hitman and Metal Gear Solid. Had us reading Tom Wood, Clancy and Lee Child before bed. They brainwashed us into aspirations of being badass international people of mystery, then dangled that carrot in front of us."

Something must've shown on my face, because his stoney countenance softened a bit before he continued.

"But your indoctrination wasn't nearly so gentle, was it? You didn't even get the illusion of choice. You were part of one of those 'Doll Mills', I think? Raised as a tool, trained as a tool, and sent out to fulfill that purpose. That's why acts of kindness threw you for a loop and made you feel like you owed something. That's why you didn't know what to do with someone who didn't want to use you, so you put me on a pedestal. And when Janis made his move, put him right up there with me."

"No," I had to protest that statement. "Never. He wasn't fit to breathe your air."

"But he was fit to have my wife."

"... Your wife wasn't fit to breathe your air, either."

"She was!" Marshall snapped, surprising me with his intensity. "She was worthy of my air, my time, my money, my love; my EVERYTHING! She was worth everything."

"Until she wasn't."

"Until she came to her senses, and went back for more anyway. When she fell, I was prepared to catch her. But when she jumped..."

"She earned her marital Darwin Award," I said, unable to suppress a chuckle at how fitting it was. I wasn't dead, yet, but I had taken myself out of the gene pool all the same.

If I couldn't have my husband's kids, then there wouldn't be any.

"How long have you known?" I asked. I'm not sure why I wanted to know. Probably more of the self-torture thing.

"I was suspicious after the first time you snapped at me for no reason. But I didn't go looking because I was afraid of what I would do to you if I was right. I had nightmares about making your last meal, then killing you with the spoon gun. But the truth found me anyway that first night you hate-fucked me. That night I looked into your eyes and saw you were somewhere else, with someone else. Someone you wanted to hurt. It was an... interesting experience constantly keeping your hands away from my neck."

I remembered that night. That was the day I was told I'd been played like a fiddle, and I was seething. I was a fire-breathing bitch for a week, and blamed it on senior employees and higher-ups that I now had to deal with as someone important in the company. Then I failed the test and made the conscious decision to stay lost in my own sauce.

"Speaking of hands around necks, I'm kinda right back to wondering why I'm not dead."

"You very nearly were, many times throughout the last few months," Marshall said, the beautiful eyes I had fallen for from day one turning into chips of ice. "I honestly can't tell you how many nights I stayed awake for hours with the FNX pointed at your back. But I couldn't do it," the ice started to melt, wetting his cheeks. "Even with everything you were doing, I still loved you too much to give you what a traitor deserves!"

He let the mask crumble entirely, showing me just a glimpse of the torment he'd been carrying inside for the better part of four months.

"I'm sorry, for all of this, my love. And I DO love you, more than you could ever know, and I hate myself for making you doubt that."

"I'm sure you do," Marshall grunted as he wiped his eyes. "What's with the corpse paint?"

I knew he was changing the subject to give himself a chance to recover, but I needed it just as much as him if I was honest.

"What? It might not hit quite as hard as a painted-on catsuit, but a six-foot goth baddie is still plenty distracting. You, of all people, know that," I smiled as I remembered making my man literally walk into a wall the first time I went full "Queen of the Night".

It had literally saved my life tonight when a particularly quiet goon got the drop on me. He registered my face before my weapon, and it made him a second too slow in raising his.

"Yeah, it distracted me from a lot, apparently," Marshall drawled, now back in character

Ouch.

"Well, you won't have to worry about it anymore; I'll be out of your hair after tonight. I had to keep the cops out of this and take care of the bodies, so I imagine my phone's blowing up right about now. But before I go... You weren't just at Janis' place, were you? You've been trailing me all night, and something tells me the goon you tomahawked wasn't the first time you saved my ass. Why? You could've gotten the ultimate divorce without lifting a finger."

Marshall stared at me in a way that made me forget that I had been married to him for seven years. This was a stranger who knew way too much about me. This was Nezgani.

"You can't face your punishment if you're dead," he said after what felt like hours.

"...'Punishment'?" I repeated, feeling the hairs rise on the back of my neck and a chill run down my spine.

"I believe you when you say you still love me. In fact, I'm counting on it. I'm your everything, right? I know you were prepared to lose me after this, and that's still going to happen; but not on your terms. You don't get to disappear into the night and comfort yourself with the idea that letting me go is some supreme act of love. You don't get to turn yourself into a martyr. YOU are staying here; I'M the one leaving. You're going to watch me walk out of your life forever, and you're going to live with it. THAT will be your punishment."

I swore my heart stopped for a few seconds at the very thought, before my brain caught up.

"What are you... Marshall, I can't stay here. I made calls! I've got more than a dozen debts to work off, nevermind what Kenny and Gloria are gonna put me through for using their services!"

"Check your phone."

"Huh?"

"Check. Your. Phone."

I did, pulling it from a pocket and turning it on. I even turned on the ringer so we could both hear the cacophony of beeps and chimes that would no doubt erupt from it as soon as it booted up. I felt strangely smug as I waited. Getting one up on a living legend will do that to you.

The problem was that I kept waiting. And waiting. And waiting...

"What the hell?" I muttered, finally looking at the home screen to find... nothing. Not a damn thing after the "Request Approved. Welcome Back." reply from the Hush service, which was five hours old. "... What did you do?"

"I made a call, too," he replied, then pulled out his own phone, turned it on and sat it on the table. Seconds later we watched the thing dance across the surface as it vibrated out of control with notification after notification. "That started about two minutes later."

"... No. No way, you can't mean..." I trailed off as he gave me his "doubt me at your own peril" look. Holy shit, he DID mean. "You... You were out. OUT-out, like me."

"And struggling, like you," he nodded stiffly. "I was never the type who hated the job. I'm sure the brainwashing had everything to do with that, but I still liked what I did more often than not. So it never even crossed my mind that I would have any kind of baggage. Turns out I was just outrunning it. Once I slowed down, it found me real quick. All the things I had seen and done, and didn't do, that I shrugged off in the moment. All those times I told myself stuff like, 'it wasn't my job to save them' and 'they saw too much'. My first brush with guilt and trauma, and they were whooping my ass!" Marshall laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"... You were going nuts and needed a distraction," I said, following my intuition. "You probably would've been back in the game by the end of the week, if someone just as lost as you, and way more fucked up, hadn't wandered into the same grocery store on a random Wednesday."

I swore I saw the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. I almost wanted to smile, too. Despite all the secrets, we still knew each other so well. We were still on the same wavelength; we could still be so, so good together!

If only I wasn't what I am.

"That irony runs so much deeper than you think," Marshall did smile this time, and I hated it. "You probably know the kinds of contracts I usually took. Rich assholes who crossed one line too many and pissed off the wrong people. But you know I'm a big fan of The Equalizer, so I took contracts from the little guys as well. People who were so fed up that they scraped together their life savings to put out a hit," his smile became something sharper, crueler. "Think about the circumstances that would drive a person to destroy their own life just to see someone else die, Victoria. How many cheating spouses do you think I saw and dealt with? How many victims do you think I talked to?"

"..." I knew where this was going and I didn't want to hear it, but I could do nothing to stop it.

Because as more and more of her scattered information about Nezgani bubbled to the surface, she remembered that he was known to be one of the rare killers who cared about the "why" of a contract. There were plenty of stories about him going out of his way to speak to clients mask-to-face, usually by way of appearing in their homes in the dead of night. Just like he did to me.

"How many times do you think I saw some playboy pull up to a club in a Lambo and walk out with someone else's woman? How many times do you think I watched some bigshot pull an Indecent Proposal? How many times do you think I witnessed some shell of a human being fall apart as he told me about the things his dear wife and her elected official lover did to him? How many times do you think I posed as a two-bit hitman to lure in some dickhead trying to kill his old lady so her life insurance payout could fund his new life with a woman half his age? How many times do you think I listened to a woman tell her man that she's gonna be working late that night, while she's sitting in a corner booth at a fancy restaurant being fondled by her BOSS?"

He didn't raise his voice on that last one, but I still flinched.

"I saw it a lot, Victoria. More times than you can imagine. But just like everything else, I thought it never got to me. Water off a duck's back. Until the first time I actually woke up in the morning with the woman from last night and thought, 'this is kinda nice'. Then she woke up, smiled at me, and all I saw was a snake. Fine, she ain't the one, whatever. So I kept looking. More snakes. Some of them had smaller fangs than others, or particularly dazzling scales, but it was all the same. Fucking vipers everywhere. But then I met you. I met you, and I loved you, and I trusted you, and I made excuses for you! I KNEW what you were doing; I had heard the same story too many times not to! But still I told myself, 'Not her! Not my Vicky! Never her! She's not a snake!'"

"... But I was fucking Medusa," I finished for him, unable to look him in the eyes.

"Don't I wish?" he scoffed. "I think being turned to stone would hurt less."

There was really nothing to say to that. So I said the only thing I could.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"Then live with it, and without me."

"Nezgani! My, my, what an unexpected pleasure!"

"You know exactly why I'm here, Gloria," I tried to put something other than what I was feeling into my voice, but the best I could do was a neutral deadpan.

"I do, but would it kill you to indulge an old friend?"

"Maybe."

"Oh please, I wouldn't kill you! Tie you to my bed and fuck you until you loved me, certainly. But killing? Even if I could, I wouldn't dream of it, darling!"

Jesus Christ, I forgot the exercise in whiplash a conversation with Gloria could be. I had also forgotten that she was called Gloria because "Glorious" was too pompous even for her. With her healthy tan, gravity-defying breasts, trim waist, wide hips and legs that I knew had been the end of more than one man in more than one way, she was what every cougar aspired to be. At sixty-two, she could steal a man from a co-ed with little more than a "come hither". In her prime? She could've had world leaders wrapped around her finger if she had chosen a different path.

I guess I missed the comeback window, because she was laughing at me when I finally stopped thinking about giving her a chance to put her money where her mouth is.

"Eight years out and you're a whole different person! Oh, this is going to be a treat," she grinned, showing off her perfect teeth.

"I'm sure everyone's changed in eight years, Gloria," I replied, to which she just gestured to herself and raised an eyebrow at me. "Those of us who aren't vampires, anyway."

"Oh, stop," she tittered. "Really, before this vampire drags you to the back and drains you."

The words "don't threaten me with a good time" were on the tip of my tongue before I swallowed them. Partially because I was here on business, but mostly because I knew she was serious and it had been... a while for me. If our banter kept going, she would eventually land on something that would get her what she wanted. And I'm not sure she was joking about the tying me down part.

"Business before pleasure, Gloria," I sighed.

"Very well," Gloria sighed right back. "I'm sure someone as in-demand as you has more important things to attend to than little ol' me, so I'm assuming this is the roundup phase?"

"It is," I nodded. "I need to know what everyone wants, make sure there are no conflicts of interest, see if I can mix and match, that sort of thing."

"I see. Tell you what, give me a moment to me see what's still up in the air and I'll get back to you."

I blinked in confusion and asked, "You didn't have something lined up already?"

"For Vicky Vicious, yes. But you are a level above her, and that's an opportunity I'm not about to waste. Expect the same from at least some of your inherited tasks. A shitty thing to do, I admit, but remember that YOU made the calls, and choosing beggars don't have many friends."

Gloria flashed me a smile that didn't reach her eyes, then turned on her heel and walked into the back of her "antique store". While she did whatever she was doing, I mulled over the one thing in her answer that stuck out to me.

Of course I had never looked into Victoria's past during our relationship, but 'Vicky Vicious' was a name I had heard a few times way back when. Always attached to stories of a woman who was very good at what she did, but seemed to treat many of her jobs like personal revenge. Smashed faces, broken limbs, crushed genitals, mortal wounds that would've taken many agonizing minutes to bleed out. Things that reeked of a vendetta rather than a contract.

Things that fit with a woman from a Doll Mill whose conditioning had either slipped, or had never fully taken to begin with.

Gloria returned several minutes later with a thumb drive and a smirk that had a smugness about it that set off alarm bells in my head.

"Found one that's needed doing for ages, but anyone who'd have the balls and talent for it always seems to have bigger fish to fry. Fair warning, it's a doozie, darling. Might even be a two-man job."

The moment she said it, there was a tingle in the back of my neck. Not a chill; a tingle. I put my hands on the counter and took a deep breath, closing my eyes just as the bell over the shop's door chimed.

"Fuck," I growled.

"Are you offering, or demanding? Because I'm good with either," Gloria teased, smugness visibly growing.

"He's not," the newcomer said flatly.

"I could be."

"But you're not."

"And what if I am?"

"... Then I'll be back in two hours to cut you loose."

The shop went quiet save for Gloria's giggling at the live soap opera in front of her.

"What are you doing?" I asked, though I didn't have to.

"Paying my dues. My debts are still MY debts, regardless of whatever strings you pulled."

I finally turned to look at her, and I'm sure my eyes about popped out of my skull before I could contain myself. She wore her shoulder-length black hair loose and chaotic in what I could only call "designer bedhead", and it framed her pale face in a way that drew even more attention to her black lipstick and eyeliner. A dark leather jacket, Shadow of Intent band shirt, black jeans tight enough to cause traffic accidents, and combat boots came together to make a picture that seared itself into my brain.

It also had the inner voice that had been railing against her for weeks going, "Why did we break up with THAT, again?"

It also made my chest hurt so much that for a second I wondered if Gloria had slipped a knife between my ribs when I looked away.

"Good to know I can still do that to you," Victoria said with a hint of sadness that made me think she was aware of the less flattering part of my reaction.

Before I could fire back, Gloria did it for me.

"That ability is hardly exclusive to you, dear. The things I could do to him have been on his mind since he got here!"

Victoria's right eye twitched ever so slightly as she gave Gloria a "bored" look.

"I'm not worried about a little competition."

"Who said anything about competition? You youngsters live in the 'World of Or', but I've always preferred the 'Land of And'! As in, you can watch, AND then I can watch, AND then he can watch, AND then..." her words trailed off into high laughter as I swiped the thumb drive and made my exit, with Victoria hot on my heels. I looked back just in time to see both women nod at each other.

Ah, so that was the game. Gloria had been stalling me, and I'd put money that the higher-tier contract had less to do with "opportunity", and more to do with Victoria asking for a personal favor.

We both took a moment to collect ourselves in front of the store before I spoke again, deliberately not looking at her.

"You think this will change anything?"

"I don't know, but it's better than another day of exhaustion and dehydration from crying myself sick. There's no hope back there."

"But there is here?"

"I think so. And you gave it to me."

"The hell I did!" I growled. It had taken days to put a lid back on these emotions I wasn't used to, and she'd popped it off immediately.

"Yes, you did. You opened the door to a possibility I had never considered. Victoria had her turn, and let you down in the worst way a woman can. But you never met the real her. Even if you knew OF her, you never met that person. And now that Marshall and Victoria Nightman are... on separate vacations, the way I see it all that's left is two strangers. Yeah, we know a lot about each other, but Vicky Vicious and Nezgani have never crossed paths before. To me, that means a clean slate and a chance to impress."

My first instinct, driven by a hatred that was hard to maintain without conscious effort, was to dismiss her out of hand. All of our history, all of HER fuck-ups go poof because we're using our stage names now? Fucking nonsense.

But while my common sense was trying to keep the rage flowing, my heart cut in line. It told me that our relationship had technically been built on lies, and with all cards on the table this COULD be something new. But more than that, while my mind was stuck on what she had done TO me, my heart reminded me of what she had done FOR me. She'd killed fourteen men, and in doing so committed herself back to a life she despised. Not because she had been used, blackmailed and tricked, but because they had threatened me. When the chips were down and my safety was on the line, she didn't hesitate to give up everything and go to war.

And now she was here, ready to put her life on the line again to earn a second chance. Could I really just ignore that, so I could keep wallowing in the hurt and hate? I refused to let her play the martyr, but was that only because I wanted the role for myself?

"... I once trusted you enough to sleep next to you every night, knowing you had a loaded gun within arm's reach. I sat with my back to you while you made breakfast, knowing about your spoon gun. I let you sit there listening to me in the shower, with my toilet gun right there. Do you think that's ever coming back?" I asked once I collected myself enough to look her in the eyes without faltering.

"Hey, that's too damn far and you know it!" she snarled, genuinely offended as she thrust a finger into my face.

"There's a lot of things I thought I knew."

Her jaw clenched and the finger an inch from my nose started to shake before hastily withdrawing.

"Not much I can say to that, is there?" she bit out after a shuddering breath. "Fine. But I'll say it again: you aren't dealing with the woman who let you down anymore. You're talking to Viv; a professional with a damn good reputation she damn well earned."

"Apparently I'm also talking to someone who can't keep her names straight."

"... I hate that damned pro wrestler name, so I made one for myself and tried to put it out there. It's meant to be an acronym, actually: Vicky Is Vicious. It never stuck, because everyone else loves the pro wrestler name, but I would appreciate it if you could extend me a professional courtesy, along with some professional trust. The rest can come after I prove myself."

"Someone's confident."

She blinked tears aware as she answered in a whisper, "It's all I've got left."

"..."

We stared.

"..."

I blinked.

"Fair enough. Professional trust? You got it, Viv. And as one professional to another, allow me to make something perfectly clear. Marshall wanted you to live to regret what you did, but Nezgani don't play that shit. You let me down, I put you down. Understood?"

"I'd beat you to it."

I grunted in response and quickly turned away, hoping that I hadn't given away just how much I didn't like her saying that.

Not another word was spoken as I made my way to my next destination, the thump of heavy boots and the tingle in the back of my neck telling me that my... partner was right behind me. And God help me, I trusted her to be there, armed and not dangerous.

Fuck.