Peter, Prue Ch. 04

"Go home, Pete," he said. "Don't make me do this, and don't make a fool of yourself. Go home."

Peter gasped for air.

Through a mist he saw Prue trying to disappear into a green wall of plants. One hand closed her gapping blouse, the other covered her mouth. Her eyes were huge.

"Let me... let me go!" Peter groaned through his gasps. His hands pushed against the bigger man. It was of no use.

Then Kuric's hands were gone. Peter sank against the pillar, down to his knees. He retched, touching his mangled throat.

"Go," Kuric's voice said.

Peter pushed himself up. His eyes found Prue. She swam in and out of the green wall. She didn't rush to him. She didn't say a word.

He turned and stumbled out, passing the waitress and the maître d' who came running to see what had happened.

"Pete," Prue mumbled.

***

"Wow, you hit him?"

Julia gazed at Peter with wide-open eyes. Peter shrugged.

"He blocked my punch," he admitted, keeping the humiliating rest of the story to himself.

They sat at the Bailey's, about two blocks away from the Carlton. Julia wore a wide beige cardigan over her jersey dress. She had an almost full glass of white wine in front of her; Peter's whisky glass was empty but for two melting ice cubes.

Julia leaned forward, lowering her voice.

"He didn't hit you, did he?" she asked.

"No," Pete said, his hand rising automatically to touch his throat. "He choked me."

Julia covered her mouth in an exaggeration of surprise.

"Noooo, he didn't!" she whispered. "The asshole. You shouldn't accept that, honey. Go to the police; you have to report it. Whatever does he think?"

"I attacked him first," Peter said lamely.

Julia waved it away.

"He is fucking your wife, Pete. I bet he's been at it for ages. He caused all the misery. Don't you want revenge?"

Of course he wanted revenge. Somewhere amongst the trillion images that crowded his mind were scenes of murder and mutilation, pictures of smashed-in skulls and erupting arteries, gouged-out eyes and cut-off penises. It was a maddening merry-go-round of violence so distant from his usual peaceful self that it made him chuckle with disbelief.

"Revenge," he repeated, chuckling some more.

Julia leaned back, her blue eyes studying him for a while.

"He's her boss, you know," she then said.

"Yes," he said. "And?"

"And?" she repeated. "That's sexual harassment what he's doing - using his position of power to make her do what he wants. That's illegal. You should go to his bosses and report it."

Peter stared at her, saying nothing.

"We're divorced," he finally said. "It doesn't matter."

"But it does!" Julia sounded out of breath. "It always does, Peter. He can't sleep with an employee, married or divorced. They'll fire him."

Peter slowly moved his head left and right. Julia grabbed his hands, forcing him to focus.

"It's true, Pete! Ask your lawyer!"

***

Prue sat in her office, alone.

They'd left the Orangerie at once, after paying for their food and the damage. Victor hadn't even tried to make her stay. She supposed he'd lost the mood, just as she had.

She shivered.

My God, what a mess - what had she been thinking? People will know; it might cost her her job. Again she saw the utter fear in Peter's eyes, hearing the steel in Victor's voice. But what disgusted her most was what she'd felt when they fought - the thrill, the awe.

She'd stood there and done nothing.

She'd been this primitive stone-age woman gawking at men fighting over her - knowing she rooted for the alpha male. Her mind had shut down, eradicating thousands of years of civilization. All she did was stare and moan - a trickle softly running into her silk thong.

Victor didn't say a word on their way back.

When they arrived, he muttered a few things and left her standing by her office door. She knew she'd blown it - her marriage, her job. And it had been for nothing, hadn't it? There hadn't even been the start of an affair. All she got was the fall out of a never-exploded bomb.

But it had been lethal nevertheless.

Her phone rang.

She left it ringing for a bit. Then she picked it up.

It was Victor Kuric.

"You better pack and do the clever thing," he said without introduction or emotion.

Prue gasped.

"What?" she hissed.

"Your fucking dipshit of a husband called old man Jones to snitch on us, pulling the harassment card," he said.

Arthur B. Jones was the CEO of the company; it was amazing that Pete could have reached him this quickly. The news unsettled her enough to extract an inane "I'm sorry" from her before she grasped what was happening.

What on earth would she feel sorry for?

"It's all your fault," she said. "It was supposed to be just lunch."

"Whatever," he said. "I bet it was that bimbo friend of yours who alarmed hubby."

"She's not a friend," she answered lamely.

"Whatever," he said again. "Get out before they kick you out."

This was all too fast, she thought.

"What about you?" she asked.

"What about me?"

"Won't they fire you when I tell them you harassed me, lying about your plans for the lunch?"

There was a short silence. Then a hard, forced bout of laughing.

"Don't be silly, slut," he said. "I'm Kuric, director of sales, next in line for the board. I keep this rotten company afloat and they know it. You? A thirteen-a-dozen little upstart they hired to please her rich daddy. Get real."

Reality was indeed what she felt - cold, heart-chilling reality.

It flushed the fluff from her mind that seemed to have gathered ever since that damn two-word message had appeared on her cell phone, weeks and weeks ago. She gasped like an exhausted swimmer finally breaking surface.

"You!" she then cried out. "You sent that fucking message! It was you!"

There was silence - then his voice returned, sounding puzzled.

"What are you talking about?"

"The texts you sent me and Pete about us cheating. The damn texts that destroyed my marriage."

"You are crazy," Kuric commented in a flat, disinterested voice. "Do as I say and get out."

He disconnected.

Prue stared at the dead phone. Her head spun with what she thought she'd found out. It must be true. He sent those messages to fuck up their minds until they broke up. Why? So he could fuck her, of course.

Prue never was one for flawless logic.

Given a choice she would always stick to the explanation that put her closest to the center of things. Someone had fucked with them - it must have been to get her. Who profited from their divorce? Victor Kuric. He'd gone after her the moment she broke up with Pete, hadn't he? He wanted her; of course: he said so himself.

And now she had to take the fall?

Oh no, she'd see about that. Her finger pushed the speed button of Gerald. J. Dunston ("call me Jerry") at Burton, Barton and Andersen, gold-embossed kingdom of the law.

***

Kathryn Forbes didn't seem half as sharp as Peter remembered.

To be honest, her bird face looked a bit bored. He'd told her about catching his wife making out at lunch with a colleague. He'd lied a bit by making it seem Kuric had attacked him, trying to strangle him.

"Well," she said at last. "That is all very painful for you, I guess, but she and you already filed divorce papers. What would be in this for us?"

Us, she said, not you, he thought. Ah well.

"He is her boss."

If a spine would be a metal spring it might explain the sudden snap with which Ms. Forbes sat straight.

"Her boss?" she asked, and he'd swear he saw a drop of saliva leave her lips.

The next hour was filled with questions, phone calls, questions, consulting ledgers and more questions.

"Four million," she finally said. "You'll end up with a million, but we go for four."

***

Arthur B. Jones wasn't a prime example of the male species.

To begin with he was sixty-seven and showing it, but even in his younger days his pale, freckled skin, carrot hair and weak chin didn't quicken the female heart. He'd been bright, though, finishing university with three masters before he turned twenty.

He was twelve times a millionaire at twenty-five and had been boss of this company ever since he created it. Not for long anymore, though. You see, Arthur B. Jones had hardly ever been without female companionship since he made his first millions. Agreed, most of them were paid for and the rest were gold diggers, but he dumped them all as soon as they even touched at the matter of commitment. Not that they left empty-handed; Arthur B. wasn't a miser.

But something had changed lately - something essential.

Arthur B. Jones yearned to retire, because he had fallen in love. Her name was Maria. She was Hispanic and a rather chubby fifty years old. She did nothing to hide her age and her extra pounds, but her cuisine could shame a star-crusted chef.

She also never gave up on a blowjob before Arthur came.

It might explain why Arthur Jones' company had hit a spell of bad weather, business-wise. Arthur didn't care anymore; he wanted out. So his board rebelled. They couldn't kick him out, as that would have been just what he wanted. So they proposed a deal: he could get out if he'd provide a good successor.

That was when Arthur G. Jones asked Victor Kuric to return from Europe. The deal was for Victor to show his talents for a year and if the board agreed, he would become the next CEO. Jones would then stay on as chairman, a mostly decorative function.

The board was more than content about Victor Kuric.

They agreed that he was a pussy hound and an asshole, almost having put their company in danger in the past, but they also agreed that he was their asshole, who turned around their ailing sales department, fired people without blinking an eye, and hired successful clones of himself.

Jones hated him, but he loved him as his savior.

And now this woman with her padded suit and her bird beak told him he had to fire the guy because some slut had let him feel her tits. To make it worse: the slut herself sat on the other side of the table with three bloodhounds from Burton, Barton and Andersen, demanding the same.

Goddammit, how he'd love to fire that stupid bastard Kuric. But he couldn't very well, could he?

"Okay, Ms. ehm... Forbes," Jones said. "We can look at this from every moral angle the good Lord has given us, but let's save us all some time and be practical: how much?"

A rush of whispers ran around the table.

Kathryn Forbes never blinked.

"Four million," she said.

Then he turned towards the bloodhounds and Prue.

"I see you are a way bigger firm," he said. "So I guess you'll ask for more?"

The gray-templed Hannibal C. Barton cleared his throat.

"As you know," he started, "Mrs. Hawkins has been gravely traumatized by this horrible..."

"How much?" Jones interrupted.

Barton didn't flinch. He snapped his fingers without looking, and his young assistant produced a piece of paper from a briefcase. Barton slid it over the table to Jones, maybe considering the matter too banal to deliver orally.

Jones took his reading glasses.

"Ten million," he said.

***

From his place beside Kathryn Forbes Peter watched Prue.

She looked pale and drawn, and her eyes were down, studying her hands on the table. When Jones read out loud the amount of money, she looked up, startled. Settling for money was obviously new to her. Or was it the amount?

She pulled the distinguished man next to her at his sleeve and started whispering into his ear. As the whole room had exploded into murmurs and comments when Jones shared the written amount with them, he couldn't make out what she said. But seeing her gestures and watching the pink blush on her cheeks, Pete knew she was very agitated.

Then Jones banged his flat hand on the table.

"Enough!" he yelled into the silence he'd created. "Every damn moment we waste on this farce will add thousands to whatever amount we'll agree on. Not to mention that you are already wasting my even more precious retirement time."

Nobody chuckled at his joke.

"All right," he went on. "By this I officially declare Kuric an abominable asshole. I presume that admitting this should get me at least two million off your silly claims."

Another joke fell flat in silence; or was it a joke?

Peter studied the freckled man with new interest. He never consulted even one of his lawyers and fellow managers. This, he knew, was a man who didn't care what people thought of him. He didn't give a damn; life was a game, and so was money.

"Next statement," Jones went on. "Ms, ehm, Mrs Whatshername won't be fired. She'll be promoted to a department that's not under the direct supervision of Kuric and her salary will be doubled. Another two million down, I'd say."

Hannibal Barton raised his hand.

"What kind of cheap roadshow is this?" he asked, filling his affected voice with as much fake indignation he could muster. "It's a silly carnival to ridicule the legitimate claims of my client. I must..."

The flat hand thundered right through his objections, making the solid table tremble.

"Mister Lawyer," Jones said, now lowering his voice to a hiss. "Don't you even try and push that pin striped ass of yours up on a stretch of moral ground that's higher than mine. You might get lost."

Barton's muttering could be heard in the vast silence, but it died down soon.

"Mrs. Whatshername's rights," Jones went on, "have never been taken more seriously than by this company. From the very moment she and her husband reported to me what happened, I have personally seen to it that everything would be done to come to a satisfying solution for all parties!"

Peter saw Jones turn to Prue, his freckled face softening into a smile.

"I saw you respond furiously to my way of translating your grievances into money, but please forgive us, honey, for that is the only language we have as businessmen to seriously express our feelings. Call it autism or a lack of true feelings, but there it is."

Peter saw Prue slowly shake her head.

"You could fire the bastard," she said, her voice thin and dry. "And you should!"

Her remark threw her lawyers into a fit.

Jones seemed to really ponder her question.

"We could," he agreed. "Maybe we even should. But we won't because we can't."

He placed his fingertips into a steeple and mused some more.

"You see, Mrs. Ehm..., honey, Victor Kuric might be a despicable person, but we hauled him back from Europe to become my successor and save this company. He has been trained this year and we have put all our business trust in him. So, even if we might agree morally, this whole company would fail, duping thousands of families. Now, how morally defendable is that?"

Prue had no answer; she just repeated that Kuric should be fired.

After that she sat staring at the freckled man while suited lawyers whispered in her ears. She once more was the silent eye of a storm, big-eyed and lost.

Peter felt the urge to rise and take her in his arms.

He succeeded in rising to his feet, but then he froze as he saw the room for what it really was: a giant refrigerator filled with dead bodies, the living dead. He almost saw the plumes of icy breath leaving their mouths as they talked and talked. He also saw the threads that ran from his wrists and shoulders and hands, his whole puppet body, back to these dead men, who pulled and pushed, making him move.

At the center of this freak show was the woman he loved, a puppet too, caught up in a jumble of threads. But she didn't move; she just faded. One by one her limbs seemed to melt away, her body, her face, until only her huge eyes floated in the air.

And he knew what to do.

"Prue," he said.

The eyes found his.

"Prue, look around. It is them who destroy us. It was them all the time. Let me get you and let's run before it is too late."

And he pushed away his chair, walking around the table where he met Prudence Hawkins, née Gascoyne. They embraced and kissed, letting waves of murmurs and protests pass over their heads.

Peter Hawkins took his wife and let her out of the boardroom of the Arthur B. Jones Company, leaving the suits to implode on themselves.

***

Julia Connors had shared her bed with many over the years.

It was a statistic she'd regarded as highly classified ever since she'd set her eyes on old Gascoyne. But that fact hadn't stopped her adding to the numbers even then.

One of those more recent additions had been Gerald "call me Jerry" Dunston, rising star at Burton, Barton and Andersen, solicitors at law, and owner of a rather gorgeous and well-functioning set of male genitals.

She called him, asking what had happened at the boardroom of Jones's company.

"They ran," Jerry said. "The husband and the little office slut, in the middle of the negotiations."

"They what?"

"Jones was prepared to give them millions, but they just gave him the finger and left."

"No firing?" Julia asked. "No claims of harassment?"

"No. They both left, letting their lawyers fall flat on their faces. Barton is not a happy camper."

"Fuck me...," Julia said, her voice petering out.

"Anytime," Jerry answered. "You know that."

And he laughed.

"Fuck you too, asshole," Julia said, disconnecting her phone.

Sagging in front of her laptop, she pressed 'enter.' As far as revenge goes it wasn't much, but more than nothing. The lilywhite Mrs. Elizabeth Lyndon Kuric, her entire British high-class family and the editors of at least three gossip magazines would see Victor Kuric, the newly appointed CEO of the Arthur Jones Company, with his hand and his tongue deep into a woman clearly not his wife. They would also see him with at least four other rather well-known society wives.

The whole thing would add up to a glorious mess.

Julia sighed.

Then she rose, picked up her suitcase, and walked out of her front door to the waiting cab.

"To the Planned Parenthood Clinic," she said, checking her face in her compact.

***

"They'll fire you," Peter said, lying on his back.

"I don't care," Prue said, next to him.

They were in the bedroom of their apartment, on their bed and naked. Prue felt sweat dry on her skin, and the itch of his sperm in her pussy. Her hand was on his shrinking penis. Its head was still wet and slimy from both their juices. She had no conscious memory of ever coming as hard and often as she had in the last half hour.

"They won," Peter said. "Kuric won."

"I don't care."

"Your daddy won't help you."

She shrugged.

"The lawyers will be after us," Peter said. "They'll demand their money."

She sighed.

"I want a child, Pete," she then said. "Your child."

He rose to his elbow, studying her sweet, smudged face.

"We won't have the money to raise it."

She opened her eyes. The smeared mascara had turned her into a raccoon. Her hand came up in a little fist; it playfully grazed his jaw.

"I don't care," she said.

The End.