February Sucks for Walter Mitty

I got up from my hiding place, guns at the ready—

No.

NO!

This wasn't some old John Woo movie, and it wasn't a nightmare. My wife was actually dancing with that asshat in a crowded club, leaving me holding my dick while she gazed up at him like he hung the moon and stars. I didn't have guns, didn't have a haunting soundtrack, didn't have an offensive line by my side. Yeah, I was in good shape, but I had no illusions about taking on a handful of football players.

And, from the looks of things, my wife.

And that's the kicker, isn't it? Because LaValliere hadn't dragged her up there with him—she'd gone quite willingly. She'd dropped me like a hot potato, without a single glance back. Even now, her eyes were on him—as far as she was concerned, I wasn't even in the room.

Through my confusion and rage, the questions hit me: What kind of woman does that? What kind of human?

I won't pretend I wasn't blindingly furious at LaValliere, but was it really his fault? Sure, he was a scumbucket who got off on dancing with married women and humiliating their husbands, but I could hardly blame him for being attracted to Linda. Besides, it wasn't like he had made me any promises or owed me any loyalty.

But Linda—

She owed me a lot. She owed me better than this.

Watching her on the dance floor, I saw something clearly—so clearly that I wondered why I hadn't seen it before, in all the other arguments and little tiffs that had marked our time together. LaValliere wasn't my opponent. Linda was. She MADE herself my opponent.

Even if I had the flashy guns, the haunting soundtrack, and the offensive line at my back—or, for that matter, if I grabbed one of the knives off the table and jammed it between LaValliere's ribs—I still wouldn't win. Linda had chosen to do this, chosen to put a few dances with this manicured shitbag ahead of our marriage. She'd decided that she was the independent, strong woman who needed a man—HER man—like a fish needed a bicycle.

SHE had created this problem. I couldn't fix it for her. SHE had to pick her marriage—and me—over... whatever this was.

She had to bend. If not, we were going to break.

So I sat and fumed and thought dark thoughts through two songs while the rest of the table made lame attempts at conversation. I saw the nod LaValliere gave to the bandleader and the nod he got in return. Songs three, four and five were all slow dances, and they all played back-to-back.

LaValliere's dances with Linda were a parody of ours: Instead of our graceful seduction and flowing motion, his was a dance of dominance, of a man seizing control of a woman as he stomped around the dance floor. Linda didn't seem to mind—apparently, a little toxic masculinity was fine, as long as she got to be the belle of the ball.

Finally, LaValliere nodded at the bandleader and the music segued into something more up-tempo. He and Linda stepped out of their embrace, and he leaned down and whispered in her ear. Her smile widened. With one last squeeze of her forearm, he let her go and strutted back to his table. She turned to me and—for the first time since the asshole had taken her onto the dance floor—I saw her eyes. Saw their glittering brightness dim at the sight of me. Saw her beaming smile fade into something cold and stiff and fake.

Fuck.

Linda could be a decent actor when she tried, and she was trying hard as she walked back to me. But she couldn't hide the look on her face, the one that showed that I was now downgraded from The Love of Her Life to A Problem That Needed to Be Dealt With. She was most of the way to her seat when Dee shot up, her own glee giving a fresh boost against the dull dread in my wife's eyes.

"Linda, you were amazing!" Dee exclaimed. My wife's frozen smile widened and became genuine. My heart fell even further. As I stood up, the other couples in our group were looking at everything but me.

Dee leaned down and whispered something in Dave's ear. His face flushed and he put his hand to his mouth. What was he hiding? A grimace? A chuckle?

"Linda, I have to go to the bathroom," Dee said, her voice unnaturally bright. "Come with me!" Linda glanced at me again and I saw her eyes sparkle. And I knew.

Fuck.

HER body. HER choice.

FUCK!

And then my wife was gone with her best friend and I was standing by myself, feeling like the world's biggest doofus. My skin was prickly, like I was naked, and I felt the eyes of the entire room on me. Saw the smirks barely covered by their hands. I coughed. "Excuse me," I muttered. "I need a drink."

"Jim, I—" Dave started.

"Don't," I growled. "Don't say a fucking word." His eyes widened and he went back to looking at the glasses on the table. I don't know what he saw on my face, but I felt a ripple of grim satisfaction. Our friends were silent as I walked away.

It was a busy night, and the bartenders were rushing to fill everyone's orders, but it didn't matter—the last thing I needed now was another overpriced gin and tonic. From the bar, I had a clear line of sight to the back of the club. Moizoos and Smith turned down the hallway and were walking past the bathrooms. "Fuck," I muttered as Dee stepped out. She was scanning the crowd. Looking for me.

I wasn't hard to find—there weren't too many guys shoving their way through the dance floor on a beeline to the back hallway. But by the time Dee saw me, I was practically on top of her. "Jim!" she exclaimed.

"Not now, you shithead!" I shoved her out of my way.

At the end of the hall, the exit door was already open and I could see Linda rushing into the parking lot, LaValliere close behind her. The two linemen were blocking the door. I ran at them. I might not have been a John Woo character, but I was pissed. "Hey! Linda!" I barked as I slammed my way past Moizoos and Smith. "Hey! Fuckface!" I yelled.

LaValliere must have recognized the name because he was turning back to me and already had his hands up when I barreled into him. He gave me a hard push and I had a split second to see his smirk before I bashed him across the face. I felt something in my hand snap as I lined up for another hit, but suddenly my arms were pinned behind my back.

"Motherfucker knocked me over!" someone said behind me. "Boy's got some talent."

LaValliere rubbed his jaw. "Not bad," he smirked at me. "Not good enough, but not bad." He turned to Linda. "Go to the car. The white Escalade."

"Marc—"

"It's okay, sexy. I'll be there in a second."

I looked up at her. Saw her wide eyes. Then I saw the calculation in them.

Her body, her choice.

She turned away and started walking to the car. "Linda!" I yelled. She slowed down. "Last chance, Linda," I said.

She started walking faster. "Go home, Jim," she called over her shoulder.

Her body—

Her—

FUCK YOU, LINDA!

She was almost to the car when LaValliere's fist slammed into my face. It hurt—it hurt a lot!—but it was nothing compared to the way I felt when I saw her running away. He punched me again and a wave of agony rolled through my head, drowning everything in its path.

I was dizzy and my head was too heavy to lift. "Three on one," I muttered as I tried to focus my eyes. "Big fucking football pussy."

"If it makes you feel better, it'll be one-on-one in my bedroom tonight," LaValliere sneered. He hit me again, in my side this time, and I couldn't breathe. He laughed. "Don't worry, I'll bring her back tomorrow."

"Don't bother," I gasped. "A woman who'd fuck a piece of shit like you isn't worth much."

That earned me another hit in the ribs.

I tried to lift my head, but it was still too heavy. "Don't kill him," LaValliere called from the distance. Then I was getting dragged back into the club. My head lolled back and I saw Linda and LaValliere in the car, their lips already locked. I think her head was on its way to his lap when Morrison's back door closed and I was plunged into darkness.

*

When I woke up, I was alone. I opened my eyes. Darkness. Blurry red light. Stale beer smell.

The back hallway at Morrison's.

I closed my eyes. Opened them.

Under the exit sign there was a blinking red light. I watched it for a minute while my eyes focused and I tried to figure out what to do next. Behind me, I could hear the muffled sound of the band.

I tried to sit up, but my stomach cramped, and I was barely able to roll over before I puked. That set off a round of coughing, and it felt like my lungs were trying to work their way out through my mouth. I tried to breathe deeply, but it hurt too much, so I held my breath as I pushed myself up to my knees, then to my feet. I reached out to the wall to steady myself.

Blinking red light.

I felt drunk. Drunk and hurting everywhere. I was swaying, but my feet stayed under me. Good.

Thoughts came slowly. I decided that the first thing I needed to do was get the fuck out of the hallway before LaValliere's thugs came back or someone else took a crack at me. I felt my cheek and my hand came back sticky. Might be a good idea to visit the bathroom. Clean up and get out with as little fuss as possible. Don't make myself a target.

Reevaluate.

Plan.

Get beyond the swirl of "Why did she? How could she? My body, my—" that was filling my head.

In the bathroom, I clutched the sides of the sink as I stared in the mirror. I had a gash from my cheekbone to my left temple—Fuck, was he wearing a ring?—and my left eye was already starting to swell shut. A bruise was coming up on my cheek, and my lips were bloody. Thankfully, I didn't seem to have any puke on me.

I cleaned up as well as I could with paper towels and water while I reviewed my next steps: Get out quietly. Call an Uber. Get to the hospital. It was a plan.

The club's dance floor was packed and I felt like a sack of broken china, so I threaded my way around the wall toward the front door. When I got close to our table, Jane saw me. "Jim!" she shrieked. Suddenly, all eyes were on me.

"Fuck, Jim, are you okay?" Dave asked.

"No, Dave." I coughed into my hand. "I'm not okay. Not even a little bit."

"We thought you left," Phil said. "What happened?"

"What the fuck do you care?" I wheezed. "None of you... none of you bothered to check..."

Dee was the only one not staring at me. "You knew, didn't you?" I whispered. "You helped her sneak out. Left me bleeding on the floor. You filthy fucking cunt."

I usually don't use language like that, and the table went silent. Jane's jaw was hanging open, and Barb looked like someone had slapped her. Dee's head snapped up, her eyes blazing.

"Hey!" Dave exclaimed after a minute. "That's my wife—"

"Don't tell me your problems, Dave," I chuckled drily. "I've got enough of my own." I looked down at the fury on Dee's face.

She's offended?!? How precious!

I couldn't help it: I burst out laughing. It hurt like hell, but I couldn't stop. I started coughing and blood spattered Dee's face. She screamed. I felt a spark of glee. I spat in her face. There was a lot of blood. "What the fuck!" Jane yelled, her chair falling over as she jumped back from the table.

"You don't know where I've been, Dee!" I gave a crazy laugh, tasted the coppery flavor in my mouth. "You don't know where I've been!" I was swaying, and my legs felt rubbery. Enough fun, and more than enough Fight Club quotes. I left my former friends freaking out as they tried to clean my blood off Dee.

The doorman was yet another hulk. "Well, if it isn't the big man," he chuckled. He gave me a little love tap in the ribs and I felt something shift. "You have a good night, Mike Tyson."

And then I was on the sidewalk.

The air was freezing, and my chest felt tighter. My heart was pounding. Fuck Uber, I need an ambulance. I dialed 911.

"Nine one one," the voice said through my phone. "What's your emergency?"

"I've been... beaten up," I wheezed. "I'm at... Morrison's. Near the waterfront."

"Sir...? Sir?" the voice said. "Sir?"

I tried to answer. The sidewalk was cold, but so very comfortable.

*

When I woke up, my throat was killing me, but at least I could breathe. Antiseptic smell. Beeping sounds. A hospital. Thank God.

I opened my eyes. Big window looking out into a nurse's station. My right hand was bandaged and got all tangled up with the IV tube when I pressed the call button on the bed rail. A moment later, a nurse was there. "Don't try to talk," she said. "I'll get you some ice chips."

She was back a moment later. "The doctor will be here soon," she said as she tucked the cup of ice into the crook of my arm and untangled the IV.

"Phone," I croaked. "Please."

She pulled a clear plastic bag off the side table and gently laid it beside me. "Here are your personal belongings. I'm not sure where your clothes are." She gave a gentle laugh. "Then again, it doesn't look like you're going anywhere for a while."

"What... day... is... it?" It hurt to talk, but the melting ice helped. I found my phone in the bag. 27 percent. A few texts. Nothing from Linda.

"It's 4:30 Saturday afternoon." She picked up the chart from the end of my bed. "You're at Buffalo General. You've been under sedation since they brought you in last night."

"My wife..." I began.

"We've tried to contact her, but she hasn't answered."

"Don't," I croaked. The nurse gave me a surprised look. "Don't want... see her." I scrabbled in the cup and grabbed another ice chip.

"It's hospital policy to contact the next of kin, Mr. Carlisle—"

"I'll call... parents." I swallowed. "Keep my wife away."

She blushed. "Yes, sir," she said. "Also, the police asked about you." I gave her a questioning look. "It's standard policy to call them in when someone comes in looking... um, looking like you did."

"Can't talk to them now." I closed my eyes against the pain. "Later?"

"Okay," she said softly. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"A phone charger." I swallowed. "USB-C. Please."

"I'll see what we can dig up. If you need anything, hit the button." She smiled at me as she left. I wondered if I was going to be the latest piece of juicy gossip on the ward.

I texted my parents and told them the bare bones of the story, then sent them Mrs. Porter's phone number and asked them to check on the kids. They told me they'd be by to visit, but they lived in LeRoy, and I figured it would be a couple of hours. They texted a few minutes later to tell me that Linda had picked up Emma and Tommy earlier that afternoon. Apparently, Mrs. Porter was pissed that we'd left the kids there until three.

Interesting.

My next message was to my friend Bailey. Well, he's sort of a friend, mostly my lawyer. We'd known each other since college, and now he represented my business. It's weird to have a guy you used to do beer bongs with handling your contracts, but he'd never left me hanging out to dry.

I was realizing how important—and rare—that is.

"Bailey, I need your help," I texted. "In the hospital. Buffalo General. Need to see you as soon as possible."

It only took a moment. "I'm with the kids, but I'll be there tonight."

"No need to leave the family hanging. Tomorrow works."

"I'm at the in-laws, dude. The kids are watching Frozen. You're doing me a favor!"

Maybe I need to think about upgrading Bailey to "Mostly a friend, also my lawyer."

*

Doctor Patel came by a little later and told me that I was a very lucky man. Seriously, is that a requirement for doctors? Do they ever tell a patient that they're unlucky as shit?

I'd sprained my wrist on LaValliere's jaw, but other than that and a wrenched shoulder, my limbs were all intact. I'd gotten some hard hits to the face and a minor concussion. It took ten stitches to sew up my cheek, but nothing was broken. Patel said that the scar would give me a little character.

He was a disturbingly cheery guy.

Below the neck, I had three broken ribs, one of which had punctured my lung. They'd inserted a chest tube, and the lung had reinflated. My ribcage was wrapped up like a mummy, and Dr. Patel predicted that I'd have to stay in the hospital for a couple more days. That, at least, was good news—the last thing in the world that I wanted to do was go home to my blushing bride.

After the doc left, I was still wide awake, so I checked all the social networks. Jane's Facebook page had a clip of Linda and LaValliere dancing. She hadn't named names, but Mrs. Weatherspoon, a widow who lived in our neighborhood, had tagged Linda and me. Fuck. I didn't bother to read the rest of the comments—I felt bad enough already.

Searching "Morrison's" and "blood" on YouTube, I found a couple of videos of me coughing on Dee. One of them, titled "Drunk guy puking blood!" even showed me getting clipped by the doorman. Someone had put up a little footage of me getting scraped off the sidewalk by the paramedics.

"Morrison's," "LaValliere," and "cuck" brought up videos of LaValliere and Linda dancing and a couple of me looking like a volcano waiting to erupt. One of them, posted by Moizoos, was titled "My boy is a BULL!" It showed the whole setup: LaValliere approaching the table, taking Linda, and leaving me with my jaw hanging open. Through it all, Moizoos kept up a running commentary as he cut from Linda and LaValliere to me.

LaValliere's hands on Linda's ass.

My unblinking glare. Fingers clutching a steak knife.

"What you gonna do with that knife, boy? Little man's getting some balls, maybe?"

Linda pressing herself to LaValliere

Fury.

"Is the little man gonna cry?" Laughter.

I watched it through to the end. Watched the play of expressions across my face—confusion, disbelief, anger, pain, rage.

I bookmarked everything, then played the video of me spitting on Dee a couple more times. It hurt to laugh, but it still made me feel a little better.

After that, I was pretty worn out. I curled up into the pillows.

*

Bailey walked in with two cups of coffee. "From the nurse's lounge," he said as he passed one to me.

"Bailey, you old son-of-a-bitch!" I laughed. "You've been here for five minutes and you've already charmed the staff!" I took a sip and almost spat it out. "Damn, you call this mud coffee?"

He chuckled. "It does the job, JC. Now tell me what happened."

After I filled him in, Bailey looked grim. "I've heard stories like this before," he said. "Believe it or not, you got off lucky."

"You and Dr. Patel should take your show on the road," I grunted. "I'm not feeling too lucky at the moment."

"There's a lot you don't know, JC. There've been some rumors on the street about LaValliere and his gang. It seems our illustrious tight end has hooked himself up with some pretty bad players. In the off season, he's been pimping himself and his teammates out to some sort of cuckold ring. They seduce married women, then blackmail their husbands. If they got to Linda, we figure they've already turned some other wives in your group. Hell, man, Morrison's is their hunting ground."

I thought about Dee. It was all coming together. "How has this not gotten out in the news? If I'd known—"

"Everyone's in on it, JC. The Editor of the Buffalo News, the Mayor, the Chief of Police, the referees, the NFL commissioner. They're all being blackmailed. They even killed a guy. Official reports say it was suicide, but shit, dude, who shoots himself in the back of the head, then harvests his own heart, kidneys, liver and lungs?"

"Black market organ harvesting!" I exclaimed. "How?!?"

"That's just the tip of the iceberg. Blackmail, extortion, human trafficking, suicide capsules, and at least one playoff game that was probably fixed."