Killing Me Softly Pt. 04

The ending; thanks for tagging along.

.............................

I gave the husband a business card with my cell phone number on the back and told him to call me to talk.

Lana and I went home to her townhome, and for the first time, I partook of her charms. She attacked me in the vestibule of her home as soon as the front door closed, and by the time we were in her bedroom, she and I were naked and engaged in several different types of oral and anal stimulation. Now, I had not exactly been a monk since my divorce and had a couple of other dates, mostly with young, willing ladies who were looking to advance their careers. It seems that older males of means were highly desirable.

Lana and I made it to the bed, and she pushed me down and proceeded to devour my cock. She sucked it to my pubes and bit lightly on it as she dragged her mouth all the way to the head. Her teeth left minor red marks on my frenum, and I almost lost it. Then she impaled herself and climaxed like you wouldn't believe. As soon as she finished, she started again. The sex was not about us; it was all about her. She was on a mission to erase her soul of guilt. She was an animal on top of me; I was simply a means to an end.

As she used me (quite nicely, I might add), she began to sob, crying her eyes out, and shrieking "I'M SORRY LAWRENCE!! I'M SO TERRIBLY SORRY!! PLEASE FORGIVE ME, MY LOVE!!"

I lay there in shock as she orgasmed all over my lower body.

Laurence was the name of her late husband.

She collapsed on me and continued to weep. Slowly, she returned to her usual demeanor and blushed. "I'm so sorry. I have never acted like that before. I'm so embarrassed. What must you think of me??"

I held her as she started to cry again.

"It's all right. You are just emotionally distraught and haven't dealt with the pain yet. I know almost exactly how you feel."

She curled up and kept sniveling.

"I have never reacted liked like that before. I have been with several men since my debacle, and it was just physical release. With you, I felt some connection. I connected with you in some way. I'm so sorry."

We talked for a while. The sex was good, if somewhat emotional. I didn't know what I felt towards this woman. We slept for a time, and then I got up and showered, dressed, pulled the covers up on her sleeping form, and kissed her. She stirred and looked at me.

"Will you be all right?" I asked.

She smiled and said, "I'll be better now. Please call me."

"I will. I promise."

I left and went home.

The months went by. Lana and I became closer. Things in my family progressed somewhat slower. Micheal and Tara got married. My son told me they had invited his mother, and she said she would be there.

"Deal with it, Dad."

I told him I would. I did not attend. Tara's parents were not aware of the situation. They were not pleased with me. My wonderful daughter-in-law filled them in on the problem. Tara's mom was shocked; Tara's dad was pissed. The seriously Italian family immediately shunned my ex-wife. Tara's grandmother went so far as to spit in Sophia's face. It culminated with one of her friends hitting on Sophia and causing a scene. She broke down and fled the reception. I sent Tara a nice note with a check. I sent her parents a conciliatory letter and explained that I could not be in the same room with my ex-wife, let alone the same state. I e-mailed my son to 'get bent.'

The wedding had been in Kenilworth, New Jersey.

One year later, my son and daughter-in-law gave birth to a bouncing baby boy. At Tara's insistence, he was named Michael Giovanni Barron, after his father and two grandfathers. She invited me to the christening. I was overjoyed. I left for Newark, N.J., and got a rental to the hotel. I showed up at St. Micheal the Archangel Catholic Church in Palisades Park, N.J., and met my namesake. I was over the moon.

Then I saw Sophia come in with someone on her arm. I almost lost it.

She approached; I turned to my son, and said "SHE'S HERE, ISN"T SHE??" Tara grabbed my arm and said, "Please, Dad, Just this once."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." I passed her an envelope, and turned on my heel, and left.

I got back to my hotel, checked out, went back to the airport, got the next flight to Chicago, and went home.

I almost had to change my phone number after that. Was I juvenile?? So what. It is what it is.

Time passed, and Micahel got a job in Chicago, working for the Justice Department. I called and congratulated him and Tara and asked after my grandson. They said he was fine and wanted to see his Grandpa. I grinned, and then I heard in the background HER voice.

"Who is it, dear?" I heard.

I hung up and turned off my phone.

I was sullen after that. I hardly talked to anyone except Lana, who had become a good friend, and bed partner.

It appears that my terror campaign against Darron Woodson was still bearing fruit. Mr. Woodson was trying to find out who was targeting him but to no avail. Even my son and daughter-in-law heard of it. It was still just minor instances, but it was growing in legend.

Time passed. About three months later, I got a call from Tara at work.

"Dad, next Saturday is little Michael's third birthday. We are having a party and would like you to be there."

"I would like, sweetheart, but you know how I feel. I am not good company, and I don't want to ruin it for... "

"Mother is not invited. I told my husband, YOUR SON, that she was not welcome here that day. I will cut him off if he invites her or asks her to be there."

I really love this girl. My son does not deserve her.

"I will be honored to attend." I got the time and date. I buzzed my secretary and told her to clear that day all day for me. I called F.A.O. Schwartz and had them procure a Tonka dump truck, in bright yellow, of course, wrap it, and send it to my office. I had one when I was a kid, and Micheal had one for Christmas one year. It was the type of toy you had to play with; no electronics or fancy b/s—metal, with hard rubber tires. It dumped and rolled, and you had to play with it. They couldn't keep them in stock. It seems it was very popular, especially with grandpas.

I showed up at 10:00 that Saturday morning; we had a lovely time-lunch, cake, coffee, and then opening presents. I stuck up a conversation with Tara's parents, and they said they saw why their daughter spoke so highly of me. And her dad thought that the dump truck was a great present.

"Reminds me of one I had when I was a kid. Good call, Mike." I liked him.

Litlle Mike drove the truck all over his backyard. It wore him out. His mother and grandmother put him down for a nap. Even my son was civil. He brought me a beer and said," Why don't you go have a seat in the back yard, old man, and relax."

I took him up on his suggestion and found an Adirondack chair out in the middle of the lawn. Life was good as I took a swig of Bud.

That's when a shadow crossed my face, and I looked up to see my ex-wife. She had a glass of what appeared to be white wine.

"Hello, Micheal. Mind if I join you?"

I glared at her and didn't say anything. She put her oversized shoulder bag on the ground. She sat and crossed her ankles, a pose she often took to get my motor running. Not this time. I glared at her, and she shivered.

"You're not going to make this easy, are you? Alright, Micheal told me you would be here and that his wife said on no terms was I to be invited here today. It won't be very good for him, but he thought it worthwhile to patch things up between us. Micheal, I think we deserve a second chance. I want to wake up with you in my arms, grow old with you. I know we belong together, and I have been very lonely the past several years. What do you think? Can we give it another chance??"

I studied my ex-wife. She had aged considerably over the last several years and had gained about twenty pounds. She had developed a nervous tick and was constantly shuddering. She still had never apolozied and she just blithely presented on with her suite. I studied her and wondered where the woman I had loved and married had gone. I sighed, drained my beer, and stood.

"Well," she said, "What do you think?"

"Not just no, but hell no, Sophia. I'll see you in hell because that's where I've been the past three and a half years, slut." A little harsh? Maybe, but suddenly, I felt good with myself. I turned and walked away.

I went up the lawn to the patio, onto the deck, and through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen. I ran into my son, who braced me with a sinister grin.

"Well, how that did that go, pop? Not so bad, was it?"

The sound of the pistol shot was deafening, and the screams and shrieks broke the silence from the guests streaming to the backyard. I grabbed my son's arm and stared at him. "I think your mother hurt herself. You better go check on her." He blanched and bolted to the backyard. I grabbed a bottle of water, went into the living room, and sat on the couch alone.

The police showed up and took statements. It's incredible how much damage a .40cal. handgun can do to a person's head. I answered their questions; did I believe my wife was suicidal? Did she give any indication of taking her own life? I told them I had not spoken to my ex-wife in more than three years. I talked to my daughter-in-law, and through her tears, told her I understood she had had no part in this. I left and went home. I had no sooner made it in the door when the phone rang. It was Lana. She had heard on the news what had happened. I told her I was handling it. She wanted to know if she should come over?

"No, I'll be o.k. But thanks for offering."

Monday, I was back in my office. I called our top crime photographer into my office. Stu Phillips was the best in Chicago and had several local and national awards for his work.

"Stu, I need a favor. I don't know if you're aware that my ex-wife committed suicide Saturday at my grandson's birthday party."

"Everbody has pretty much heard about it, boss. We are sorry for it, even though you were not close."

"Thank you. I appreciate it. How tight are you with the forensics guys? Do you think you could get a copy of the photos of her skull, her head? Ten by twelve color would be best."

He looked at me funny, and I could see wheels turning. "This is a personal favor for me. If you can't, I'll understand."

"No, I can do it. I have a few people I can talk to who owe me a favor. I don't think it will be too hard. Just weird, I guess."

"Thanks, Stu. Now I owe you."

"Give me a few days, boss."

A plan was forming in my mind- it should put the finishing touches on my revenge campaign.

The wake took place over three days at an upscale funeral home on the Westside. It was a closed casket, as there wasn't much they could do with her face. She had many friends and acquaintances. Several hundred people were in attendance.

I was not one of them. Rumor had it that I was conspicuous by my absence.

..............................

The day of her funeral dawned overcast, gray, and spitting rain. I was cold and damp. The funeral procession was four flower cars and three limos, in addition to the hearse. There were approximately sixty cars in the procession. Again, I was not among them. I was already at the cemetery, standing in the misty rain in a copse of trees about one hundred feet away.

I watched as the coffin was unloaded and brought to the gave side. The large crowd assembled, and the priest said some lovely things. It made me wonder who he was talking about. I was amazed that he had even shown, seeing as how she had taken her own life.

My son's head was on a swivel, looking all over for me, I guess.

The service finally ended, and people started to leave. Now there were just immediate family and close friends. That crowd slowly thinned till there were just my kids. Then they went to the limos, and the last was my son standing in the open back door of the Cadilac, looking around. He finally gave up and got in. The car slowly wound its way to the main drive and turned to the street. It vanished into the gathering mist.

I left the trees just as the groundskeepers were readying to close the grave. I approached her coffin and thought about pissing on it. But the anger and hate were gone. Somehow, I don't know how, it had all evaporated. I looked down on the love of my life, sniffed, and said goodbye.

"I forgive you. Even though you don't think you did anything wrong, I forgive you. I loved you. But not anymore."

..............................

I got to work the next day and found a large manilla envelope on my desk. I sat and stared at it. I knew what was in it, but I did not relish looking at it. Finally, I opened the envelope and removed the photo. It was not pretty, but it was Sophia.

The children's society benefit was in a week, the fourth anniversary of the start of this fucking mess. I called Lana and asked if she would like to go with me. She readily agreed, and I told her I would pick her up at about 8:00 p.m.

I called down to the society editor and asked her to come up to my office. Then I called our investigative reporter and our photographer. I asked them to come up also and waited to convene a council of war.

They assembled, and I outlined what I wanted.

"Next weekend, I want to run that expose piece on Darren Woodson." 'About time" were several comments.

"Only documented, factual, sworn to accounts, backed up by depositions and affidavits. NO SPECULATIONS!! We should have enough facts to crucify him. I want photographers there at the benefit to document everything. Then I want to interview the organizers to determine the gross receipts. Can we do this?"

"I don't think it will be a problem, boss. We'll have everything set to run at midnight Friday, leaving room for new photos."

"Thank you all," I said.

...............................

One week later, I escorted Lana Toolie to the children's gala. We arrived and checked our coats and mingled with some friends. There he was, circulating like a great white shark, looking for his next victim. He finally spied a cute brunette, long hair down to her waist, who had just sent her husband to the bar for refills. Her champagne flute was only about one-third full.

She was smiling as Woodson sidled up to her and smiled. Her husband had just reached the bar and was waiting for service. Woodson leaned in and whispered in her ear. She smiled and blushed slightly. He brushed her arm and then her shoulder. Then shivered and moved closer to him.

I noticed the one goon took up a position closer to the balcony doors, and the second one started to move towards the husband. He turned and suddenly caught the inappropriate attention towards his wife. He started towards them, and the asshole stepped up his seduction.

I turned towards Lana and told her, "TIME!" She stepped away from me, and moved slightly towards goon #2, and waited. Woodson whispered in her ear and took her arm, starting to move towards the balcony. She was grinning and seemed to be enjoying herself.

I made my move and interposed myself between them. "Excuse me, you don't know me, but this prick made the same suggestions to my wife almost four and a half years ago. She succumbed to his advances and left with him for the weekend. It destroyed our marriage and led" at this, I reached in and pulled out the photo of my wife's destroyed face "to this. This is my wife. She committed suicide last week." I put the picture into her hand, and she blanched, shuddered, and gasped, dropping the glass from her hand. It shattered, drawing gasps and shrieks from the surrounding crowd. "This is your chance not to make the same mistake she did."

I surreptitiously signaled to the photographers around and noticed that goon #2 had started moving towards me. The startled woman looked at the photo and then turned to shithead. "YOU PRICK," and her hand slapped his face, drawing her fingernails viciously across his cheek. About that time, his bodyguard was almost to us, and Lana interposed herself.

"Oh, excuse me," she said.

I turned to walk away, presenting my right shoulder to the asshole.

Woodson glared at me." IT'S YOU," he snarled and reached for my shoulder. "LET GO OF ME!!" I growled and spun not towards him but away to my left, using my momentum to turn around and drive my right fist straight into his nose. His nose collapsed, and his upper jaw cracked. His right cheekbone cracked, parts of his nose punctured his eye. He dropped like ten pounds of raw sewage. His goons didn't know what to do and just stood over him while cameras clicked and whirred all around them.

Lana took my arm as the brunette's husband reached her.

"Please, take me home NOW!" she sniffed.

We moved to the center of the dance floor as the crowd parted before us. I stopped and faced the crowd.

"I should be ashamed with what that person," I said, pointed at Woodson, "got away with. YOU sure all be ashamed of what he did just by contributing money to charity. The charity should be held accountable, along with Chicago and society in general, for his actions. Saturday, and Sunday there will be a newspaper article with the facts and the courageous statements of his victims. Read it, and take it to heart."

Lana was pulling at me before I lost it, and we made our way through the parting throng.

We went home, she iced my aching fist, and then screwed my brains out.

***

The fallout was swift and severe. While there is no law against his actions, public opinion was much more brutal. He became a pariah, and charities and organizations shunned him and his money—contributions to the children's gala dropped by sixty-five percent. The Cancer Fund and the A.M.A. returned his donation, the Diabetes Association returned his check, the American Heart Association removed him from their board, and the Archdiocese of Chicago censured him and returned his contribution. Even the NAACP told him, 'Don't call us, and we sure as hell won't be calling you.' It turns out he was a stockbroker, and the negative duplicity caught up with him. He lost his license and his job.

He tried suing me and sought to have me arrested, but it turns out the husband of the woman he tried to seduce was an ADA in Cook County and started his own investigation of his actions. The suit went nowhere.

He was found two weeks after he was fired in an alley down by the old stockyards, beat to a pulp, his penis severed and stuffed in his mouth, and his throat slit. Too bad.

Lana and I became an item; we are exclusive, but I don't know if marriage is in our future. My kids slowly resumed talking to me, and we started to made inroads with her children. It is challenging work and led to many emotional scenes. But we are making the best of a bad situation.

***

The BEAR