Table for Two Ch. 01: First Blood

I would like to start by apologizing to those who have patiently waited for my next post. A lot has happened in the last two to three weeks. Thanks to those who reached out. I would also like to thank all those who have read and offered comments and constructive criticism on my previous stories.

And now, the disclaimers:

For those who want to say this or that would never happen, remember this is my universe, a place where nearly anything can, and often does, happen. At least on paper... In addition:

1. Characters in this story may participate in one or more of the following: Smoking, consumption of adult (meaning, alcoholic) beverages, utterance of profanities.
2. All sexual activity is between consenting adults 18 years of age or older.
3. Statements or views uttered by the fictional characters in this story do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the author.

Please refer to my profile for more on my personal policy regarding comments, feedback, follows, etc. (Yes, I DO moderate comments) And please remember, this is a work of fiction, not a docu-drama...

...

I looked at the stack of Excel worksheets that just populated my "inbox" on the company Sharepoint site and realized I would be working until at least 6:30 pm. It happens every month - managers would wait until almost the last minute before sending their reports, and it was left to me to collate the data. So much for getting home at a decent hour. So I called my wife, Samantha, to explain the situation and let her know I would be working late again.

"End of the month blues again, Mike?" my wife asked. That's me, by the way - Mike Jacobs. I could hear the snarkiness in Samantha's question.

"Yeah," I agreed. "Happens every damn month. Some of these people wait till the very last second to send this stuff, almost as if they expect something great to fall in their lap. Sorry. I should be done about 6:30, as usual."

"No problem. I figured it would happen," Samantha told me with a sigh. "Anyway, I reserved a table for two at Luigi's for 7:00 pm tonight. I thought you could use the break." Luigi's was a small but comfortable Italian restaurant we both enjoyed. It sat next to an equally small dance club, and we often enjoyed a drink and a few slow dances before returning home to finish the evening in bed. I smiled at the thought of a nice evening with my lovely wife.

"Yes, I could," I responded. "That was very thoughtful of you, sweetheart. So, sevenish, then?"

"Sevenish, it is," Samantha confirmed. "Ta ta for now," she added before ending the call. I thought it odd that she didn't finish the conversation with her usual loving endearment. Then I realized her boss, Wilson Langley, the senior partner of the Hempstead Law Group, was probably within earshot. I looked at the handset for a second before placing it back on the phone, then went to work.

I saved the spreadsheets, opened my master sheet, and started the macro that would do the lion's share of the work. It used to take hours to pore through all the data, but the macro that our IT guys put together did an excellent job of collating and sorting everything out. And it took only a fraction of the time to finish.

Freshening my coffee, I sat back and thought about the last few years and my life with Samantha as the macro chugged away. I wasn't always an office worker. In fact, until about seven years ago, I was a federal agent working for a somewhat special task force - a joint public/private venture.

I was one of the first agents assigned to the task force and reported directly to the man at the top of the food chain, a family law attorney named Bill Jackson. I worked with some of the best in the business. Frank Michaels, for one. Oscar Warren was another. Unfortunately, Frank was killed in the line of duty. Oscar married the boss' daughter and is working up the ladder.

The agency I worked for, officially dubbed the "HomeFront Security Task Force," was created for one primary purpose - to go after something called the "Mutual Marital Assurance Society," or MMAS. The organization was founded by a female lawyer whose husband cheated on her. She was later shafted by the court system, so she set out to exact revenge.

At first, MMAS targeted cheating husbands, punishing them in horrific ways. They proved to be an elusive bunch, and we spent most of our time in those days reacting to protect the husbands whose wives set them up for punishment. We called those "interventions," and we were usually successful.

Remember that when I speak of "punishment," it is usually quite brutal. More than one unsuspecting husband died from the harsh treatment doled out. Many more became scarred for life, both physically and emotionally. The hospital at Fort Apache, the base where the Task Force was headquartered, was full of men suffering from punishment meted out by MMAS operatives.

My time on the task force made me more than a bit jaded regarding relationships. After seeing what so many men had suffered at the hands of their spouses, I shied away from anything that resembled a "committed" relationship. So I went from intervention to intervention, doing my best for the men I was assigned to help.

My life changed drastically, thanks to a bullet that smashed my right femur a few inches above the knee during one of those "interventions." After months of surgeries and physical therapy, I was finally able to walk with the assistance of a cane. But my career as a federal agent was finished.

Being the kind of man he is, Bill told me to my face that my time with the task force was over, and there were no available slots that I could fill. I got a medal, the thanks of a "grateful nation," and a monthly disability check.

Bill thought that wasn't enough, so he spoke to his contacts and got me a job as an Assistant Operations Director with Iverson Security Services, or ISS. ISS is a nationwide company that provides uniformed on-site security, private investigative services, and armed security for well-heeled VIPs with more dollars than sense. One of the company's clients just happens to be the task force I once served.

Better yet, the headquarters where I would work just happened to be in my hometown, where I own a two-story house bequeathed to me by my grandparents. Relieved that I wouldn't have to move or sell the place, I happily accepted after a short interview with Jack Iverson, the president and founder of the company.

My job was simple compared to what I used to do. Basically, I pushed paper from one pile to another. I made face-to-face visits with clients to iron out any issues or do whatever it was that Greg Hamilton, the COO at the time, needed to be done. That's when I first met Samantha Greene.

At the time, she was an office assistant with Hempstead. She was tasked with finding someone to provide security for the firm's downtown headquarters building. When negotiations between our marketing people and Langley started to bog down, Greg sent me in to wrap things up. It was my job to either get the contract signed or end the non-stop back-and-forth.

Wilson Langley seemed impressed that ISS would send someone with my credentials to clarify things. I knew the game he was playing - he wanted more services for less money, like any savvy businessman. To that end, he spent weeks stringing our marketing people along, making minor changes to each offered contract.

I explained our standard operating procedures and informed him that we were happy to adjust to his firm's needs. Still, our initial contract was the same one we employed for all our customers. In the event that he had special needs or requirements, he could always contact my department to make the necessary adjustments, providing they were legal and reasonable.

"In other words, fish or cut bait, is that right, Mr. Jacobs?" he asked, laughing. I shrugged my shoulders before responding.

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it, Mr. Langley," I responded.

"I appreciate your candor. Very well. You have my business," the older man stated, extending a hand. "Have your people send me the best contract you can put together and I'll sign it."

"Thank you, Mr. Langley," I told him as we shook hands. We put the contract together, and true to his word, Wilson Langley signed. Afterward, he promoted Samantha and made her his executive assistant.

I was more than a little surprised when Samantha called me later that week to inform me of her promotion. I asked her out for dinner to celebrate, and she accepted, beginning our relationship. I wasn't expecting anything to come of it, and I was surprised to learn that she wasn't put off by my disability.

A year later, Greg retired, and old man Iverson promoted me into the COO slot. I knew that Greg had been grooming me for the job but was surprised to see the transition happen so fast. It didn't take long for me to adapt to my new position, and I knew the extra money would come in handy.

That's when I decided to open a new bank account for my disability since I no longer needed to rely on it for monthly expenses. My plan was to save it for my eventual retirement. For some reason, I never mentioned that account to Sam. We celebrated my promotion with dinner at Luigi's Friday, where I proposed marriage.

After Samantha accepted my proposal, she took me to meet her parents. I already knew her father was Jacob Greene, one of the wealthiest men in the state, but I had never met the man in person. He turned out to also be one of the most condescending assholes I had ever met.

He glared at the walking stick in my left hand with a frown before extending his hand. I almost felt the disdain emanating from his body as we shook hands.

"So, Sam tells me you were a federal agent, shot in the line of duty," he snarled after lighting a large cigar.

"That's correct," I confirmed in a neutral tone.

"Who did you work for?"

"The HomeFront Security Task Force," I answered. I saw one eyebrow go up.

"Never heard of 'em," Jacob growled. "What did you do for them? Scrub the shitters?" His sneering arrogance was really pissing me off, but I knew that's what he was hoping for. Sam had warned me that he could be crass and salty, so I decided to cram it back down his throat without letting him know he had gotten to me.

"I'm not allowed to talk about everything I did, but I can tell you this. I killed motherfuckers," I answered calmly. His eyebrows instantly went up as his eyes widened. I smiled, then continued. "At least the ones I didn't toss into jail." He recovered before continuing.

"Looks like you missed one, though, didn't you?" he queried while pointing at my right leg. I chuckled.

"He got me in the leg alright. But he didn't survive the encounter. Blew his head clean off. They never did find his entire skull," I responded with a smile. "You see, I hate to lose an argument." The old man looked startled for a moment, then his face softened and morphed into a wide grin. Then he laughed out loud.

"You had me going there, Mike," he laughed. "Kinda reminded me of myself at your age. Welcome to the family, son," he added as he extended his hand. "You know, I'm still gonna insist that you sign a pre-nup if you wanna marry my daughter. No offense, but I want to make sure you're not just sniffing after her trust fund."

"No offense taken, Mr. Greene," I told him as we shook hands. "And I have no problem with a pre-nup, so long as it's reasonable. And equitable."

"Good," he said. "But no more of this 'Mr. Greene' crap, you hear me? You marry my little girl, you call me 'Pop' if you want."

"Alright... Pop." He laughed and called Sam into the parlor.

"Is everything alright?" Samantha asked when she came into the room.

"I think so," her father answered. "You picked a good man here. Someone with a backbone and a set of balls to match. A lot better than that last piece of crap you married." Sam had already told me about her first husband, a man she met in college. She didn't tell me the whole story but admitted they were divorced.

"I certainly think so," Sam said as she walked to her father. "So, are you two okay, then?"

"Yeah, we're just fine, aren't we, Mike?"

"Absolutely... Pop." The old man smiled as he looked up at his daughter.

"See? Now, why don't you go help your mother with dinner. We'll be right along."

"Okay, Dad," she responded, giving him a kiss on the cheek. After she left the room, he looked at me.

"Tell me something, Mike. Seriously. Did you really mean what you said about... killing people?"

"Of course," I told him, causing the blood to drain from his face. "But they were all bad guys and really deserved it."

"Maybe you can tell me about it one of these days," Jacob said.

"I'd love to, Pop, but it's all classified, and I signed a non-disclosure agreement." He regarded me for a bit before slowly nodding his head.

"I can respect that, son," he finally said. The rest of our visit went quite well after that. When Sam and I left, her parents and I had warmed up to each other. I guess the old guy needed to know he could respect his future son-in-law.

The wedding, which was held in a large old church, was well-attended. We flew to Hawaii for our honeymoon on Jacob's dime, and Sam moved into my house when we returned, selling her condo. Life went well for us, at least until a few months ago.

My computer dinged, bringing me back to reality. I saw a dialog box telling me the macro had completed its job. I looked over the final product, spot-checked the numbers to ensure it was accurate, then saved and printed the package after completing my executive summary.

I put the report in a binder, closed everything down, and placed it on Jack's desk so he would see it first thing in the morning. If it had been anyone else, I would've just emailed it, but my boss is what one could call old-school and preferred an actual printout he could hold in his hands, and I can't blame him for that.

After washing up and combing my hair, I donned my suit jacket, grabbed my walking cane, and looked around before turning off the lights. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was 6:32 pm and knew I had plenty of time to buy some flowers for Sam on the way to Luigi's.

I got in my car and turned on the sound system, letting the strains of "Thick as a Brick" wash over me. Okay, so I like classic Jethro Tull - sue me. Or sue my father, if you insist. He's the one who got me hooked on Tull as a kid.

In fact, he took me to the first concert I ever attended. Naturally, it was a Tull concert. We had a great time, and I still remember all the other kids saying it was so cool that I had a father who liked rock music, and I didn't argue the point since they were right. Even now, Dad and I frequently enjoy a cigar while listening to some old Tull songs.

I got to the restaurant and saw it was 6:55 pm, so I texted Sam to tell her I was there. She had said "sevenish," which, in Samantha-speak, meant anywhere between 6:55 and 7:15, and I didn't see her car in the parking lot.

"K," was all the response I got. No emojis, no terms of endearment. Ordinarily, this wouldn't bother me, but it did tonight. For the last several weeks, Samantha had been somewhat cold and moody. I asked her repeatedly what was bothering her, but she would just dismiss me with a wave of her hand and an offhand comment. I hoped the flowers I bought would put her in a better frame of mind.

Sighing, I got out of the car, flowers in hand, and went into the restaurant. The woman at the door smiled when I entered, and her smile widened when she saw the flowers in my hand.

"Jacobs, party of two," I announced.

"Right this way, sir," the young woman replied as she grabbed two menus. I followed her to a table by the back wall and sat so I could see the restaurant's interior, partly out of habit. She handed me a menu and poured a glass of water before leaving.

I sipped my water as I read over the menu. I already knew what I wanted and was simply killing time as I waited for my wife to show up. The next twenty minutes seemed to go by agonizingly slow. I saw it was 7:20 and looked up to see if Sam had shown up, but she hadn't.

Then I saw him walk in my direction. I could tell from his dress and manner that he was a process server - I had seen many of his type over the years. I also noticed the manila envelope in his hand, which was a dead giveaway. I hoped he would bypass me but knew in my gut he wouldn't.

"Michael Jacobs?" the man asked when he reached my table.

"Yes," I replied.

"May I please see some identification?"

"Of course," I told him as I pulled out my wallet and showed him my driver's license. He handed me the envelope and took a picture with his phone.

"You've been served, sir," he intoned. "Have a good evening." With that, he turned and walked away. I watched him leave and opened the envelope; I already knew what was in it, and wasn't surprised when I saw the paperwork marked "Petition for Dissolution of Marriage."

I hadn't done anything to warrant this, but it fit the attitude Samantha had been displaying over the last few weeks. She was divorcing me, claiming adultery, which was a flat-out lie. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I sent Sam a text: "WTF?" Then I heard a woman's voice as I read Samantha's petition.

"Mr. Jacobs?" I saw a reasonably petite blonde in a business suit standing at the table. Turning on the phone's video record app, I placed it back in my pocket so the camera lens would capture the conversation, which I suspected would not be very comfortable.

"That depends," I responded. "Whom might you be?" The woman held out a hand.

"Allison Cartwright, Hempstead Law Group." I started reaching for her hand but stopped after her following statement. "I'm representing your wife." I put my hand back down, embarrassed, and looked at the paperwork in front of me. "May I sit down, please?"

"It's a free country. Help yourself." She pulled out a chair and sat, facing me. A waitress came by, apparently thinking the woman across from me was part of my "party of two."

"Are you two ready to order?" the waitress, whose name tag read, "Cindy," asked, holding a pen and a pad.

"No, I won't be staying much longer," I told Cindy. Allison turned away, and Cindy simply nodded her head, not expecting my response.

"Very well, sir," Cindy said. "Let me know if you change your mind." I waited until she was gone before looking at Allison.

"My client requested I collect the papers after you sign them," Allison said, continuing her statement.

"So, your client - my soon-to-be ex-wife - requested you collect the papers I just received, expecting me to sign them without reading them or consulting an attorney of my own. Have I got that right?"

"Yes... Something like that," Allison answered quietly.

"Well, you can tell your client she can kiss my ass," I hissed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be going home. You'll hear from my attorney soon."

"Mr. Jacobs, that won't be possible," Allison said. "First off, my client has taken out a restraining order against you and you aren't allowed to come within 500 feet of the marital home."

"Really? And I suppose she wants the house as well?"

"Yes, actually, she does. And I feel she's entitled to it."

"Did your client tell you that house is in my name only? And has been ever since it was bequeathed to me by my grandparents? Long before we were married. Which means it's not community property."

"Uh, no, she didn't," Allison said.

"But you feel she's entitled to it anyway?"

"After what you've done, yes," Allison said, pulling an envelope out of her purse. She tossed it on the table, and I looked inside to see a stack of photos. I wasn't surprised to note they were pictures of two people having sex. I already knew I wasn't one of the people in the images, and I suspected she also knew. Allison wasn't finished, however.