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It was our first anniversary when he finally told me the story.
About the dog.
About how the look in her eye was the same look he saw in mine when he first met me.
The one that said she had had enough.
The one that said she was going to rip out someone's throat as soon as she was given the chance.
It was eerie, I decided as I sat there in silence following his tale.
Eerie because of what had eventually happened.
Maybe I hadn't bit his throat out with my teeth, but I had shot him there with his own gun.
I hadn't seen it at the time.
How a person could go rabid like a dog.
How it could become a part of you, something you would always be, something that could be triggered in unexpected ways.
But I was a person, not a dog.
No one put me down and chopped off my head to peek inside.
So no one could have known.
That there was something different about me after that night.
It didn't even occur to me for a long time. Those days and nights were full of unyielding hard work, tired feet, sore backs, and worry.
Because as soon as Charlie finally rose from that bed, he set to work.
He had meetings with local crime families to let them know he was in town, that he was no threat to them so long as they stayed away from me.
Then he found down-on-their-luck people, offered them loans with interest.
Everything went fine for a few months.
Everyone paid back their loans, everyone in the world seemingly aware of what happened to those who missed a payment to a loanshark.
But no good thing can last forever.
And one night, someone missed a meeting.
Was impossible to find.
It was the first time in months that I had seen him as something other than the man I had come to share a life with, elbow out of my way when I was trying to brush my teeth in the morning, laugh with at movies, get sweaty with at night.
He was no longer just Charlie, the man I loved.
He was Charlie, a loanshark. A boss of his own slowly-building empire.
And he was out for blood.
Literally.
Fear was a tied knot in my belly as I worked through my bar shift, having given up my diner job a month or so before, having finally been promoted to bartender, and making more than enough money in tips to cover our living expenses.
I had expected to see his car when I got back to the motel.
To feel that rush of relief that said everything was okay. He was okay.
There was no denying the fact that the knot tightened further at seeing his empty spot.
It was almost four in the morning.
I never got home to find him missing. Not at that hour. Usually, he was waiting for me with a cup of coffee, and an always much-needed foot rub. That always led to something else which meant we often didn't get to sleep until the sun was starting to come up.
I took a breath, reminding myself that this was the life I had proposed, that I needed to harden up, that I couldn't worry myself to ulcers when my man didn't come home when I expected him to.
This was the life we chose.
With all the ups and downs that came with it. And when it came to downs, a man who was a little late wasn't too bad overall.
Especially when it was once.
In over a year.
"Heya, Helen," Bobby, a man who was living at the motel like we were - though in his case due to a vicious divorce brought on by his gambling addiction - called from where he was perched atop the railing for the ramp that led up to the main office building, a cigarette hanging between his lips. "Know when Charlie is gonna be home?"
Probably because he had spent the day in AC and the tables were cold for him, and he wanted more to go back down to see if he could get some hot hands.
"He'll be late. But I will let him know you were looking for him," I told him, yanking my purse back on my shoulder after fishing out the door key.
I slid the chain when I got inside, deciding that if I couldn't have a foot rub and some pain-relieving sex, then a hot shower would have to do.
See, the funny thing is, sometimes you don't get a vibe.
Sometimes there is no gut instinct.
Sometimes people don't put you on edge.
But that didn't mean they were good.
It didn't mean they weren't dangerous.
It just meant you could never let your guard down.
But I had.
Dozens of times over the months since I had met him.
And I had put too much stock in a chain on the door.
The first thought as I felt a hand rip the knot from my towel and yank it away from my naked body, skin still pink from the overly hot water, was one of blaming myself.
