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I think I may be sick, but I perform a gut check and force myself to pull it together. Sex with Glenn is rarely eventful and is frankly downright boring. I’ve been faking it for years, and as I stand there and allow him to paw at me, I tell myself I can get through a few more days. What’s a little unwanted sex when the future loomed bright?
Just like Glenn, he’s all about getting satisfaction and doesn’t even consider using a little finesse. Applying pressure to my hips, he tells me without words to bend over. I do, bracing myself against the countertop, while he unzips his work pants and takes out his cock. There’s a little nudge, and he’s in. While he thrusts away behind me, I watch him through slitted eyes, moaning and breathing heavily as if I’m in the moment, but I’m thinking of later when I scrub his sour scent from my body and briefly consider spiking his water glass beside the bed with a bit of rat poison. But that would be premature, considering I already have a man on the job.
Ah, Cal. The reminder brings me back to my earlier fantasy, and I close my eyes tight, imagining it’s him behind me, his cock moving inside me, and suddenly the moans become genuine. Uncontrolled pleasure ripples through my limbs and down to my core, throbbing with the beat of release, and I just let it all go.
When I finally come back down to earth, Glenn is panting as if he’s run a triathlon, and I’m feeling rubbery and weak.
I’ve never come so hard in my life. Of course, Glenn has to go and ruin it by opening his mouth.
“Wow, what’s gotten into you tonight?” He runs a palm over his sweaty, glistening head and steps out of the pants that fell around his ankles during our passionate lovemaking. His shirt soon joins it, leaving him in a pair of blue-and-white plaid boxers and gray-stained socks.
How long have I not been attracted to him? I can’t even recall the exact moment it happened. I guess it just comes down to the fact that I’ve never been that into him, to begin with. Maybe, I muse, he was just a product of necessity, and his purpose in my life has expired.
While Glenn hops into the shower, I decide to go to bed. If I get the day over with early, then I get to tomorrow quicker. Maybe tomorrow will be the day. I can’t hardly wait!
Seven
~Declan~
I’ve been on boring jobs, but this is ridiculous. If this Glenn guy is going to cheat on his wife, I say get the show on the road. But he’s been laying low since I first scoped him out, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe the wife, Brenda, didn’t say something.
She had seemed so sure. Could she have changed her mind and tipped him off? Doesn’t matter. Even if she did, it’s like I told her. This was a done deal the moment I drove off. Glenn Overmeyer is going to die. I just have to figure out how and when the right time will be.
Yesterday’s unfinished, cold veggie pizza sits on the passenger seat, my only companion in this stakeout. I still can’t believe that Tony and everyone threw me a party. I’m disturbed by the fact they knew when my birthday even was. But I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. They are the mafia. It’s their job to know everything about everyone. Just like it’s my job to do the same.
Glenn finally emerges from the grocery store at three in the afternoon. I assume it’s his lunch hour because he’s only been in there for less than four hours when his normal shift should be eight.
He climbs into his beater and drives off the property, with me in slow, methodic pursuit. I follow him to a nearby McDonald’s where he’s handed two big bags of food that seem excessive for one person. Although he’s not the picture of good health, I’m suspicious.
Those suspicions prove warranted when he takes a route that leads to a house that doesn’t belong to him. The neighborhood is set back from the main street on a stylish roundabout. The houses are a departure from the area, and as I park on the corner just outside of the mini cul-de-sac, I feel as if I’m straddling a line between the early-1900s and the 1950s. There are a total of six ranch houses, all a varying shade of yellow-orange brick, their colored shutters the only thing that sets them apart from one another.
Glenn pulls into the driveway with one bearing aged white shutters on either side of a bay window that I assume fronts the living room. He doesn’t even have to knock, the front door swinging open as he’s ascending the walkway.
From my position, I can’t quite make out the figure in the doorway, but I can tell it’s a woman, her blonde hair standing out in stark contrast against the deep shadows of the recessed entry. Thin arms wrap around Glenn’s back in a quick, tight hug, and then he’s inside and the door is closed, and I’m left waiting, watching the clock, and determining the method of death I will employ.
It’s always best to make it look like an accident wherever possible. It keeps the questions to a minimum. In some cases, it appears like a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Except I call bullshit on that. When it comes to death, it’s always the right place at the right time. The only reason people think it’s wrong is because they weren’t ready for it to strike.
I say too damn bad. That’s life, and there isn’t anything in life that’s supposed to be fair or easy.
More than an hour passes before Glenn reappears. He pauses briefly to turn back and give the woman a hug and kiss, and then he’s strolling back to his car with a look of pure happiness riding his pudgy face.
With a woman like Brenda at home, why does this guy feel compelled to cheat? It’s disgusting. Breaking trust and marriage vows ignite my fury like nothing else can. It’s the main reason I don’t like Tony and the rest of the Costello men. Cheating is like sneezing to them. But while I don’t like them, I respect them. It’s a matter of survival.
I don’t respect Glenn. Not one bit.
As I follow him back to his place of work, I decide it will be my civic duty to take him out. A real pleasure. The gears in my mind start turning.
Maybe I’ll run him down on the sidewalk. A hit-and-run with no witnesses. But that seems too good for old Glenn, and there’s no guarantee he’ll die.
A bullet between the eyes as he’s getting into his car. A missing wallet. Voila! Mugging victim. It’s quicker than I’d like, so I tuck away that option in my back pocket.
It’d be easier if the guy worked construction or something more exciting than stocking shelves. I’ve designed so many deaths by tragic falls from scaffolding, getting crushed by a steel beam that inexplicably became detached from a crane, or my favorite freak accident of an executive who tripped and fell on his fancy Montblanc, straight through the heart.
I take pride in my work. It’s an art form. So what will be the perfect death for our Mr. Overmeyer?
I spend the next two hours considering this, eating another greasy burger and fries that fills me with regret, and then I follow Glenn home, where he stays long enough to eat dinner and then, to my surprise, go for a jog around the neighborhood.
I guess his little excursion this afternoon was enough for one day. When it becomes clear he’s staying in for the night, I head home myself.
