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He grunts and leads her out of the room, his hand on her elbow.
Patrick stands, legs awkwardly spread, trying to stop his pants from dropping to his knees, shirt half unbuttoned, eyes glazed. With a wipe of his hand, he smears the lipstick on his mouth. Marks of the punches I'd gifted him have almost fully faded.
A picture of a mess of a loser.
"You're a fucking piece of work," I hiss and then spit on the ground by my feet, trying to get the disgust out of my mouth.
"Get out of my house," he says. But there's not conviction. Every time it's been just him and me, he's always come out the loser. Maybe he should've thought of that before he not only hurt Clarissa but countless other women as well.
"I will. I wouldn't be caught dead in this dump," I say, looking around with a sneer. "Too bad we won't be able to say the same thing about you."
I place a hand on the top picture on the pile of pictures and fan them all out over the length of his table.
I start listing off names. "Lindsay McIntyre. Janet Seabra. Melanie Anson. Michelle Powers..."
With each name, he pales a little more.
I stop, lifting my foot up onto the coffee table between us so he can see my steel capped boots. "Would you like me to continue?" I don't even need to glance at the list, I'd made a point to remember every woman on that list.
The Adam's apple in his throat bobs. "How do you know those names?"
"You know something, Patrick?" I stand up, grabbing the gaudy paperweight on the table, and weighing it in my hand. "Do you know the difference between having a fifteen-million-dollar inheritance, which I'm sure you've pissed away on hookers and alcohol that you don't even know how to enjoy, and having fifteenbillion?"
He swallows and takes a step back, eyes locked on the paperweight.
I tap the paperweight on the table, showing him how solid it is. "Do you know what 'fuck you' money is?"
A head shake. "No."
"Well, it could mean all sorts of things, it could mean you can buy and sell people, it can mean you can put a price on someone's head and if you pay it, everyone will look the other way, and you can do whatever you want with that person."
I round him, stepping in so close I'm sure he can smell my cologne, and I can smell the days-old undershirt he's wearing. "You don't have 'fuck you money,' do you, Patrick? You have what you think is 'fuck you money.' There's a difference. Like the amount you paid all these women is laughable. You hurt them, and then you took advantage of them again. Do you know what that creates? People who hate you with a passion and want to see you dead." I stand behind him, nudging his foot with mine. "But that's what you do, isn't it? Prey on the weak, the needy. It's what you thought Clarissa was, didn't you? She was beautiful, came from a good family, a family you thought you were going to be able to associate with. She needed a green card, and you made sure she needed you for that."
The irony isn't lost on me. But I'll deal with my guilt later. For now, I'm focused on him. Sniveling. Little. Fucktard.
"Ihave fuck you money. Specifically"—I kick my foot out, swiping it under his shin and he goes toppling the floor, his head grazing the corner of the coffee table and screams out in pain—"I have fuck with Patrick Linzer money. And when I pay someone off, they stay quiet. Or even better, I pay them to talk about you."
I lean in, whispering against his ear. "And guess who I paid to talk, Patrick?"
"Ginnifer Pope, Brenda Notting. Wow, Brenda was actually happy to talk for free. But I couldn't have that. So, I paid her what you should have. Should I go on, Patrick?" I stomp on his legs, it gives way under my foot, not breaking, but he still screams.
He screams like a little bitch. "Please. No."
"No?" I grab his shoulder and shove him onto his back. "But I'm just getting started." I step on his arm so he can't move it and dangle the paperweight over his face. "You know what, Patrick? You're actually not that bad looking. Could use a spray tan, maybe, and a haircut. But I hate to think what will happen to your prospects of finding a wife if you have a giant scar on your face. Now I don't give a shit about a scar, but you can't really rely on your personality, can you?"
I pretend to drop the paperweight, catching it a few inches from his face, so close my knuckles brush against his nose.
"God! No!" he whimpers. "What do you want?"
"Me? Aw, I don't want anything. I have 'fuck you money,' remember?" I pull my keychain out of my pocket. "I'm just havin' a little fun with you. I mean, that's what you tell them, don't you? Just a little fun." I bend at the knee and drive the stem of a car key right into his shoulder socket. Until it breaks skin and his scream fades into a whimper. "Don't worry, I'm not going to break any bones or anything. Just seeing how much you can take until you break. Shouldn't take too much."
"Please," he pants, "what do you want?"
Oh, the thing I want, I can't have. I want him cremated alive. But I'm not the person he hurt. They're the one who should get to decide what happens to him.
So I play with him instead. "Well, I don't know. What do you have, Patrick?" I look around the room. "I mean, I was going to send a file with all of your transgressions to the media, but I'm willing to listen to see what you might want to trade me for it. We don't really have the same taste in art. I mean that Degas"—I point to a painting on the wall—"I own the original. So, what else have you got?"
I stand, one leg on either of his head, and he sweats, looking up at me. "I... I can drop my charges."
