Page 60 of Petty's Crime

Do I smell of RoseLyn?I’ve been in close proximity to her so I suppose it’s quite likely some of her perfume might have rubbed off on me. Strangely, I wasn’t really aware she was wearing any. She smelled good. That’s all I can remember.

I’m not quite sure how to address the accusation. “You know I’m guarding a woman, Brit. I’ve just sat beside her on the plane for the last three hours.”

Her eyes widen. I’d told her I’d be out on club business, not that I was going away. My statement has just added fuel to the fire.

“I know what you said.” If sparks flew out of her eyes, I wouldn’t be surprised. “I also know that you’re a man with a dick and probably not fussy what hole you put it into.”

“RoseLyn’s my job,” I stress, my tone higher than normal. “Other than that, she means nothing to me.”

“Your job?” She snorts. “I’ll bet she’s a fucking piece of work. No wonder you don’t want to share my bed when you’ve been sharing hers. She’s trying to take you away from me.”

If she was, then it wouldn’t be too hard for her. RoseLyn and Britney are so far apart in personality it’s unreal. If I had a choice over the other, I know who I’d choose.

“It’s not like that—”

I should have been prepared, should have been on the lookout for it and braced my muscles, but when Brit suddenly lets her fist fly into my stomach, she catches me unawares and I bend over, gasping for breath. When her knee comes up and catches me straight in the balls, I grab my crotch and fall to my knees, my eyes watering.

“Brit…” I gasp in a voice several octaves higher than normal.

“You cheating bastard.” She’s gone around my back and now her foot’s collided hard with my kidney, still bruised from where she hit it last time. For a small person, she packs one hell of a punch. One kick isn’t sufficient for her. She’s kicking out again and again, as I roll away, trying to get out of range. But she follows me and I feel a rib cracking as she connects with it.

I’m gasping and trying to suck in air.She’s out of control. Suddenly I’ve no doubt that she’ll kill me unless I stop her. I stumble to my feet, lurching forward as I breathe through the pain and turn to face her. She’s got an iron skillet in her hand and it’s raised to strike me. Even in the state I am, I can appreciate the cliché.

I reach for it and try to pull it out of her hand. We grapple for possession, her unwilling to let it go, and me determined she’s not going to hit me with it. With my extra hard tug, she finally releases it, but the momentum has her falling face down, hitting her head on the side of the countertop.

For a moment, she lies prone, and I’m worried she’s taken a blow that’s killed her. But before the thoughtoh God what do I do nowcan be completed, she raises her head and touches her face with her hand. Her nose looks broken and there’s blood pouring from it.

I did that.Okay, so I didn’t mean it, and I didn’t lay a finger on her, but I’m the reason she’s injured. I go cold.I didn’t hit her, Daddy. I didn’t.My head falls into my hands.I didn’t. Did I?

For a moment, I’m a four-year-old kid all over again. Then I shake my head to clear it. She’s not my newborn sister who I need to protect. She’s the woman who I tried to stop from killing me, and whatever I did was in self-defence. Not even my daddy would judge me.

I didn’t fight back. I stopped her.

We’re both standing like combatants, our chests heaving, eyes caught in each other’s. Realising I’m still holding the skillet, I place it down on the counter. As my head clears and the present and past settle in their proper boxes, I know I have to make some sort of recompense for her being hurt. But the words that I’m sorry get stuck in my throat as I can’t be anything other than pleased my action brought her assault to an end. My gut roils, though, at the thought of how she might pay me back. As my adrenaline fades, my current injuries start making themselves known to me, but I put that aside for now, as I wait for what happens next.

I wait for the ire. I wait for her to spit words at me. I wait for the tears, for her to accuse me of hurting her. I wait for the howl of pain and the remonstrations.

What I’m not expecting is the maniacal laughter that begins to spill from her mouth. She’s like a madman, with spittle covering her lips as the laughter keeps roaring out.

“You… you’ve done it now!” she screams eventually, but in utter and total glee.

Then she launches for the skillet and while I have a split second to realise she’s about to hit me, it’s not enough time to take evasive action.

CHAPTERNINETEEN

Petty

Idon’t know how long I’ve been out, but I come to with every part of me hurting. My balls throb, a sharp stabbing pain gets me when I take a deep breath, and my head is a ball of agony with an egg-shaped lump on it. Cautiously I open my eyes, but Britney is nowhere in sight. Listening carefully, I can hear nothing that would suggest she’s still in the apartment.

Groaning, I roll over and get to my feet. My head spins with the strength of the blow that had taken me out and I have to steady myself with a hand on the countertop as I feel so dizzy. From the soreness over my body, I suspect she’d continued kicking me while I was out.

Staggering into the bathroom, I get out some painkillers from the cabinet and throw them into my mouth. As I chase them down with water, I realise this has to stop. She’s gone too fucking far this time. Bowing my head, I realise I can’t go through this all again.If only she’d signed those fucking divorce papers.

The question I should have paid more attention to before comes into my head. Why didn’t she? She’s not in love with me anymore, or even pretending to be. My evidence? Unlike in the past, she’s not hung around to show remorse and offer empty promises that it will never happen again.

Though maybe it’s different now. Before she’s had no reason to accuse me of infidelity. Not that she’s any cause to now. I didn’t do anything with RoseLyn, other than that kiss which I immediately regretted.And which had made me want to go back for more.

The agony I’m in helps me get clarity in my head. Even though I suspect Britney’s come back because me being her husband is of use to her—maybe that’s why she didn’t sign the papers I’d sent, even then she was planning to use me again—I can’t let this go on.

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