Page 9 of Exit Strategy

“Army?” she asked.

“Royal Marines.” I nodded.

“Can I buy you a cup of tea?” She gave me a smile.

“Last time I checked, it was the lad’s duty to buy the pretty girl a drink at the bar.”

“Oh? You think I’m pretty and you want to buy me a drink?” She smiled. She had walked me back into a corner and knew it.

“I’ll buy you a drink if you come off the hard pitch,” I said. “I’m not looking for anything other than some noise, and a few cold beers.” As if sensing my conversation, the band took that moment to launch into a thrash session that was as loud as it was poorly executed. I looked over to see what they were doing to make such an awful racket. It seemed that the problem was that the lead singer and the guitarist were trying to match their head flails while facing each other, and the guitar player was either drunk or one of his hands had gone numb, possibly from doing whatever the hot drug was for shitty bands.

“There’s plenty of both here, Big Ben.” She laughed, a little forced, her eyes a little tight.

“What’s the angle, boyfriend piss you off?” I asked.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she replied, and I gestured for the bartender to bring us two more. “I’m not on the rebound, but I think I might have misread you.”

“If that is an apology, I’ll take it,” I said.

“Look, you are a prime slice of beef and I want to take you home. Maybe you can make me need a handicap tag for my car for a few days.” She raised her eyebrows a few times, licking her lips and then biting on one for a moment.

“You know what? Sure. Why the fuck not?” I said.

Fifteen minutes later, we were in her apartment. It wasn’t too bad, I had seen worse. She wanted to talk, wanted to make out, then talk more. Her big talk wasn’t so big when we were alone, and not in the bar. She was asking about friends, family, what part of England I was from. I answered a few questions, but my mind was somewhere else.

Chunky sunglasses.

Thick foundation.

Always wearing a scarf, or shawl that covered her neck, shoulders. Almost like a chic hijab.

Calanthe was still firmly pressed in the back of my mind.

“I was under the impression you wanted something very specific,” I said. “I’ll not put you on, that’s the only reason I’m here. You’re pretty, and you cut straight to the point. So, are we going to do that, or do you want to chitchat yourself to a solo night with your good vibes?” She seemed taken aback, and that was fine. If she didn’t want to get down to business, I could leave as easily as I came.

“I’m not used to it really going like this,” she said.

“Are you ready to go?” I asked.

“Go?” she asked.

“Go, shag, fuck. Are you ready to do that or do you need a minute?” I asked. I felt pieces sliding into place. Those ugly fucking sunglasses might as well have been the international symbol for domestic abuse.

Thick makeup, Arik’s entire attitude… was he really a wife beater? More than just cheating on Callie, was he physically abusing her?

“I think I need a minute,” she stammered.

“Go on, get yourself ready, I’m going to have a smoke,” I said and put my hand on the doorknob.

“You don’t have to go,” she said softly.

“It’s rude to smoke inside someone’s apartment,” I said. She nodded, and I stepped outside the door, pulled a smoke from the pack, and lit it. It was a sweet kiss of relief. Standing in the cool air, smelling the distantly foul stink of the city, I found that my mood was gone. Instead of getting Cardinal out of my mind, I had half a buzz and had focused on her. Everything she did was to cover bruises.

The last thing I really wanted was this. Oh, sure, the woman inside was pretty enough, and there was no doubt she had some baggage going on. Was a good dicking going to do anything to make that better or worse? I also had the visual image of Callie in my mind, what Arik had likely done to her. I knew he was a right bastard, and that he liked doing some kinky shit, but this wasn’t Hollywood perversion.

Her blurry makeup, snapping those big sunglasses in place, the remarkable smile she’d plastered on in a blink… It made me angry, and anger made me focus.

Almost as angry as I had been when she handed the book back to me, saying it was because he wouldn’t approve. What did it matter what she read? She was a grown woman. Might not look like it, sure she would have gotten carded to go into an R-rated movie, but that didn’t change anything.

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