Page 88 of The Souls We Claim
Ihear him shout Arianne’s name, and I’ve got to admit, it grinds my fucking gears.
“Say her name again, and I’m gonna rip your fucking tongue out.”
Patrick holds up his hands. “I got no beef with you, man,” he says. “This is between me and my wife.”
I take my time walking over to him, Arianne’s words of caution ringing in my ears. After all, the fucker’s still holding a gun. “You pull that trigger, even in warning, and you aren’t walking out of here. Ever.”
“Then just give me my wife.” His hands shake, the gun with it. I like that he’s on the verge of shitting his pants.
I think about the number of times Arianne must have felt the same. About the way she jumped that first night at my house when she thought I’d be mad that there were friends over, and she was eating food, and the table wasn’t cleared up.
I think about the way the glass shattered at her feet and hurt her all over again. He was hurting her still, even though they were apart.
“Here’s the thing, she isn’t going with you. So, what we have here is a stand-off, only there’s a fucking lot of us and only one of you. And I’m assuming, since you are a gutless, wife-beating wonder, that you haven’t had the balls to tell anyone Arianne has been missing, let alone that you were coming here today to get her back. I’m gonna need you to make a call, Patrick. If you want to leave here alive, you need to put that fucking gun down in three seconds. One…”
There’s indecision in his eyes. The urge to play the big man and the reality that he’s outnumbered. He’s fighting it. He slowly makes his way around the car door, away from where Bates, Catalina, and Niro are walking slowly toward him.
“You got six bullets max in that thing, so make a good choice, Patrick. Two…”
I see the red dot of a sniper rifle on the side of Patrick’s temple, which means Saint or Spark is in position somewhere to my left.
“Okay,” Patrick shouts, dropping the weapon onto the seat. “Okay.”
As soon as the weapon hits the fabric, I smash my fist into the side of his face. “You ever point a weapon in my direction again, I’ll kill you, you fucking cunt.”
“Sh-she’s m-mine.” His words are stuttered.
I place my fingers to his nose, and he presses back hard against the car. I follow and lean close. There are some things that not everyone is meant to hear. “Smell that? I had my fingers knuckle deep in her pussy about an hour ago. Didn’t wash my hands because I love the smell of her on my fingers; it’s a reminder of how hard she came. Heard you had a problem doing that for her.”
He tries to move his head from left to right to get away from the scent of Arianne, but I don’t let him.
“Open your mouth.” I don’t look at Arianne. Not yet. Even if she knows what I’m doing.
“What?” he asks.
“Stop playing the fool. I said, ‘open your mouth.’”
He does as I ask, and I withdraw my gun from its holster, placing the barrel between his teeth. When I know the solid barrel of my Glock is going to stop him from closing his jaw, I humiliate him by wiping the front and back of my fingers on his tongue.
When I’m done, I remove my gun and force his jaw closed. “That’s the last time you’re gonna taste her. So, fucking enjoy it.”
I see the moment he makes the decision that his life isn’t worth shit. His eyes narrow. I see his hand form into a fist. And I let him hit me.
Muhammad Ali was the king of the rope-a-dope. Letting his opponent tire himself out with offensive punches which then gave him the opportunity to deliver one of his masterful blows.
His theory was, if you let them lay a punch on you and you don’t respond, it gets in their head that nothing they do can hurt you. And honestly, I’m not sure anything could cut through the blanket of anger I’m wearing right now.
“You just signed your death warrant,” I say.
I punch the fucker so hard, his eyes roll back in his head like a slot machine. He wobbles, then slumps to the ground.
“Come here, Arianne,” I say, once I’m sure he’s down for the count.
I reach out my hand, and she steps over to me and takes it. I like the feel of her fingers in mine. They’re narrow, slender.
“When he beat you, what did you wish would happen?” I ask.
She looks up at me with trust in her eyes; I’m not sure I’ve earned it. “That he’d stop.”
