Staying With Her

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Chapter THIRTEEN

Blackhawk swirled the whiskey in his glass, listening to the clinking of the ice cubes–a melody he cherished.

Already the worries of his day were fading, even before the first taste–the latter fourth. It brought memories of favorable times. He let himself live in them rather than think. No troubles, no wife, no kid. There was just the glass caressed between his wood-shaving hands and his lips wrapped around the rim as they devour each other's glory.

The doorbell had a strangled sound, as though its battery drained. A thunderous boot followed by the death gripping scent of old spice clouded his nose. The scent became stronger. As if blowing in a motor less breeze. Then it was next to him. All spiced up in a blue cardigan that hugged his chest a size too small and a scruff itching to trim.

"Thought I'd find you here."

Blackhawk lifted his empty glass and toasted to the walls of years of greatness. "There's no other place I'd rather be."

His eyes roamed the drunken man, skeptical about his actions as he lay down his arms over the chipped wooden countertop. "Where's Josiah?"

Blackhawk slid his glass across the edge of the counter, where he beckoned Billy for a refill. "The kid?"

Martin nodded.

"Home, where he should be."

"Daddy dearest caught up pretty quick huh?" Martin laughed.

Blackhawk retrieved his whiskey and in one go, he swallowed. "He should fuck the hell off."

Martin looked at Blackhawk a moment too long before raising his hand in a lazy two. "The usual."

A pinch of hate tasted sour deep beneath his buds. If he'd rehearsed this conversation once, he'd recite it a thousand times. It had to end. Now, his heart pounded. No, he will not back down. He will fight for years of mistakes even when it's being suffocated by his best companion. Martin gathered his glass between his thumb and forefingers as if holding a baseball in the momentum of its first swing. He inches closer to Blackhawk. Eyes held conviction. Blackhawk raised his eyes, dead compared to the leaves of a summer day. He couldn't stand anyone's company. He wanted nothing but to rip off the scent, taste, and feel of Kate out of his system.

"Here's to a fucking terrific day!" Both men brought their glasses to their mouths before the additional words had Blackhawk choking on his drink, "... and to an amazing fuck."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Martin smirked. "She's a beauty isn't she?" Blackhawk masked neutrality. "Her soft curves, full hard ass and a fucking tight cunt."

Blackhawk knew his game. He's lived it his entire life. "Kate?"

"You're damn right buddy."

"What happened to Sarah?"

"Alive and content," Martin said. "So was Clarissa."

It's been there a while now, this anger, escaping. He felt his chest tighten into a knot like a cramp and a quiet rage builds inside. His eyes narrowed as the man continued taunting him. His hands twitched and he could feel a vein pulsing in his forehead.

Blackhawk gripped Martin's chest and launched out of his stool. "What did you fucking do?"

"I'm not the one screwing around."

Then came the first punch and screams broke out. The attack was fierce, efficient, and deadly. Blackhawk was on top, knuckles white and body heated with a boiling rage. It was pitch black, a crowd gathered. Blackhawk's vein-popping fist was an inch closer to the fearful man's face. Then, came Billy, pulling the men apart with his iron arms hooked around their waist and hand blocking the next.

"The entire station echoed with grunts and moans!" Martin yelled. "I bet Clarissa's a screamer."

"Son of b–"

Blackhawk escaped and in one punch, Martin flew to the floor with his nose flooding with blood and a cheek bruised. Blackhawk crawled over him, like a predator on the hunt before pouncing upon his prey. He had a sneer in his voice that extended to his eyes and Martin spat after every vent.

"I did not fuck her."

Martin laughed, "Bullshit! You got her fucking pregnant!" He thrashed around the hardwood floor.

"It's not fucking mine!" Blackhawk's hands had a firm grip around his partners, and legs clamped tight around his torso.

Martin tilted his head to spit out a remain of coiled blood accompanied by salvia. "Can't be a man of your word. You're always fucking up other's w-women."

"God! We are nothing,” Blackhawk snapped. "Do you really think I'd go after your leftovers?"

Martins face stilled and glared at Blackhawk with hatred in his cruel dull eyes. "Go to hell."

Arguing with him was pointless. Blackhawk's forehead crinkled as a drop of blood kissed his cheek. He watched his partner–years of friendship walk out the door with a bang. Like a man coming in another man's asshole and immediately sucks the jizz out, like venom from a snakebite.

Everything went down the drain. Two men, one snake, and a deadly kill.

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