Scott Pressman's wife however was different. Maybe when she was out being a seductress she knew how to change her facial expression, at least enough to fool her mark, but to me, there was something just inherently evil about the woman. She was beautiful but cold, aloof. My suspicions were soon confirmed. Scott was sitting at the dining room table, a look of utter rejection on his face. "Are you really going out tonight?"
"Of course," his wife replied. "Unless you found some magic dick pills, there are only so many things you can do to keep me satisfied."
Scott sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "Melinda, this is the third time this week. You know, sending Nathan over to his grandparent's house isn't going to keep working as a cover. What are we going to tell him when he figures out that his mother is out working the game with men every time he goes to play at Grandpa's?"
"That's your problem," Melinda said simply. "I figure you can put that either right before or right after you explain to him how his father's a limp dicked piece of shit.”
"Hey, you know why I did that! For you, goddammit!" Scott yelled, his temper getting the best of him. "You think I enjoyed it?"
"I don't know, did you? It certainly looked like you did," Melinda said calmly, snapping her purse closed. She wasn't dressed for going out, but who knew where she might have been stashing clothes. As physically attractive as she was, she probably could have shown up in most clubs wearing a high necked potato sack and gotten five men within twenty minutes. "The way you were moaning, it sure sounded like it."
"Fuck you, bitch," Scott spat, sagging back into his chair, defeated. "Just fuck you."
"If you could, I wouldn't be going out tonight, now would I? Enjoy your pro wrestling," Melinda said, leaving the dining room. I heard the front door slam, followed by the sound of a car engine revving before driving off.
I gave it a few minutes before making my move. I was just about to open the window and sneak in when Pressman shocked the hell out of me. The son of a bitch, who'd broken more hearts than I could recall, most importantly to me Tabby's, put his face in his hands and started bawling like a child. Great racking sobs tore from his chest, and I felt a momentary flare of pity for him.
Instead of slipping the lock, I made a quick decision, and knocked lightly on the glass door. Scott reacted like he'd been shot before looking at the back door. I faded into the shadows and waited for him to approach, opening the door. "Who is it?"
"Come out, Pressman," I rasped, sticking to the shadows. "No threat, I just want to talk."
He remembered the voice and sighed, resigned. He knew from my reputation I was carrying guns, even if he couldn't see them. "What the fuck do you want?"
"Just to talk," I replied. "Come on out, you know I prefer shadows."
Sighing again, he nodded, leaving the back door to his house open. "How long have you been there, Snowman?"
"Long enough," I replied. "Is she the reason why you're doing it?"
"Doing what?" he asked, sitting down at a small picnic set on the patio. "The lawsuit against MJT?"
"I told you last time to stay away from Tabby Williams, did you really think I'd let you keep this charade up? It's not like you need the business, Pressman. From what I've seen over the past few months, you can barely keep up with the expansion of your business as it is."
I was standing farther back in the shadows he was, just outside the dim triangle of light that was cast by his windows and his open door. With the crescent moon and partly cloudy skies, he couldn't see me clearly, but I could still see him well enough.
Pressman shrugged, his face pointed in my direction, focusing mostly on the sound of my voice. "Why the fuck should I tell you, Snowman? All this shit is because of you. You were the one who drugged me, you are the one who taped those damn earbuds in and turned that shit on that fucked up my brain for eight hours. You're the one who tore my life apart, man. I'm just trying to pick shit back up."
"Bullshit," I replied. "Come off it, Scott. If you wanted to just pick shit back up, as you put it, you'd be spending your free time in counseling trying to get that mental block broken down. Hell, any damage the drugs did physically should have been mostly repaired by now. You're not physically incapable of getting it up."
His shoulders trembled, and Pressman looked like he was about to get up out of his chair, but he slumped back down. "That's not it."
"Then tell me. If anything, you know I'm not going to lie to you, there's no need."