“You f*ck
ing bitch.” Ella threw the empty glass at the wall. It shattered noisily, breaking into a thousand pieces. “How f*ck
ing dare you speak about me like that. You don’t know me, you tramp.”
Shaking uncontrollably, she rose from the computer and returned to the liquor cabinet. She poured herself another measure. Who else had Kirk shared their most intimate and private details with? Max? Had he told Max, too? The more she thought about it, the more obvious it became. Of course he f*ck
ing had. He and Max were best friends. They’d known each other since they were kids. Max probably knew all along that Kirk was having an affair. And Joey, Kirk’s buddy in the Marines. Did he know, too? Was that why he wanted to speak to her at the funeral? Ella took a huge gulp of tequila. Yeah, he f*ck
ing knew, too. No doubt they all had a good laugh at her expense.
Well, she’d call a cab right now and go and confront Max at his office. She didn’t give a f*ck
if she caused a scene. The big Sicilian had to know that she wouldn’t tolerate being treated like a fool.
* * * *
As the cab drew closer to the center of Wichita, the adrenaline kept pumping, making her hands clench into tight fists. For ten minutes the traffic barely moved. The cab driver pulled back the dividing screen. “I’ve just received a message from control. There’s a burst water main up ahead. This is as far as I can take you, lady, sorry. We’re all blocked in from behind, too, otherwise I’d take you around.”
Ella handed the driver twenty bucks, more than enough to cover the fare and give him a handsome tip. “Thanks.” Then she began walking the remaining six blocks to Max’s office. She couldn’t shake the image of Kirk and that army whore from her mind. They were laughing—at her. When she passed a bar with the sign lit she went inside. She needed a drink—a large one. Then she’d give Max a piece of her mind.
She walked up to the bar. A jaded bartender stared back at her. “What can I get you, lady?”
“Give me a drink.” Her life felt like shit. Max must have known all along.
“You need to be a little more specific, lady.”
“Give me four shots of tequila.”
“Expecting company?”
“None of your business,” she answered sternly.
“Okay, lady, just making small talk. Take a seat, I’ll bring them over.”
She slid into a booth. The anger once more coursed through her veins. She’d spent the last three months feeling guilty over Kirk’s death. Well, not anymore she didn’t, not now she’d found out he’d been having an affair with some blonde floozy. That bitch must take some responsibility. Where was she now? She clearly didn’t give a f*ck
about having an affair with a married man, and causing his wife so much distress? Perhaps she’d secretly attended the funeral. Ella felt her hackles rise. At the time she hadn’t been in a fit state to notice much. She could so easily have even been there, and she’d not known. That would be the ultimate humiliation.
The drinks arrived and she quickly began demolishing them. Knocking each of them back in one swallow. So what if she was getting tight. She had every right to. Kirk had betrayed her trust. And Max, that bastard, wasn’t any better. He’d known all along. He must have. When she started on the fourth drink, she banged an empty glass on the table several times. “Bartender, bartender. Four more shots over here, and make it quick.”
A waitress came up to her. “Ma’am, please keep the noise down. You’re disturbing the other customers.”
Through blurred vision, Ella looked around the bar. “What customers. I don’t see any other customers. Just get me the drinks, sweetie, and be quick about it.” When the girl didn’t move, Ella dismissively waved her hand. “Run along. Shoo. I need a drink. Why the f*ck
am I still waiting?”
The surly, jaded bartender strolled over. “Lady, I think you should leave.” He went to touch her arm, but Ella snapped, “Take your hands off me. I still haven’t had my drink. Four more tequilas, four more tequilas. What’s so hard to understand about that? Listen”—she touched the bartender’s arm, aware that her words were slurred and her vision blurred—“let me tell you about my husband. He’d rather f*ck
some old army whore than me.” She burst into laughter. “That was a joke, right.” The bartender didn’t smile. Maybe he didn’t get it. “Jesus you’re f*ck
ing thick.” She looked nonchalantly around. “You call this joint a bar? I’ve had more fun in a morgue.”
“You asked for it, lady.” He turned to the waitress hovering behind him. “Brea, go and get Roscoe.” He looked at his watch. “He’ll be in the coffee shop across the road.”