I should walk away. There are off duty cops at that cookout across the street. But it's like she has a fucking handbook for how to set me off and she followed each fucking rule step-by-step. I grab her forearm and pull her back into the darkness, slamming her against the house. My fingers wrap around her neck and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, doing what I always wanted to do against anyone who has ever called me that or something like that. Wanting to make her shut up. I asked her to be quiet and she wouldn't. I didn't ask for her to suck my cock. I don't want her pity. I don't want anyone's pity. It's me who should pity them. I rule them. I haunt their fucking streets and they don't even know it.
At first she fights, clawing, gurgling, but she begins to weaken under my grip. My power in the dark puts her beneath me, where she belongs. She thought she was doing me a fucking favor. Like I'm some fucking charity case. But right now, I am her god, holding her very breath in my hands. I stare into her eyes, they are huge and pleading and I have no desire to let go.
My nieces and nephew spill out of their house and it breaks me out of the trance. I loosen the grip around Milly's neck. She gasps for air.
“Shhh!” I lean in close with my finger over my lips.
“Listen closely. I know where you live. You aren't from these parts, but this is my home. This is my fucking city. You know who we are. No one would believe you because you looked like a drunken fool leaving the cookout. I am a son of this city. And if you tell this story to anyone, you won't survive to repeat it. Understood?”
She nods frantically, but I keep my hands on her neck to control her.
“Do I sound scared of women now, bitch?”
She shakes her head as if she can't agree fast enough.
“Now, close my pants and belt for me.”
She does as I keep a threatening hold on her neck.
I walk to her back door. She can barely stay on her feet now, quivering like a plucked string. She opens the door with a shaky hand.
“You really should keep that locked when you leave the house.” I suggest wryly.
She stumbles through the door, trying to close it behind her as quickly as possible. I stop its momentum with my hand.
Her body shakes as she stares into my eyes. I put my finger to my lips in one final reminder. Shhh. I make a slicing motion with my thumb at my throat and smirk, letting the door close on me.
I exit the yard, wound up tight. So tight I could pop at any moment. This fucking party, this whore thinking she's better than me. My dick is throbbing so hard, my head is light. The whole fucking time I was here I wanted to be there, inside of Vesp. I am buzzing on adrenaline and sex and I need to release this stew inside of me before it spills over in a way I don't want to.
Fuck all these people. Fuck their houses. Their yards. Their little families that hide their repressed sexualities. Fuck Scoot for talking about me to her and making me out to be some sort of pathetic fool. Fuck him for conning me into this fucking cookout.
I head to my car feeling like I'm on fire. Like if someone were to touch me, their fingertips would burn off. Vesper is going to get it. This is her fault. I came here because I have to hide her. She's complicating my life. I had a system. I would have normally just taken the whore. Let her blow me. It wouldn't have been ideal, but it would have gotten the job done. But now, nothing else is good enough. It has to be her. I realize what truly made me mad looking at sloppy Milly was that I'm starting to feel sloppy. Vesper makes me messy.
As I head to my car I catch a glimpse of the kids playing down the street. All the adults are at the cookout and the kids have been allowed to roam after hours so mommy and daddy can play. I spot my nephew riding his bike. I used to love riding my bike when I was a kid. Physical pursuits have always been my strength. I don't need to talk when I use my body. My brain has trouble telling my mouth to communicate, but it's as swift as a whip when it commands my body. Growing up, the kids could poke holes in everything else I did, but I was always faster and stronger. Even my dad was proud of that. He used to call me Lightning when he was in a good mood towards me.
Watching him cools me down a bit as I lean against my car. Everyone says little James looks like I did at that age, with his light eyes and blond hair. I'll admit it's true. He's quick too. And he doesn't have my disability. He's a happy kid. Watching him is sometimes watching a remake of my childhood. Sometimes it hurts to watch, other times it's wistful. Today it's the latter. I smile, watching him pop wheelies on his one-speed like I did long ago. The boiling in my blood simmers and I take a deep breath. It's just then that I see a kid run and push him from the side, sending him flying off the bike and onto the pavement with a crack.
The doorbell rings. Scooter runs over to answer it. It's not for me, it's never for me, so I don't bother.
“Hold on,” he says to the kids at the door. “I'll be right back.”
“Mama!” he calls out.
“You know I don't like yelling, come over here and speak to me like a gentleman,” she scolds from the kitchen.
Captain Kangaroo blares on the TV set, but I can hear his whining from the kitchen.
“But mooooom. I don't want to take him. He's annoying.”