Ken Douglas - Scorpion

“ Are you all right?” the prime minister said as they passed his seat.

“ Sprained my ankle.”

“ Ouch,” he said, and she smiled down at him.

“ What happened?” Broxton said, when he looked up and saw her in the arms of the tall man.

“ Sprained my ankle,” she said again, and Broxton scooted over to the window seat as the big man gently put her down in the seat he’d vacated.

“ You can take the seat over there.” She pointed to an empty seat in the second row. He nodded, went forward and took the seat.

She buckled up, then wiggled her ankle.

“ How is it?” Broxton asked.

“ Not sprained, just twisted. It’ll be okay,” she said.

“ That’s good,” he said. He was holding onto both a tight smile and the ring.

“ Squeeze it any tighter and you’ll break it,” she said. Damn, she thought, that came out wrong. She was always putting her foot in her mouth.

He lowered his eyes to the ring, relaxed the tight expression and slipped it back into his pocket. She wondered if it had a case. “You’re right,” he said, looking up and grinning.

“ I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. My mouth is always getting me in trouble.”

“ That what happened to your eye?” he asked.

That got her attention and she bored into his eyes looking for a trace of sarcasm, but found none. She decided to be honest. “Yes,” she said.

“ The cop husband do that?”

“ Yes,” she said. It had been over a week ago and she really thought the makeup covered it.

“ He do it often?”

“ Not so often.” She raised a finger to touch the bruise. She winced and she saw that he noticed.

“ Once is too often,” he said.

“ I’m handling it,” she said.

“ You should leave,” he said. “They never change.”

She broke away from his stare and looked beyond him, out the window. They were flying smoothly now, but the ocean seemed unnaturally close. She saw a sailboat below and wondered what they thought of the big jet flying overhead, so low and so slow.

“ He’ll change,” she said, still looking out the window, but she felt his eyes even as she tried to avoid them.

“ How long have you been waiting?” he asked.

“ Twelve years,” she answered without hesitation. Everyone on the aircraft was worrying about whether or not they were going to live or die this day, including the man sitting next to her, but he was also concerned about her.

“ You could leave,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“ And go where?” she said.

“ You’re working. You have a glamorous job. You must have some self esteem left.”

“ I have a lot.” She turned toward him, angry now.

“ Then you could leave,” he repeated.

She bit off her answer by biting into her lower lip. He was right, she had a chance, if only she could be brave enough to take it.

“ What is it?” he asked.

“ I speak Spanish,” she said. “My mother is Mexican.”

“ And?”

“ I have this friend, she works for Iberia, you know, the Spanish Airline. She said I could get on there.”

“ But?”

“ It’d mean moving to Madrid and starting over. No seniority. Less pay.”

“ Do it,” he said.

“ I’m thirty-six, three more years and I’ll have my twenty in. It would be insane. It wouldn’t just mean less money, it’d be a lot less.”

“ How much do you get to keep now?”

That stopped her. How did he know that Earl took all her money, leaving her only a small allowance for food and clothes? It was one of his ways of keeping his fist wrapped around her.

“ Take the Iberia job.”

She looked back into his steady eyes. He didn’t understand. “He’d never let me,” she said. “He’ll come after me.”

“ Maybe, but I doubt it. They get off on the control. If you don’t go back, he’ll most likely look for someone else to dominate.”

“ You make it sound so easy.”

“ It usually is.” His hands were folded in his lap. She noticed that his finger tips were white. He was worried, too, but he did a good job of covering it up.

“ Do you have a picture of your girl?” She wanted to take his mind off his fear and take the conversation away from her problems with Earl.

“ I do,” he said, and she couldn’t help but notice how his blue eyes glowed as he reached toward his back pocket for a wallet. It was a short struggle because the tight fitting Levi’s didn’t want to yield the wallet. He had to shift in the seat in order to get his fingers in the hip pocket and she saw a quick grimace as he pulled it out. From the faded condition of the jeans she’d guessed that he’d had them a long time, and from the way they fit she guessed that he’d been a few pounds lighter when he bought them.

“ My husband never carries anything in his back pocket.” She didn’t know why she said it. She was thinking about the bulge the wallet must have made when he was standing and for some reason she’d pictured Earl standing fully dressed in front of the full length mirror in their bedroom, admiring himself, running his hand over his muscular body, touching his chest, his stomach, his ass.

“ Why not?” Broxton asked.

“ He’s proud of the way he looks. He doesn’t like to break up the lines.”

“ Weightlifter?”

“ How’d you guess?”

“ Weightlifters like to show off.”

“ He doesn’t lift for bulk, he lifts for strength,” she said. For some reason she felt like she had to defend him. “He does all kinds of sports.”

“ Really?”

“ Sure, he hunts.”

“ That figures,” Broxton said.

“ He goes river rafting every chance he gets.”

“ Really? I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

“ He’s on a softball team, they came in second place last year. He bicycles, runs and he swims everyday,” She was rambling and she knew it.

“ All right, he’s into more than body building and killing innocent animals. I still don’t like him.”

“ You don’t know him.” Why was she still defending him.

“ He beats his wife, I don’t need to know anymore.”

“ How about that picture,” she said. Now she really wanted the conversation turned away from her and Earl.

“ Here.” He handed her the open wallet. “It’s my favorite picture of her.”

Maria looked at the picture. It was a black and white photo. The girl staring at her from inside the plastic credit card holder was stunning. She had a model perfect face, not a blemish, a perfect roman nose, perfect wide set eyes, gray in the photo, but she guessed they were blue, perfect blond hair flowing past her shoulders, perfect high cheekbones, perfect chin, perfect woman, perfect girl. “What color are her eyes?” Maria asked.

“ Blue,” Broxton said.

“ Perfect,” Maria said.

“ She sure is,” he said.

“ She looks happy here.”

“ It was taken the day the happiness came back. She went right down to the studio at the mall, no makeup, no fancy hairdo. She wanted her happiness recorded forever, just her happiness, nothing else.”

“ Where’d it go, the happiness?” Maria asked.

“ A drunk driver took it away. She was fifteen and riding in the back seat. That’s why she survived.”

“ Who was in front?”

“ Our mothers. Hers and mine. Their lives were snuffed out in an instant.”

“ I’m sorry,” Maria said.

“ It killed something inside of her, her father too. For over a year they went through the motions of living. Then finally Warren, her father, started to come out of it, but Dani was lost to all of us. I suppose I could have helped, she was my best friend, but I was suffering, too. When we started living again, Dani was a recluse. She failed her sophomore year in high school and had to be sent back a grade and we just sort of lost touch.