Erica
“Another shitty day at work,” I thought, sagging into my car to drive wearily home. For a moment, I did not even have the strength to turn the key in the ignition. Instead, I rested my forehead on the steering wheel, relishing the feel of the cool leather against my skin.
“I love my job,” I said aloud, thumping my brow against the wheel. “I love my job. I love my job.”
And yet, I could not help but finished the thought with, “Yeah, when I am actually allowed to do it.”
I’d been hired to Blade and Goldstein’s Firm almost a year ago, as a paralegal. Since then, however, my duties seem to have devolved into nothing more than a glorified secretary. “Get us coffee, Ms. Carter,” or “Schedule my next meeting, Ms. Carter.” That was, at least, when Goldstein spoke to me. When it was Blade, I heard, “Come over here, Erica my sweet.”
Yikes. He was by far the worst of them. At least he had the decency to go home early on some Fridays, which was why I was able to be in my car, despairing, an hour earlier than usual.
And though I hated it, I stuck the job out. The money was good, and with all the expenses of the wedding coming up, I sure was going to need it.
This thought, at least, put a smile on my face. The wedding. Brian. We’d gotten engaged about twelve months ago––about the time I starting working at the firm, come to think of it––and the following year had been little more than a frenzied–but-happy whirlwind of events. Booking the caterer, the music, the guests––the list goes on. Through it all, Brian had been so helpful and understanding.
Thinking of coming home to him, I smiled, started the car, and pulled into the street. On the radio, I tuned in to one of our favorite songs. It was a love song.
Inspired by the music, I lost myself in my memories. When he asked me to marry him––right after work, as if it were the most natural and easiest thing in the world. I thought about when we met, both young and in college, and how his charm and debonair smile had won me over immediately.
But, mostly, I thought about the first time we’d made love. I was a virgin then. I’d often daydreamed of losing it earlier––as young as high school, even––but I was way too well-behaved for that. No, I was a good girl. I’d waited for the committed relationship. I’d waited for Brian.
And yes, I think it was worth it.
It didn’t hurt. That was what I had been most afraid of. Women go on and on about how much it hurts the first time. But Brian was gentle. I was also afraid of wearing out, that Brian would get bored of me quickly and want to move on. But that didn’t happen either. He seemed perfectly content to have sex when I wanted, and did not seem put off if I wasn’t into it or enjoying myself. Many women like me––smart, career girls, never that interested in sex––would be extremely lucky to have a man like him, who was okay with those sorts of things.
He really was the perfect guy.
These thoughts cheered me as I drove home. It was a long, arduous commute, but I was able to tackle it that night with good humor. Brian would be home first (we’d moved closer to his job because of its career prospects) and I looked forward to a warm meal, then a bit of cuddling with him, my perfect man.
Therefore, when I pulled into the driveway and saw that all the lights were out, I was surprised. Scowling, I double-checked my phone to see if he had texted me, saying he’d be working late. Nothing. Still feeling content from my reminiscing, I did not think much more about it. Instead, I clicked the button that would open the garage and slid the car inside.
There was Brian’s, parked in its usual spot, the engine still warm. Now that was strange. I wondered what he could be doing, all alone in the house in the dark. “Perhaps, he is already in bed,” I thought. “Ready for me to snuggle up to him.”
That is how naïve I was.
Juggling my keys lightly, I unlocked the door and entered the place.
It was a rental, and looked like it. The furniture was solid and comfortable, but Brian had always been against adorning a rental place much more than beyond the basics. He seemed to think it was a waste. Personally, I often found it to be rather cold, but tonight, after such a terrible day at work, the sterile-looking living room and kitchen were warm and welcoming.
“Brian?” I called, walking inside. No answer. Idly, I tossed my keys into the dish and kicked my comfortable, low-heeled shoes off and shoved them into the pile. Humming to myself, I approached the kettle and flicked it on. Yes, a cup of tea would be nice, I thought.
It was then that I noticed the pair of high-heels, thrown carelessly by the door. I bent to examine them, but they were not familiar.
“Huh,” I murmured aloud. “Brian must have bought me a new pair of shoes.”
Which did not account for the scuff marks on their soles. Even with that glaring clue in my face, I was still stupid enough not to realize what was going on. But soon, that would no longer matter.
Feeling concerned, but for no reason I could have articulated, I walked quietly up the stairs. Something about the atmosphere––just as when one is in a library––encouraged silence.
I checked Brian’s office. He was not there. I checked the bathroom, my office. Nothing.
Finally, I came to the bedroom. The door was closed, which was unusual, but not strikingly so. During the colder months, we often kept it shut to keep it nice and warm.
It was September.
A ringing filled my ears. For a moment, I thought it was from the tea kettle in the kitchen, but no. It was in my own mind.
I placed my hand on the knob, took a deep breath, and turned.
The cry that escaped me was a savage cry, like that of an animal, feeling and yet not understanding the crushing weight of emotions. Grief. Rage. Fear. Confusion. All at once, they swept over me, like a flood. Like a hurricane of floods.
For there, his back to me, his legs and body naked—save for the red scratches that lined his shoulder blades— was Brian. He grunted and groaned. His muscles flexed and thrust. And all the while, a slapping sound:
The sound of his balls slapping the ass of the woman bent over before him. From the shade of her hair and that tiny little waist, I could tell that it was his secretary––the woman, he’d assured me, he’d hired based on skill alone.
Yeah, her fucking skill.
They appeared not to have heard me, so I was able to gape in horror and watch as they continued to fuck. His voice––so familiar when caressing me!––now seemed brutal. “You gonna cum, you slut?” He demanded, pounding her harder. She moaned and writhed, putting on a display that I would have never dared to make.
“Yes!” She cried. “Yes!”
“No. No,” I moaned. In the corner, I notice his briefcase discarded on the floor. The richly bound, leather case, embroidered with his initials, had been a Christmas present from me the year before. And now, it lay on the carpet, draped with a pair of fucking panties. That briefcase, which he’d brought home night after night of working late. I found myself wondering: “working late, huh? Or going balls deep in your goddamn secretary.”
A great rage filled me at the sight of that case. A thrumming, burning anger rose up from my gut, threatening to overwhelm my senses. Without being fully aware of what I was doing, I crept behind the fucking couple, seized the heavy, brass-lined thing by the handle, and swung.
Through the air it flew, a good twenty pounds of force, lifting up until it was parallel to the floor, its leather straps straining and—
WHAP!
It collided with the side of Brian’s head.
“Argh!” He cried, dropping his grip on his secretary’s hips, popping out of her with the sound of a wine bottle being uncorked. He whirled, eyes screwed up with anger and confusion, ready to pounce.
Then: “Erica?” He gasped, stumbling backward and landing on his ass on the bed. His cock, now half-erect, pointed accusatorily at me like a question mark. Meanwhile, the dumb bitch behind him squealed and scurried beneath the covers of the bed for shelter.
I glared at them, too enraged to speak.
“Erica,” he said again, soothingly, like one would talk to a skittish horse. “Erica, you weren’t supposed to be home for an hour.”
“Get out,” I hissed. The words were like a poison, spit out upon the floor.
“What?” He said. “Come on, baby. You know I’m sorry.”
It was the “baby” that rankled me. How dare he?
“Get out!” I repeated, raising the briefcase again. He winced, his hand going to the lump on the side of his head. “You fucking coward,” I thought.
“Come on, Brian,” his secretary said shakily, touching his shoulder. “She’s crazy.”
“Oh, I’m crazy, you slut?” I demanded, reeling on her. “You’re the one––” Boom! The briefcase slammed down on the bed beside her. “Sleeping with––” Boom! “An engaged man!” Slap!
This time, it came down on her naked skin. She cried out, then darted behind Brian, who readied his arms in self-defense.
“Get out!” I cried again. Now, at the sight of him giving her protection, of caring about her, I felt the tears beginning to fall. “Get out of here, now!”
And with that, I dropped the briefcase and fled.