Chapter 1
Justice Boner: The feeling of excitement when exacting petty revenge; or witnessing someone getting what they deserve.
Saturday. It’s usually a day spent reflecting back on a long week of dealing with local douchebags, making mediocre money at the shitty job I assumed would get my feet in the door for bigger and better things. Now it will require an existential amount of change and a few beers at the closest dive bar I happen upon.
The foul taste of betrayal lingers in my mouth, though it’s easy to disguise from the unknowing stranger driving the taxi away from the apartment. The stinging in my eyes is a surefire sign that I’ve been deceived. I’m the last to know.
Unfortunately, the sudden urge to hurt someone leaves me more vulnerable than I’m comfortable with. Crying is saved for when someone you care about dies. In this instance my boyfriend is very much alive, the telltale proof would be the enthusiasm he was displaying while ramming our other roommate in the nether regions.
Up. The. Ass.
Go figure.
It’s something I prefer to steer away from, mostly because the two times I tried it ended with the seeing of actual stars and a few days worth of explosive diarrhea. As far as I’m concerned it’s a do-not-enter zone.
The fact that I’m fighting the urge to scream tells me I’m out of my element. I’ve let my guard down, and in order to rectify this situation and remain in control a few things need to happen immediately.
Kill. Jeffery. James.
Okay, maybe not kill him, even though in this short ride I’ve at least fabricated eight different scenarios that would end his existence. Since doing all of them would land me in a federal penitentiary, I’m resolved to handle this with a bit of discreet revenge, or at least the way I see fit.
His wallet was the only thing I was able to grab in my state of shock. I open up the leather bi-fold and see what I’m working with. One Visa Platinum card. A MasterCard under his company name. His driver’s license, a bankcard, and roughly a hundred bucks in small bills are inside of a full-size flap. “Driver, take me to the shops on the main strip please.”
If there’s one thing I hate more than gossip, it’s clichés, so I’m fully aware I’m acting like a woman scorned. Quickly, before it begins to ring again, I turn my phone to silent and utilize the data to access the Internet. A wicked grin strikes my face as I type in a well-known porn site. I follow the prompt to set up a premier account, and then copy the number on his company card into the required fields.
Still not satisfied that this will make a big enough stink, I proceed to shop for bondage apparatus. One self-standing sex swing. Thirteen gag balls. Three different sizes of men’s black leather chaps. A variety pack of standard horse whips. Ceiling and floor restraints. Lastly, a case of handcuffs and a police approved taser, complete with extended length use. I make sure the shipping address is the office, and hope his unknowing secretary gets a good laugh before drawing attention to the latest order.
A short snicker escapes me when I fill in the payment information and finish the transaction.
As fun as it is while I’m doing it, I know this won’t help with the disgraceful ache I’m ashamed of admitting.
I’m not your average twenty-two year old female. Raised by four older brothers, I wasn’t taught etiquette, or how to primp. I’m a rebel, a force to be reckoned with, that has an occasional sensitive side I rarely show. I’ve also been told I’m a fun lay, when I don’t let my feelings cloud my judgment. It’s a bad habit. It pisses me off that I’ve never been enough for any man, but I’m not an idiot. Men cheat because they want to. It’s the excitement, the rush they get when they’re involved in something new. I’m the opposite of dainty. Maybe Jeffery wanted a prissy little thing he could push around, and we can both agree, I’ll never be that kind of lady.
I suppose it’s hard for me to embrace that sort of demeanor when my mother left when I was six months old after some woman showed up at her house with a seven-month-old baby claiming it was my dad’s. Believe it or not, our two moms thought the best punishment was to leave our father to raise the whole lot of us.
Be that as it may, Dad never changed his wild, cheating ways. Drugs and alcohol sent him down a path he wouldn’t return from. What little I remember of him, leaves nothing endearing. He was cold and distant, continuously intoxicated, and unable to hold onto a job. We lost our first house. One Oklahoma tornado took our twenty-six-foot aluminum home from under us, but it was the bottle that did the most damage to Dad.
Another problem for him was admitting his mistakes. He never treated my half-brother like he was family, but made him feel like an outsider as often as he could. Granted we were way too young to remember the slanderous comments he’d make about our mothers. We wouldn’t be told otherwise until Dad was long gone.
I’ve never minded having a half-brother, or thought of him differently than my other siblings. We were raised as a family, because we were. Our father’s blood flows through our veins. In fact, since Del and I are only a month apart we’re often mistaken for being twins. We were closer years ago, but his friendship with my ex left our relationship strained.
After we were left homeless in Oklahoma, Dad moved us back to his hometown in Jersey; a place that would change us into the hard-headed-no-shit-taking group we’ve all become. Estranged from his own brother, and his parents both living in assisted facilities, we were on our own to start over and make ends meet.
Dad was an accident waiting to happen. It only took a few more months for Dad to drive his truck into a tree one night after leaving the bar, in which he’d spent his whole unemployment check. Assuming he was on a weekend bender, we didn’t report him missing until a week later.
Even at seven, I still recall the way his body looked halfway through the shattered windshield of his old blue Ford Bronco. What animals hadn’t gotten to, had already begun to decay. I had nightmares for months, and while my oldest brother, Lincoln, fought to keep us all together, it was a disaster. He refused to ask anyone for help, because he figured he’d always been a better man than Dad. Linc was too ashamed to admit we had serious problems. He was a kid raising more kids. We ate a lot of canned dinners. I vividly remember us searching through the couch cushions to come up with enough money to buy a fifty-cent box of macaroni and cheese that we’d have to divide between the five of us. Linc was seventeen when Dad passed away. That following week he turned the legal age of eighteen. We spent one week in the foster care system before he managed to convince a judge that he’d been a sole provider for years. He’d been working a full time job in between finishing school since he was sixteen years old. He managed to earn a GED certificate, before devoting all of his time and energy to provide for the rest of us.
Since Dad hadn’t ever been able to keep a job, he’d used a check he received from an automobile accident to purchase a tow truck. What started as little jobs by chance, turned into bigger opportunities. That truck became our lifeline. For a long time after we lost our father, it was our only means of transportation.
At nineteen, Linc had managed to bank enough to purchase a second truck and was taking the proper measures to obtain a business license. He wanted to make things legit, and that’s exactly what he did.
By the time I turned eighteen my four brothers were running a lucrative company. They’d started doing repossessions and had contracts with local casinos to tow unauthorized parked or abandoned vehicles. They were raking in the dough; so damn full of themselves that I couldn’t stand to be near them. Around the same time, I learned of my long-term boyfriend cheating on me. It was unfortunate, but he worked for my brothers, who cared more about the business than little, worthless me. Back then they were greedy and driven. My breakup and broken heart wasn’t going to deter them from staying busy. They needed Crane as an employee, because they rarely trusted anyone else.
It’s why I left. Being around them, seeing him every single day made me miserable. When an opportunity arose for me to move to Vegas I took it. I wanted to attend college and be something different than what others expected.
Except college never came, and nor did the dreams of making a good life for myself to look back on. Sure, I enjoy my job being a tattoo artist, and I’ve met so many amazing people in my field of work, but I’ve never felt satisfied, not even when I thought Jeffery would fill the empty void in my heart.
I swallow the lump in my throat and look out as the cabbie reaches my requested destination. The driver pulls into the parking lot of my chosen location and spats off the amount I owe him. I pull out my ex’s bankcard and wait. When he gives me a paper to sign, I tip him a hundred bucks. He graciously thanks me with his Russian accent, in which I return an easy smile and tell him it was my pleasure.
I’m spiteful and it feels so fucking good.
Revenge to me is like a fine aged wine is to a hoity-toity Stepford wife. It’s my happy place where I know I won’t be a victim of my stupidity.
My day is spent on a new tattoo; a piece representing the lying douchebag who doesn’t have a clue who he’s dealing with. It’s a giant cockroach with a vividly detailed Chuck Taylor slamming down on it. Underneath it states, ‘paybacks are a bitch and so am I’. Every single second of the needle penetrating my skin absolved the time and effort I’d put forth on another failed relationship. I’ve been around guys my whole life. He’s a dime a dozen. My only regret was getting serious in the first place. I should have learned a long time ago that you can’t count on anyone, at least not anyone I know.
For the past several years I’ve steered clear of Atlantic City, New Jersey and my brothers. I thought after high school I could start over, be someone new without people judging me for my father’s mistakes. Let’s face it, none of us have ever been an asset to the community. If you ask anyone, my brothers are known for roughing people up, and giving the police extra work. They don’t volunteer, or donate to charities. I doubt any of them have ever stepped foot inside of a church. We’re what some would consider slum or bottom feeders. We make a living off of other’s financial struggles. It’s funny, we’re essentially just thieves. We steal from others but have found a way to make it legit. We’re no better than the people hiding their vehicles to avoid repossession.
I’ve seen my fair share of people begging. I’ve been offered drugs, jewelry, and other possessions to pretend I never saw the vehicle in question. Fortunate for me, I don’t cave easily. I used to get off on the rush of sneaking around and taking what wasn’t mine. It didn’t matter if it was the family mini-van. I was good at my job, and I liked it. Granted, it’s all I was ever taught to do. That’s part of the reason I left. Not everyone wants to do what they’re told. I’m not the oldest, so I have no say in how things are run. Since I refuse to take orders, it was best I high-tailed it out of there while I was still young enough to make something of my life.
That shit backfired fairly quick.
I’ve nothing to show for.
Going home isn’t something I look forward to, especially when I know I’ll hear a bunch of bullshit about failing. They’ll call me out, say it was because of some guy, and they’ll be right. It sickens me to know I’ll have to stand there and take their insults. They told me I’d return. They’d said this would happen, yet I was determined to prove them wrong.
I suck.
The last purchase I make is from my phone. I buy a one-way ticket home.
My stomach is in knots when the plane lands. It’s unfortunate I have to go through such criticism wherever I travel because I have several visible tattoos and piercings. To me, they’re art. It’s all I’ve ever been good at. Most people strive to better themselves with college, where my only true calling was art. I’ve been doing tattoos for nearly two years, after working as an apprentice for two before that. I’d still have a job if I wasn’t working for my good-for-nothing ex’s brother. When he learns about the stolen wallet and fraudulent charges I’m certain there won’t be a position waiting back in Vegas for me, and I couldn’t give a shit. Jeffery deserves it. I hope the exotic car rental company he works for goes under. I hope someone comes along and rams him in his ass, so he finally gets how it feels to be violated and stripped of dignity. Fuck him!
During my flight a little girl and her mother shared a row with me. I could tell the mom didn’t want her daughter anywhere near me, which only made me want to taunt them. I’m reeling in despair and being judged for the way I appear. It’s redundant and unnecessary. So what if I have a skull on my hand? It reminds me of my strength. It was my very first tattoo and I’m still proud of it. The dream catcher on my arm represents a different life that I only get to enjoy while I’m sleeping. It’s the only good part of me; my escape from the evil world and the people who have hurt me.