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We want to do what’s right.  But, there are times when the wrong thing is much more appealing.  Just one more time, we say, then we’ll straighten out.  See what Monica does when she gets the chance to do what’s right.  Follow Monica on her decision making in Part 3 of A Dangerous Game.  Thanks.

 

PART 3

 

MONICA SAT IN HER car and texted her secret lover.  She had thought of buying a throwaway phone to text him with.  But, it had become routine for her to text him. She stopped worrying about it.

 

“Him?” she whispered and shook her head.  Who the hell was him?  A man she had had sex with in the dark behind a building.  She had no idea who he was.  Living dangerously was not how she described it.  Living stupidly and recklessly was more like it.

 

She sent the text.

 

How could it not be Mr. Teal?  She asked herself again.  How could she have been so wrong about him?  The voice sounded like him.  She squeezed her temples.

 

Her mind was getting tired.  She may as well accept it.  She had not had sex with Mr. Teal.  She tapped her fingers on her lap, waiting for her lover to text her back.  Her former lover, she thought.

 

Her SUV clock read eight-fifteen.  She had to get into her office.  She leaned back and closed her eyes.  They shot open.

 

How embarrassing was it when she ran out of that school earlier? She thought.  The staff probably thought she was an unhinged crazy mom.  She would have.  A judge would have her removed from court if she behaved like that.  Hopefully, her daughters will not hear about it.

 

Her phoned dinged.

 

Monica read the text and squinted.  “No,” she said.  “Hell no.  It’s not happening.  One mistake was one too many.”

 

She tossed the phone in the passenger’s seat, folded her arms, and stared ahead.  She bit her lip and sighed.  She rolled her head in circles.  Each time her eyes landed on the phone she closed them.  She leaned back in her seat.

 

“Don’t do it,” she whispered.  “You got away with it once.  Don’t do it.  Whoever he is, he does not have much to lose.”  She exhaled loudly.  Remember, he should have as much to lose as you do.  Nothing to lose means not having to be careful.

 

Her eyes cut to the phone.  “Damn it!” she yelled and quickly closed her mouth.

 

The sex was good.  She could not deny that.  He had no respect for her.  It did not matter.  She preferred it that way.  Her husband respected her.  That was good enough.  She did not need that in a lover.

 

If this ever got out she would be too embarrassed to show her face anywhere.  Maybe she was a sex addict.  The spontaneity of it was so thrilling and intoxicating.  She hated to admit it.  It was addictive.  She felt like one of those dirty women and did not care.  Why did she have to feel that way about this person?

 

Get real, she thought.  “You’re not addicted,” she whispered.  “It was one time.  You’re excited about sneaking around.  You need a hobby.”  She stopped talking as a man and woman walked past her SUV.  She had not realized she was talking so loudly.  “Shit.”

 

She reached over and grabbed the phone before she could change her mind.  She reread the text.  He had completely ignored her text.  She had texted him that she could not do this anymore.  That it was over.

 

Who would reply with this? she thought.  Meet me at 789 Tiller Street at 10 AM.  Park in the garage.  No one will see you.  Use the door in the garage to come into the house.  I can’t wait to show you who I am.  Maybe we’ll have time for a quickie.  Be ready.  I will.

 

This was crazy.  She checked her watch.  Eight twenty-five.  She had to get to work.  She did not have time to meet him.  She began to text him and stopped.  No.

 

Yes.  Go and see who he is and put a stop to this.  No more after this time.  No more.  She put the phone in her purse and giggled when she opened the door.

 

She rushed to the elevator and got in.  The ride up had never been as exciting as it was that morning.  She checked her watch again.  Eighty-thirty.

 

In an hour and a half she would know who her lover was.  That sounded foolish to her.  Three months and sex and she did not know her lover.  Crazy.  Good crazy.  But crazy.

 

Monica stepped off on the eighteenth floor.  She walked past the receptionist, Julie Crist, and stopped.  “Good morning, Julie,” Monica said and took two steps back.  Julie told her good morning.  “What am I about to ask, Julie?”  Julie looked down.  “The answer isn’t down there.  It’s up here.”  Monica pointed to Julie’s head.

 

“I’m studying,” Julie said.

 

“Good, we need more good paralegals,” Monica said.  “And after that, you can go to law school.  Which I know is what you really want to do.”  She gave Julie a thumbs up and headed to her office.

 

Inside her office, Monica opened her desk drawer and removed a stuffed file.  She put it on her desk and began reading.  Every few minutes she looked at the clock on her desk.  Time was crawling.  “Do your work,” she whispered.  “You’ve got to win this case.  Do your work.”

 

Two minutes and Monica was deep in the file.  If she had not had to go to the bathroom she would have read past ten o’clock.  It was nine-forty-five.

 

She gathered her things and put the file away.  It would take twenty minutes to drive to that address.  She knew approximately where it was.

 

On her way to the door, Monica stopped by several of her team members’ offices.  She gave each one the same message.  “I’m stepping out for about an hour,” she said.  “I have an appointment.  I’ll be back after that.  Stay with it.  See you soon.”

 

Monica tapped her foot while she waited for the elevator to arrive.  An elevator on the far end of the hallway opened.  She rushed to it and stepped inside.  Go.  Go.  Go.  She thought.  The doors finally closed.  She checked her watch on the way down to parking deck five.

 

She was grateful for being in parking deck five that day.  Even more grateful than on other days.  Parking deck five was one of the easiest decks to get out of.  It exited at the back of the building.  Less traffic to contend with than the front.

 

Monica jogged to her SUV in her dark blue suede heels.  She was careful this time.  A broken ankle would not be good.  She snatched her SUV’s door open and got inside.  She forgot to look before backing out.  Lucky no cars were coming, she thought.

 

She sped down the ramp and exited out onto the street.  She did not put the address in her navigator.  That would not be smart.

 

She took the main road down to Tiller Street.  The speed limit was thirty.  Her speedometer stayed around forty-five.  She even ran a few red lights.  When she turned onto Tiller Street it was ten o’clock.  She hated being late for anything.

 

Tiller Street led her around the neighborhood to the back of the neighborhood.  The address was the last house on the street.  Woods were to the side of the house.  A small fence was on the other side of the house.  Both blocked the view of the garage.

 

Monica drove into the open garage.  She parked and waited for a minute.  It did not feel odd to her.  Maybe she was getting over some of her nervousness.

 

She moved her seat back.  She looked in her purse and took out a nail file.  She looked around.  Then she lifted herself out of the seat and slid her pants down.  Just enough to see the sides of her underwear.  With her nail file, she ripped and cut her underwear off.  She pulled them out from her pants and put them in her purse.

 

She looked in the rearview mirror at herself.  “Shut up,” she whispered.  “This is the last time.”  She puckered her lips and examined her lipstick.  It was fine.  She exhaled.  “Let’s see.”

 

She opened her door and got out.  The garage was clean.  Everything was perfect.  Tools hanging on the walls.  Floor swept and nice looking.  Fresh paint job.  This guy was a clean freak.

 

She walked up the five stairs that led to the door into the house.  She looked through the windows in the door to inside.  She could only see the hallway.  It was not that bright inside.

 

She guessed that when you are about to meet your lover in your home, you do not open the curtains.  Made sense.

 

She grabbed the doorknob and turned it.  The door opened.  She hesitated and stepped inside and stood there.  She closed the door.  The kitchen was ahead.  She could see it.  A small room was to the right.

 

“Hello?” she called out.  No answer.  “Hello.  It’s me.”  She walked down the hall past the kitchen.  A large island was in the center of it.

 

She stopped and looked in the family room.  Sleek furniture.  It reminded her of Italian furniture.  This guy has taste.  Great lover and taste.  Maybe she would trade in her husband.  She joked.  She heard something and went to turn around.

 

A cloth covered her mouth and nose.  The cloth was thick and damp.  Another hand was clamped around her chest.  She struggled to free herself.  Twisting and grabbing the hand that held the cloth in place was not working.  The hands were strong.  The cloth was pressed hard against her nose and mouth.

 

Monica felt her movements slowing.  Everything went black.

 

 

Sometimes we go to the well one too many times.  Then we find ourselves in trouble.  That’s when we want help.  But, what happens when we can’t yell for help?  We’ll ask Monica tomorrow.  If she’s around.  

See you tomorrow.  I hope your week is going well.

Thank you again for stopping by.

I appreciate you.

Thanks,

Stephen Wallace