Corrupted Angel -A Mafia Romance

ALEXIS

It is getting dark outside.

I flick on the lamp at my desk and stretch up in my chair, trying to avoid the inevitable end-of-the-day hunch. My stomach grumbles and I slide open the bottom drawer of my desk, eyeing the goodies inside. Ah, yes, the good ol' secret snack drawer. It's a secret not because I'm ashamed of how much I snack, but because Vicky Oberman in the cubicle across from me will pop over the divider like a meerkat if she hears the tell-tale crinkle of a bag of chips.

I pull out a packet of Twizzlers and slide the drawer shut. I stare at the blinking cursor on my computer screen while I gnaw on the end of a stick of strawberry licorice. I told my fiancé, Grant, that I would be home late tonight because I wanted to finish up this story, but I'm not sure I can be bothered.

It's just a fluff piece-the unlikely story of how a community center caretaker found the exact skates he used to wear when he visited the center as a child. Mr. Finkel spent half of the interview reminiscing about how much everything used to cost in those days (a can of soda-a nickel; a hot dog-a quarter; two scoops of ice cream-ten cents), and the rest of the time talking about how kids these days have no appreciation for the luxury of having a community center to go to.

Now, it is my job as the dedicated local news journalist to turn that pile of boring jelly into a thought-provoking article examining the role of community centers in empowering the youth of tomorrow.

Or at least, that's how I've decided to spin it. My editor, Debbie Harris, just wants me to write the story. In fact, her exact words were, "Nobody's going to read it but that caretaker, so just make sure you don't misspell the guy's name."

Debbie makes no bones about how she doesn't expend time or energy on the puff pieces when there are bigger stories to tell. I just wish she would give me one of those bigger stories. My work at the New York Union so far has involved precious little in the way of substance.

"Wright!" comes a clipped voice from the entrance to my cubicle.

Oh, boy. Speak of the devil.

I spin to face Debbie, a Twizzler still hanging out of my mouth. She is a stern-looking Scottish woman with perfectly coiffed blonde hair, black-lined eyes, and lipstick that is never out of place. She has a commendably infinite selection of bold-colored pantsuits. Today's number is a fuchsia blazer and slacks with a bright white top underneath. She looks about forty-five, but in my two years of working for the paper, I have never heard her discuss her age. I heard a rumor that someone in the office tried to throw her a birthday party once and the person was never heard from again.

"How's the story going?" she asks in her thick Glaswegian accent.

"Good." I bite off the end of the Twizzler. "I was just-"

She waves a hand. "Nope, all I need to know. I'm just here to give you your assignment for tomorrow." She grins. "You'll like this one."

My heart picks up. Debbie's finally going to give me something meaty to sink my teeth into.

"It's a dog show!" she announces.

"Oh."

"Don't look so disappointed." She leans against my cubicle wall. "You haven't heard the best part."

I cock a brow, waiting.

Debbie leans in a little. "All the dogs are celebrity impersonators."

"Debbie!" I groan, letting my head fall back in frustration. "That's just more of the same crap I always get. Why would you get me all excited?"

She kicks the bottom of my chair, startling me upright, then folds her arms and glowers at me.

"You and your lack of patience again," she scolds. "Do you know how lucky you are to even have this job? I've got a dozen résumés in the drawer who would love to write a story about a parade of dogs in wee outfits."

"Yes," I sigh. "You're right. I'm sorry. Thank you."

She smiles and leaves.

I know Debbie's right, but I can't help my frustration. As cute as the dog show does actually sound, I want to write stories that make a difference.

The clock hits five-thirty and I start to pack up. I don't feel like staying late today. I just want to curl up on the sofa with Grant and a big glass of red wine and watch some mindless TV. In fact, that sounds exactly like what the doctor ordered.

It takes nearly forty minutes to get from the newspaper offices in Manhattan to our loft in Brooklyn. Grant is lucky-he was just made junior partner at a commercial law firm in downtown Brooklyn and his walk to work is less than ten minutes.

It's an unseasonably warm evening for November, but there's still a bite in the air that makes me draw my coat closer around myself as I walk from the subway to our apartment building. I walk up the front steps and into the waiting elevator, dreaming of a full-bodied pinot noir.

The apartment door is unlocked, which is surprising. As close as his office is, Manhattan law is no joke, and Grant works tough hours. He'd said he wouldn't be too late tonight, though, so I wonder where he's gotten off to. I drop my keys in the bowl and walk into the living room, expecting to find him there, but he is nowhere to be seen.

"Grant?" I call. The aged floorboards whine under my feet as I walk toward the bedroom, dropping my bag on the sofa on the way.

Squeak. Squeak.

I've been arguing with Grant since we first moved in together about the mattress in our bedroom. He loves it, but I can't stand the creaky springs. The thing is, though, that the springs only make noise whenever he and I get down to some adult business. Seeing as how I'm standing out in the hallway, I start to realize with growing horror that that means...

Oh, Jesus.

When I push open the bedroom door with fingers that suddenly feel pale and trembly, I'm greeted with something I never, ever wanted to see.

The first thing I see is Grant's pale ass, clenching as he thrusts.

The second thing I see is the horrified face of the woman beneath him, who has just locked eyes with me and realized-way, way too late-that she's made a big mistake.

My jaw hits the floor.

The woman tries to push Grant off of her and cover up with the comforter, but it takes the big oaf a second to realize what's happening. When he finally does and looks up to see me standing in the doorframe, his face falls.

"It's not what it looks like!" he yells. He's leaping out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers-the ones I got him for his birthday last year, I notice-and gesticulating wildly.

Looking at him makes me feel nauseous, so I look at the girl instead. She's huddled beneath the comforter. Her bottle-blonde hair is in wild disarray and her eyes are wide with shock.

"It's not what it looks like!" Grant repeats, like I hadn't heard him the first time.

For a second, I want to believe him. It would be so much easier to drink down his lies than to accept that my fiancé, the man I've spent every Sunday cuddled on the couch with for the past two years, has betrayed me in the worst way.

But there's no denying that it is exactly what it looks like.

Anger fills my veins like kerosene. All I need now is a match.

"Then what is it?" I demand, eyes widening. "Were you inspecting each other for lice? Did she lose an earring down your pants?"

Grant rushes over. His sandy hair is standing up in wild tufts and there is lipstick smudged around his mouth. "Baby, let me explain!"

The sight of those lips-the lips that I thought were mine alone to kiss-sets fire to my blood, singing my skin from the inside.

He's got big, soulful eyes. I remember falling for them, for him. They looked good in the candlelight at the Italian place he took me for our first serious date. Even now, part of me wants to soak up the emotion there and forgive him.

I put that part of me in a box, lock it, and throw away the key.

"Get out," I demand coldly, jabbing a finger toward the front door. "Both of you need to get out right now."