The Wife's Neighbor (A Novella)

Chapter 7

The huge house was covered in gasoline after an hour. The final action Marcy performed was turning on the gas stove in the kitchen and racing out the front door. She had to be sure nothing would trip her. Nothing would be in her way. This was her one shot. If she died in the explosion, Taylor would be devastated. He needed her. She knew that as she ran from the home.

Taylor waited patiently in the passenger side of his truck. He wasn't up to driving. Not after seeing a bloody corpse.

She didn't bother strapping her seat belt on. She drove with veracious speed, kicking up dirt in her wake.

Zooming by other cars in the neighborhood, horns honked, and tires screeched. She had a direction. A purpose. She hoped Taylor would now just go along with it all.

A loud pop was heard in the distance, she briefly looked over her shoulder to see the sky briefly light a pretty orange and red glow. How long would it take for cops to discover this had happened? She didn't know. Nor did it matter. She wouldn't answer their questions. She didn't want to deal with court dates and being away from her lover. She wanted all of this to be over and for an ending that would end in harmony.

The café was empty. It wasn't a high-end place. This was where truckers would stop in late nights and get a bite to eat and coffee. The place was empty apart from a waiter on hand. Both sat in silence, eating a meal of pancakes and eggs.

"I'm sorry Taylor. I shouldn't have dragged you into my life." Sorrow filled her voice.

"I chose to be in your life. I'm shaken by that corpse. It doesn't matter. I want you, Marcy." He assured her eating slowly. Hand shaking ever so slightly. He sipped on a hot decaf coffee with a bit of cream. "I'm going to use the restroom."

Marcy sat paying for the two of them. As soon as she put the tip down, her eye went to the entrance of the eatery.

The glass door with a small ding sound. A tiny bell hung on a string. The thin male was tall. Six feet. Mohawk. Leather jacket. Tattoos on his neck. His jeans smelt of cigarette smoke. He eyed Marcy, sitting alone. With a smirk, he approached her.

"Hey babe. Wattcha doing?" He sounded a bit drunk.

Normally I'd be scared. Some punk harassing me. Probably has a knife. Voice is confident. Breath smells of cheap beer. I do tense a bit, not gonna lie. He could still punch me in the moments Taylor is gone. I feel his fingers wrap around the back of my neck, I clutch my metal fork ready to gouge his eye out. I'm not afraid. I only need to plan my next move quickly.

Two seconds pass. I don't need to do anything but smirk.

Taylor gripped the young man's jacket and flung him to the dirty, tiled floor. He then kicked the teen in the gut with his steel-toe boot. "Don't ever touch her or any other person without permission again. Understood?" His voice so calm. So, commanding. This side of him rarely came out and I quite enjoyed this.

"Alright man! I'm sorry!" The teen's voice was strained, cheeks red with pain. He lied in a fetal position. "Please! Don't hurt me anymore!" He whined.

"Good. You understand." Marcy stood by Taylor's side, rubbing his enormous bicep.

"Thanks, Taylor." She went on her toes and kissed his smooth, hairless cheek.