The Divorcee Murder Club

Treinta Y Cuatro ~ 34

                 When I was a teenager, I used to show up to school with black eyes at least once a month. They were gifts from my stepdad, Chuck. We’d get into physical altercations anytime he and my mom would argue. As a little boy, I couldn’t do anything to protect her, but as a teen with a gigantic growth spurt, I became the buffer between blows. I still wasn’t as strong as him, but I’d land just as many punches, so the fights were fairer.

But after the night I swung a bat at Chuck’s head, and my mother lied to the police for me, I’ve never let another sorry sack of shit underestimate what I’m capable of doing.

So, as I have a stare-down with Angie’s ex-husband, who I know played manipulative games to put her in a mental hospital, I want to beat the ever-loving fuck out of him. He’s not as tall as me, but he towers over Angie with a cocky sneer that has her frozen. And I won’t have him intimidate her for another second.

“Get behind me, Angie,” I growl, my glare locked on fuck face. 

“Who are you?” he repeats, so I crack my knuckles.

“The guy who’s about to wipe the floor with you.”

Angie tugs my sleeve, shaking her head with eyes wide. “Miguel, no.” 

“Angie, seriously. Who is this clown?” her ex-husband says to her, and he has some nerve to call me a clown with his Chiclet-looking teeth.

“Clown? I’ll show you how I clown around!” 

Grabbing a fistful of his sweaty shirt collar, I’m prepared to launch his ass across the room, but someone shoves between us, and I’m being pushed in the opposite direction. My boots slide against the hardwood floor as I shove back, but Jackson is in my face, hissing at me to calm down. 

“This isn’t the time!” Jackson says, and I try to weave around him, but he locks my arms with his. 

However, I don’t hear a word of whatever else he says. Instead, I focus on Angie’s deadbeat ex-husband and the distance between us. I’ll climb over Jackson if I have to and have at him like a wolf devouring a carcass. 

“Calm your ass,” Jackson growls. “This isn’t the right time.”

“Nah. This is the perfect fucking time! Get out of my way.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he says in my ear, and behind him, Angie stands frozen, her gaze on the floor like a scolded puppy. Even her flesh has turned white, and her fingers tremble at her sides as Alma tries steering her away. “Think about Angie. Think about how he might retaliate if you fight him now. We gotta stick to the plan.”

“You should go home, Angie,” her ex-husband says. 

“Fuck off,” Alma huffs. “All you assholes are the same.”

“Shit.” Jackson’s shoulders drop. “Not her too.”

Letting go of me, he turns around and pulls Alma into him before she goes off. So, I take Angie by the elbow and place myself in front of her, but Jackson is right. Fighting this shit stain isn’t the way to go, but I can still be petty, so I spit at her ex-husband's feet, and he jumps back. 

“Get moving,” I say.

“Real nice, Angie,” Her ex-husband snarls. “The company you keep looks toxic. I’ll bring that up in our next meeting with your psychiatrist.”

“You won’t be doing shit,” I laugh. “In fact, you have two choices. You can exit the club on your own or have me and a gang of bouncers hurl your ass onto the street. Either way, you need to leave.”