Sweet Revenge thriller

Chapter Twenty Four

I SHOULD GET A GUN. The Fixer could get me one. But, I'd have to learn to shoot the Godsdammed thing overnight, or at least how to cock the thing so he knows I mean business. There's no time. I'll have to belt the living daylights out of Patrick to get answers. However, even that's going to be difficult at the moment, my right fist is swollen from hitting him. I stretch my fingers open, close, open, close and wince each time with the sharp pain in my knuckles followed by the dull ache. Still, no pain, no gain. I'll suck it up!

I don't go to bed tonight. And I don't drink. I need to keep the repulsive emotions I feel for Patrick coursing through my body which in turn will help me keep focused on working out a plan to take the man down. And eventually I have a plan worked out. Barring a few details, it's fail-safe but I need to go and break into his office, again.

I know where to find what I'm looking for. Patrick, like many hard-working business people have standard forms printed out on their letterheads, and signed. I slip several leaves into my bag and head for home and my laptop.

Within the hour I've typed up a letter and I pat myself on the back at becoming a master at criminal activity.

The tension is mounting and I try to turn it to my advantage. Turn it into aggression. But it wont leave me and I find I'm puking up my breakfast. Fuck, I hate my life!

I spend the rest of the day planning what to say, how to say it and how I can lead Patrick into a false sense of security...and then it hits me like a cement truck—I know exactly how to play him. In the afternoon, I swing by the shoe shop and become the not so proud owner of my first pair of bright red stiletto's and for the next two hours I wear them around my apartment with the hope I can get used to them before my altercation with my once adored Psychiatrist.

At 6 p.m. I ring him and relieved he answers. He's home, I can put my plan into action. I imitate my usual drunken paranoid rabble, 'My life sucks.'

'Are you OK?' he asks in his usual caring manner. Fucking Asshole!

'Not really,' I tell him.

He is silent for a few moments and I wonder what's going on in his head. He will of course know his office has been broken into, but does he know one of his videos is missing? He won't have a clue it was me or that I was the one who attacked him last night. Dragged him from his bed screaming and um...then I sort of lost my temper.

'Did you want to come around?'

'No. Not tonight,' I tell him. I'm not going to forewarn you, you piece of crap!

'Um, good, good. It's not really a good time anyway. I'm um, not well, you see.' Not well? That'll be an understatement.

'Yeah, I'm not well, either,' I say and instantly realise I've thrown the words out with malice and sarcasm. Fuck! I hold my breath for the longest moment waiting for a response.

He says, 'I'll book you in tomorrow at 2 p.m. at my office.' His voice sounds normal and I sigh with relief. He hasn't analysed the shift in my tone from a drunken patient to a psychotic avenger.

'Thanks Patrick,' I say with a shit load of sweetness!

I get over to his apartment block as fast as I can. I don't want to change my mind.

* * *

'I AM RED PICASSO. A warrior. I take no prisoners!' I say it again in my head, with feeling. 'I am Red Picasso. A warrior. I take no prisoners!'

But the truth is, I feel like shit! The hallway is stifling, my skirt is riding up my thighs, the lace of my G String cuts into my flesh and with each step the stiletto's make me feel like a bimbo—tilting my torso as I walk. As my ass shimmies from side to side, seemingly having a life of its own, I concede that at least the Godsdammed shoes are helping the effect I am attempting to pull off.