When We Were Married Ch. 02B

(c) Daniel Quentin Steele – 2010

Author's note: As I mentioned in Chapter 2A, this is an unusual situation for me. My stories have previously been written before being submitted. Because of the length of "When We Were Married," I started submitting as I write. Which means I've got readers barraging me with requests to write faster. Unfortunately, I actually have a life outside of Literotica. Which means that I'll try to keep these coming on a fairly regular basis, but there may be some delays along the way. It's taking 4-5 days on average from when I submit to when stories are posted. But, writing in a serialized fashion is actually kind of fun. And reader reaction is really playing a part in shaping the story. I hope eventually I'll be able to go back and acknowledge the changes I've made based on reader suggestions. Because this is long, I only hope I don't turn off a lot of readers. I didn't really plan a novel, but once I got the idea it just grew. I know there have been a few glitches and will be more since I'm again venturing out without the aid of Lady Pine Rose's input. Hopefully when this crazy schedule comes to an end with the close of this story, I'll be able to receive her help on shorter pieces. Thanks for the outpouring of comments and hopefully some of the questions about the story will be answered before I finish it.

2nd thoughts – and first steps

My name is Bill Maitland. I'm an Assistant State Attorney in Jacksonville, Florida. Until about six weeks ago I thought I had a nearly perfect marriage to the former Debbie Bascomb, a big breasted and gorgeous blonde business professor at the University of North Florida. We had two teenagers, I had a job I loved, and life was good. Until Debbie hit me with four words that shattered my life, I accused her of something she was physically not guilty of, and our marriage started to dissolve.

Three weeks ago our marriage started to die and a week after throwing me out of our house she told me she didn't love me and was getting a divorce. I've managed to keep my head above water at work, but my personal life has taken a plunge into the toilet. I am a 41-year-old man who's supposed to be married. I like being married. I'm old for my age, flabby and out of shape and balding and just not equipped for the bar scene. Not to mention that I hadn't liked it all that much when I could compete.

It's another lonely weekend and I've just climbed out of a bottle and I managed to catch my 14-year old son Bill Junior at home and had one of the best conversations I've had with him for a long time. I wish I'd taped it to listen to again. Along the way, he let slip that Debbie's young stud professor, Doug Baker, has started spending nights over at OUR house. I am NOT happy!

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I rolled out of bed, made myself a cup of coffee that just didn't taste the same although I'd bought the exact same blend we'd used for 10 years. And thought about Doug Baker's chiseled abs glistening with sweat he lay on top of Debbie's gorgeous body and rammed her with what was undoubtedly a big cock. Naturally, he'd have a big cock. Bastard couldn't be undersized, could he? Home wreckers never had small dicks. Some rule of nature, I guess.

I couldn't go assault him again, even if he was in my house. Debbie still had that protective court order keeping me away from her and it without a cop babysitter. I could waylay him somewhere else, but what was the point. At some point even being who I was wouldn't protect me from arrest and then I really would lose my job and the only reason I still had to get up in the morning.

And even if I could do it without fear of arrest, I knew he'd kick the shit out of me. Unless I hit him from behind. We had fought -if you could call it that – at a UNF function that Debbie had sneaked out to play his girlfriend while she was still married to me. A fight. Hell, it was a slaughter. I'm not a fighter. She had said something about him being a boxer and he'd handled me like a pro would handle a 9th grader.

Why the hell would a grown man be fist fighting anyway. You fight when you're in high school or college and your girl or someone who want to be your girl is watching. When you get married and you're a white collar professional, you're not supposed to have to fist fight for your wife's love and respect.

But it had made a difference. I saw it in her eyes the night I'd surprised her with him. She had contempt for me. In her eyes I was just a flabby, foolish little man who was going to be embarrassed by her stud boyfriend.

She had been horrified, had screamed when I made him pay for a gesture of good will as he tried to help me up and I caught him in the balls and then in the face with the top of my head, then did my best to kick his face off with my shoe as he lay in front of me bleeding.

But I saw it in her eyes. I had surprised her. I wasn't supposed to be the guy standing and her stud the guy bleeding all over the floor. She had looked at me differently for just a fraction of a second and I realized she was looking at me as a man, not just a husband.

If, as they say, every guy is just a grown up 13-year-old, I think every woman is just a grown up 15-year-old. They may say it doesn't' matter, but they get hot when a man fights for them, and wins. It's probably something in our genetic makeup. And she had completely eliminated me from the category of – male.

Of course by that night it was too late, but for just a moment I'd had her respect because I'd come and fought for her. Even if she'd never admit it in a million years.

It had felt good, I remembered. And even if I never had the opportunity to beat the crap out of him, even if they married or become permanent bed buddies, I wanted to know in my own mind that I could take him. It was childish and foolish and entirely unworthy of a 41-year-old professional, but I didn't give a crap.

I got to thinking and then I made a phone call. A Hispanic sounding voice answered the phone and I asked if Carlos Herrerra was there.

I had to repeat the name a couple of times and finally I heard someone yell, "Papa, ven acqi, telefono."

A few moments later a husky old man's voice said, "Si?"

"Hello, Carlos. You got any time to talk to old friends?"

There was a silence and then, "Billy, Billy, I thought you had died. Haven't heard from you in a long time."

"You know what they say, too mean to die. Carlos, you still have that old gym of yours open?

"Of course. You find a good welterweight prospect for me? Has that boy of yours decided he wants to become a fighter?"

"No, but are you open right now? Can I come by?"

"You have to ask? It would be open even if it were closed, for you. Come, my friend."

I knew that if the old man was still alive, his door would always be open to me. He had promised me that nearly four years before and as far as I knew, he had always kept his promises.

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Juan Herrerra had been 27 when he made the mistake of asking a pretty young blonde to dance with him at a Jax Beach nightclub on a Saturday night. Unfortunately she had caught the eye of Wilson LaMark. Wilson was a 24-year-old graduate student at Jacksonville University. He was more than a little drunk and he hadn't taken kindly to the good looking Hispanic man trying to cut in on his intended playmate.

When he'd made his feelings clear, Juan laid him out with one punch, having been tutored since he was a child by a doting father, Carlos Herrerra. Four of Wilson's friends had taken offense to Juan's actions and the fighting moved outside. Before it was over three of them were suffering broken noses, fractured cheekbones and a fourth a broken collarbone.

Which is where it might have ended, except that Wilson happened to be the son of Henry LaMark, a Texas oilman worth at time about 400 million dollars. He had paid three men to bodyguard his son and after Juan had batted a couple of them around, one of them had managed to clock Juan from behind. Then they dragged him to the patio and one of them put a .44 magnum to Juan's head and at a word from Wilson, blew his brains out.

Unfortunately, they hadn't counted on the presence of a newly installed monitoring camera positioned in just the right position to see Wilson nod and give the order to execute Juan.

Of course, a man worth $400 million could afford to produce witnesses that Juan had started everything, that Wilson was not even around when he was shot, and that the bodyguard had fired in self defense and fear after seeing Juan take out four feisty college students.

But I moved quickly enough to secure the camera videotape and was able to play the bodyguards off against each other so that one of them turned State's witness. Wilson went down for second degree murder only because it was obvious he was drunk, probably had a concussion from the shot that Juan had given him, and the bodyguards testified they were going to take Juan out whatever their client told them.

His father, who had sacrificed about $20 million in deals to attend his son's trial, didn't take the verdict well. As a broken Carlos and I had been talking outside he had walked up to us with all the arrogance that being worth $400 million in Texas gives you and said under his breath so no one else could hear, "I hope you enjoyed that. My son will be out in three months, the Spic will be dead in six and you, you cocksucker, should kiss your wife and kids tonight because they'll be gone within a year."

He was surrounded by a dozen bodyguards, lawyers, flunkies and PR guys but it only took five armed cops to separate him from his entourage and escort him up to my office. It was just Carlos, Henry and myself in my office. Everyone else had been encouraged to be elsewhere.

He stood there looking at me and shaking his head.

"You are so fucking stupid I can't believe someone hasn't killed you before this. In about five minutes my people are going to have everybody from the governor up to the president's office tearing your hide off. You're done. And the Spic, well I have to be careful of my words because I'm sure you have this place bugged, but I wouldn't make any long range plans if I were you."

I leaned back against my desk and motioned for Carlos to sit in a comfortable chair. He had no idea what was going on.

"Mr. LaMark, please strip."

"Go fuck yourself."

I walked around the desk and opened the top drawer. I pulled out the loaded Glock I always kept there. I pointed it at LaMark's head and asked, Carlos, "You did see Mr. LaMark pick up that poker (pointing at an ornamental poker upright near the fake fireplace in the corner) and try to attack me with it. You saw it."

He had no idea, but he went along, nodding his head and saying, "Si, yes. I saw him attack you."

I spoke quietly and conversationally to LaMark who looked like he was about to stroke out with rage.

"I suppose it was understandable. You were overcome with grief and rage and lost control. Unfortunately, with two bullets in your brain, you won't be able to deny my version of events. Your family and your people will probably try to cause me trouble, but I doubt that the Florida powers that be will be too upset about a Texas blowhard meeting his fate here. I might even get a raise out of this."

"You wouldn't dare."

"You threatened the lives of my wife and children. Forget about Carlos, who I like, you crossed the line. Unfortunately you're rich and powerful enough that you could get to them. But you're a lot less worrisome if you're dead."

"I-"

"Strip or die."

When he was naked I asked Carlos to hold the Glock and I inspected his clothing very carefully. Then I let him put his clothes back on.

"This is a very carefully engineered office. There's no way conversations can be taped here. Unless you brought in a bug, which now I'm sure you didn't. So now we can have a little conversation."

I unlocked a drawer that no one has a key to except myself and took out a packet of photos. I gave them to LaMark. He glanced through them and the color left his face.

"What is this?"

"When you're in this job you meet a lot of people. You have the opportunity to do favors, to go easy when mercy is justified, even to some bad people. And sometimes the people you take pity on have very powerful, and very cruel and very dangerous friends and family. I've done favors over the years for some of those people.

"Before we leave here today, I'm going to call one of those friends on a throw-away cell I keep in my office. Can't be traced. And if, in the next few years or even later, I fall down an elevator shaft, or Carlos has an unexplained car accident, or my wife vanishes and is never seen again, the word will go out.

"I know you have a pretty new bride and two four-year-old twins at home in Houston. Nothing will happen right away. But one day, no matter how many bodyguards you hire or where you run, they will find you. You'll come home one day and find your wife's headless body in bed, with evidence that she was raped every way a woman can be raped and tortured before her head was taken. You'll find pieces of your children.

"Now I wouldn't, couldn't, do that even if you harmed my family, but it's out of my hands once I make that phone call. And the people I call...well, they can do that kind of thing."

I put the Glock back in my drawer and gestured to the door.

"You can go now, Mr. LaMark. We're through."

He just stood there. You don't get that wealthy without being very smart.

"Don't make the call. Mr. Maitland, don't do it. I apologize. He's my son. You've got a boy. You have to know how hard it is to see him behind bars for the best part of his life. Whether you believe me or not, I wouldn't have hurt you or – Mr. Herrerra. I wanted to scare you, make you pay by wondering every day when the axe would fall. I'm a tough businessman, but I'm not a killer, even by proxy."

"Fair enough, Mr. LaMark. Now you can sweat every day for a long time wondering if I am going to make that phone call. I hope I never see you again."

When he walked out shakily, Herrerra came to me and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Would you have made that phone call?"

"He'll never know."

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Carlos still had the same old gym which was really a training site for would-be and never-will-be boxing hopefuls. It had weights and weight bags and a ring and posters of old time fighters. It still smelled like old gym socks. I think he probably could have had it smelling nice and fresh, but the image of the place would have suffered.

He hugged me and introduced me to a few guys who were all whipcord muscle and tattoos, in their early 20s.

"This is Mr. Maitland, the District Attorney I told you about. He got justice for my Juan. He is a good man."

After exchanging pleasantries, Carlos and I went off into his office. Any smaller and you'd have to call it a walk-in closet.

We talked and I explained why I'd come.

"I am sorry to hear of this," he said. "I lost my wife 20 years ago, but it was different. She had the cancer. But we loved each other until she drew her last breath. I cannot imagine how it would hurt – that kind of betrayal."

He took a sip of a steaming cup of coffee, the small cup filled with that black sludge that Cubans consider coffee which will dissolve metal spoons if you leave them in it long enough.

"But, Billy, wouldn't it be easier just to get a gun and shoot this bastard?"

I shook my head.

"He hasn't killed anybody. He just stole my wife. And he didn't really steal her because you can't steal people. She gave herself to him. I don't even know that I'll ever touch him. It's just – just that he humiliated me. In front of her. Not only is he sleeping with her, but when we meet we'll both know he could mop the floor with me. I want to know in my own mind that I'm his equal – physically."

He looked at me for a moment, rubbed his chin and then said, "Come with me."

I walked back into the gym area with him. He motioned to a bare chested young man with the typical rangy build of a boxer and the tattoo of a huge fierce eagle covering his entire chest, the wings spreading out to his shoulders.

"Ernesto, c'mere."

Ernesto ambled over, looking at me curiously. He was close to six feet tall and had arms that seemed three feet long.

"What, Papa?"

"Get on up into the ring. I want you to go a round with Billy – Mr. Maitland."

"A round?"

The look on his face said it all. He didn't think I'd last three seconds.

Carlos gave him a stern look.

"Billy is not a professional. Take it easy. Just a workout. I want to get an idea what kind of fighter Billy could become. If I took him on."

Ernesto shook his head.

"He's an old man."

In a move that was fast even for an old man, Carlos cuffed him on the right ear and said, "I'm older than he is, and I can kick your ass. Get in there."

Ernesto stepped into the ring. I stood on the apron.

"You sure this is a good idea?"

"Step in or walk away, Billy. It's like when you decide to chase a woman. You either go for it, or you don't. What do you want to do?"

I stepped inside the ring. Ernesto just stood there. There was a faint grin on his face.

"Try to hit him, Billy, and try to keep him away from you. Ernesto, don't hurt him, too badly."

I remembered the night with Doug. I felt just as foolish, but I raised my hands, then thought to call to Carlos as I turned back to look at him, "Do I need boxing g-"

A moment later I felt my cheek on the canvas and realized I was lying on my face. Blood was dripping from my lip. Somehow a tooth on the lower right of my mouth had carved a chunk out of the inside of my lip. I shook my head and got to one knee. I looked over at Carlos.

He shrugged apologetically and said, "No gloves. And you never turn your back on a man you're facing in the ring. Call it lesson one."

Ernesto also shrugged as I got to my feet but he didn't look guilty.

I raised my fists and swung, first the right, then the left. He deflected both punches without seeming to move his arms and suddenly there was blood spurting out of my nose and he was dancing away. As it had with Doug, being hit in the nose hurt like hell.

I rubbed the blood away.

"Fuck, that hurt."

"It's supposed to," Ernesto said, glancing over at his mentor. "It don't hurt, you don't learn to cover up."

I went at him again, and again, and again. I never laid a hand on anything but the outer sides of his forearms and once or twice I bopped him on a shoulder. He busted my lips three times and hit me in the nose twice more and the second time he made me scream. Damn, but it hurt.

"Work the body," Carlos called and suddenly Ernesto hit me twice, hard in the stomach. I was down on one knee gasping for air. I lurched to my feet gasping and he hit me again twice. This time I was down on the canvas rolling back and forth trying to catch a good breath. It felt like he'd busted ribs.

After awhile I was able to roll to my knees. I was getting ready to smash Ernesto in the balls if he was gentlemanly enough to try to help me up, but he just stood there. Carlos was kneeling down beside me.

"It's okay, Billy. This was just to see some things."

"Like what," I gasped.

"Your reflexes, speed, upper body strength. I got to tell you, we got some work to do. You got no reflexes, your speed is pathetic, and you really hit like a girl."

I managed to grin at him.

"Don't sugarcoat it, Carlos. Be straight."

He patted me on the shoulder.

"It's not so bad. You're a 40-year-old guy with no conditioning. You got no strength or speed and I don't think you're going to be contending for any titles soon, but we can turn you into a fighter. We'll put you on the heavy bag for strength, work on timing and rhythm, put you on the free weights. You need to start running. For endurance and conditioning."