Since the wife has no active part in this story, there is reason not to have it in Loving Wives. But, since retribution is such a major theme in this category, it does seem to fit here.
It was a cold Tuesday evening in mid November and Bruce Finley was still at his office. He was working on a contract that had to be done by Friday. Finley seldom procrastinated and he was confident he could have it finished as early as the next morning. He neatly stacked the files he'd used and slipped them into the modern looking mahogany cabinet, behind his desk chair. He then locked it.
Finley was in his late thirties, fairly tall – almost six foot two – and slim. He had a pale, somewhat angular face. He pulled on his suit coat, then his cashmere topcoat. His wardrobe was a bit more expensive that his income could justify. He ran a comb through his straight, thinning blond hair and headed out the door.
As he took the elevator to his parking level he thought about his kids, both middle-schoolers, and his wife. For weeks Adam and Julia had given him happier thoughts than his wife, Bridget. God, she'd been such bitch lately, he muttered to himself.
He thought about the sexy blonde waiting for him at the Hilton, and his mood brightened. He smiled in anticipation. He remembered how hot she'd been the week before. She was tall, with good legs and great tits. She was a few years older than him, but God she was hot! He'd never had blow jobs like hers . . . she
really
got into it. Jesus, did she have a hot pussy, she could almost squeeze him off without him moving. But then, what fun would that be?
He chuckled softly to himself as he headed down the dimly lit, eighty foot parking ramp to level four, looking forward to the coming two hours in Suite 606. He strolled leisurely towards his car, through the shadows of the ramp. His eyes turned downwards and his mind was far away.
It's just as well Bruce Finley wasn't paying attention. Awareness would not have helped him. It would have only added a few seconds of needless panic before his happy, every-day life, would be rocked to its core.
"Unnngghh!" he grunted, as something smashed him viciously between his right cheekbone and nose, jolting his head violently to his left,. He felt the sickening snap in his nose. He reeled further to his left, away from a large concrete support pillar. Clinging to a glimmer of awareness, he felt himself being spun around and his back slammed violently into that same pillar. The next blow hammered into his solar plexus.
The impact stunned him and his mouth fell open as if in a gasp . . . if he
only could
gasp! He couldn't breathe! Doubly shocked now, from the blow to his head and his suddenly paralyzed breathing apparatus, he had no chance to ward off the fierce kick launched upward into his crotch. The blinding explosion of pain hurled him into the darkness. He never felt the follow-up punch, the one that battered his other cheekbone and split the outer part of his eyebrow to the tune of, say . . . four stitches?
Somehow this mayhem overwhelmed him, without giving him a clue to his attacker's identity. He'd seen only a hazy image of his tormenter. He could vaguely make out the shape of a man a bit shorter, but broader, than he was.
His first hint of consciousness was the pain. He hurt everywhere and he moaned softly. He couldn't hear anything. Gradually he became aware of noises. He heard faint traffic sounds in the distance. He was stuck there in limbo for another twenty seconds or so, feeling the dank cold of the concrete floor, when he felt himself being prodded by the toe of a boot. He groaned again and felt more prodding, several sharp pokes in a row. He moaned in protest.
"Buddy!" Finley began to stir a bit and he could vaguely hear the voice of his assailant. "Hey buddy, you don't look so good." He looked like shit and would soon look worse. He felt it too. His aching testicles swelled as he shivered helplessly on the floor.
"Ya feelin better?" That damn voice again—who was it?
He wasn't feeling better, aside from the whole
consciousness
thing. He felt the skin on his face tighten. It would swell like a balloon in ten minutes. By the next morning it would be an ugly purple mass, and the colors would soon morph into one more-or-less disgusting shade after another.
"Aahhh . . . your nose looks a little crooked. That's not good. You might want someone to take a look at it." Bruce Finley's senses and brain were beginning to connect with reality, the reality that had turned so terribly wrong over the preceding three minutes. He opened his eyes when he felt a warm trickle on his hand.
He thought it was red. Just how red, he couldn't tell in the dim light. The drips were falling slowly but, from the amount of blood on his hand and on the dirty floor, it must have bled a lot when he went down. He weakly wiped the black cashmere sleeve of his coat across his nose and bleeding eye brow.
"Bruce!" That voice was followed by a few seconds interval, then "Bruce, wake up sleepyhead. We need to talk." Funny, the voice didn't sound hostile. Now it sounded light and airy, like someone
encouraging
him. Encouraging him to do what?
"Whaa, wha-dya wan?" It would take three more minutes before he could speak coherently. His stomach suddenly revolted and he began to vomit. While he wretched, repeatedly, almost nothing came out. That's right, he'd skipped lunch.
Finley was laying on his side but could raise his head. He flinched, bringing his forearms up in front of his face when he saw his attacker step towards him. The man roughly slapped his arms away and, with his two gloved hands grabbing Finley's coat, yanked him to a sitting position against the pillar.
"Hey asshole! Do you know who I am? What's my name, Finley?" His voice was no longer light and airy. It was harsh, loud and contemptuous. Finley's very name sounded disgusting and foul.
Hearing his own name again finally startled him. He was not just some nameless victim. Knowing that he, personally, was the target of this brutality spun his mind into another whirl of confusion. Why? His focus returned when he felt the sharp slap, delivered by his tormentor's right hand. He raised his sleeve again to wipe at the blood dripping down his cheek.
"Bruce! Bruce! Wake up you fucking weasel! Can you hear me?" The voice was again harsh and insistent. The man stared at his victim with coldly focused attention.
He knew Finely was an okay lawyer for an decent law firm in the city. He made good, but not great, money and had a family. He wasn't a really bad guy. He did have an outsized sense of entitlement. As with most attorneys, it came to him, as if a part of his diploma, upon graduation from law school. And, of course, he cheated on his wife.
"Bruce! Do . . . You . . . Know . . . Who . . . I Am!" The words came out slowly, as if directed at a small child. The tone grated in Finley's head.
Finley approached full, if painful, awareness. With effort, he directed his attention to the man's face. He was a normal looking guy, a bit better looking than average, square-jawed, with wavy, dark brown hair and eyebrows. His eyes looked dark, but then they were in badly lit parking garage. He was six feet or so and, even covered by the wool jacket he wore, he looked very athletic and powerful. Finley had never seen him before in his life.
"No. No, I don't think . . . who are you?" His words were still slow and slurred.
"Are you sure, Bruce. Are you sure you've never seen me before . . . not even in a picture?" The stranger's look was angry and impatient.
"I don't think so. No, I haven't seen you before." He spoke more clearly this time. He looked at the him, desperately trying find some association, some reason to remember him. The man shook his head in exasperation, perhaps disbelief.
"That's too bad Bruce. If someone's going to do something like this to you . . . ," he gave a vague wave of his hand towards Finley, indicating his general condition. "If you're going to get the shit kicked out of you, you should at least know WHY! Don't you think?"
Finley looked dumbly at the man, not knowing what to say. He watched him pace back and forth for a minute or so. His olive skin, a bit tanned, was far from pale, but his grim expression darkened him even more.
"BRUCE!" He suddenly roared Finley's name at his cowering victim. The ramp was then silent. "No echo in here tonight, is there Bruce?" He paced some more, restless as a hungry predator. "There are actions, things that you do that cause echoes, Bruce." He virtually spit out Finley's name. "For good or ill, they will bounce back at you. TONIGHT is your echo, Bruce. I AM your echo and I AM enjoying it."
"Think, Bruce. Think for a moment, about why someone would want to do this to you. Can you think of any reason? Have you done something
bad
at work . . . something that really pissed someone off. Is that it?"
"No, no, nothing at work. . . no . . . nothing there." Every word came with difficulty, the chaos in his brain again slowing his speech.
"Really Bruce?" His voice was low and rough. "There isn't some guy out there who thinks you fucked up his case? Are you sure?"
"No . . . . No." Finley mumbled and shook his head
"Well," his interrogator paced in frustration for a good twenty seconds, "how about your wife? Do you think Bridget could be mad enough at you to hire me? Would she pay me to deliver this little message?"
"Bridget, how do you know . . .?" His question died in mid air. He was momentarily silent under the blank stare of this stranger. He resumed haltingly. "She gets mad sometimes," he offered cautiously, "but she'd never do this. Besides, I haven't. . ." His voice trailed off into nothing.
The man chuckled softly, as if in sympathy with his victim. "No, I don't think Bridget would hire anyone to do anything like
this.
I agree with you. She is a real bitch though, isn't she? You
almost
have my sympathies. Dealing with her must be a real chore, a real pain in the ass."
"You look confused, Bruce. You know, I really know a
