Cut Throat. Шарон Сала

came into my home, availed yourself of my body with no thought for my feelings, took my food without invitation and threatened me with harm if I did not do as you wished. You want to know what I’ve done? I want to know what the hell you were thinking.”

      Solomon’s eyes were wide, his expression one of shock. He kept looking at the floor, then back up at Paloma.

      “What did you do to me?” he begged.

      She lifted her chin as she met his gaze head-on.

      “You will never hurt another woman as you’ve hurt me, that I promise you. Your manhood will fester, then wither. Running sores will cover your body. Worms will devour you as you lie in your grave.”

      Solomon dropped to his knees and began to beg.

      “Please…please, no, no…Paloma. I’ll leave. I’ll leave right now. I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Take away the curse, I beg of you. Take away the curse.”

      Paloma threw back her shoulders, taking strength from his weakness.

      “It’s too late. I’m a poor woman, and the damage to my person and my place has been done.”

      Solomon’s eyes suddenly widened. He held up his hands in a beseeching manner as he scrambled to his feet.

      “Wait! Wait here! I’ll pay for the damage. I’ll pay for shaming you.”

      His pants were blood-soaked, dotted with herbs and feathers, as he pushed past her and ran from her house. Thinking that he was running away, she was surprised when he came hurrying back. He thrust something into her hands and then began backing out of the house, still begging.

      “That will take care of the damage I’ve caused. Take it with my good wishes…just take away the curse. I’m begging you, Paloma. Please, take it away.”

      Paloma forgot her sense of injustice when she realized he’d handed her the money—more money than she’d ever seen at one time in her life.

      “Will you?” he begged. “Will you take away the curse?”

      Stunned by the amount of money she was holding, she was momentarily silenced.

      Reading it as another refusal, Solomon thrust another stack of money on top of the first one.

      “Please!” he begged.

      Paloma’s heart was pounding as she clutched the money to her breasts.

      “Get out,” she said.

      “Yes, yes, I’m going, I’m going.” He began backing toward the door, his arms outstretched. “The curse. Please, Paloma…the curse.”

      “I will remove it…but only when you’re gone.”

      He tried to draw a deep breath of relief, but it sounded more like a sob.

      “God…oh, God…thank you, Paloma. I’m leaving now, and I wish you a long and happy life.”

      “Get out,” she repeated. “Get out and never come back.”

      “Yes. Yes, I’m going,” he said, and then turned on his heel and made a run for his car.

      Before Paloma could move, she heard the sound of his engine starting. By the time she got to the window, all she could see were the taillights of his car.

      She looked down at the money, then back up at the rooster tail of dust he was leaving behind him, and grinned.

      “Fool,” she muttered.

      Then, realizing she was standing in full view of the streets with an armful of money, she suddenly backed up, slammed the shutters shut and ran to the little niche in the wall where her Madonna figurine was placed. She picked up the figurine, then lifted the shelf on which it was sitting, revealing a large opening in the wall beneath. With one quick glance behind her, she stuffed her money into the hole, then replaced the shelf and statue.

      The scent of fresh blood was strong in the air, along with the foul smell of chickenshit. Still, she couldn’t blame the chicken. If someone had wrung her neck as she had the chicken’s, chances were she would have messed herself, too.

      She went back into the bedroom, eyed the chicken she’d just killed, then picked it up and carried it out back and buried it near the corner of her house. Then she went back inside, poured some water into a basin and began cleaning up the mess.

      She was going to have to wash her sheets along with the walls and floor, but it was worth it to be rid of Tutuola and his evil ways.

      Four

      Three times during the day, Wilson caught himself about to dial Cat’s number. The first time he chalked it up to habit. The second time, he decided it was a habit he needed to break. The third time, he actually dialed the number and didn’t come to his senses until he heard her voice on the answering machine. He was so startled that he actually stammered what started out to be an apology until he realized he was talking to a recording.

      “Damn it to hell,” he mumbled, then disconnected and dropped his cell phone back in his pocket. He stomped out of the restaurant where he’d been eating lunch, slammed his butt into the driver’s seat of his car and then hammered his fists on the steering wheel in mute frustration.

      After a few moments the hopelessness of his situation passed, leaving him with an empty, helpless feeling. He sat within the silence of his vehicle, watching the sun go down on Dallas, and for the first time wished he’d never met Cat Dupree. A dark gray sedan pulled into the parking space beside him, interrupting his thoughts. He took one look as what appeared to be a happy family of five got out and headed toward the restaurant, then he leaned forward, started the engine and drove away.

      LaQueen had locked up and was already gone when he stopped by the office, although the lingering scent of her jasmine perfume was a faint reminder of her presence.

      He picked up his messages, taking note that, for once, there were no failures to appear to deal with. He sat down at his desk and started returning the calls, leaving some messages of his own, then left some paperwork on LaQueen’s desk to be filed in the morning. He was getting ready to go home when his gaze settled on a picture hanging on the wall. He stared at it until the edges blurred and his eyes burned with unshed tears.

      Home.

      It had been a long time since he’d thought of his childhood home that way. For him, home was his apartment in Dallas and the place in that picture was where he’d grown up. But it was his unreturned feelings for Cat that reminded him of how shallow his life was here. He’d been at this job, in this city, for the better part of his adult life, yet if he left tomorrow, there would be fewer than a handful of people who would even note his absence. For whatever reasons, he’d neglected his personal life, choosing to chase bail jumpers and the almighty dollar. It was more than humiliating to accept that he’d found someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with who wasn’t even willing to spend an entire night with him.

      Cat was still on his mind as he reached across the desk, picked up the phone and punched in a series of numbers. When he heard the first ring, he began a mental countdown of the number of steps it would take someone to get to the phone sitting on the old sideboard in the hall. His answer came on the fourth ring, and unconsciously, his tension eased as he heard her voice.

      “Hello?”

      “Hi, Mom, it’s me, Wilson.”

      The lilt in her voice was proof of Dorothy McKay’s delight in hearing from her oldest son.

      “Wilson! How good to hear your voice, son. What’s up?”

      Wilson smiled to himself. It was typical that she would get straight to the point.

      “Not much…just the same old thing. How are things there?”

      “Oh, you know…your dad’s arthritis is an ongoing complaint, and your brothers and sisters keep me busy chasing