Blackbird by Abigail Graham Read Free Book Online Page B

serious. I squeeze the paper against the blood and take a deep breath. Count to ten. Conflict management was something else I had to learn. After sitting through enough bullshit anger management sessions I actually started paying attention and sharing in hopes they’d stop making me go.
    I told them some shit about being angry that my Dad died. I’m not angry with him. It’s not Dad’s fault some asshole ran him off the road into a tree. What makes me angry is that I gave myself completely to Eve and at the first sign of trouble she believed the absolute worst about me. I can still see her father’s smug face behind her as she reacted to the bitch’s testimony at the trial. Martin. The man has the most punchable face. I wouldn’t mind hammering him with my fist. Paisley tie man hasn’t given up volunteering to stand in for Martin today. He’s edging closer to me all the time as I pat my hand dry again, run more water over it. The cuts are already starting to scab. He looks in the toilet stall and then back at me.
    “Did you do that?”
    “Not now.”
    I start walking away.
    “I asked you a fucking question.”
    He puts his hand on me.
    Oh, fuck you.
    I duck from under his grip as he paws at my suit coat. Turn, pivot on my heels, and suddenly his fingers are crushed in my grip. A twist and a squeeze and they’ll pop right out of joint, or I can spin on my heel and hammer my elbow against his, snap it clean. I could totally fuck him up, but I stop. I let go. He goes for me again, grabs at my collar with both hands. I slip my arms up between his and spread them apart, breaking his grip. If I hit this guy, I’m going back to prison.
    The bathroom door bangs open and Jim Thorpe III walks in.
    III. Part of his name is a goddamn Roman numeral. What am I doing here?
    “Howard? What the fuck are you doing?”
    Howard the Paisley Tie man blinks. Looks at me. Blinks again. He walks off muttering, leaving me to adjust my collar and coat gingerly, trying not to get blood on my fingers.
    When we’re alone, Thorpe walks over.
    “What the hell is going on?”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    “You have a history with that woman, I take it. It’s not just a business thing.”
    “No, it isn’t. It’s also none of your business. Let it lay.”
    “Right. The board has decided to take a formal vote from the shareholders. It’s going to be a proxy fight. That woman has a few big proxies in her pocket already.”
    Like I give a shit.
    “Give me names and numbers. I’ll handle it.”
    “I’m in debt up to my eyeballs, Amsel. If she takes over the company, I’m fucked. Do you understand me? I’m not talking credit unions here. I mean leg breakers.”
    I shrug. “I’m not the one who bet on those basketball games, Thorpe. I know exactly who you’re in debt to. I said I’ll take care of it. Eve isn’t getting shit from you.”
    He eyes me coldly, nods twice.
    “Go bang a secretary, Thorpe. Go two at a time, I don’t care. I’ll make the calls. Everything is going to be just fine.”
    With a hard look, he turns and departs. I’m alone in the bathroom and let out a long, deep breath that threatens to turn into a scream. I do not need this pressure right now. I scrub my fingers through my hair, make myself mostly presentable in the mirror and jog to the elevator, too late realizing I might run into Eve. The temptation to just throw her over my shoulder, tie her to a chair and make her listen to me would be too strong to resist.
    You know what? There’s more prayer in prison than a church. People pray, they pray a lot. Save me, help me, forgive me. My prayer was never said out loud. Back when I was a kid and my father was still alive, we used to watch Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments with Charlton Heston at least once a month. Me and him in the big home theater. He could recite all the lines by memory. It was so weird. I mean it’s a four hour movie, and any time something remotely related would come up in