Chapter 9 - Percy’s MILF Wife

Chapter 9: Chapter 9 - Percy’s MILF Wife

Senior Special Agent Percy Bonham. Late forties. Bald head that shined like he waxed it. A thick neck, heavy brow, and a jaw that jutted forward like a gorilla’s.

For ten years, Percy had been chasing Jamie Byrne. And for ten years, he’d failed. So he’d settled for the next best thing, which was making Jamie Byrne’s son miserable every chance he got.

He showed up outside the building unannounced. He called Jesse at work. He made comments about Jesse’s mother in front of the neighbors. Once, he’d followed Jesse into a grocery store and stood beside him at the checkout, saying nothing, just staring.

Jesse had always wondered if Percy wanted justice or just revenge. At this point, a decade into a manhunt that had gone nowhere, it was hard to tell the difference.

And to make it worse, the man lived three blocks away.

Percy took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes moving from Jesse to the Porsche and back again.

Every other time, Jesse would have mumbled something, kept his head down and hurried inside. The old Jesse would have done exactly that.

But the old Jesse died in that alley last night.

"Yeah, it’s a cool ride, Agent Percy." Jesse ran his hand along the roof of the car. "Such a shame someone like you can never drive it."

Percy’s grin vanished.

He pushed off the lamppost and walked right up to Jesse until they were almost nose to nose. He was shorter than Jesse by a few inches, but he made up for it with sheer width.

"What do you mean by that?"

Jesse smirked. "There’s no need to get emotional, Agent. I just stated the obvious."

Something twitched in Percy’s jaw. His face went red from the neck up, but his voice stayed controlled.

"I didn’t know sons of criminals were now bold enough to insult hardworking men such as I."

"Such as me," Jesse said.

"What?"

"Never mind." Jesse glanced at his watch. "Look, Agent, say whatever it is you came to say. I need to get ready for work."

Percy stepped back. He took another sip of coffee, slower this time, like he was savoring what he was about to say.

"Your father was at your mother’s funeral."

The words hit Jesse like a punch to the same spot the brute had kicked last night.

His father. At the funeral.

Jesse had stood by that grave for an hour after everyone left. He’d scanned every face. Every car. He’d spent the whole service half-hoping, half-dreading that Jamie Byrne would show up just so Jesse could look him in the eye and ask him why.

And the bastard had been there. Watching. And hadn’t said a word.

Jesse kept his face perfectly still. He would not give Percy Bonham the satisfaction.

"Was he?" he said evenly.

Percy watched him closely, searching for a crack. He didn’t find one, and that seemed to irritate him more than anything else.

"We picked him up on a camera two blocks from the cemetery. Hat, sunglasses, long coat. He was careful, but not careful enough." Percy leaned in. "A man doesn’t risk coming back to New York after thirteen years without making contact with his only son. So I’m going to ask you nicely. Where is he?"

"I don’t know where he is."

"He’s reached out to you."

"He hasn’t made any contact with me," Jesse said. "And if he does, I’ll call the police."

Percy laughed, a big, ugly laugh that bounced off the buildings. "Yeah. Right. And I’m going to believe the kid who just pulled up in a two-hundred-thousand-dollar Porsche the day after his daddy shows up in town." He tilted his head. "Where’d you get the car, Jesse?"

’Shit.’

Of course. To Percy, the timing looked perfect. Daddy shows up, son suddenly gets rich.

Jesse thought about the untraceable account. Percy could pull every bank record in the country and he’d see exactly what Jesse wanted him to see.

The car was a different story. The car was sitting right there in broad daylight.

Before Jesse could answer, a woman’s voice rang out from down the block.

"Percy!"

They both turned.

A woman was marching toward them in a fitted gray sweater dress and white sneakers, car keys dangling from one hand. Her chestnut hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and she had the look of a woman who’d been yelling into a house for ten minutes before giving up and coming outside.

It was Angela Bonham. Percy’s wife.

"Leave that poor boy alone," she said. "You’re supposed to drop Annabelle off at school and you’re already ten minutes late. She’s sitting in the car crying because she’s going to miss the class trip."

Percy’s whole posture changed. He shrank about two inches.

"I’m coming, honey. I was just—"

"I know what you were just doing. You’re always just doing it." She shot Jesse an apologetic look. "Morning, Jesse. I’m sorry about your mother. She was a lovely woman."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bonham."

Percy gave Jesse one last look, long and hard, the kind that said this isn’t over. Then he turned and followed his wife down the sidewalk.

Jesse didn’t watch Percy go.

He was watching Angela.

He’d always noticed her. It was hard not to. She was thick in all the right places, a full hourglass shape that the sweater dress hugged like it was grateful for the job. Wide hips that swayed with every step, a waist that pinched in tight, and a chest that strained against the soft knit. Her face was pretty enough to belong on a magazine cover. Soft lips. Warm brown eyes. Laugh lines that only made her look kinder.

She was the kind of woman who made a man forget what he was doing.

And she was married to Percy Bonham.

Jesse genuinely did not understand it. He’d spent years trying to work it out. What did a woman like that see in a balding, gorilla-faced, thick-necked, grudge-carrying man?

Angela glanced back over her shoulder, just once, and caught him looking.

She didn’t scowl. She didn’t look away.

She just smiled a little, then turned the corner.

Jesse let out a long breath.

[Would you like to know her current affection level, host?]

’Later,’ Jesse thought. ’Definitely later.’

******

Jesse climbed the stairs to his unit, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

He stopped.

The bag of chicken and fries he’d left on the coffee table last night was gone. In its place was an empty takeout box, a crumpled napkin and a half-drunk bottle of wine he definitely hadn’t bought.

And sprawled across the couch, wrapped in his mother’s knitted throw blanket, was Tatiana.

She was fast asleep. One bare leg hung off the edge of the couch. Her mouth hung slightly open. Her phone was still in her hand, the screen dark.

Jesse stood over her for a long moment.

Last night, he’d told her to be gone by the time he got back. He’d been beaten half to death, robbed of every cent he had, and dumped in a hospital bed. And she’d spent the night eating his food, drinking wine on his couch, and sleeping under his mother’s blanket.

Something cold settled in his chest.

He nudged her shoulder. Not gently.

"Tatiana."

She groaned and pulled the blanket higher.

He nudged her again, harder. "Tatiana. Wake up."

Her eyes fluttered open. It took her a second to focus, and when she did, she didn’t look guilty. She didn’t look sorry. She looked annoyed, like he’d interrupted something important.

"Jesse? What time is it?"

"Doesn’t matter what time it is," Jesse said. "What are you still doing in my house?"