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  The Social Affair

  The Social Affair: A Psychological Thriller

  Britney King

  WWW.BRITNEYKING.COM

  Contents

  The Social Affair

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A note from Britney

  Also by Britney King

  Sneak Peek: Bedrock

  Bedrock

  Chapter One

  The Social Affair

  Britney King

  Prologue

  Attachment is an awfully hard thing to break. I should know. I surface from the depths of sleep to complete and utter darkness. I don’t want to open my eyes. I have to. “I warned you, and I warned you,” I hear his voice say. It’s not the first time. He called out to me, speaking from the edge of consciousness, back when I thought this all might have been a dream. It’s too late for wishful thinking now. This is his angry voice, the one I best try to avoid. My mind places it immediately. This one is reserved for special occasions, the worst of times.

  I hear water running in the background. Or at least I think I do. For my sake, I hope I'm wrong. I try to recall what I was doing before, but this isn't that kind of sleep. It's the heavy kind, the kind you wake from and hardly know what year you’re in, much less anything else. I consider how much time might have passed since I dozed off. Then it hits me.

  “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he says, and his eyes come into focus. Those eyes, there’s so much history in them; it’s all still there now. I see it reflected back to me. I read a quote once that said… a true mark of maturity is when someone hurts you, and you try to understand their situation instead of trying to hurt them back. This seems idealistic now. I wish someone had warned me. Enough of that kind of thinking will get you killed.

  “Please,” I murmur, but the rest of what I want to say won’t come. It’s probably better this way. I glance toward the door, thinking about what’s at stake if I don’t make it out of here alive, wondering whether or not I can make a break for it. It’s so dark out—a clear night, a moonless sky. The power is out, I gather, and it’s a fair assumption. This has always been one of his favorite ways to show me what true suffering is like. That alone would make an escape difficult. I would have to set out on foot and then where would I go? Who would believe me?

  “You have it too easy,” he says, as though he wants to confirm my suspicions. “That’s the problem nowadays. People consume everything, appreciate nothing.”

  He lifts me by the hair and drags me across the bedroom. I don’t have to ask why. He doesn’t like to argue where he sleeps, where we make love. It’s one of our safe spaces, but like many things, this too is a facade. Nothing with him is safe.

  “You like your comforts, but you forget nothing good comes without sacrifice.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I assure him, and that much is true. Sacrifice is something I know well.

  He shakes his head, careful to exaggerate his movements. He wants the message he sends to sink in. “I don’t know why you have to make me so angry.”

  I glance toward the window, thinking I see headlights, but it’s wishful thinking. Then I reach up and touch the wet spot at the crown of my head. I pull my hand away, regretful I felt the need for confirmation. Instinct is enough. If only I’d realized this sooner. I didn’t have to put my fingers to it to know there would be blood; the coppery scent fills the air. “It’s not too bad,” he huffs as he slides one hand under my armpit and hauls me up. “Come on,” he presses, his fingertips digging into my skin. “Let’s get you stitched up.”

  I follow his lead. There isn’t another option. Head wounds bleed a lot, and someone’s going to have to clean his mess up. If I live, that someone will be me. This is how you stop the bleeding. “What time is it?”

  “Oh,” he says, half-chuckling. “There’s no need to worry about that. She’s already come and gone.”

  I don’t ask who he’s referring to. I know. Everything in me sinks to the pit of my stomach. It rests there and I let it. I don’t want him to see how deeply I am affected by what he’s done. It’s more dangerous if I let it show. But what I want to happen and what actually does, are two very different things. I know because my body tenses, as it gives over to emotion until eventually it seizes up completely. I don’t mean for it to happen. It has a habit of betraying me, particularly where he is concerned. Your mind may know when something's bad for you. But the body can take a little longer. He knows where to touch me. He knows what to say. Automatic response is powerful, and like I said before, attachment is hard to break.

  He shoves me hard into the wall. I guess I wasn’t listening. I shouldn’t have made a habit of that either. I don’t feel the pain. I don’t feel anything. “Ah, now look what you made me do,” he huffs, running his fingers through his hair. He’s staring at me as though this is the first time he’s seeing me. His face is twisted. He wants me to think he's trying to work out his next move. He isn’t. He’s a planner, through and through.

  Still, he’s good at concealing what he doesn’t want anyone to know. If only I’d been more like that. I wasn't. That's why I don’t know if this is it, if this is the end. I only know where it began.

  “We had an agreement,” he reminds me. And he’s right.

  We did have an agreement.

  That’s how this all started.

  Chapter One

  Josie

  Two months earlier

  The voice comes out of nowhere. I don’t have to turn around to know how unfortunate this situation is. The sound is male, all male, hard and rough. Breathless and edgy. “Give me the purse,” he demands. I exhale slowly. Steady my breathing. Ball my fists. Release them. Flex my fingers. Jesus.

  I turn in disbelief, hoping I’ve heard wrong. The lot was empty, I know. I checked three times. Only it isn’t, at least not anymore, because all of a sudden, here I am, staring down the barrel of a gun. A bad sign if there ever was one in regard to how my day might end. The man who holds it is clothed in black. Also not a good sign. He wears a ski mask that doesn’t conceal his eyes, and he should know that’s where the soul lives. His stance is wide, head tilted, shoulders squared. It’s almost comical, save for the gun pointed at my head, like a scene straight out of a movie. He clears his throat. “I said. Give. Me. The. Purse.”

  I sigh and then I make a move as though I intend to slide it from my sh
oulder. Thankfully, the universe isn’t completely against me—a trash truck, somewhere a block or two over, slams a dumpster back to its rightful place, and for a brief second, his attention is diverted. It helps that he isn’t expecting anything other than compliance. I see it in his soul.

  I twist myself, position my body for maximum effect, and land a blow to his kneecap. It hits just right, and the direct hit, combined with the element of surprise, sends him down. He drops the gun in favor of his knee; that’s where the hands tend to go when you inflict this level of pain from that angle. I know, I learned this where people learn most things these days: on the internet.

  I take a few steps toward him, and I pick up the gun. His eyes widen as I take aim. It’s a dumb move—I don’t even know if it’s loaded. I don’t know the gun; I don’t know important things—like whether the safety is on, what caliber of bullet it holds, or more importantly, what he’d have to do to make me pull the trigger. “Don’t move,” I order. My voice comes out calm, steadier than I feel. But then, I’ve had years of practice in that regard.

  He puts his hands up, and then drops them so he can scoot backward.

  I dig my heel into the pavement, widen my stance. “Take off the mask.”

  He’s slow to move at first, but when I threaten to internet karate chop him again, he gets the message. He removes the mask, and this is how I know the gun is in fact loaded. I smile, thankful I made the right call.

  “Better,” I say.

  “Please,” he begs. He holds his palms upward in my direction. He wants to give me the illusion of control, even though he’s bigger and stronger and likely faster. I grip the gun tighter. It’s nice to have an equalizer. I’m grateful he chose a gun and not a knife because if the latter were the case, I’d have to get closer to him, giving him the advantage in the process. “Please,” he says again. “I have a family.”

  “Most people do.”

  “I…I—” He begins to squirm. Nerves, I presume. That or he’s trying to distract me. Neither are a good choice.

  I deliver another kick, this time to the opposite kneecap, just to ensure he doesn’t move. Then I fish the Altoid I had been digging for from my pocket and slip it onto my tongue. One should always come prepared. He’s whimpering, writhing on the ground, shuffling back and forth from his right side to his left. His pained expression makes him look younger than he is. With his curly hair and jet-black eyes, he isn’t unattractive. It makes me wonder what would have to happen in a person’s life to make it come to this.

  Slowly, I take three steps backward. And then one more just to be sure. “It’s almost Christmas,” I say. “What are you thinking, robbing people at a time like this?”

  He looks at me strangely. Christmas means nothing to him. Also, he thinks I’m an idiot. Christmas, or any other time, really—thieves aren’t selective— is the perfect time to steal what isn’t yours. People are distracted. They let their guards down, all too willing to believe in what’s good. I realize this now.

  “Do you know what could have happened if I’d given you my purse?”

  He furrows his brow and considers my question. He’s expecting a sob story. I don’t look as desperate as I am. Eventually, his face twists as though I’m crazy, and today he isn’t wrong. Finally, he shakes his head.

  “I might have wound up dead. That is—if you didn’t kill me first.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. But it’s a lie, only as sincere as the predicament in which he’s now found himself.

  “Give me one reason I shouldn’t pull the trigger…”

  He doesn’t immediately answer me, and this makes me nervous. Every second counts. I’ve learned this lesson well. “It’s not like it wouldn’t be self-defense.”

  “My grandma,” he says, finally. Before he starts huffing and hawing about his knees again.

  “Your grandma.” I tilt my head. I hadn’t expected that.

  “Yeah, I look after her. She’s blind and bedridden.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “If I don’t go home, no one will find her. Not for days….”

  I reposition the gun, lower it slightly and then raise it again. I look down the barrel and line up the sight. Then I squeeze one eye shut the way they do in the movies. “I don’t believe you.”

  He starts waving his hands. This is his problem in life, I can see. No one taught him how to use words to get what he wants, so he resorts to violence. “She has diabetes. I need the money for insulin.”

  I study him carefully. He has a sense of desperation about him. And not just because I have a gun pointed at his heart. I read about that on the internet, too. Where to aim. Makes it hard to miss. Anyway, I know the look, and somehow I think he might be telling the truth, which makes this situation all the more sad.

  “Fine,” I say. “But prison is going to cost you a lot more than insulin.” I know as the words leave my mouth what I’m saying isn’t altogether true. If he is in fact telling me the truth, not getting the insulin his grandmother needs would have far greater effects than knowing he did what he could and went to jail for it. Either way, he failed. But in his mind, in the latter scenario, at least he would know he’d given it his all. Street credit. That’s his currency.

  I watch as he shifts onto his side. He’s slow and careful about it and still I make sure the gun is trained on him. He reaches into his pocket, and I learn quick— there’s no safety. “Make another move and you’re dead.”

  “Wait,” he calls out, and it’s a piece of paper he’s retrieved, not a weapon. “See—it’s her prescription.”

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” I say. It’s cliché. I feel it as the words float off into the breeze. Look how cliché you’ve become, Josie. But I have to admit, when your life is at stake, sometimes it’s the most logical thing to say.

  I take two more steps backward. It surprises him when I throw my purse at him. He ducks and covers his head.

  “In the right pocket, there’s a hundred-dollar bill. Get it out.”

  His eyes narrow; he’s confused. He reaches for it and pulls it toward him anyway.

  “Not that one,” I nod. “The small pocket.”

  He digs. I look up at the sky and notice the big puffy clouds, the kind the kids and I used to spend hours staring at. We imagined they were dragons and dinosaurs, angels and other things too. I wish I could go back. Back to a time when I wasn’t where I am now, back against the wall, back to when things were idyllic and stable. Even if it was all a facade. You can’t know that you don’t want to know a thing until you already know it. Once it’s there, you can’t erase it. It’s interesting; you don’t realize how you’ll miss stability, predictability even, until the rug is pulled out from under you.

  “Got it,” he calls out. I hear relief in his tone, and I know I will regret this later. There will be hell to pay. I also know I shouldn’t reward a kid who just tried to rob me. But when you’re down on your luck, sometimes it’s good to know others have it worse. Plus, it would have been really bad if I’d had to explain where I was when I lost my purse. I should count my blessings.

  I cock my head. “Slide the purse back.”

  He does, and I use my foot to inch it closer, keeping the gun on him.

  “You almost shot someone’s mother. I hope you think about that tonight when you’re drifting off to sleep.”

  He doesn’t say anything. I can see he doesn’t know what to say.

  “Oh—and you’re going to want to ice those kneecaps.”

  “Thank you…” he says, shoving the money in his pocket.

  “And by the way, I’m keeping this,” I tell him, holding the gun up.

  He sighs heavily, and I can see his weapon was hard to come by. This is both bad and good. Good because it shows he won’t easily be able to get a replacement. Bad because it tells me he needs one. “Turn around.” I use the gun to motion him in the direction I want him to go.

  He scoots around, going counter-clockwise.
“Don’t get up until you no longer hear my engine. Otherwise—I’ll turn right back around and hold you here until the cops show up.”

  “Okay.”

  I bite my lip. It hits me then. The answer to my questions might very well be right in front of me. The simplest answer’s usually the right one. “Let me ask you a question…”

  He glances over his shoulder.

  I tilt my head. “Do you think one has a moral obligation to stop something horrible from happening to another person?”

  His eyes narrow. He thinks I’m referring to this situation. He thinks I’m referring to him. “I don’t know.”

  “You know what I think?”

  He juts out his bottom lip and shakes his head.

  “I think most people would say yes.”

  He shrugs again. “Sounds very philosophical. Where I come from they don’t teach much of that.”

  “Life teaches you,” I say.

  He watches me carefully.

  “But what if that person wronged them? Does the rule still apply?”

  “Rules are rules.” He doesn’t believe his own lie.

  “What about karma? Survival of the fittest?”

  “I think karma has a way of working itself out. I don’t really think you have to help it along…”