Frank’s shoulder and right foot hurt real bad from kicking that fuckin’ door in. Hadn’t been as fuckin’ easy as William Hurt had made it look in Body Heat. And Kathleen Turner wasn’t standing by the stairs, waiting for him. Instead Karen had bolted out the back door.
That final kick had made everything he ever did in professional football feel like nothing. Might have broken something, but even that pain was fuck all compared to what he felt in his heart.
Karen with another man, suckin’ face like that? How would she have put it? It was a sight he simply couldn’t bear. Sure, he’d let that witch Marie pour enough booze down his throat to sink a fuckin’ ship and seduce him, but Karen was…elegant, fine, pure. Like his grandma’s china that he’d loved as a kid, but broken.
Karen. How the fuck was he supposed to live without Karen?
Tortured, it took him awhile to notice that the guy, who was shaking like a little kid, was also backing toward the rear door. Pretty boy. Unlike Frank, this guy had no scar on his face. But he was scrawny so fugettaboudit. Frank knew he could tackle him easy. Naked pretty boy. Frank found himself comparing dick sizes. No contest. But somethin’ about that pretty-boy face. Did Frank know this guy? Yet he knew he’d never met Karen’s “friend” Martin. She’d told him about him, sure. Karen was like that, totally honest. She’d even told him where Martin lived. Not the exact address, but close enough that Frank could tail her to it.
Frank took a giant step toward the rear door.
Martin froze. “I can explain!”
“Yeah, and I’ll have it to you by the end of the week.”
Frank scratched his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I know. I know it was due before but….very special circumstances!”
Fuckin’ guy looked like he was about to break out in tears. Something about that voice, that British accent. Frank recognized this guy from somewhere.