11/13/12

More Than Just Friends
By John Laneri


The last time I saw Cheryl was two years ago when she worked as a legal assistant for Faulkner and Brown. As best I could remember, she had suddenly moved out of town, so I eventually lost track of her until moments ago when I saw her window shopping.

“Cheryl?” I asked, turning her way.

She looked up, her green eyes sparkling pleasantly. “Why Jason Thorne... what a nice surprise.”

We talked briefly then I suggested lunch. And before long, we sitting at a table, looking at one another, recalling the years.

She asked, “Do you still work as an investigator?

I indicated yes then went on to ask, “How long have you been in town?”

“Only for a couple of weeks. I'm working for a different firm now.”

“Do you still see your old boss, Greg Faulkner?”

She looked away, her manner suddenly subdued. “Not since I left town.”

Naturally, my need to know instinct spiked, but she seemed hesitant to discuss the subject, so I reached for a menu and let the matter pass, remembering they had once been an item. By then, I was ready for my usual load of fries with a large, bacon cheeseburger.

Several nights later, she phoned wanting to see me. An hour later, she arrived at my condo looking a shade above roadkill.

“Please hold me,” she said, as she hurried to me and laid her head against my chest. “I need to be with someone close.”

Right off, I noticed an ugly contusion around her eye and a cut on her lip. “Who did this?”

“It’s not important,” she replied softly. “Let me stay tonight. I can't go back to my apartment.”

I pressed her for details. But, she simply headed to the couch, curled into a ball and drifted off to sleep, leaving me to wonder if her beating had come from the hand of Greg Faulkner.

The next morning while I was brewing coffee, she padded into the kitchen. “I like your couch. I could have slept there all morning.” She stopped beside me and looked over my shoulder. “That's what I need. I hope it's strong.”

“It usually melts paint... By the way, you need to file a formal complaint against Faulkner.

She looked at me, surprised. “How'd you know it was Greg.”

“Simple logic,” I replied as I grabbed a box of cereal from the pantry. “He needs to be held accountable for his actions.”

“But, I can't prove anything.”

“Your apartment complex might have surveillance cameras. At least, you could prove he was there.”

She poured some coffee. “If my face is any indication, he'll eventually kill someone.”

The bruising did look bad. “Maybe, you should see a doctor."

She chuckled at my suggestion. “I saw a doctor at the emergency room. He said, give it time."

“Why did you bother to see Faulkner in the first place?”

She sipped on her coffee then said, “He came to my apartment unannounced. I only opened the door an inch before he barged in and pushed me around then hit me in the face two or three times before leaving in a rage.”

I set a couple of cereal bowls on the table. “Try to eat something.”

“I'm not hungry. Do you have any yogurt?”

“Never touch the stuff,” I replied, as I offered her some toast.

She nibbled on a piece then nudged my leg. “Let's have lunch today. I'll buy, if you'll eat something low fat.”

“Forget it, I like the way I eat.”

“But, that hamburger you had for lunch the other day was big enough to send a person to an early grave. Guys as charming as you should really take better care of themselves.”

Later that morning, I followed her home, still smiling from her compliment. After checking out her apartment, I headed to the management office at the complex where I hoped to secure proof that Faulkner had actually been on the premises.

For lunch, we met at a salad bar where she detailed Faulkner's nasty habit of using women for punching bags. When she was through, it was obvious that the man was a woman's worst nightmare, especially when he used his money and connections to slip through the legal system and avoid all reprisals.

“I take it that you were an earlier victim.”

“The last time I saw him, he broke my nose and fractured two ribs only because I was determined to end our affair. A few days later, I moved away just to protect myself.”

“I would have gladly come to your rescue. We were friends.”

“I know we were. You were always very special to me. But at the time, I was too scared to think straight.”

“Oh... by the way, the apartment people are holding a time stamped, surveillance video showing our man outside your apartment building.”

She touched my hand, letting it linger warmly. “That's wonderful.” She chuckled confidently. “This morning I went to Greg's office for a serious talk. While there, I phoned a friend's recorder and forgot to end the call.” She reached into her purse. “The recording tells it all, and it's crystal clear.”

After listening to the conversation I laughed heartedly. To me, it was obvious that Faulkner was about to get his butt kicked before he knew the shoe had ever left the ground.

After lunch, we walked hand in hand along a street teeming with small shops. From time to time, we caught ourselves looking into one another's eyes. Later, we shared a frozen yogurt, which I have to admit it was not bad.

By then, I knew that a romantic spark was beginning to ignite our friendship. And truthfully, I think it had always been there, smoldering quietly, waiting for us to became more than just friends.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.