Read Online Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games by Jeff Menapace - Free Book Online

Mike Tyson. “Okay?” Patrick said.
    She did not break his gaze, but her shoulders dropped. “Fine. What are we going to tell the kids?”
    “You mean Carrie.”
    “Well— and Caleb.” She sighed. “But, yes … Carrie.”
    Patrick took a deep breath, let it out slow. “Well for starters we don’t tell her about the antifreeze. We simply tell her that Oscar was old, and …” He took another deep breath. “And that it was just his time, I guess.”
    Amy pulled a face. “Old? He had the energy of a jumping bean.”
    “Honey, he was a stray. We never did find out how old he actually was.”
    “He wasn’t old enough to die of natural causes.”
    “Well, yeah, you and I know that. But Carrie doesn’t have to.”
    Amy’s shoulders dropped some more and her eyes finally settled. “I know.”
    “We’ll tell her that Oscar was old, it was his time, and that he’ll be waiting for her at Rainbow Bridge.”
    “Where?”
    “I’ll find it online when we get home. It’s a beautiful little piece written by an anonymous author about what happens to pets when they die. It gets me choked up every time I read it.” He then added quickly: “But not in a sad way. In a happy way. You’ll understand when you read it.”
    Amy sighed. “Okay. Why don’t I drop you off at home, you can find the Rainbow Bridge thing, and I’ll go pick up the kids at your parents’.”
    “Sounds good.” He held out his hand. She took it, squeezed it, but did not move into him.
    “I still can’t believe this,” she said.
    He did not pull her in, just squeezed back and shared her grief with a sympathetic smile. “I know. I can’t either.”
     
    *
     
    Monica sat in the waiting room, a magazine covering her face. The door to the small white room opened and both Patrick and Amy stepped out. The receptionist offered her condolences as they left.
    Monica set the magazine on the chair next to her and approached the receptionist. “Sad,” she said.
    The receptionist, a heavy young girl in blue scrubs, nodded with genuine compassion and said, “Yeah.”
    “Lost their dog, huh?” Monica said.
    The receptionist nodded.
    Monica smiled inside. “Shame,” she said.
    “Yeah,” the receptionist whined. “I can’t imagine what I’d do if something happened to my baby.”
    “Me neither,” Monica said for some reason.
    “What kind of dog do you have?”
    “Pug,” popped into her head.
    “Me too.” The receptionist’s face brightened. “Boy or girl?”
    “Girl.”
    “ Me too. ” The receptionist was giddy now. “She’s the most precious thing in the whole world. Her name’s Sophia. What about yours?”
    Monica wanted to hit her. To hurt her. This exchange they were having. This … exchange … as though they were the same species.
    “Cunt,” Monica said.
    The receptionist stopped smiling. Softly, she said, “What?”
    Monica was not smiling, nor was she brooding. She spoke in a calm, confident manner that held the strange blend of patronizing courtesy. “Cunt,” she said again.
    The young girl flushed, spoke softer still. “I don’t understand.”
    “What don’t you understand?”
    “Weren’t you … weren’t you just telling me the name … ?”
    “The name of what?”
    The receptionist cleared her throat, her fair skin looking suddenly scorched by the sun. “The name of your pug.”
    “I don’t have a pug.”
    “I thought you said—”
    “I don’t have a pug.”
    The receptionist broke eye contact, feigned interest in a stack of papers in front of her. Quickly, she said, “Okay, well you have a good day then.”
    Monica stayed put. The receptionist kept her head down, shuffling the papers aimlessly like an anxious child might twist a lock of hair. She risked a peek up without lifting her head.
    Monica was still staring at her.
    The receptionist dropped her head into the papers again. There was a silver bell on the counter. Monica hit it and the receptionist jumped. She then started to cry—silent