Wolves Hunt in Blue Night

*Warnings: Strong language, blood, abuse*

Myers pulled up in a midnight blue Aston Martin on a crisp morning at the beginning of October. Fall leaves crunched under young tires. The purr of the engine alone sneered at my bathrobe and slippers from the clearance section. Myers hadn't told me why he wanted me on the driveway, but he had giggled every time he dodged my questions. There was a rough year without work for him. But now, with three years tenure under his belt, the returns were racing in. It was small things at first. We were both afraid to indulge. But as Myers' suits got more costly and dry clean only, he relished in the longer leash. Steakhouses. Real leather belts. He whisked me away one weekend to a vineyard in Italy, where we stayed dizzy all day and night.

It was selfish to think it was anything for me. His toothy grin infected me as he stepped out the car in his designer clothes. I bounced to his side. He grabbed me by my waist and twirled me round. Taking my hand as a prince does a princess, he led me to the passenger door and to eased me onto the supple seats, low enough to feel the motor in my stomach.

When we returned from the joyride, the police were at our door.

Myers ushered me past them, his hand tight on my hip. The sharp air puckered my skin as I waited on the couch. The wind of a coming storm shadowed their voices. There were cups of coffee on a tray before I realized what I was doing, but the police were gone by the time the sugar was in the dish and cream in the tureen. Myers' chilled hand on my stomach made me gasp. His lips made a home for themselves on the crook of my neck.

"What happened?"

"A hit and run." His sigh flittered my hair. "A girl died. Witness said the car looked like mine, but it wasn't."

I lifted my arm to cradle his head from behind. The front grill of that truck had made sure my mother's funeral was closed casket. When I breathed deep, the smell of my bathrobe, the coffee, and Myers' limited edition cologne softened the itch black dress I had worn, the pinch of the Mary-Janes. All but two cups went down the sink. I settled Myers on the couch before curling next to him, drinks perfectly lukewarm. Myers' arm slithered across my shoulders and I massaged his hands to rid them of the last of their shakes.

That car made Myers more confident and made me less and less of a confidant. Before that trip to Italy, half the fun was the planning, choosing the cheese we wanted with our breakfast, what song we wanted to serenade us at dinner. Rings randomly appeared. Bracelets broke in to be found in the morning. My ears were perked, always braced for every well-meaning surprise. The Ashton lorded in the driveway for a date I had to rush to get ready for, cancel my own plans to accommodate. I was assaulted by stones, strong armed to candle-lit dinners.

I couldn't say a word against it all. Every gift was Myers' generosity, his apology for those years when things were tight, his love in the form of pointed gems and silk skirts. There was pride in providing for me, a well-stocked man and a deer on the table.

I was alone outside a restaurant because Myers wouldn't valet. Not even I could move the Aston to get to our little gym in the garage. My newly gifted heels bit at my ankles like Mary-Janes. I eyed every passerby because every passerby was eyeing me. With a light, I would have been a disco ball. In the dark, I was dirty, waiting for the man who was paying for my doe eyes, for the jewelry, the hair, the dress. The pressure intensified as the woman in black stood over my shoulder. Her gaze honey and barbs as it analyzed my acrylics, my earrings, all my other accouterment. The Aston growled from across the street.

A hand attacked, attaching itself to my forearm. Broken nails carved crescents into my skin. Her black dress scratched my side as she seethed into my ear, close enough to smell the alcohol, see the tears fogging her eyes.

"I knew it. You bitch. How dare you sleep with that murderer. That monster who left her there do die with her blood still warm on the grill."

She did not make a scene. As Myers made the Aston roar again and again, she spoke low and sure and spiteful, satisfied by the stutter on my lips, the shock stilling me on the sidewalk. My monkey's paw wish was granted. The strangers stares ceased. Her civil tone made us invisible. All the while, her grip bruised, her lip curled, her spit flew.

"It's your fault. You made him careless. You made him a coward. My daughter is dead because he wanted you give you a nice ride."

A paper, soft with love, was injected into my hand. The spell broke. I snapped my arm back, snapped my heart back to the sidewalk, my shoes' pinch, the sneer of the Aston's serrated purr.

The next day, when Myers was at work and the Aston was not curled, waiting like any good thing with teeth, I went to the mall. Even the hallway of the stores listed on my husband's card history were whiter, cleaner, waxier. The stores gushed over my smooth, sweet husband, intimate with him. They knew my birthstone, my bust size, my autumnal complexion. Myers' money was legitimate and well-loved. They tell me I must be, too.

The house has grown cold and sharp as the diamonds I never asked for. Myers' has spoiled it, too, with a backyard fire pit and fine antiques. I am shown of with the wallpaper when his colleges dine over, a stuffed body in the hall with coffee on a tray. Myers' won't love me because he does not want to ruin the imported sheets. He whispers to me that I am beautiful just lying next to him. A store attendant dresses a mannequin with more tenderness than I have felt in months. I dry out; the Aston's seat stay supple.

Today is a rare day when the Aston and I are alone. A party on a colleague's yacht scared Myers with the seawater and seagull shit. He leaves with the keys anyways.

In the garage, the Aston and I stand off. I hesitate because the treadmill faces away from the beast, something that sound alarms off in my mind, in the bottom of my gut. The blue is dark and deep and my reflection is inhumane across the contours of the hood. It is still shiny and new and Myers must love it for that, the same reason he avoid my gaze across the dinner table my mother gifted us.

Myers left with the keys. I put on my headphones. I walk to the recording a girlfriend's girlfriend sent me of the local police scanner from the first week of last October. It is mostly silence, where is the pounding of my feet, the hum of the lights, the chrome glare from over my shoulder. Chatter explodes at random. I rewind again and again until I am sure the mumbled words are not what I am anxious for them to be. I walk, going nowhere, intruding on second hand grief in the form of codes and cups of coffee and the cries of people under the bored police garble.

Its inevitable my toe catches. The only response to my screeches is my own startled bleat, the slap of my hands against the floor, the clatter of my phone falling out of my reach.

In a flash, I am under its mouth. My arm disappears into the void of its underbelly as it hunches over me. Rows of silver teeth, pitch black paws, shimmering skin. Warm breath tickles my cheek. I am frozen. My own heart has given up on me, my brain surrendered in animal instinct.

There is an eye in the grill.

Wide whites. Wet lashes. A shade of green I recognize from the soft photo, hidden in a box of tampons. She is slow as she reaches through the metal, broken wrist, a bracelet of bloody stones. The glass stuck in her fingertips scratch my arm as she drifts her hand across the length of my arm, petting me. It's soothing. My lungs relax into function. Her nails are a lovely shade of baby-doll pink. She twirls her fingers in my hair, highlighting it back to how I had it a decade ago, before I had to look good in white.

Her eyes tick to a point, my gaze drifts along. There, just under the logo, is a spot too dark to be rust.

The Aston bellows.

Brights blare. It bucks, smoking and frothing. The tires bite forward. It nips at my legs. Burning rubber and gasoline. I writhe out of the way as it prowls, cooking me with fumes, drowning me with its sound. The heat of its stomach broils my outstretched arm before two pale hands dig crystal shards into skin and lift. Together, I lurch up, a patch of my skull screaming as my hair remains trapped under its tires.

I leap out of the way just as the Aston pounces. It snaps up the treadmill with a crush as I go flush against the wall. Claw marks of black are smeared into the floor as it reverses, fuming. I don't stop until the cool air cradles me, by back against the walnut door.

I can still hear the Aston raging. The garage door bows out against its blows. The shrill scrapping as it struggles at the walls of its enclosure. Not a light on the street turns on. Little dots of blood bead and burst, running rivets of rose down my arm. It is tender to the busies under my long sleeved shirt.

There are girls out alone, and deer in streets, and women in marriages and we all trust the gleam in the dark, blue night until far too late.