Carmen Colangelo never made a promise he didn’t keep, especially a threat, which is why Gavin is fucked.
“So what’s your New Year’s resolution?” asks Gavin’s fiancé Jennifer, in the hotel ballroom.
“To wake up tomorrow,” he wants to say.
“My dentist has been busting my balls for years to stop chewing ice, so I guess that’s it.”
“Stop chewing ice? Is that the worst flaw you can come up with?”
“I’m sure you have a long list of better ones for me,” he replies.
“Perhaps, but now that you mention it, you do chew on ice a lot.”
“It’s just a bad habit I picked up; however, there are some good things about it. When I am in an uncomfortable situation, with no way to escape, I can still crush ice between my teeth and relieve a little tension.”
“You mean an uncomfortable situation like now?”
Gavin spits an ice cube from his mouth and watches it slide across the table into her lap.
“No. I’m quite comfortable now,” he says, as he scoots his chair next to hers and places his hand on her thigh under the table.
“In fact, I feel like I am almost home.”
He drags his hand up to the edge of her panties.
“Not yet,” she says and tries to quench his dry finger’s thirst with the melting ice cube—it doesn’t work.
They both laugh, until he notices it is only thirty minutes before midnight.
“Let’s dance,” she says and stands up.
She takes Gavin by the hand and leads him out on the floor. She holds him close to her warm, solid body. Jennifer is a tall, athletic brunette with long never-ending legs. She could probably kick his ass if she wanted to, yet she is elegant and sexy as hell. Gavin honestly thinks she is out of his league—not that he ever had much of one to begin with. It feels like he is floating in her arms, and he tries to enjoy it, but keeps wondering if he should be somewhere else.
Gavin works as a reporter, and he uncovered a drug operation that appears to have ties to Mr. Colangelo. Of course, his lawyers and his cops, on his payroll, will get him off the hook, but Gavin stepped on his toes too hard this time. Mr. Colangelo came into Gavin’s office yesterday and tried to pay him to shut up, but when Gavin wouldn’t take his money, Mr. Colangelo said he would kill him before the New Year.
Gavin wasn’t scared at the time because he was proud of himself for standing up to him…but that fantasy is gone now. Mr. Colangelo pretty much runs the town, and there is no place he can hide. Gavin figured his best chance was to stay in a public place tonight. He would shit his pants barricaded in his apartment. He does own a gun, but he is more comfortable talking his way out of messes and sticking close to stronger people, which might be why he found some comfort near his robust fiancé, along with her gun-cocked perky tits.
It’s five minutes before midnight, and Gavin scans the room for any threats. He and Jennifer accidentally bump into another dancing couple, and Gavin feels something sharp jab his back. He jumps and looks for blood, but sees nothing. It must have been the woman’s ring or bracelet.
“You OK?” asks Jennifer.
“Yes, just a little jumpy.”
“You want a drink?”
“Sure.”
“How about a drink with ice to chew on? It will be the last time, right?”
“Sounds good,” he says, while still glancing back and forth across the room. Gavin wipes sweat from his forehead and feels like there is a target painted on his chest. He wants to scream, “Just fucking shoot me you motherfucker!”
Jennifer returns as people begin to count down, “59, 58, 57, 56…”.
Gavin grabs the glass and looks at the ice. Like snowflakes, there are no two ice cubes exactly alike, and cubes made from distilled water are the clearest of all; however, he has bigger concerns right now than the clarity of ice cubes, so he take a big sip and chomps down.
“30, 29, 28, 27…”
The crunching of ice is soothing until his mouth and throat burn. Writhing in pain, Gavin chokes and drops his glass to the floor, causing it to shatter. He feels inside his mouth, and his finger goes right through the middle of his tongue.
O god…Fuck! Shit! Fuck! It’s fucking acid!
“14, 13, 12, 11…”
Gavin stumbles to a nearby table and rinses his mouth out with water as fast as he can. His throat is also on fire, so he grabs a pitcher full of water and start gulping, the excess spilling over the side.
He tries to take a step, but his legs do not respond. Gravity pulls him down face first, and his head bounces off the fucking floor.
“Call 911!” someone yells, over the noise of cheers for the New Year.
O Shit. Goddamit. I can’t move my arms! I can’t move anything! O Shit. Shit. Jesus. Fuck. Was there poison too? O god. Jesus Christ. Fuck. I am numb.
“It’s going to be alright,” a stranger’s voice says. “Just stay calm. Help is on the way.”
“Jenn…ifer,” he barely gets out.
“I’m here,” she says, walking up to him wearing a gold ankle bracelet, he’d never noticed before, with a sparkling dollar sign dangling from it.
She leans over, chewing ice, and whispers, “Happy New Year, from Carmen Colangelo.”
***
Chad Haskins lives in Newnan, Georgia with his wife and two sons. Chad’s writing has appeared, or is forthcoming in Rose and Thorn Journal, Blue Collar Review, Untitled Country Review, Pure Slush, The 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly, drown in my own fears, Powder Burn Flash, Yellow Mama, Golden Sparrow Literary Review, Dark River Magazine, and Flashes in the Dark.
