Chapter 34 – Alan's Lament: My Wife Doesn't Love Men Anymore! Sean's Worry: Don't Slam Into the Concrete!
After ending the call and carefully covering his tracks, Sean handed the phone back to Alan, his fingertips flicking across the keypad to erase the number without hesitation.
Sean's knuckles paled, his movement carrying unquestionable decisiveness.
Better safe than sorry; with Alan's nosy curiosity, the guy might dial that unfamiliar number the instant he saw it.
Sean was confident he could handle any mess, but he would never allow a potential problem to fester—that nagging worry would grind away every ounce of patience.
Rather than wait passively—restlessly guessing when the other side might come knocking.
Or round some dark corner and stare down a gun barrel, forcing him to meet violence with violence—he preferred to strike first.
He would snuff out every potential threat, like crushing a smoldering cigarette butt, before it could even spark.
Sean leaned against the Volvo's worn leather seat, eyes on the street sliding past the window.
Anyone who's watched enough TV knows bad guys love sending wave after wave of goons.
Even if the hero always survives, the endless harassment is as maddening as a mosquito buzz you can't swat away.
Besides, suppose Leonard's guys botch the job—so what?
Who in the underworld isn't up to their neck in enemies?
Gang violence is just part of their daily reality.
And who would instantly put a cop at the top of the suspect list?
They'd pin it on whichever rival gang is breathing down their necks—that's practically Street Rule Number One.
A dull thud came from the trunk; Alan, finished stowing his things, climbed into the driver's seat.
He sighed, weariness written across his face, turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life.
The dark-gray Volvo sedan rolled away from the soccer field in Sherman Oaks, leaving the children's shouts behind.
Merging into traffic, Alan gripped the wheel, knuckles whitening, staring straight ahead. After a moment he spoke, awkward concern creeping in:
"How's Vanessa doing at your place? I haven't seen her or Sophia in forever."
Judith had kicked him out recently, and the brutal divorce proceedings had consumed him; he'd nearly forgotten about this close cousin.
Seeing Sean now, that thin family connection surfaced, and he asked about Vanessa.
"What can be done?"
Sean glanced sideways at Alan, tone flat yet tinged with resignation:
"Her husband has the same issue Judith has; I'm hiring lawyers to handle her divorce."
The unspoken words—sexual orientation confusion—hung in the air; Alan caught them instantly.
The remark stabbed through his forced calm. He sucked in a sharp breath, cheeks tightening, voice climbing with bottled-up grievance:
"Vanessa's lucky! She's got a brother like you helping, and a sweet daughter like Sophia with her…"
Words tumbled faster, a dam bursting:
"Me? I worked eleven years at that chiropractic clinic! All I wanted was a stable home, a decent life! And now?"
He slapped the wheel; the horn yelped:
"Kicked out! A freeloader, crashing at Charlie's place with Jake on weekends! Even Mr. Whiskers—Jake's hamster—died! And the worst part is…"
Alan's voice shook with indignation:
"Even my wife doesn't love men anymore!"
Sean stayed silent; he felt the car accelerate, the engine's roar swelling inside the cabin.
Casually he lifted his right hand, grabbed the overhead handle, knuckles whitening.
The speed limit was thirty; the needle was kissing fifty.
Scenery blurred into gray-green streaks outside the window.
He had to say something comforting—at this rate Alan might floor it straight into a wall.
"Since it's already happened…"
Sean waited for the outburst to ebb, voice level, eyes on Alan's foot on the gas:
"…we can only accept it and move forward. If you need—" he paused, tone sincere:
"I can hire a lawyer for you, help you fight this divorce."
Listening to Alan's tear-soaked complaints, Sean felt genuine pity; the guy might be neurotic, but he didn't deserve total destruction.
Imagining Alan facing some predatory divorce attorney alone, Sean figured he ought to step in.
Otherwise, with Charlie possibly interfering for his own amusement, Alan was one step from financial ruin.
Alan's ragged breathing slowed; his white-knuckled grip loosened.
He eased off the gas; the Volvo decelerated, tension leaking from the cabin, and Sean's pulse leveled out.
He was in good shape, not invincible—if Alan rammed a semi, Sean would still be just as dead.
Yet you couldn't entirely blame Alan; Charlie represents the dream most men carry, but only a lucky few ever get to live it.
Youth vanishes: alarm clocks, a nagging spouse, kids screaming—then one bleary morning you stand before a wrinkled work shirt in the mirror and realize you've become Alan.
A tired father's laments, life's helplessness. Jake in the back heard none of it.
Sprawled in his seat, earbuds plugged into an iPod, loud music walling him off; only the wind through the cracked window ruffled his hair.
Sean's offer warmed Alan—gratitude flickered—yet stubborn pride crushed it.
Alan pressed his lips together, declined the help, muttered, "I'll handle it myself," and fixed his eyes on the road.
"All right. Just ask if you need me."
Since Alan refused, Sean dropped it; pushing harder would cheapen the gesture—he just hoped Alan wouldn't stumble into another incompetent lawyer.
Most people would jump at free legal help, but Alan's thinking rarely followed normal logic.
Pride might block a generous offer, yet a tiny perceived slight could trigger him:
Obsess over thirty-eight dollars Charlie supposedly owes him from years ago.
So Sean's assessment of Alan:
A man warped by a toxic childhood—domineering mother, absent father—into a timid, neurotic, self-loathing pushover, hopeless at adulting and addicted to dependency.
He kowtowed to Judith, let her drain him financially, too passive to fight back;
he over-protected Jake, forfeiting any parental authority;
he chased women desperately for validation (and sex), only to be used and rejected, his desperation repelling them—an endless cycle of misery.
After a tense ride they reached Charlie's oceanfront villa in Malibu; the Volvo rolled to a stop in the driveway.
Jake sprang like a jack-in-the-box, door banging open, soccer ball under his arm, charging for the downstairs bathroom.
Water thundered on, sealing the world away.
In the rising steam, scrubbing quickly, Jake's mind boiled down to one thought:
Apple pie with ice cream, or McDonald's apple pie with ice cream?
The sting of losing the game 12-2 had long since sunk to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
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