Facial

"He's had a bad fucking day, I'll tell you that," Mickey hissed, sneering out his car windshield. He hadn't slept well, had been plagued by nightmares. And Natalie hadn't either. Poor kid, she still wet the bed, and being as Mickey had let her sleep on his lap...suffice to say his morning hadn't gone well either. Especially after getting a text from a friend, letting him know he was being made a fool of.

"Mickey," a hesitant voice piped up from the backseat. Airy and too soft for a man's voice, yet belonging to Mickey's third cousin and buisness buddy in firearms. "It's broad daylight," he informed, somewhat condescending. "Are you really going to bust his face in with two policemen parked right next door?" he chuckled. Like the answer was going to be an obvious no.

"What's your fucking damage? What, I should just let it happen?" Mickey snapped, throwing open the driver's side door, halfway out when the last word fell from his tongue. He slammed the door shut behind him, heard Jessie rustle about. He turned around to the rolled down window and leaned in so fast that he startled the tatted up sum-bag. Looking into wide green eyes, Mickey breathed out abrupt and heavy. "Fucking stay put," he bit out, slightly more friendly. Then turned on his heel and straightened out his shirt collar. Undid his duster and threw it atop the car. Mickey rolled his shoulder and cracked his neck as Jessie rolled up the window, muttering curses. Mickey ignored the obvious disagreement and marched onward.

It was daylight all right. Bright and hot for a late winter day. Spring would happen early this year, Mickey figured. So sunny that he could practically feel his nose burning.

Cracking his knuckles, Mickey walked across the street, onto the sidewalk. He reached out and grabbed the handle to his wife's buisness and yanked open the spa door, sucking in a deep breath for preparation. Regardless of holding his breath, Mickey could smell the oils and incense. Thick in the air, trying to mask the smell of pussy and jizz. As if the local law enforcement was stupid enough to believe this establishment was anything other than a whore house full of Russian illegals and their Johns.

"Mister Milkovich!" Joy, the receptionist greeted, bubbly and smiling with all of her horse teeth. Sat there in a skimpy teal dress, bleach blonde hair pinned up in a mock beehive. Mickey wasn't sure how she even made him out; her eyes had to be long blind due to all of the shit caked on them. And he made sure to stand a few feet away because of this bitch's breath. Methed out teeth and rot were the culprit.

The lobby was a tight squeeze. Painted white to try and give the appearance of cleanliness and room. Navy and wooden seats lined the wall behind him. Tables holding magazines and mostly empty ashtrays. Pictures cluttering the walls with all of the currently employed certified "massage therapists." Which was just a ruse for prostitute selection. Cleaned up so that the pigs with their pretty badges couldn't actually prove what they knew.

"She here?" Mickey growled back, constant asshole face in check.

Instantly, Joy wound down. Sucking her injected lips, she nodded. "She," Joy cleared her throat, "is in a meeting."

"Yeah right," Mickey huffed. He stomped past the desk, ignoring Joy's pleas for him to wait.

Adjacent the front desk was a long hallway, lined with door and rooms. At the end was an emergency exit. Mickey stopped halfway down the hall, ears following the sounds of Svetlana's voice. Standing still, hand on the door knob, Mickey listened for his queue. At the groan of whoever was in there with her, Mickey yanked open the door and barged in.

Sure enough, there she was, bent over the goddamed massage table, skirt up over her shocked face. Plowing into her was the exact man Mickey'd been expecting. Face just as surprised as he began pulling away from Svetlana, hands going toward the pants wrapped around his ankles.

Rage bubbled up in Mickey and he acted quick. Lunged forward and grabbed the bastard, flung him into the table of oils and reading material. He straddled him and punched his face a few times. Mickey couldn't hear Svetlana begging him to calm down because the blood pumping in his ears was far too loud. Her voice might as well be a fly buzzing behind his ear. One more hit and blood splattered in the other man's sweaty, blond curls. Mickey stopped, panting. He sat up and wiped his bloody knuckles on his plaid shirt tail. Watched, pleased, as his victim spat out a tooth beneath him.

At some point during the beating, the doorway gained an audience. And also, Svetlana had gotten enough composure to stand up and beat against Mickey's shoulders with open palms. To which she gave one last smack as she slid on her ass, legs out on both sides awkwardly. Crying. Not from sadness, but more out of defeat. She did that a lot. Cried when she was mad and bested.

Mickey just sat there and breathed, not flinching at the smacks.

At least his wife kept this shit in the family, Mickey laughed to himself when his older brother coughed blood beneath him. Mickey stood up fluidly, letting Svetlana fall forward and tend to the wounded asshole. Meanwhile, he looked back at the crowd of scared women.

"Somebody get me a goddamned towel," Mickey said, feeling much better now.

Two hours later and he was still feeling like a huge weight was lifted from his shoulders. Elbows propped on the table, he stared across at Svetlana. She was basically playing with her food. The woman hadn't looked up from the plate since Gina sat it in front of her thirty minutes ago.

"Toss me the salt?" Mickey asked, the sound of his voice almost startling in such thick tension. He continued staring at her until she finally looked up.

She had wiped her face clean of gunk. Tied her hair back and put on a bathrobe. Naked lips pursed, Svetlana glared at Mickey. Rattled off something in Russian before sliding the salt violently into his waiting hand. "You are a piece," she snarked, shaking her head violently. She pushed a stray hair from her eyes.

Her English was still off and made Mickey snort. "And you're fucking golddigging whore," he smiled brightly at her. Drummed his fingers on the table, then said, "Pepper?"

This time the glass vial flew past Mickey's head and broke against the wall. He narrowly dodged it, eyes wide and face furious as he watched the pepper cloud about before falling into the broken glass.

Fortunately Natalie was with the still unfired nanny at the park.

"Aye!" Mickey bellowed, turning back, mouth agape. "What the fuck, Svetlana?"

She stood up, tossed her napkin down definitely. Stern, yet with her voice lowered, she harped, "You have no right to barge in my shop and scare my girls!"

Mickey rubbed his mouth, held his chin, and stared up at her, eye twinkling because he'd been waiting for this blow up for a long time coming. "Your shop?" Mickey began. "Your girls?" He looked off at the window, curtains thankfully drawn. "Don't you mean my shop? My girls," he said. "Because I risked everything!" he boomed, vein popping out on his neck, "to turn that place around. To help you out, give you what you wanted and stop the abuse. But make no mistake, that place belongs to me since Terry's out of the equation. Not you," He turned to face her, seeing red and trying to hold back. "Do not," he warned, "disrespect me like you just did. I've got a fucking image to uphold. If I catch you and Sasquatch even breathing the same air," he trailed. Breathed and shook his head.

"Someone has to touch me!" she yelled out.

"Well it ain't going to be fucking Colin!" Mickey came back, nearly interrupting her. His face must have scared her because Svetlana lost some of her resolve. "Now sit the fuck down," Mickey said, lowering his voice, still full of resentment, "and eat."

And so she did.