The delivery man for Peking Chinese Restaurant was a forgetful but kind spirit, so forgetful that he never gave Chloe her complementary fortune cookies when he dropped her order off, so kind that passing by her house again, twenty minutes later, he recalled and decided to correct the error. Yet Chiwen, the upright man, faithful in both small and large matters, was too good.

In his honesty, he could never see through the lies of others.

So when Kai Ling intercepted him in the driveway, Chiwen believed what he was told. Here was the young miss’s sweetheart. What a happy fortune! The late date now had a bag of cookies to help win back the graces of his love. Chiwen drove away happy, his conscience clear, never knowing a deceitful man had taken his place. For, Ling knew how to lie. He’d covered for his brother countless times.

Easily Kai gained Chloe’s trust once she opened the door. True, he wasn’t the same delivery man—they’d changed shifts—and lucky for her or she’d never of gotten her cookies, not out of Chiwen the lazy bum. He made her laugh in a barrage of bad English, his silver tongue tripping over words in the purpose and liveliness of a likeable scoundrel. She had no idea that he was casing the place, steering the conversation, looking for an advantage—one quickly found.

“Your boyfriend eat fast, you too! No talk, just eat…he leave? Was the food that good or boyfriend that bad?” He teased motioning to the blown out candles. He noticed that the table was set for two, yet only one plate held food, a set of chopsticks lying broken beside it.

“No, you have it all wrong,” she said, “Brady’s very good—I think--he’s late. I was waiting for him, so I haven’t actually eaten yet.”

“Ah, so you did not break chopsticks eating fast,” he continued to tease, his pantomime causing her to giggle.

“No, I was practicing. Um…it didn’t go very well.”

Ling nodded then made to leave, but stopped at the door. “I have chopsticks, in car. I will get them. ”

“No, no, don’t. That’s ok. I’ll just break those too. I’m horrible.”

“Late boyfriend, horrible. You need to eat. I teach you.” And before she had a chance to refuse, he whisked off running to his car, retrieving a single pair of chopsticks (in reality, they were Knife’s bamboo knitting needles, but desperate times call for desperate measures…). He was back before she thought of locking the door.

Then he grasped her hand guiding her to the table with all the positive energy of a parent offering his infant her first jar of baby food, beets. Chloe hated beets. But, he was too cute to refuse and she didn’t want to be rude.

“Don’t you have to work?” She asked offering him a plate before opening up a white carton of beef lomein. Without thinking, she picked up a fork.

“You are my last delivery.”

“But it’s only six o’clock. And you said you just started.” She dished some noodles onto her plate and then onto his, but he stopped her hand. Smiling in apology, he took away her fork and replaced it with the set of chopsticks.

“My car broke down, third time this week!” He winked then forked himself a generous lump of noodles, “My uncle, my boss, very cheap. I need a new car. No room for deliveries. I think tonight, he say ‘yes’.”

“Oh so that’s how it is! And here I thought you were being charitable” Chloe grinned making a half-hearted attempt at using her chopsticks. She got three quarters of the way to her mouth before the lomein dropped. “Argh! See I can’t do it! It’s hopeless! I need a fork.” She extended the utensils, “Let’s just trade back, I’m tired of trying.”

In answer, he rose from his chair to walk towards her. Gently, he took her hand and positioned the chopsticks correctly. “You have the wrong thoughts. Trying is everything.” His voice came soft, seductive. She could feel his breath against her cheek. She felt his warmth, his hand lingering upon hers. A part of her wanted to lean into his scent, apricot sweet, but the look in his eyes…

He held the moment too long. She broke away, with effort. And he knew that she knew who he was.

Barely, he held on to the pretense. “The trouble with a fork,” he explained in perfect English, taking his seat and spearing a water chestnut “is that the food sticks.” He shook the chestnut, but it held fast to the fork. “If I pick up something I don’t like, I can’t let it go…like I can with chopsticks,” he ate the chestnut, then smiled, “now you try.”

Chloe couldn’t tear her gaze away from his. His eyes were so dark, so…lost. She wanted to speak, but her mouth had gone dry. Slowly she started to use the chopsticks, then stopped.

“People are like that,” she said, “They can’t let go. There’s this man, his brother died in an accident. But he couldn’t accept it. So he started to blame people, mostly he blames my boyfriend. And I think he went a little crazy because it doesn’t really matter to him who he hurts, who gets caught in the middle, whether they’re as funny, or nice, or as wonderful as his brother ever was. He doesn’t want to know and he doesn’t care.

“I was like that—I mean, not that I wanted revenge, but, for a long time I pushed people away. My parents died—my adoptive parents—when I was very young. I didn’t ever want to hurt like that again, so I kept the pain close, enough so no one could touch me.” Pretending that nothing out of the ordinary was happening, Chloe lifted the chopsticks to her mouth and took a bite. Then she took a drink of wine. He remained silent, watchful.

“I think I’m over that now, and I think I finally know how to use chopsticks, thank you,” she said rising to usher him out the door.

He allowed it, even letting her open the door. But there, he slipped one arm around her waist; with his other hand he brushed her cheek. She couldn’t breathe for fear. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of one single defensive move. She couldn’t think.

Slowly, the arm along her waist moved upward, the hand upon her cheek down, until both his hands rested upon her shoulders. His fingers gripped her throat, uncomfortably.

“I could break your neck.” He said, close to her ear.

She jerked her knee up to hit his groin, but he anticipated her and moved back, tossing her to the ground, laughing. Before she could recover, he grabbed her by the neck again and lifted, pushing her roughly against the door. “Don’t make me hurt you.” He said, his fingers squeezing her neck as she struggled to break free, “I could make a mistake, press too hard.”

She scratched at him, gasping, but it was no use. His hold was firm, her attempts to break free weakening. She couldn’t breathe. She slipped into black.

Ling was about to carry her to his car when the telephone rang. He laid her on the couch, placed a pillow under her head, and answered on seventh ring.

“Chloe, get out of the house. You’re—“

He didn’t let Brady continue. With a satisfied smile, he answered “—She’s gone.”

******************-------------------------*************************************

Trouble had fixed its scowl upon Ling’s men in the form of a 380 lb 6 foot 2 psychopathic brawler, a man whose favorite hobby was browsing the internet for brass knuckles and a better dentist. Since his release from prison, Mike had been known to habit the local Humane Society where he verbally abused the animals in baby talk—“Who’s behind bars? You’re behind bars. Yes, you are.” To put it lightly, his meds needed adjustment.

And he really, really hated it when people touched him. Touching his car was no different. When he was behind the wheel of a car, that car was a part of him, man and machine melding into one. That’s why his psychiatrist suggested he buy the sunshine Beetle; it was a happy car, a peaceful car. Well it didn’t look too happy with a colossal dent up its rear end.

It looked pissed.

Popping a Lithium, Mike surveyed the damage, for about a second. Then he walked over to the assaulting car and its occupants, leveling his gun at the windshield. He felt powerful. Until Ling’s men pointed their semi-automatics back at him.

In the tense silence, Mike flashed a smile. Slowly, he turned the gun around in his hand—making no sudden movements—until he gripped the point and the handle faced away. “Thought you might need this,” he said. Winkie got out of the car and took the gun. He pointed it at Mike. Then he moved it slightly to the left and fired at the Beetle, so close to Mike that he could feel the heat from the bullets. Ling’s men took this as their cue to likewise empty into the Beetle.

“Thank you.” Winkie said handing the gun back to Mike as the sound of sirens grew louder. As one, the hitmen returned to the sedan. They left before the police could arrive. Mike wasn’t so lucky however, neither was his Beetle. It could no longer be described as happy or pissed. But to Will, hiding in the office with Mrs H. and Buffy (who had called the police), it looked awesome.