12.30 a.m. -- Wearing an old t-shirt and baggy boxer shorts, she crawled into bed. Her face and body had been scrubbed squeaky clean and her honey blonde hair piled high in a loose ponytail. She hugged her pillow and waited for the only thing that brought her any peace...sleep. While she waited, she thought about Phillip. Her love had been unconditional while his had been indiscriminate. He had promised her the world and then laughed uproariously when he revealed his true intention. She had been unable to believe it and felt like a discarded whore who had outlived her usefulness.
"You knew? All this time, you knew?"
"Of course," he had told her. "It was deliberate, baby, and now you're going to have to deal with it...just as I have to!" So, she had. Bitterness and disillusionment had forced her to "deal with it" in the only manner that brought any satisfaction, even though she knew it was wrong. She cried tears of anger, guilt and sadness, comforting herself with the knowledge that she was, at least, selective and picked only those she was sure were as cruel and calculating as he had been. There were ways to tell and she had become an expert in the field. Revenge was the name of the game.
She was Evie Womack, wearing the face of a frightened and resentful little girl who had given her heart and received a legacy of death in exchange.
6:30 a.m. -- The shrill buzz of the alarm woke her from the heavy sleep. After selecting a subdued beige and brown business suit, she took her morning shower and then sat down to apply her make-up. She sipped on a steaming cup of coffee, nibbled a piece of dry toast, and mentally reviewed her schedule.
Two hearings before noon, a deposition after lunch, and an associate meeting at four. Her hand was light with the eye-shadow and mascara. Judges frowned upon female attorneys who got "all dolled-up." With the honey blonde hair in a neat french twist, the stylish low-heeled pumps, and non-functional gold-rimmed spectacles, she looked every inch the competent lawyer.
Evelyn P. Womack, Esq., wearing the face of a rising legal eagle in the world of jurisprudence, was about to begin her day.
9:30 p.m. -- She put her keys and change purse in a small patent shoulder bag. Her hair, tumbling loose in silky curls, reached midway down her back. Her blue eyes appeared much darker now, accentuated with charcoal shadow and thick lashes. She blotted the scarlet lipstick with a tissue and took stock of the overall effect. The black skirt with its hemline above the knee was tight and short, but not indecently so. The low-cut, white blouse was of expensive silk chiffon, sheer and gossamer thin. The spike-heeled, red leather shoes, which matched the wide belt around her slim waist, added extra length to already long and shapely legs. She glanced at the clock. Her goal was to be home by midnight in order to get sufficient rest for the next day's caseload, and there was a lot of ground to be covered between now and then. On a good night, she could nail five or six, but even if there was only one, it would not be a total waste.
She was, by choice, particular and had her own set of rules. Nobody who looked to be under thirty and certainly no teenagers. None of your average working Joes either. Her targets were affluent, executive types, around forty or maybe a little younger. Men who wanted their women sexy with a touch of class. In other words, men like Phillip.
She called herself Eve...just Eve, nothing more...and was as tempting and deadly as the first to bear that name. Wearing the face of a beautiful but lethal avenging angel, she embarked on another night of personal punishment and original sin.
Payback was hell.