Page 32 of The Bitter Truth

His jaw ticks repeatedly.

He was clearly angry about something before arriving home, but this discovery has fueled it. He’s trying to change the subject, shift the blame on me somehow. He knows I have something on him. He must know. Surely the bank in South Carolina got in touch with him by now but I had the leverage, so I didn’t care.

“I know you sold several hundred of our shares from True Oil,” I say, and am surprised my voice remains steady. Perhaps the wine has allowed me to perform that miracle. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d do that?”

“Shares? You really want to talk to me about shares when you’ve got a half dozen box of donuts in our microwave?” He says the words donuts like it’s a drug—like I’m doing meth or something. Dominic opens the box, studying the contents. “Got a little bit of everything in here, don’t you, Fat Jo?”

The nickname causes a stir in me. I haven’t heard it since college. That name was like having bricks thrown at my face. I shared the detail of that name with Dominic because I thought I could trust him, that he’d understand. Instead, I’d given the information to him like a loaded gun, and he uses that weapon against me every chance he gets.

“Dominic, they were a gift from a florist. I didn’t even eat them.”

“But you wanted to, I bet.” He takes one of the donuts out, a powdered one. Some of the white powder sprinkles to the waxed floor as he raises it in the air. “How about this one, huh, Jo?” He chucks the donut at me, and it hits the center of my chest. “Or this one?” he takes out a chocolate glazed donut, chucking it. I duck just in time to miss it, but that sparks his anger even more because he marches toward me with the box and dumps the entire thing on my head. He smashes the box and donuts down so that it meshes into my braids.

“Stop!” I shout, but of course that’s not enough. He’s now swiping his hands inside the box, collecting leftover glaze and powder on his fingertips. He grips my face with his other hand, clutching it tight and then shoving the glazy-powdered fingertips into my mouth.

“That’s what you wanted, right, Jo? Sure, you want to talk about selling shares and finding a fault in me, but don’t want to talk about how much of a pig you are.” He shoves his fingers down my throat, causing me to gag. I try snatching my face out of his hand, pushing against his chest, but he holds onto my face tighter, forcing me back until I’m wedged between him and a wall. “Do you want to be a fat bitch again, huh? Do you want to look like a disgusting sack of shit? Because that’s what you’ll be if you keep eating this shit, Jo. Trying to hide it won’t hide the fat that takes you over! We have a reputation to uphold and if you are going to be my wife, you will not be some fat, sad, dumpy bitch! I will not walk around with a big-ass wife, do you hear me?” He drops his hand to my throat, clutching tight and blocking my airways.

I claw at his hand. “Dominic. Stop.”

But he doesn’t stop. He holds on tight, and I can’t breathe. Darkness seeps around the edges of my vision. I struggle to say his name, while he watches me with a wicked glint in his eyes. Then, when I think he won’t relent, he lets go and I sag to the floor, sucking in breath after breath.

“Get your shit together, Jo,” he grumbles, and he may as well have spit in my face. He doesn’t look back as he walks away. Doesn’t care that I immediately drop my face into my hands and sob.

He flips the switch for the kitchen light and leaves me behind in total darkness.

TWENTY-EIGHT

DOMINIC

Jolene is curled up on the couch when Dominic leaves. He can’t stay in this house with her. She wants to be a reckless fat-ass, so be it, but he won’t tolerate it.

He collects his keys from the foyer and leaves. He and Jolene have an apartment they rent out from time-to-time in the city. The whole month is blocked off for renting due to the campaign. Sometimes he’ll invite a lady friend over to help reduce his stress. Jolene just doesn’t do it for him anymore, and it’s not that she’s unattractive or anything. No, his wife is stunning. But she’s a true pain in the ass. He’ll stay there for the night, but it’ll be best to spend it alone and with no distractions.

He feels he should apologize, but what for? She knows how important the campaign is and how much appearances matter. She can’t go around eating every single thing she sets her eyes on. How will that make him look? What will people say when they see her big behind in a dress? No, the woman he’s with has to look the part—she has to be worth all the sacrifices.

As much as Jolene will cry and be sad, she’ll get over it within a few days like she always does. Because that’s Jolene Hart-Baker. Quick to forgive, always wanting everyone to be happy with her, to praise her, to treat her like some abandoned puppy. She doesn’t realize how great she’s had it growing up. She had a rich father who invested money in her future. All he had was a mentally ill mother who was kidnapped when he was ten, then returned on a random day when he was thirteen. That was the first time he’d lived with his uncle in Greensboro. The second time would be when he turned seventeen.

She popped up, Dominic’s uncle Ben called the police, and she told them everything. A man had abducted her after a shift she had at the gas station and a cult sunk their claws into her. On top of that, they fed her all kinds of bad, processed foods to fatten her up. He almost didn’t recognize her when she came back. She had to have been fifty pounds heavier and she looked absolutely disgusting. When she miraculously returned, the story was all over the news. The police never could find this cult she spoke of and sometimes Dominic wondered if they were even real, or if his mother had made it all up in her head. He wanted to believe her story, but sometimes he thinks she purposely abandoned him and only came back because she had nothing left.

Regardless, Dominic felt like his life would change for the better—that his mother would get book and movie deals, that they’d get a snazzy car, move into a mansion, and make a shit ton of money. But the reality is none of that happened. His mother was too chaotic to bother with the press because she was too stuck in her own head. She refused medication and wasn’t admitted to a psychiatric detention until she ran a woman off the road because she assumed the woman was being attacked by a red demon.

No, Jolene has had it so easy. She should be glad that he found her. Bettered her. Gave her a reason to live. He was there that day on campus when she was crying in the library. He heard her on the phone as she spoke quietly, moaning about her weight. He saw her the next day when a luxurious Range Rover pulled into one of the parking lots and she climbed in the backseat. It was then that Dominic took it upon himself to look into this girl. He found out her name, then he found out whose daughter she was. Jolene Hart was a walking money bag. He didn’t jump on the opportunity quickly, of course. He played it cool, kept a distance, and when the time felt right, he wanted it to feel like happenstance for her—that they’d stumbled into love and that she was all he could see. Plus, she really did have a nice ass, even before she’d lost a bit of weight.

He kept her going at it, shedding the pounds, blossoming into a beautiful woman. He told her his goals, his plans, all of which involved money, and she was there for it all. She wanted to succeed with him, to be at his side, to watch him win. She never cared for copious amounts of attention, but he did, because a specific type of attention could get him paid. Many would consider Dominic a predator. He wasn’t that. He just knew what he wanted, and he went after it.

He considers this as he walks into the studio apartment and flips a light switch on. He drops his bag on the bed against the wall, scanning his eyes around the space. Jo had hired someone to deck out the apartment—pale blue walls, a large flat-screen TV, a sparkling kitchen made of silvers and marble. The little center pieces on the coffee table and dining table are Jo’s touch.

He strips out of his clothes and makes his way to the shower. He lets the hot water run over him and when he feels thoroughly clean, he gets out and wraps a towel around his waist. He pours himself a bourbon and carries it to the patio, focused on the skyline. It’s beautiful at night.

His eyes fall to the parking lot of a gas station across the way. The neon red sign of the station beams in the night. An old silver Beetle is parked near the end of the lot. Two people sit on the back of the vehicle, dressed in dark clothing. He sips his bourbon, realizing how out of place the car is. His apartment resides on the classier side of the city, so this car shouldn’t be hanging around. It doesn’t belong.

The people sit still for a long time, and it takes him a minute to realize they’re looking right back at him. A frown takes hold of him as he watches the people toss a hand up and wave.

“What the hell . . .” He backs away, entering the apartment again. Must be some randoms. Of course, if he can see them, they can see him.

He goes for his bag on the bed to take out clothes, but it’s as he’s taking a shirt out that he sees the envelope on the pillow. It wasn’t there when he first walked in, and knowing this causes his chest to tighten.

He sets the bourbon down to pick up the envelope. There are images inside it—pictures of Jolene . . . and him. In one of the photos, his hand is closed around her throat, and he’s visibly angry while Jolene stares up at him, veins on her forehead, her hand clutching his as she chokes.

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