Page 21 of Wicked Scandal

Thank I’d love nothing more than to scream at him. Punch him, insult him, bite his fucking arm off. I want to do anything to hurt him as much as he hurts me, but nothing I do to him will ever touch the pain I feel inside.

Troy slams his door shut. After a quick glance around, his fingers dart out and wrap around my throat. “How dare you try and walk away from me like that.” Spit flies at me from his mouth as he seethes mere inches from my face. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is when my wife throws a tantrum in the parking lot of my city hall?” His words drip with malice as he tightens his grip.

I gulp, feeling my throat bob against his palm. “I’m sorry,” I choke out, my eyes nearly popping out of their sockets while I suck in as much air as I can in his vise grip. I still want to hurt him, but I know that if I dig my nails into his hand, he will keep squeezing until I pass out. I’m not sure what he will do after that, but I cannot risk him postponing this work trip for his “sick” wife.

So, like an obedient wife, I stay still. He glares at me, his jaw clenching and unclenching as darkness creeps around my vision. After a long, forced breath, his eyes start to change.

With a forceful shove, he pushes my head away and retreats to the driver's seat of his car. As he starts the engine, I pull my turtleneck down slightly and graze my fingers over my already tender skin.

I don’t allow myself to think much of it; instead, I just stare out the window while he continues to huff and puff, every few moments tossing out an insult or two. This is his calming down phase, I know it well.

I’m at the point where I’m no longer fazed. Nothing Troy does surprises me, and I no longer live in a state of fear and panic because this is the norm for me. But as I look out the window, pain shooting down my throat to the point where I am unsure if I will be able to eat anything, I think about ending him—even prison would be better than this.

Sure, there might be fighting, but there is no way it could be as often as the fights that occur in my own home. I could probably sleep in my own bed and not in a locked closet with my knees pulled to my chest.

No more turtlenecks that make me feel itchy inside and out. No more long dresses. No more pretending.

Then I sigh because I have thought this same thing before and I’m not sure I’d have the guts to do it.

It’s a quick ten-minute drive to Moonwalk Cafe, and in that ten minutes, Troy has calmed himself down.

He gets out of the car, and I remain seated with my door closed because if I dare open it myself in front of onlookers, he’ll lose his ever-loving mind.

Like the gentleman he pretends to be, he buttons his suit jacket, then pulls the passenger door open for me. Reaching inside the car, he takes my hand, helping me to my feet.

We both put on our proverbial masks and head inside the cafe as the happily married couple everyone believes us to be.

“Good afternoon, James,” Troy beams at the host. Unlike myself, he knows everyone in this town by name, and they know him, too.

Could you be any more fake? For once could you act like you’re not better than everyone else?

I don’t say it, but I would love to repeat the words he said to me only minutes ago. The thoughts I have. Oh, the things I wish I could say to this man. If he only knew how deep my hatred for him runs.

“It’s great to see you, Mayor Jenkins,” James gushes as he grabs two menus and napkin-rolled utensils. “And you, too, Mrs. Jenkins.”

I smile politely as we follow behind him to our table. I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut and to only speak when necessary. Something as little as “it’s great to see you, too” could hit a nerve with Troy and in that same breath, I’ll be accused of flirting with another man in front of my loving husband.

Troy’s thumb grazes over the skin of my knuckles, a clue that he’s over his fit and we might actually have an enjoyable lunch together. It helps the tight ball of anxiety in my stomach ease. Living in constant fight or flight is exhausting, to say the least.

We stop at a high-top round table beside the window, and Troy pulls out my chair for me. I smooth my hands down my pants and take a seat before he sits down in the chair across from me.

After ordering our drinks—ice water for me, and an iced-tea for Troy, he reaches his hands across the table and lifts a brow.

I take that as my cue to hold his hands. Naturally, we are picture-perfect once again.

“You look beautiful today,” he says softly. I’m pleasantly surprised at not only his words, but the sincerity in them. I thought for sure I’d get slack for dressing so casually. He also spoke low, not for show. He is likely feeling bad for hurting me in the car and trying to make up for it.

I respond with a simple, “Thank you.”I do not want to trigger him again. I just want to get this meal over with so I can get away from him.

The server returns with our drinks—a beautiful blonde lady, middle-aged, with a low-cut tee shirt. She’s got bright pink lipstick and a big wad of gum smacks annoyingly between her teeth. “If it isn’t my favorite customer.” She winks at Troy and I just roll my eyes to look out the window.

“And if it isn’t my favorite waitress. How has everything been, Hillary?”

I’m not sure if he knows her name by heart, or if it’s because she’s wearing a name tag, but the conversation between them irks me. Only because the phoniness of it makes me want to vomit. Hillary is being kind because he’s the mayor and she wants a fat tip. Troy is being kind because he wants her vote. And that’s as deep as their kindness for each other actually goes.

Without even looking at the menu, Troy orders for us both. Two ham and cheese paninis and a side salad with ranch. I can’t even remember the last time I ordered off the menu and got what I wanted to eat.

Troy says it’s common courtesy for husbands to order for their wives while getting the same meal. He argues that it shows compatibility. Whereas I think it’s bullshit and I want to scream at him that this isn’t 1950.

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