Page 10 of His

She reaches for me and I recoil like a cat.

“No, Valerie. You’re just tired—you’re not thinking straight. You need sleep.”

“No, I’m not?—”

“Val—

“You are my husband!” her voice quivers with emotion. “And I want you to have sex with me.”

She throws her arms around me, stumbles as she leans in and tries to kiss me. I turn my face and jerk back my chin, fighting the urge to throw her into the wall. Her grip on me tightens as she sloppily licks my neck, my ear. Her hands are trembling.

“Valerie, please stop.” My voice quivers with emotion. “Please. Stop.”

She begins weeping, tears mixing with the trail of spit she’s leaving on my neck. “You don’t love me. I’m your wife, yet you don’t love me.”

I grab her wrists, yank them down and hold her in place. “Stop.”

“No!” She yells, tears streaming down her face.

She’s completely unhinged.

I stand frozen as my wife drops to her knees and begins unbuttoning my pants, while spurting sobs and tears.

“I’m your wife,” she keeps repeating, as if convincing herself as much as me. “I’m your wife! We’re supposed to do this. Please, Astor. We’re supposed to do this.”

She grabs my flaccid penis, pulls it out of my boxer shorts and sucks me into her mouth.

I close my eyes, wanting to vomit. When I can’t take it anymore, I pull her face away.

“Lay down,” I demand through a clenched jaw.

She does, her watery, desperate eyes locked on mine.

My heart roars as I lower on top of her.

She grabs my dick and guides it to her opening. I squeeze shut my eyes and drive into her, gritting my teeth so hard that pain shoots up my temples.

Stomach swirling, I thrust into her, over and over, until finally, she screams my name.

Immediately, I pull out, surge up, grab a towel and toss it to her. Turning my back, I step into the shower, turn the knob to scorching.

The second she leaves the room, I drop to the shower floor, cover my mouth with my hand and begin sobbing.

Seven

Sabine

It’s a hot, humid night. According to the forecast, a line of severe storms is expected to roll in around midnight. I can feel it in my hip. Ever since the incident, I feel atmospheric pressure changes in the exact spot the bullet lodged itself. I’m a walking barometer. Maybe I should join the circus.

I park the Jeep I paid three-thousand dollars for from a retired Army vet under an oak tree. Its leaves are wilted and brittle from the unrelenting later-summer heat. When I’d chosen Louisiana, I hadn’t considered the humidity. A major misstep on my part. The upside is that I have curly hair now.

Next to me is a jacked-up Chevy with an American flag hanging out the back. The bumper sticker reads: Hot Mess Express.

I don’t doubt it.

The neon sign above the door flickers as I cross the gravel parking lot.

Boots and Bourbon.

---