Page 27 of Selfish Desires

I sighed deeply and took slow, measured steps toward a plush velvet armchair perched near a fireplace, its flames dancing wildly. Shaking off my coat, I sank into its comfort, allowing one leg to cross over the other.

“Okay,” I murmured as I tried to steady my breathing. “Talk.”

A nervous smile and stuttered laugh escaped through Vincent’s mouth as he smoothed the front of his black shirt tucked into matching pants. He was the devil, stalking toward me as his body hovered over mine, and I held my breath when Vincent reached over and behind me, retrieved a thick manila envelope, and placed it onto my lap like a fine china plate, petrified to break it…break me again. My eyes landed on the closed, dirtied folder as my pulse thundered in my ears, and a ringing penetrated through the thumping in my head.

“What’s this?” My gaze stayed glued to the closed folder I dared not touch.

“It’s the reason I had to leave three years ago.”

“What do you want me to do?” I forced out the words, already knowing.

“Open it. And I’ll explain.” Vincent nodded to the folder.

My fingers danced along the folder's edge. I knew if I pressed down hard enough, I could cut myself and watch the red drip from my flesh, splashing onto the cream folder.

Instead, I coaxed the envelope open, revealing a cluster of faded black and white photographs of Vincent fucking a woman who wasn’t me. I grew rigid at the sight, the images burning into my mind. My heart pounded erratically against my chest; the taste of betrayal was a bitter pill that attempted to choke me. I threw the pictures onto the carpet with more force than I intended. The black and white figures stared back at me from their positions on the floor, mocking my pain.

“Explain,” I spat, my voice tight as a coiled spring. “Now.”

Vincent stuffed his hands into his pockets and kneeled at my feet, almost in a begging pose. He frowned, staring at the images of him impaling a woman, his veined cock sinking into her pussy. Her silent moans jumped from the pictures, burning my eyes. “These pictures. The ones that you see weren’t the reason why I left.” His large hand motioned to the sordid collage on the floor. He pushed the literal fucking pictures away, revealing a new layer of black and white images, but these were of a different class. They were tame by nature, innocent in appearance, and more haunting than seeing Vincent fucking some stranger. This new set of pictures was of me.

“I don’t understand?” I stammered, my clammy hand instinctively reaching for the candid shots on the floor. There I was, in a dozen different frames and several places. Shopping at the local farmer’s market, reading at Central Park on our favorite bench, and even quietly sipping coffee at our kitchen table with sunlight pouring in from the window behind me. “How the hell?” My face twisted, grabbing the kitchen picture and bringing it closer to my face. It was all so mundane, yet there was something deeply unsettling about seeing myself through another's lens. “Vincent, what the fuck?”

Vincent swallowed hard, his fingers running through his hair as he paced the room. “First off, those pictures of me and that woman…” His hand flicked to the sex images inches from me. “Those were taken five or six years before I met you.”

As crazy as it sounded, I believed the timeline, but seeing Vincent between another woman’s legs didn’t lessen the sting of who came first.

“But I…” he began, pausing and shaking his head as if to clear it. His eyes darted back to the images of me, then returned to my face. “Wendy, I had to leave because you were in danger from something I did in the past. There are notes too that go with the pictures of you.” He swallowed. “Do you want to see them?”

“No,” I blurted, recoiling in my seat and tucking my feet under my thighs. “Why was I in danger? What happened? And who is that woman in the pictures?”

Vincent sucked in a sharp breath, but nothing left his mouth, only adding to my simmering anxiety of finally learning the truth.

“Use your words, Vincent.” His steely eyes shot to mine, clenching his jaw. Was he upset I just gave him an order…or did it turn him on?

Vincent sighed and relaxed his shoulders. “Her name was Cindy. She was the wife of a former player…” Vincent trailed off, clicking his jaw.

“Player?” I crossed my arms, shifting. “Vincent, can you just fucking speak?”

“Cindy’s husband, Lawrence, was a former poker player at our games. He owed us a lot of money. Gave us a lot of trouble getting it, too.” Vincent sighed again, leaning back against the couch and rubbing his face with both hands. His eyes were filled with heavy sorrow when he looked back at me. “I was younger and reckless. And stupid. Well, he finally paid us. It took a while and a lot of pestering and following up. That was my role always. To figure out how Zachary got his money. I wasted a lot of time on Lawrence, so when he finally settled his debt, left with no business or anything really, I wasn’t satisfied. Zachary was happy because he got his money. But, I was the shark attorney, going in for the kill. And I felt like I wasn’t finished with Lawrence. To really make him pay for how hard he made me work to settle his debt.”

“The only thing he had left was his wife,” I whispered, dropping my eyes to the floor, a strange flutter stuttering across my chest.

“That’s right.” Vincent nodded, his dark eyes never leaving my face.

“And that’s why you slept with her.” It wasn’t even a question.

“To taint what he had with her, yes.”

“How did Lawrence find out?” I averted my gaze from Vincent’s, unable to look at him. It was odd because I wasn’t disgusted but rather disappointed. I knew Vincent’s sordid past was just that….dirty. But I never imagined he would go after people after the deal settled.

“He walked in on us during one of the times I was there.”

“How many times did you sleep with her?” My eyes popped, but then I shut my mouth, shaking my head. I didn’t want to know, and from Vincent’s silence, my impulse question was answered. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” I fought a chill rippling across my skin, rubbing my hands along my arms. “Did Zachary know you did this?”

“Not at the time, no. But, when the threats started to roll in, I told him. I had to. I was going crazy.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry you were so tortured by this.” I glared at Vincent, the sarcasm dripping from my tone.

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