Page 165 of Dirty Husband

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I turn toward the restaurant. "If you don't have a point—"

"Why do you let him hold this over you?"

"Let him?" The world goes red. I can't see the blue sky or the green trees or the dark pavement. Only righteous fury. "Fuck you." I try to keep my voice down, but it's impossible.

So I cross the street.

That's not enough. We're still in view of the upstairs window. That bastard can still see me squirming.

I go past Nick's car.

He follows me around the corner. "I'm sorry."

"Don't—"

"You're right. It's not a fair accusation. You're the victim—"

"Don't call me that."

He just stands there, five feet away from me, his posture strong and in control.

How does he do that? He should be crumbling. Or throwing something. Or destroying the nearest car.

How can he stand there and speak softly?

"What are the terms?" he asks.

"The what?"

"You think he hasn't tried to do this to me?"

"What did he—"

"I wouldn't hear it," he says. "He fucked up a deal as retaliation. I was angry. After a few months, it didn't matter."

I swallow hard.

"Is that it? A deal he'll ruin?"

I say nothing.

"Is there a deal?"

"You know that's not—" I push the words through my teeth. Reach for something, anything, to keep the world from spinning. All I find is a tiny tree. It's too small, too weak, too thin. It can't hold me. "I can't let him win."

"That's all it is?"

No.

But I don't want to tell him.

I don't even want to think it.

I squeeze the soft bark until it snaps. It doesn't soothe me. Or ease the ache in my stomach. "He has photos."

Nick freezes. No more strong poker face. Just fear. The kind of deep fear that turns the entire world black. "That's a felony."

"Only if he's caught."

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