Page 2 of Tempt Her

He’s relentless. He’s mean. He’s smart and controlling. And he’sverycruel.

‘Til death do us part.

Choking back tears, I can’t lie to myself. Truth is, I’m the one I’m most mad at.

How did I get here?

How did I find myself married to an evil man, and I can’t get out?

“Stacey!” he barks, coming down our stairs while I quickly zip his bag closed. Throwing the good balls in the dryer, he’ll never look in there either, before I dart back into the kitchen, steeling my spine for his entrance.

The little ass-zit marches my way like Napolean in khaki pants and a pink golf polo. “Stacey!” he shouts again, and the man’s voice booms larger than his below-average height. But don’t worry. What he lacks in size, he makes up for in miles of dickish ways.

“Yes.” I keep my voice calm while I look through our mail on the desk by the pantry. This is “the wife’s desk,” as Gentry mocks, while he has an office and library for himself.

And the mail? He controls the bank statements and important documents. They’re sent to a P.O. box while I get a stack of invitations, thank-you notes, and southern-style magazines I’d rather wipe my butt with.

“Tomorrow morning,”—he yanks the refrigerator open, grabbing his usual V8 tomato juice for breakfast—“we’re having breakfast with Shane Turner. Then you’re back here at ten to watch those painters while they’re in my house.”

My heart drops. Like a lead weight, it falls into my souring stomach while I can’t hide my dread and sadness. “Gentry, no.” I hate being this vulnerable with him. I hate showing him one ounce of weakness, but he knows. “My dad; that’ll be two mornings I haven’t seen him, and I can’t do that to him.”

Cracking the lid open on his bottle, he shrugs. “He doesn’t even know who you are. You could be dead, and he wouldn’t care.”

He’s such a dick. My husband is such a controlling, heartless bastard. For ten years, I’ve been caring for my dad who has Alzheimer’s, and Gentry’s so damn cruel about it.

“Hedoesknow.” I try not to cry, scream, fall to my knees, or sink my teeth into his neck. “He knows our routine, and he gets upset without it. He won’t even eat sometimes if I’m not there.”

And my husband knows this, too… he just doesn’t care.

But I do.

I’m all my dad has now. My mom died when I was eleven, and the way me and Dad leaned on each other to survive it; we’re intertwining vines, still living and wrapped around the beautiful tree that fell, dying on the forest floor.

Every three days, I bake a fresh batch of muffins. It’s my mom’s recipe—Morning Glory muffins. I sprinkle extra sugar on top because, let’s face it, an unhealthy diet isn’t killing my dad. One of the most heart-breaking diseases is.

But if he has two muffins every day. If I bring them by at six o’clock every morning, along with a cup of orange juice, my dad has a good day. He doesn’t have outbursts.

Deep in his eyes, he doesn’t know me anymore, but he knows our muffins. Then he calls me “Priscilla,” my mom’s name, and asks about my students; if I’m giving a tough test that day. I always say yes because he gets a kick out of “how smart you are,” he replies with love in his confused gaze.

It’s been four years since my dad said my name. Four years since I stopped correcting him. Four years since I’ve committed to our little, happy routine. As long as his trembling hand grabs the muffin and devours it, and he grins while his thinning body gets some nutrients, I’m making my parents proud.

“That’s what I pay a staff for.” Gentry rips off one of the tops of my dad’s muffins. From the container on the kitchen island, he pops it in his foul mouth, crumbs falling on the floor for me to sweep up later. “I pay them six hundred dollars a day to make sure that man eats, sleeps, and doesn’t shit himself or wander outside.” Tossing his bottle in the trash, he shows our recycling bin more respect than me. He doesn’t use it. “And that’s why I married his daughter, Miss South Carolina. Because my esteemed colleague, Senator Shane Turner, is a dumbass with his green initiatives, but he sure is a sucker for staring at your tits.”

Gentry laughs in my face. “Hell, I think that man would burn the Amazon Forest down just to fuck them.”

No, that’s my husband’s fetish, and he thinks every man shares it.

Maybe they do. I don’t care. I’m so angry and lonely and trapped in this hell; I’d let Senator Shane Turner fuck me and my tits if it would just get me out of this marriage.

“Then, on our way back from breakfast,” I reason, “before you drop me off here and go to the club, we can swing by and visit Dad real quick. It won’t take but half an hour.”

“You think I’m leaving three workers alone in my house?”

It ishishouse. They’rehiscars, phones, bank accounts, and money—it’s all HIS property.

Including me.

He made sure of it.

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