Page 4 of Tempt Her

“Yes.”

The word tastes like vomit in my mouth. The burn of tears behind my eyes threatens as I push back the image of my dad, of how Gentry uses the care he requires like a sick pawn in the game he’ll always win.

I can’t bear the idea of my dad suffering. Who could?

All my dad ever did for me was make me the center of our humble world until he started to forget me. Until his mind got lost in our idyllic past, and the present became a hell only I live in.

“I think you need a reminder.” Gentry jerks down my bra strap as jagged rocks choke my throat. “You need to kneel and serve your husband this morning.” Coffee churns sour in my stomach. “And tonight.” His crooked bottom teeth bite his flaky lip. “My stupid whore of a wife is gonna do her job too.”

It makes me sick—what he likes me to do to him with the grip end of his golf clubs. If only his powerful friends knew. It’s gross and weird. I’d take a hidden video of it. I’ve been tempted before to do it, but where would I get the eight thousand dollars a month required to keep my dad safe and alive?

Not one thing in my life is right because it’s all wrong.

I have a sick, perverted husband.

I have no other family, just me and my dying dad.

I have no friends, no one I can trust.

I have no money.

Gentry tracks my calls on the cell phone he gives me to use. He follows where I go with the app on it and the tracker on the car he “lets me drive,” too. He has cameras all over our house watching my every move. His wealthy family owns half the island we live on. I can’t even talk to anyone without him finding out. It’s obvious he has spies.

And if I step out of line and try to escape, it’s one phone call. In one calculated move, he will have my father moved to an inhumane facility.

You’d think it would be a human right. You shouldn’t have to pay to stay alive, to get quality health care. But no. Gentry’s also part of the system that makes the laws that exploit lives so a few wealthy men can profit from other people’s pain.

Sure, I could fight for my father. But that takes money. That takes lawyers and power, and time.

As my vicious husband pushes me to my knees, I have nothing.

Unzipping his pants, he’s going to relish the power he has while he keeps fucking mine away with every pathetic thrust of his little dick. And I mean… it’s little. In size. In the pleasure he doesn’t give. In the passion I don’t feel. In the love and sex that is so small in my world, it doesn’t exist.

So I turn my chin and look away.

Please get this over with.

My bite is hard, fighting back the tears. I clench my molars while he starts poking the tip of his dick into the valley of my flesh, trying to protect my heart from his invasion.

I hate this. I hate him.

“Yes, Mommy,” he starts with his perverted fantasy, and I don’t want to know what’s in his sick mind. His mom is as wicked as him. “Mommy likes this,” he jeers again, wiping his tiny crown over the crest of my breast, and I gag.

Please, someone. Anyone.

A tear escapes down my cheek while I pray to my mom. While I go so far away in my mind and remember the strongest woman I know, even in memory.

Get me out of this.

I don’t listen to him. I don’t feel him. I focus on the morning sun beaming in through the windows; my mind gets lost in the minuscule dust particles dancing to the floor… before the front doorbell chimes break the air and Gentry’s assault.

I grab a breath while he yanks his dick back in his pants.

“Fuck,” he mutters, remembering the time. “Go get the door,” he jeers while his boner quickly withers away.

Jumping to my feet, I’ve never felt such relief. It could be a delivery right now, and I swear I will hug the person holding the box. Every hour of every day I get away from my husband is a small victory.

“Cover yourself,” he barks while my sneakers eat the ground between the kitchen and the front door, squeaking across parquet floors.

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