Page 9 of Lust

There’s that fucking name again. All this time I’d been searching fruitlessly for Ruby Alvarado. How long has she been living as Carol Jackson? Bile rises in my esophagus.

“Why the fuck does it matter, Brent? Aren’t you going out with the boys like you always do?”

Brent straightens, like he’s preparing for a fight. Ruby just shakes her head and elbows him aside. After a quick look around, Brent follows her, closing the door behind him.

Excellent. He’s not there most nights. Out with the boys? Yeah right. I’ll look him up on Arrow as soon as I’m back in my room and find out who really takes up Brent’s evenings. But before then, it’s time to do a little Christmas shopping.

Whistling along to a piano concerto in D minor, I back down the road until it’s safe to turn around, then speed to the nearest jewelry store. Tomorrow, I’ll resume my reconnaissance and install cameras. For today, Carol Jackson just moved to the top of Santa’s list, and I have a feeling she’s going to be a very good girl.

Ruby

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong, Carol.” Brent’s words echo like a schoolyard taunt while I walk down the dark hallway to my room.

He doesn’t really want to know what’s wrong, and he knows that calling me Carol always gets under my skin. He’s just trying to distract me from the fact that he’s going off to get drunk again, maybe even to spend time with Delilah.

Stripping off my uncomfortable pantyhose, I realize I don’t even care about the sex. If Brent wants to get his dick wet, let him. An evening to myself with a hot bubble bath seems infinitely more inviting than waiting until he gets drunk enough to act interested in me, then passes out before he can perform.

A glance in the mirror shows me the body Brent no longer wants: heavy breasts that strain against E cups, soft belly, round hips that fill the glass and spill beyond its edges. Thick ass that swallows up my thong. I take off my underwire bra and pull on a comfy sports bra, followed by yoga pants and an old t-shirt.

When we first got together, I was about to be on the radio and Brent was the star of his semi-pro team, considering going for the draft. We met up again randomly in a bar, and he claimed he’d fantasized about me throughout high school. It felt good to be with someone from before. Felt like I could trust him. I gave him a chance, and he took the chance to bury his dick in me at every opportunity. I couldn’t even walk through the door without him tugging off my pants. He’d have his tongue all over me before we even made it to the sofa. Or the armchair. Or the dining room table.

Now, though, he seems to despise the body he once worshiped.

“Maybe I’ll get you Jenny Craig for Christmas,” he told me just the other day, punctuated by a loud belch and an ugly laugh.

Look in the mirror, asshole.But I didn’t say it out loud. Brent’s an unpredictable drunk, and speaking my mind has sometimes meant carefully layering foundation over bruises later, so no one at work asks uncomfortable questions.

Hoping he’ll be gone already, I wander out to the kitchen to scavenge for dinner. I’m engrossed in the contents of the refrigerator when I hear him, his voice nearly drowned out by the loud hum of the aging appliance.

“Yeah, baby, I can’t wait to meet you, too.” His voice sounds so low it’s almost comical.

“No, no,” he continues, clearly oblivious to my presence nearby. “I’m still out of town for the next few weeks.”

Slowly, quietly, I close the refrigerator door and tiptoe into the hallway.

“Yeah, that’s right, baby. Maybe New Year’s Eve. Our first date. Mmmmm… I can’t wait.”

The thought of anyone waiting around for Brent is so ludicrous that I hurry back to my room just so I can laugh out loud. Has Delilah even seen a photo of him that’s not ten years old? Does she have any idea what kind of abysmal taste he has in lawn decorations? But even though I’m laughing, the conversation leaves me chilled.

‘Maybe New Year’s Eve. Our first date.’

Is it strange that a married man thinks he can get away from his wife on New Year’s Eve? I pick up a planner from my bedside table, grateful Brent’s snoring made me insist on separate rooms. One more thing Delilah doesn’t know about him yet: she’ll never get a moment’s sleep lying next to Brent, unless she’s deaf. Which I doubt. Sure, a beautiful woman like her could be deaf. But Brent isn’t smart enough to figure out how to have a phone conversation with a deaf woman. Nope. Pretty little Delilah is in for a rude awakening.

Brent and I already have plans to go visit his parents on New Year’s Eve. Does he expect me to go see them by myself? I wouldn’t put it past him. Or does he believe I won’t be around at all? As in, I won’t be alive anymore?

Ruby, you’ve been listening to too many True Crime podcasts.

But what better motive to kill me than to be with another woman?

And to think I married Brent precisely because I trusted him. At twenty-three years old, with a multi-million dollar recording contract signed and a nationwide tour planned, I had my fair share of people who wanted a piece of my pie. Which is why running into Brent at a dive bar while back home for the holidays seemed so fortuitous. Here was someone who knew me, who wasn’t only interested in my budding fame, who confessed, googly-eyed, to years of pent up desire. I figured at least he was good for a couple of weeks in the sack.

A key dangles from the drawer of the nightstand. I always leave it there, conspicuous, precisely so that it will look like I have nothing to hide. Taped to the underside of the drawer, however, is another set of keys. These open the small safe on the floor of the closet that I keep behind a jumble of boots. Carefully moving the boots aside until the little black box is visible enough for me to open it, I look down at my Sig Sauer P365.

It was easy to prove my need for a weapon. Let’s just say that testifying that the record company run by the seemingly reputable Fioravante brothers was really a front for human trafficking did not make me any new friends.

Footsteps sound outside my door. Shoving the pile of clothes and shoes back over the safe, I hurry out of the closet. When Brent enters the room, I’m sitting calmly on my bed, holding a festive candle from my bedside table.

“I’m going out,” he sneers.

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