Page 17 of Lust

“That’s right, Gorgeous.” He slaps my ass. “You deserve them.”

When I get home that evening, Brent’s truck is in the driveway. Fighting the sinking feeling it always provokes in my gut, I walk over to the mailbox. Maybe, just maybe, I really do have a Secret Santa. Maybe there’s something there again today that will brighten up my night.

Sure enough, tucked behind three credit card offers, a crinkly mass of tissue paper rustles against my fingertips. I glance at the house before pulling it out, but there’s no sign of movement. Brent’s probably passed out on the couch. I pull the package out of the mailbox and untie the ribbons on either end, the same deep red color as yesterday.

A silk scarf unfurls in my hand, a geometric pattern of red, black, gray, and white. I wind the scarf around my neck, its softness caressing my skin. Classy. Santa has good taste.

I’m about to walk boldly into the house as though I’ve owned this scarf for years when a little piece of paper flutters to the ground.

I can’t wait to see you

dressed in only this.

The fuck? Automatically, I look around, as though the person who gave me the scarf must be lurking in one of the neighbors’ yards. Or maybe it’s one of them? Mr. Hansen across the street always seemed awfully friendly.

In case it is him, I look toward the Hansen house and give a little wave, but the windows are dark. Not even the porch light is on.

“Who are you waving at?” Brent’s voice startles me from the front door.

“Thought I saw Mr. Hansen at his window.” I quickly jam the tissue paper and the little note into my purse.

Brent stares at our neighbor’s house. “You need to get your eyes checked, Carol.”

I try to edge past him into the house, but his bulk blocks the doorway.

“Nice scarf.” He fingers the soft fabric.

“A new line we’re carrying at work.” I press my shoulder against him, but he doesn’t budge.

“Oh yeah? Maybe one day you’ll come home in something worth looking at. Like some new panties.” He laughs. “Not that anyone wants to see you in panties, Carol.”

The way he says my name drips with disdain.

“You used to beg me to ride your face, Brent.” I stare into his unblinking eyes. “With my panties on.”

His eyes travel from the top of my head to the toes of my worn Mary Janes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turns and walks back into the house. “And that scarf is fucking ugly.”

Stroking the soft fabric, I make my way back to my bedroom and close and lock the door behind me. Then I pull out the wrapping paper and the note and spread them on my bed. The paper is delicate, a pattern of gold embossed Christmas trees sprinkled over a forest green background. It resembles something we sell at Henchley’s but looks fancier. The gold trees are shinier and thicker, the green a richer color. Flattening the paper against my quilt, I fold it into a neat square.

The note is handwritten on thick, cottony paper. It looks like it was torn out of a journal. I run my finger along the rough edges, then lift it to my nose and smell it. There’s a faint scent of peppermint mingled with something else. Aftershave? Something rich, yet subtle.

I can’t wait to see you

dressed in only this.

The scrawl looks vaguely familiar, and an odd sense of comfort rises from a forgotten place in my chest.

Clearly, the scarf and note aren’t from Brent. There was no flicker of recognition on his face when I walked by. And I don’t think Manuel would pretend he’d never seen those earrings before. He’s a good actor, but not that good. Would the Fioravantes want to see me naked? I doubt that, too. Dead, perhaps. But not naked.

My heart beats faster as I unwind the scarf and spread it across my bed. Whoever gave it to me wants to see me naked. The thought moves through me like a dare, kindling a fire in my veins. Slowly, as though doing it for the very first time, I unbutton my black polyester work slacks and peel them down over my thighs. The shapewear that extends up past my waist is harder to remove gracefully, but I grasp the top on either side and roll it slowly down my body, over my belly and past my hips, until it joins my pants in a heap on the floor.

Naked from the waist down, I feel almost silly, but I deliberately unfasten each button of my cream-colored silk blouse and let it slide down my arms and onto the bed behind me. My bra is a simple, cottony thing that clasps in the front, so I undo the clasp and feel my breasts relax, like they’re exhaling after a long day.

My heart pounds as I tug the bra straps off my shoulders. I imagine someone watching me, imagine that the person who bought me that scarf is waiting patiently for a reward.

I turn to the bed, bend over, and pick up the scarf, draping it over my shoulders. Then, I walk slowly to my full-length mirror. Taking a deep breath, I slide the fabric up to my neck and wrap it in once, letting the ends hang down between the globes of my bare breasts.

---