Page 3 of Lust

A punch to the ribs from the linebacker emphasizes his point.

No business.

Sure, he adds, she claims I didn’t touch her. But how could a horny nerd like me resist his girl?

Brent grabs my hair and yanks, my neck straining against the pressure.

“We don’t like nerds,” the quarterback says as Neanderthal sinks hard knuckles into my diaphragm. I gasp for breath, but he punches me again, this time in the gut. I collapse onto myself, and Devonte holds me up by my twisted wrists.

“You think you’re better than us?” Brent’s fist crashes into my jaw. “You’ll never even come close.” The next blow strikes my nose and I hear a crunch of bone.

The superficial damage to my body gradually fades from my awareness, though. I retreat deep within, to a place that’s usually my safe haven when the world outside seems cold. But all I find today is darkness. And in that deep, dark place, an ember ignites. Rage.

Chapter 2

November 1st

Ruby

Thepackageofcoffeeis brand new, still sealed, so I slice the top open with a pair of kitchen shears and pour two scoops into the pot without bothering to examine the grounds for any suspicious smells or signs. As usual, my paranoia seems laughable, but I refuse to let down my guard. The old machine gurgles, sputters, then sends a hissing stream of water through the coffee grounds.

I’m not certain my husband is trying to poison me. Being in witness protection seems to have slowly worn down my sanity, smoothing the edges just a little more each day until life flows by in a numbing blur of frightening sameness.

I probably wouldn’t even suspect him, if it wasn’t for the soup.

It was our first anniversary since coming back to California. When I got home from work, the table was set with linen napkins and tall candles that were usually stowed in the back of the pantry. Large white dinner plates held slabs of veal covered with tangles of shredded vegetables and nestled in a bed of buttery young potatoes. Beside them, bowls of squash soup let off tendrils of steam. He’d said he’d picked the food up from the fancy French restaurant downtown, the one where you had to have a reservation months in advance.

Everything tasted delicious, except the soup. Its strange, bitter flavor lingered on the back of my tongue. I didn’t say anything, just scraped it into the sink when he went to grab something from his truck. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings when he was being so unexpectedly considerate. That’s also why I didn’t tell him I was going to call the restaurant to complain.

The person who answered the phone was very confused. They had no squash soup. Yes, the veal dish was their specialty, and they were glad I enjoyed it. But the soup of the day was a tomato-based vegetable affair. They hadn’t had anything with squash for months.

I thanked the man, set the phone down, and blinked stupidly at the wall about ten times.

What. The. Fuck.

After I testified against the Fioravantes, my husband was my only link to the past. Why on earth would he try to kill me? On the other hand, if he was really trying to kill me, why not just go to the Marshalls for help? But then, if I was wrong, which I was sure I was, I would lose the only person I had left, the man who’d willingly taken on a new identity with me. On the other other hand, ever since we moved close to our hometown so he could be near his parents, he’d grown increasingly awful, drinking constantly and treating me like shit. Why not just give up the protection altogether and try to resume my old life? But my musical dreams had died when I testified. My old life had nothing left for me. This conundrum tangled my mind into knots.

I pour a cup of fresh hot coffee and a drip splashes over the side of the mug, scalding my finger.

“Ow!” I stifle my cry and listen for any evidence that I’ve woken my husband. Hearing nothing, I run cold water over my finger long enough to take the edge off, then grab my coffee and go back to icing a chocolate cake. I’m just scrawling the last part of the name Manuel when my husband’s bedroom door slams and heavy footsteps thud along the carpeted hallway. Cursing, I drop my icing bag and hurry to the coffeepot to fill his cup.

“You’re up early.” I plop two cubes of sugar into the mug and set it on the table.

“Going to visit my parents. Have to hit the road.” He sinks into a kitchen chair and sips his coffee, then makes a face. His eyes, red-rimmed and watery, reveal the sleeplessness of someone who stayed up late with Johnny Walker. Maybe his parents will mistake the look for evidence of emotion. They always seemed to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He grabs a bottle of hazelnut-flavored creamer and dumps it into his drink, causing it to splash onto the white linen tablecloth. Characteristically oblivious, he ignores the spill, swirling the cup to mix the contents.

“What are you looking at?” He glares at me and takes another sip. “This coffee’s cold.” He spits a mouthful back into his cup, then pushes it away. More of the liquid sloshes onto the tablecloth.

Yeah, cause you filled it with creamer, moron.

But I keep my mouth shut, grab another napkin, and start blotting again. Arguing with him never goes well. He only cares about winning the argument.

“I’ll probably stay the night with Mom and Dad.” He gets up from the table and heads toward the cake. Before I can stop him, he plunges two fingers into the cream cheese frosting and drags them along the top of the cake, right through the word ‘Happy’.

“What the fuck!” The exclamation slips out before I can stop myself. Leaping toward the cake, I see that the once exquisite cursive across the top now reads ‘Ha Birthday Manuel’. Tears prick the backs of my eyes.

“You think I like you getting up all early and shit to make a cake for some other guy?” He sneers. “Come on, Carol. When was the last time you even took care of me?”

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