The Perfect Husband (27 page)

“Barely.”

“Exactly! I need to learn more. I need you to teach me more. Be there for me, dammit. It's only a few more weeks.”

“I can handle it,” he said stiffly.

“Are you sure? It's not weak to call AA, J.T. It's not weak to admit that you need help.”

“I'm fine! Don't you have any hay bales to shoot?”

“None of them are as much fun as hounding you.” She walked right up to him. She could feel the heat and tension radiating from him, and it made her hot.

“Greedy,” he whispered.

“I learned it from you.”

He was growing hard. She could get him to want her again, get him to take her again. Here on the patio, or maybe beneath the mesquite tree, or maybe on a glass table. Maybe all three.

And then what?

She pushed herself away. His breath exhaled with a hiss.

“Get back on the wagon—”

“I stopped with one,” he interrupted tightly.

“Good. Don't take it any further. Now go after Marion.”

His eyes widened incredulously. “What?”

“She needs you, J.T.”

He held up his forearm and pointed to the red welt. “Tess, open your eyes.”

“I have. And I'm telling you she needs you. Why do you think she ran away, J.T.? So that you would follow. So that finally someone would follow.”

“Marion could chew up an armored tank for breakfast, then spit out perfectly formed nails the rest of the day. End of story.”

He strode toward the sliding glass door. “You still want a teacher, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then stop standing there, yapping at me. This isn't Club Med; get in your damn swim clothes. We'll begin with weights, end in the pool. You got five minutes.”

“She's scared,” Tess whispered behind him.

He said to them both, “Stop kidding yourself.”

“CAN I BUY you a drink?”

“I'm not stopping you.” Marion leaned over the pool table, where she was slowly and methodically annihilating all the men in the bar. The sun had gone down. The interior was darker and smokier than before. Her eyes had adjusted hours before, and now she didn't notice the changes.

“Eight ball, left corner pocket,” she called. She lined up the shot, pulled back the stick, and slammed it forward with more force than necessary. The cue ball nailed the eight ball, slamming it into the faded green lip of the edge and forcing it to rocket into the corner pocket with a sharp clatter.

She straightened and raised her cigarette to her lips. Inhale. Exhale. “I believe you owe me twenty bucks.”

The man grumbled. She hadn't caught his name. She didn't care. He'd been better than the others, but still no match. He coughed up the money. She added it to her stack.

She turned and scanned the bar. She had the tickling in the back of her neck, that sensation of being watched. Of course, the whole damn bar was staring at her. She turned back to the pool table.

Fresh meat arrived with her drink. He smiled at her, trying to be charming, but she wasn't so drunk she couldn't see the predatory intent behind his smile. She accepted the glass, leaning her slim hip negligently against the table and blatantly eyeing him since he was blatantly eyeing her.

He was tall, over six feet. Beneath his red baseball cap, tufts of dishwater-blond hair stuck out like straw. He had a mustache and stubbly beard, and the broad shoulders and muscled arms of a workingman. His stomach wasn't flat anymore though. He'd been a stud once. Now he was going to seed.

“So what's your game?” he asked with a wink.

“Eight ball,” she said coolly, “I'll give you three-to-one odds. Betting starts at twenty.”

He crossed his arms so that his biceps bulged.

“You really that into pool?”

“You really think you can pick me up with one drink?”

His face reddened. She kept staring at him. Men couldn't stand up to that stare. They all fled like dogs with their tails tucked between their legs. Then they called her a bitch.

“All right,” he said, surprising her. “I'll play. But I'll warn you now, I'm better than what you're used to.”

“I'll be the judge of that.” She slammed back her whiskey and picked up the cue stick. Her gun was nestled beneath her arm, hidden by her jacket. She liked the feel of it there, comforting and cold.

They got down to business.

Do you miss me, Roger, do you think of me at all? Or am I just a cold bitch to you, one you married for Daddy's connections? How can a cocktail waitress make you so damn happy?

She bent low and broke the balls with a fury. Two solids went in. She inhaled another cleansing gulp of tobacco and contemplated her next shot.

And you, Daddy? Why don't you ever call my name? Wasn't I a good daughter? Didn't I do whatever you asked?

She sank three more, then scratched.

Her opponent took over with a swagger. She was unimpressed.

Then there's you, J.T. Running off and ruining the family name. You're nothing but a drunken loser and then you say I'm like you. I am
nothing
like you. I am strong
.

Her opponent cleared the table. She looked at him, mildly shocked.

“Told you I knew what I was doing.”

“I suppose you did.”

He set down his cue stick while she counted out three twenties and handed them over. He shook his head.

“Haven't you had enough foreplay? Aren't you ready to get down to the real business?”

She contemplated acting outraged. She contemplated feigning ignorance. She set down the money and with a shrug of her shoulders said, “All right. What did you have in mind?”

“Come with me, darling. I'll fuck your problems right out of your head.”

She stared at him. He was past his prime, but his arms were still lean and hard. He knew how to play pool and was more man than anything else that had walked into the room.

She should tell him no. She was the good daughter who'd only ever slept with Roger. She was the good agent who knew better than to leave with a strange man.

She said, “All right.”

She picked up her purse and accepted his heavy grip as he led her to the door.

“And you froze up every time I touched you, Marion!”

She still couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her, that if she turned around now, she'd find one pair of eyes a bit too sharp, a bit too knowing.

She didn't turn around.

Outside, the air was cool and crisp and her nostrils flared, almost offended by the sweetness after the reeking bar. The sky was pitch black, good for midnight doings.

Her stud led her to his truck. No one was around in the parking lot, but she wasn't worried.

He held open the passenger door for her. She wasn't sure if that was a positive sign or not. She didn't ask where they were going, she didn't contemplate the events at hand. She lit another cigarette and rolled down the window to smoke.

He drove to the middle of nowhere. Had he taken other women there before? Was he married and that's why they didn't go to his apartment? She didn't care. None of it was her business. She was just along for the ride.

“No one comes out here,” he said, looking at her for the first time. “But it's nice on nights like tonight. You can smell the creosote, look at the stars. Thought you might like it better than some trailer that stinks of beer and socks. I don't clean much.”

“It's fine.”

He opened the door. “I have a blanket in the back. Ground's soft.”

So he'd come here before. A regular lovers' lane. She watched him in the side mirror. He pulled out a square army blanket and unfolded it on the ground. No iron pipes. No handcuffs. Just a Don Juan after all. She opened her door and stepped out.

The night was chilly, penetrating the haze pressed over her conscience. Then he stepped forward and grabbed her, pushing her against the truck. His mouth swooped down and he stabbed his tongue into her mouth.

The taste hit her hard, the intrusion shattering her apathy until she almost gagged. Then she remembered this was what she was supposed to want. She forced her body to relax. She wound her arms around his neck and tried not to wince as his meaty chest crushed her breast.

He sank to his knees, began to unbutton her jacket.

“Wait,” she said. She didn't want him to find her gun. “I'll do it. You take off your shirt.”

His eyes were dark with lust. His thick fingers went instantly to his shirt.

“Turn around,” she told him.

“Why?”

“Because I'm fucking shy. Turn around.”

He shrugged and did as he was told. She stripped off her jacket, then unfastened her shoulder holster and placed it on the ground beneath her jacket.

He turned back around and attacked her, tearing off her silk shell. He pressed his teeth against her neck. He spanned her waist with his hands. He brought his fingers up and kneaded her small breasts as if he could force them to be larger, more voluptuous. She stood still, her hands at her sides.

His hands found her bra clasp and undid it, baring her breasts to the night wind. The briskness made her nipples harden and peak. He took it personally, crowing his satisfaction. Hot and wet, his mouth fastened upon a nipple and sucked voraciously.

She looked down. She watched his head bob up and down at her breast. She heard slurping, grunts and groans. His hips were beginning to rock insistently.

He switched to her other breast, his jaw working furiously.

She shivered. She thought in the back of her mind that the stars were very beautiful and that she was very small beneath them.

His hands fastened on the waistband of her slacks and pulled them down along with her sensible panties. She didn't protest.

“Man, baby, you are hot,” he said. “A real fucking piece of ass.”

She looked at him blankly, wondering if he was even looking at her body. She was not hot. She had flat breasts and almost no hips. She was too thin and wiry. Roger had often complained that there wasn't a single soft spot on all of her body. She was muscle and sinew. There were young boys more feminine than her.

The stud pushed off his pants. His dick sprang out, huge and purple, alien and grotesque. At least Roger had been small.

She took a step back. It was too late.

He dragged her down to the blanket, already snuffling between her breasts, his fingers kneading them painfully.

“Baby, baby, baby,” he muttered thickly. “Oh, baby, baby.”

She tried to shut her ears against the sound.

“Kiss me. Come on, darling, don't be shy. Kiss me. Touch me. Go wild.”

He placed his lips on hers as if he knew she needed the encouragement. Then he grabbed her hand and wrapped it around his dick. She flinched at the feel of it throbbing between her fingers. It was alive. She should want it, she should revel in it. She should cry, Oh, yes, fuck me.

She wanted to run.

He took her head between his hands. “Do you nibble? Come on, don't be shy. Swallow me whole, baby. You'll like what I give you.”

Before she could react, he forced her head down. Now his dick was pressing against her cheek, smelling overpoweringly of musk.

“Come on, what are you waiting for?” For the first time, his voice was impatient.

Kiss the willy. Come on, Marion, you know what I want. Be a good girl and open your mouth. Kiss the willy. Kiss Daddy's willy.

She raised her head and vomited all over his lap.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” He sprang back, batting at her furiously. She fell to the side, still vomiting rancid whiskey. Her shoulders trembled. She hunched her small, naked body over her knees and shut out the world until the black void was complete, the memories pushed back and locked up.

She reached frantically for her clothes.

The stud came after her, angry and enraged. She didn't think, she wasn't composed. She fought instinctively, and five moves later he was writhing on the ground without even the breath to curse. Throwing on her clothes, she grabbed his truck keys and told him he'd find his vehicle back at the bar.

Then she climbed in the truck, started the engine, and roared back out onto the long, empty road.

Run, Marion. Run and don't look back. You don't want to know what's behind you. You never wanted to know what was behind you.

J.T. WOKE UP instantly, lying on his back amid the tangled sheets. He stared at the ceiling blankly, blinking his eyes and trying to pinpoint what had woken him.

Then slowly his gaze drifted to the foot of the bed.

She stood there, pale and ethereal once more. Long blond hair tumbled down her back in fat, loose waves. Small hands knotted and unknotted in front of a flowing white nightgown. Her expression tore at him, begging him to save her.

His breath caught in his throat. He told himself again and again that it was only memory: living, breathing memory standing at the foot of his bed. He squeezed his eyes shut, his mind screaming for the demon to go away. He couldn't save her. He hadn't saved her. He was nothing.

He opened his eyes.

She was still there.

And he realized for the first time that she wasn't a child. This wasn't little Merry Berry, stepping from his mind into his bedroom. This was Marion, grown-up, alive, and real.

His hand lifted from the sheets on its own accord, stretching out to her. “Marion…” His voice cracked.

“I came,” she whispered. “I wanted to see… if I'd ever stood here. If it felt…” Her eyes squeezed shut. “No. It never happened! It never, ever happened!”

She grabbed the skirt of her nightgown and fled.

His hand fell to the sheet in shock. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move. He was suspended someplace between the past and the present and his chest was on fire with pain.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He reached the door in two steps, flung it open, and caught a flash of white as she disappeared into her room. He gave chase. He had to. Just once he had to get this right.

Her door slammed shut forcefully, rocking the still house and locking with a definitive click. J.T. beat against it frantically.

“Marion, let me in! Can't we talk about this? Christ, Marion. Just once can't we talk about this?” He pressed his cheek against the wooden door, knowing he was begging and beyond caring.