Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
I can hear Waylon’s teeth grind. “That can be arranged.”
It’s very subtle, the stiffening of the other man’s muscles, the slow tightening of his fist around the metal basket handle. The winding of his jaw. But I’m highly aware of the increase in his tension, because weirdly, my body constricts with corresponding winds of muscle, of flesh, like…I’m physically attuned to him in some way. It’s odd, to say the least. I’ve never felt physically connected to anyone, especially the man I married to cover my family’s debts. I’m so repulsed by his touch, I’ve found ways to avoid consummating the marriage, claiming I’m sick or I have my period. Outright hiding.
Last night, I pretended I’d seen a huntsman spider in the bedroom and thankfully, his fear of arachnids overrode his suspicion that I’m full of shit.
But I’m running out of time.
Sooner or later, this slimeball I married is going to force intimacy on me. That’s why he married me, isn’t it? Sex. That’s all men believe I’m useful for, simply because I was born with a pleasing face. I arouse them, which is considered my fault, so they’re entitled to take what they want. Too many times in my life, I’ve been spoken to in disgusting ways, groped and objectified. That’s why I started dressing like this. To deter the advances, even of my husband. Moments ago, when the stranger braced my hip in his hand so I wouldn’t fall, I assumed he was using an opportunity to cop a feel.
Now…I’m not sure.
Something about his lethal stillness is reassuring. Which makes no sense.
“Go sit in the car,” Waylon says, squeezing my arm. “Before you piss me off.”
“Seems like you’re already there,” the stranger says, a muscle leaping in his cheek. “You’re laying hands on your wife in the middle of the supermarket.” His expression doesn’t change, but the rippling of his gaze becomes infused with glacial intention. “While we’re on the subject, I suggest you stop or you’re going to have a problem to deal with.”
Waylon thrusts his chin out. “What’s that?”
“My motherfucking temper.”
My husband laughs, but he’s clearly intimidated by the much taller stranger, his stance shifting, his next words emerging with a stutter. “Hey, man. L-look. I know she’s pretty, but it’s all for show. God gave her that face and body as a cruel joke.” He hefts the waistband of his jeans higher. “This wife of mine is as frigid as a snowstorm in January.”
Heat suffuses my cheeks, but I lift my chin and refuse to break eye contact with the stranger. Yup, that’s right. I’ve got no use for men. This newcomer is no different, despite what my exhausted instincts are insisting on telling me. That he’s…other. Different.
“How long have you two been married?” asks the stranger.
“Too long,” I bite off.
“Two weeks,” Waylon snarls.
I try to rip my arm out of his grip, but he holds on.
The stranger takes one step forward. “Let. Go.”
My husband releases me, as if he’s been socked in the jaw. “Hey,” he says, getting jumpy. Definitely annoyed at himself for following the other man’s order. “Back off, bro. This is none of your business.”
The stranger stares at Waylon long and hard. Then he says something I’m not expecting at all. “Why? Don’t you want my help?”
Waylon goes slack jawed. “Huh?”
Huh?
“I’m a therapist.” He sets down his basket, which only appears to contain a tin of coffee and shortbread cookies. From the inner pocket of his suit jacket, he produces a business card and a pen. He writes something on the back, his eyes finding mine and lingering, as if trying to pass on a message. “My services include couples counseling.”
While I absorb that, Waylon scoffs. Predictably.
“I ain’t going to see no shrink.”
The stranger nods, only a hint of disgust bleeding into his features, but I can tell there’s a lot more hiding under the surface. And it makes me feel…not so alone. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel like a solitary mass of useless rage crying into a void, so even the briefest flash of unity is powerful. Enough to make my breath catch. “Then by all means. Continue along in your unhappy marriage with a wife you couldn’t possibly begin to understand,” says the man. “I’m sure no one will be surprised when you fail.” Those blue eyes look into Waylon’s soul and find the weakest point to inject venom. “It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? That you’ve failed to live up to standards.”
Waylon pales considerably. “Who the fuck are you?”
I’m wondering the same thing. The whole world has slowed and crystalized around the stranger and it’s like catching a glimpse of a higher power, his blue eyes and strictly controlled voice in charge of the earth’s next revolution. My belly and my knees reach for each other, the latter beginning to tremble.