Page 39 of Love What's Left
I lie on my back. Still. Barely breathing. Is this different from when I was in the other bed? He could have attacked me at any time, but he didn’t, and he won’t.
“Not until he discovers your betrayal,”a voice whispers in my mind. I need to remember what I did. I can’t warn him to be prepared for something if I don’t know what it is. And I won’t know how long I can put off running either.
No. I’m not the slightest bit afraid he’ll attack me tonight. It’s my own pathetic need that has me quaking internally beside him.
The vast size of this bed means I wouldn’t be able to touch him even if I stretched out my arm. After ten minutes or so, he stops moving altogether, and I sleep.
I wake in darkness with no idea how much time has passed.
“Hey.” It’s the barest whisper of a word, testing to see if he’s awake.
When he doesn’t respond, I slip from beneath the covers, move some papers over on the nightstand to reach the switch, and turn on the nearby lamp. Then, I wait, watching his unmoving form.
Barely breathing, I allow a few more minutes to pass, then lower to my knees on the floor and open the drawer in the bedside table. I looked in here earlierand found a mishmash of items. Some kind of rechargeable flower-shaped thing was nestled next to a pair of knee socks with McRae’s face screen printed all over them. They were so ridiculous I’d almost smiled. Then there were these short rubber torpedo-looking things and,oh my God,lube. It took me way too long to figure out they were sex toys. It wasn’t until I found the box of extra-large condoms that I realized what those other items must be.
It feels like I’m spying on someone else. It’s not just my sexual history in this drawer, after all, but, presumably, part of his. I lift a condom packet between two fingers, and a pleasant, squeezing sensation inside has me pressing my thighs together.
I shoot a glance back at my husband. Even in sleep, he exudes strength. He has a core of steel. Truly patient people always do. It takes an iron will to maintain that kind of self-control.
Surely, I had more common sense than to deliberately choose to make this man my enemy. Did I really do something so stupid, or is it a trick of my mind?
My mind and body are a mess. I shouldn’t be thinking about sex with anyone, let alone a man I have every reason to believe could turn on me, eventually.
I drop the condom back into the box, ready to push the drawer closed, when instinct, almost muscle memory, has me sliding my fingers under the upper lip of the drawer. I graze some type of smooth surface. Nothing happens. I reposition and slide my middle finger into the oval that feels custom-designed for it.
The front panel swings open on silent hinges. If the sight of the condom heated me up, the newly revealed matte black handgun hidden in a secret drawer coded to my fingerprint freezes me to the core.
McRae lies vulnerable beside me. What if I lost my mind, picked it up, and accidentally used it on him before I could stop myself?
Never.The answer comes from deep inside me. It may lack the slightest hint of self-preservation, but if someone walked into this room with the intent to harm this man, I would throw myself in front of a bullet for him. I would walk through hell, then turn around and retrace my steps.
They can’t make me hurt him, not even in self-defense. I’ll run first.
But I did hurt him earlier. I don’t remember what happened, but he has a bruise on his jaw from me. What if, instead of a comb in my hand, I’d had this gun? What if I thought, for even a moment, that he was one of the people who hurt me? It’s not safe to have this here.
You’ll need it. He kills his enemies, and you’re one of them. He’s a dangerous man.The voice in my head doesn’t feel like mine, and that’s enough to make me want to throw both middle fingers in the air and trust him on principle.
On the other hand, McRae is terrifyingly beautiful. That should have been enough reason to stay away from him.
Women loved my dad. Men admired him. He rested on his NCAA football-hero status long past his college days, accepting free drinks at the bar and regaling people with stories of how he’d been a shoo-in to be the first draft pick for the NFL until his back injury took him out of the sport entirely. It was true, and everyone knew it.
More than once, I had some obsessed woman speak to me in a sugar-sweet confiding voice and tell me my father was “the one” and we were all going to be such a happy family.
It never took long for them to run out of sheer self-preservation. He always meant to be faithful. It was the follow-through where it fell apart. Funny how even the best-looking guy turns ugly when he spends his days and nights swinging between cheating drunk and vomit-all-over-himself-and-sleep-in-the-bathtub drunk.
Growing up, I promised myself that one day I would make my life the way I needed it to be. I’d get married, and I’d do everything right. I didn’t need, or even want, my future husband to be good looking. That kind of thing makes people stupid. I wanted a best friend I could be mildly attracted to and rely on for mutual support.
I had goals. Focus on grades and soccer. Then concentrate on my career and friends. When I was ready, and no one could take away my safety or security, I’d start looking for the right person, and, eventually, plan, right down to an ovulation tracker, my future children.
I didn’t count on a man who makes me hot and bothered without even trying.
I close the compartment with a nearly silent snick, then the drawer. Then I turn off the lamp and head for the bathroom. When I get there, I brace one palm on the cool countertop.Look in the mirror. Do it. Get used to it.
Staring back at my own reflection is easier this time. I’m more prepared for what I’ll see.Look with kindness. How can I take care of this woman?
The skincare products he said were mine sit on the counter. I wash my face and pat my skin dry. When I apply moisturizer, the scent jostles free a memory.
I once stood in front of another mirror, putting this same lotion on my face. A diamond ring and wedding band winked on my finger. In my memory, my husband leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms.
