Page 132 of Easy
Bent forward, I notice his feet dangle in the air, unable to reach the floor. Grass clings to his feet, soil smudging his toes. What kind of parents were they, letting a little boy wander out during the night? I manage to return his greeting as my eyes begin scanning the room for my jacket and purse.
The little boy bursts into a fit of giggles, pointing at my shirt.
‘You have your t-shirt on inside out!’ He holds his hand across his mouth as he chuckles.
‘Oh, so I have,’ I answer, twisting and lifting the hem.
‘You should let my daddy help you,’ he answers very seriously. ‘He never lets me get tied up in my clothes.’ His voice lowers to a whisper. ‘Would you like some of my cereal? I won’t tell that you didn’t eat your dinner.’
He was right; we hadn’t gotten around to eating, though a few select implements lay here and there. Daniel picks up the spatula thing, tapping it absently against the butcher block surfaces as he begins punching numbers into the phone.
‘No, thanks.’ I cultivate what I hope looks like a smile, watching his father lift the phone to his ear.
‘Mummy’s in trouble.’ I turn back to the child, concern etched on his face. ‘I’ll be next.’ I almost feel sorry for him.
‘You’re not supposed to sneak out, huh?’ Maybe I should ring the authorities; he couldn’t be more than maybe seven or eight. ‘Your mom must be worried.’
The child taps his heels against the chair leg, looking unconcerned. ‘No,’ he explains, ‘I have my own door in the fence. AndI left her a note,’ he adds in explanation and, most likely, his defence.
‘So what makes you think you’re in trouble?’
‘Because I’m only six.’ He answers slowly, allowing for his father’s friend dimwittedness. He returns to his late supper. Or midnight snack, depending on his perspective, I suppose.
‘Of course, he’s done it again. No, not particularly.’ Dan pauses, running a hand through his hair, both voice and mane strained. ‘He can stay in his room.’ A pause for the other end of the line. ‘‘Yes, well,thatis none of your business. Really? Well then, I’m sure he’ll tell you all about what she’s like in the morning. I don’t care, Annabelle. Good night.’
With force, he places the phone flat against the bench.
‘Finish up, Hal. Teeth time.’ His words were for his child, but his gaze was all mine.
The little boy argues he’s already brushed them before burping, then giggling, but eventually planting his feet on the floor.
‘Will you be here in the morning?’ he asks, turning back to face me, almost an afterthought.
I shake my head as the little boy tilts his to the side as though committing my features to memory. He pads from the room as Dan moves towards me.
‘Don’t,’ I spit through gritted teeth, holding up my hand. ‘Just tell me where the hell you’ve put my purse.’
‘You’ll give me five minutes.’
He rests his hand against my shoulder, his head tilted to the side in an echo of his son. I frown, noting the lack of request. What had earlier pushed all the right buttons now just pisses me off. I’m not in the mood for listening and jerk my shoulder from under his hand. Turning my back to him, I begin lifting seat cushions from chairs. After a beat, he walks from the room.
My body vibrates with emotion I keep suppressed; I can barely see past my anger; the grip on my temper tenuous, at best. I hate that he’s the cause of such emotion, hate that I can’t project my usual mask of calm.
‘Sit down,’ Dan directs, re-entering.
‘I’m in no mood for your goddamn games,’ I retort, brushing past him, intent on moving into the kitchen as his hand grasps my wrist.
‘Please,’ he murmurs. ‘We need to talk. I’d like to apologise.’
‘Talk?’ I can’t help but sneer—can’t but fail to see the reflection of it in his eyes. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little too late for that?’
‘Verbosity is hardly your forte either, darling. At least this time I got your name.’
Despite their casual delivery, his words sting. He pulls harder on my wrist, and though I resist, the balance of experience is on his side. I stumble, and Dan pulls my body to his chest. My heart begins to pound, and as he twists one hand to the small of my back, the beat moves from my chest to between my legs.
‘Don’t go.’ His whispered breath is hot on the skin of my neck.
I try not to demean myself and attempt, in vain, to resist the resulting shiver. His hand drifts to my ass, his fingers running lightly where he’d marked me earlier. Each touch against the denim elicits a deeper throb. It goes on for a minute. Or an hour. Each thud pulsing and racing straight to my pussy. And I hate him for it. Hate myself even more.
