Page 71 of Precious Hazard

Most times, I get up in the morning, and he’s left the house already. He returns, more often than not, after I’ve gone to bed. But, somewhere between those times, he still makes the most scrumptious dishes for me, leaving them on the kitchen counter to drive me bonkers with their heavenly aroma. Carbonara. Grilled sausages with stir-fried veggies on the side. A delicious-looking veal dish in white sauce. Even a homemade pizza! I’ve started dreaming about these blasted things, imagining scarfing them down. That is, when I’m not dreaming about Arturo doing the eating. Of my pussy.

I don’t touch the food he prepares, of course, holding true to my convictions about that. However, the past couple of days have been really trying, and my resolve is starting to crack. There’s only so much temptation a person can withstand. I’m also so sick of eating nothing but cheese, salads, and fruit. I did order delivery once, and had Greta make me another of her tasteless meals, but that was as much as I was willing to risk. I’m still determined to make sure DeVille doesn’t find out about my irrational fear. I can’t give him more ammunition to use against me.

That’s why I got so excited when Jovan messaged me that my car had finally been fixed. It needed a new fuel pump, which had to be sourced and specially ordered for Old Betsy, so it took a long time. Jovan had my ride delivered to DeVille’s front gate, and I’m super pumped (pun intended) to get to use it right away. Now I can head off to a bunch of places, get whatever food I like, and Satan will never know!

Except… my car is missing, apparently.

“Where’s my car, DeVille?” I snap as soon as I storm into the living room.

My husband is lazing on the couch, a laptop propped up against his knees. A steaming mug of tea and a bottle of ibuprofen are within arm’s reach on the coffee table, right next to his mouse.

He doesn’t even grace me with a look, just continues pounding on the keyboard. “Your car?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Jovan texted me that he dropped it off at the gate last night. Left it with a guy named Tony.”

“Oh, you mean that fifteen-year-old piece of junk with a crack across the windshield and rust all over the body and chassis?” He slams the laptop closed. “I had someone deliver it to one of the local charities. We even got a tax receipt.”

“Youwhat?”

“My wife won’t be seen driving that ancient heap, Tara. It’s disgraceful and humiliating. Riggo will take you to a dealership to pick out something new. Something more becoming of your new status. Here.”

Completely dumbfounded, I watch as he takes out his wallet and throws his Black Amex on the coffee table.

“You had no right!”

“I had every right. I’m your husband. My word is the law for the next year, or did you forget that?”

“As if I could.”

“Good.” He pops two painkillers. “I’m glad we’ve sorted that out.”

Dickhead.

“And what might be ‘more becoming of my new status,’ oh Your Snobbish Highness? A supercar? Gold-leafed, perhaps?”

“Whatever will make people turn their heads in awe.”

“Is that so?” I grin and snatch the credit card off the table. “See ya later.”

***

I tap my chin with my finger as I size up the shiny red Bentley in the middle of the dealership showroom. According to the little placard beside the vehicle, it comes fully stocked with all the gizmos and whatchamacallits, luxury knickknacks, and hand-stitched genuine leather seats.

“Nope,” I declare.

“But… this is the most high-end vehicle we have in stock, ma’am,” the salesman says. “And it’s a limited edition, to guarantee exclusivity. I can assure you, you will not find a better state-of-the-art car in New York.”

“The car isn’t the problem. It’s the price.”

“Oh. I understand. Well, how about we take a look at some of our more affordable—”

“It’s too cheap,” I add.

The sales guy’s eyes bug out. “It’s… It’s four hundred thousand, ma’am.”

“Exactly.” With my hands on my hips, I take a look around the showroom.

This is the third place I’ve visited, and none have had anything for over half a million available on the lot. The most expensive cars are all custom orders, with months and months of waiting time. I, however, want to make sure I follow my husband’s directions today, preferably by spending at least a million dollars of his money.

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