Page 44 of The Hitch
After the scenic drive home, we burst in the door, and I kick off the hotel slippers. While I appreciate the clean clothes, I miss my own comfort pajamas—the threadbare plaid flannel I bought from some crappy superstore out in Iowa. I'll keep the T-shirt, though. Dante follows me up the stairs and strips out of his own rumpled suit.
Period or no, I can appreciate the defined V of his hips and abs. The tight fabric of his boxer briefs perfectly outline his package, and when he turns to the dresser, I shamelessly ogle the curve of his ass. How did I not know he has a perfect little bubble butt until now? What have I been wasting my time staring at? Hisface?
A hot throbbing ache bubbles up from my ovaries, spiritually slapping me out of objectifying my husband. I grumble out a noise of distress and flop face-first onto the bed. "Hate this."
"There's a heating pad in the bedside table," Dante says, sounding muffled from the pillow around my ears.
"Can you get it?" I whine.
"Of course."
Moments later, he gently rocks me to my side and slips the heating pad under my aching belly. The heat hits me nearly instantly, and I let out a sigh of relief.
"Thank you."
"Happy to, love. Now take off your shirt."
My head rockets up from the pillow. "What? No—Dante, it's cool if you don't mind riding the crimson wave, but Iverymuch prefer not to fuck right now."
"Understandable. That's not where I was going with this. Please, love. Take off your shirt." He chuckles and gently strokes my forearm.
Grumbling my complaints, I roll around enough to shimmy out of the hotel-branded T-shirt. "Fine."
The bed dips, and I feel him settle in beside me. Not lying down, though. I lift my head again to squint at him, but he shakes his head. He's got a bottle of something in his hands, though I can't quite tell what it is—but he squirts out an oily substance and rubs his hands together quickly.
"Lie down, Melody. I've heard this helps."
Warm, slippery hands knead into the muscles of my lower back. Exactly where the cramps originate from. How did he know? I mean, I'm not about to look another gift horse in the mouth, so I stay quiet and happily sigh into the crisp sheets of our bed.
He must have been paying attention at the spa. Moving from my lower back to my shoulder blades, I melt under his touch. The pressure is perfect. It's not so hard that it's painful, nor is it too soft to be relaxing. Every stroke of his deft fingers leaves me inching closer and closer to sleep.
Just as I'm in that twilight state, I swear I can hear him whisper something that sounds like "Sleep well, my love."
Three days. Three days of abdominal aches, three days of irritability, three days of shuffling to the bathroom when I think I've leaked through my tampon. And, to my despair,oneday of gnawing in the back of my skull. I can't sit still. Helena looks at me like I'm going to wear a hole in the floor from my pacing.
"Got anyone that needs dead, Hel?" I ask as I flop into the overstuffed armchair in the living room.
"Your safety is my job." She sighs and rubs her forehead. "Pointing you at random shitheads is in direct opposition to that."
"So, youdohave random shitheads that need to die? Cool. Let's go." I tilt my head towards the door and smile.
"No." She settles into her own chair, gripping the arms tight. "Your husband will be home soon, and I'll be heading out. Do you need any ibuprofen? Acetaminophen?"
I grumble and shuffle my feet with a frown. I know I'm acting like a child, but this whole constant surveillance thing is wearing on my already thin nerves. Haven't I proven I can be trusted yet? I'm not going to bolt out the door like a dog. I'm not going to thecops—I've been a very willing participant—and instigator—of yet another murder.
Is this what it's like for other Goetic wives? Dotheyget to leave the house? At this point, I don't even really care about having a job. I'm sure I could find my dream job if I wanted to, but I don't dream of labor. I just want something to do that doesn't involve sitting around this fucking mansion. Or being tailed like a thief.
The low ticking of the grandfather clock grates on my nerves.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Fuck. You. Fuck. You.
It's taunting me. Everything is taunting me. My fingers dig into the emerald velvet of my chair, leaving little half-moons from my fingernails. My bones feel like they're made of electricity. I need to fucking rip and tear intosomething. An unquellable rage burns in my chest. I can't sit here; I can't sitstill. I throw myself out of the chair and resume my pacing, stomping every step.
Like a fucking child, I know, but I don't care. I can't do this. I can't just sit idly by. I don't want to go to the spa—I want to go to a goddamn shooting range. Or something. A rage room? It doesn't matter. I need to breaksomething. And fast, or I'll be breaking someone.
Just as I reach up to yank on my own hair, the front door flies open. Dante shuffles in, looking disheveled and annoyed. Good. He stalks over to the minibar and pours himself afullglass of his whiskey, chugs the whole thing down, and directs his attention to Helena.
