Page 31 of Her Dreadful Will
His stomach roiled with acid, ruining any hint of arousal, and his head pounded so hard he thought it might crack in half, like a coconut.
Coconut. The flavor of cake Kim had wanted at their wedding ten years ago. Vance had refused. “Ain’t nobody like that shit,” he’d told her. They’d had a rip-roaring fight about it, ending in the best sex of his life.
When they had first married, she was a real firecracker, both in the bed and out of it. Vance licked his lips, remembering the filthy words that fell from her lips, the things she was willing to do, how she’d claw his back and surge against him. Of course they fought a lot—always had—but back then it was like a terrible dance between them. He’d roar at her, and she’d scream right back. He’d smack her, and she’d whip her hand upside his face. It was wild and crazy and perfect.
But that had all changed when the brats came along.
Sometimes Vance felt proud of them—his spawn, his seed made flesh. But most of the time they were just in the way, crawling on him, sliming the coffee table with their dirty hands, looking up at him with big begging eyes full of terrified adoration. And talking, always talking, especially the oldest girl. He’d had to pop her in the mouth a few times lately, just to get her to shut up so he could hear his show.
Yeah, the kids had changed everything, especially Kim. She didn’t want to be squeezed or groped or smacked in front of them, but he did it anyway, just to get a rise out of her. She took to “managing” him, distracting him so he wouldn’t come near her or the kids at all—he could tell she was doing it, and it only stoked his fury. Sometimes he went along with it ‘cause he was just too damn tired to show them all that he was still the man of the house.
Vance hated the way Kim looked at him now—hated the shadow of fear hovering in her eyes, the way she fidgeted when he was around and jerked away from him if he accidentally touched her. It drove him crazy. Made him madder than ever. Made him want to grab those fat shoulders of hers and shake her until she showed some of her old fire, if there was any left.
He’d gone downtown on his lunch break today, to this stupid thrift store with all these cutesy vintage things. Don Voss had recommended it to him as a good place to buy an anniversary gift for Kim. The girl running the shop was a nice piece of ass—reminded him of Kim before she got so fat. This chick had a decent rack—D-cup, if he had to guess—slinky little waist, long legs. He had pretended to want help finding a gift for his wife, when really all he wanted to do was throw the girl over her counter and rip those tight little jeans off her butt. Could he get away with it? He had eyed the shop door, plastered with posters and advertisements for local bands and poetry nights—no one could see in. If he covered her mouth, maybe he could—
Then the girl had whirled around, away from the shelf, holding a prettily painted teapot in her hand. Her eyes flamed as if she could read his thoughts.
The next instant, his erection deflated and all his desire for the shop girl sucked away, like dirt going down a drain. He felt a sudden surge of dedication to Kim and the kids, and then a horrible, sickening crush of guilt because he’d hurt them so many times. It was overwhelming—an avalanche so intense that he’d stammered an excuse and stumbled out of the shop.
“Wait!” the girl had called after him. “I wasn’t finished—we’re not done here!”
What was that supposed to mean?
He didn’t stop. Last thing he needed was another crazy woman in his life.
He fled down the sidewalk to his car, threw himself inside, and started the engine. Back at work, he hadn’t been able to focus at all, so he skipped out early, because it was Friday and who the hell would even notice if one of the drones buzzed out of the cubicle an hour before quitting time?
In his car, he had beaten his forehead against the steering wheel in a paroxysm of frenzied indecision. The violent surge of dedication to his family collided with his nauseating guilt, releasing a flood of self-hatred, and he couldn’t handle it. He actually gagged, opening the car door and leaning out to spit bile on the black pavement. He thought he might go out of his mind, so he went to a bar for a calm-down drink—which turned into a couple more drinks. And then he’d staggered into the strip club down the street.
He downed another drink, barely conscious of the women twirling and thrashing on the stage. Who could focus on smooth skin and soft curves when his brain was a tornado of conflicting intentions?
He’d planned to do things right tonight—an anniversary gift, flowers, nice takeout, wine—even though he had no doubt it wouldn’t be good enough for Kim, and would only lead to a fight. Nothing he did was ever enough for her.You don’t make enough money to support us. You don’t spend enough time with the kids. You drink too much. You never help around the house. You spend too much money. You never take me anywhere. We never go on vacation.
Well, a man could try to distract himself. He’d been tipping the stage occasionally, but he still had a lot of anniversary cash to blow.
Through the haze of alcohol, he tried to focus on the dancers. But instead, his eyes met those of a man sitting near the rail, just across the stage from him. This guy wasn’t watching the girls at all. He was staring straight at Vance with startlingly bright green eyes.
Weirdo. Vance thought about marching over there and saying, “This ain’t your crowd, man. The gay bar’s over on Gorey Street.”
But as he stole another look at the man, he realized there was no desire in that baleful stare. In fact, it was so full of malignant purpose that Vance shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. He wanted nothing more than to escape those poisonous eyes.
“How about a private dance, sweetie?” he said to a girl nearby.
She surveyed him and sighed as he extracted a wad of cash from his wallet and flipped the edges with his thumb. “Sure, honey. Come on. We’ll find us a quiet spot in the VIP room.”
“Private show. Private room.”
“Sure.” She led him to a curtained alcove. “Wait in there a second, hon. Be right with you.”
He fought his way angrily through the thick curtains and collapsed onto the velvety couch in the space beyond. The stuffy little room smelled like alcohol, sex, and thick, cloying perfume. Not good. Kim might smell the perfume on him when he went home.
Home.
An impulse speared through his soul—a wild urge to go back to Kim and talk to her. To apologize and make gentle love to her—not the rough stuff he’d been subjecting her to lately. And he could check on his sleeping kids and kiss their stupid, sweet little faces.
He almost rose to leave.
But then the curtain swept aside, and the man he’d noticed earlier stepped into the alcove.
