Page 51 of Lust
I nodded at the pre-teen sitting in the back. “Ray, you’re in charge.”
Ray stood on cue. At twelve, he was the oldest and was also incredibly mature for his age.
Stephanie, an outspoken nine-year-old in the bunch, grumbled bitterly that she’d make a better leader. Nora, her shy younger sister, disagreed. Meanwhile, Sam, the youngest at seven, tried to sample the paint from the tip of his brush.
Ray was at his side without missing a beat, turning the brush around to face the canvas instead. “Ms. Sara said to paint, not eat.”
And that’s why he was my right-hand man when it came to helping out with the other kids. Unfortunately, Ray was too good for this place. All of them were.
With a deep sigh, I stood from the barstool, feeling terribly weary. Finding suitable accommodation to relocate these families was near impossible. Many zoning committees didn’t want a shelter in their community as it brought down housing prices. I had exhausted every resource for potential sponsors, only to come up short or to hear gentle rejections. It had left me utterly drained.
Shelving away the feelings of defeat, I moved to the doorsill. Jen twirled the wispy tendrils of her brown hair, shuffling her feet nervously from left to right as she addressed Tristan. “If you aren’t doing anything, I was just about to—”
“Jen!” I interrupted her shameless gawking as her eyes trailed from Tris’ biceps flexing against the sleeves of his Polo shirt and down to the waist of his jeans. “Mike called the office to see if you needed anything from the store?”
Without looking away from Tristan, she asked absentmindedly, “Who?”
I sighed. “Mike! Your husband of four years.”
Jen shook her head as if remembering her wedding vows. “Right. Yes… Mike. Right. Of course. Okay, then. I-I’ll go call him back.”
Tris said nothing. The faint cocky smile was indicative, nevertheless. He knew of the power he held over women.
“It-it was nice meeting you.” With one last glance at Tristan, Jen hastily walked down the hallway before rounding the corner. She was confused by her own reactions and slightly embarrassed.
I turned my attention to Tristan, unable to meet his gaze. He studied me with such intense scrutiny that I felt flushed from the inspection, and my gaze was cast down in search of discrepancies in my outfit. Rookie mistake. It’s how he found weaknesses in his adversaries.
Tristan guided me away from prying eyes and to a secluded corner. Our steps were slow, meaningful, and sounded loud in the deserted hallways. There was now an awkwardness between us that was simply cringeworthy.
“What are you doing here?” I inquired tersely.
“Time’s up, Angel.”
I had no idea what bout of insanity started this, but Tristan had granted me the week to adjust. One week to get over the trauma. One week to break things off with Tobias. And one week to willingly open my legs for the devil.
Otherwise, he’d run this shelter to the ground.
I had considered defying his wishes and going to the police instead.Then I had snorted at the mere thought.
Not only was I used to seeing powerful men get away with crimes far viler than the one Tristan had committed, but more often, the victims suffered for coming forward.
I was at the protests when Dr. Christine Blasey Ford came to DC and accused Judge Kavanaugh of sexual assault during his Supreme Court campaign. I was also there when she was publicly shunned and ridiculed for coming forward and by other women, no less. They believed she made up lies to destroy a good man’s career.
Ultimately, she had to move out of her home, quit her job, and was plagued with death threats to this day. Meanwhile, Judge Kavanaugh was an associate justice of the United States Supreme Court.
Welcome to the reality of this ugly world.
I couldn’t tell a single soul of what had happened. Even after an expensive and humiliating public trial, not one person would believe the assault. Instead, Mom might finally believe that I was the mental one if I accused Tristan of foul play a second time.
I had already cried wolf,I realized bitterly.
Regrettably, I also couldn’t inflict any actual damage on Tristan without shattering Mom in the process. It would kill her if anything terrible happened to her only son. I had already brought enough misfortunes to Mom’s life. I might want to hurt Tristan, but I could never hurt Mary Marcolf.
If I wanted justice, my real-life choices were limited, if not non-existent.
I could kill myself than live with a pain I could never get retribution for.
I had shuddered when the thought had crossed my mind. At times, my need for justice trumped logic. Such thoughts had no place circling the perimeters of my mind. I was the one to counsel girls away from morbid ideas.
