He stammered off, and I flinched when the front door slammed hard.
That was four hours ago.
It’s now two in the morning and my husband hasn’t come home. I have no idea where he is.
He hasn’t called. And every time I’ve called his phone, it’s gone straight to voicemail.
I refuse to believe all the awful things running through my mind. I don’t want to believe what happened tonight…
That my White Knight is gone. Flame puffed out on my fairy tale, leaving me alone again.
In the dark.
Chapter Seven
Alex
Brush brush brush.
Swirl swirl swirl.
“There she goes, just a’walkin down the street…”
I keep swirling, keep brushing, keep pushing.
“Singing do-a-ditty-ditty-dum-ditty-do…”
Singing and painting. Painting and singing.
Mind racing through memories.
Pain. Torment.
Anger. Sadness.
Brush… brush…
Roger’s hand around my throat, his thumb pressing into my windpipe.
“Do… a… ditty!”
Grinding the brush into the canvas.
“Ditty… Dum…”
His eyes, blue flames of raw force and power, blazing into me as he slams me against the wall. My back still hurts from where I connected with the dry-wall.
“Ditty…”
Say you love me, wife. He growls, the smell of Jack on his breath so strong I can taste it. I cower and he laughs, smacking me with his left hand.
The wedding ring connects with my cheek. That’s convenient.
Fitting, really.
“DO!” I shout, mashing black paint into the middle of a giant face. I’m panting so hard, I can barely stand up anymore.
I need to relax. I need to sit for a minute.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and reach behind me, pulling out the stool I know is right there to plop down on it. I take a few deep breaths, in and out, my heart rate steadily returning to normal.
I got swept up in my zone when I couldn’t stop thinking about my husband’s reckless violence the other day. He usually refrains from bruising my face, just because if it happens all the time people might start to intervene. Jesus, I hope they would.
But the night before he left for his weeklong business trip to wherever the fuck, he was in a mood. Maybe he was going to miss me and figured a bruised cheekbone was a nice gift. Everyone gets flowers and candy…
And then of course, to make matters worse, I had to run into Noah when my husband’s gift was still noticeable. I really shouldn’t have left the house, but I was in such a glum mood, and the only things that cheer me up in such circumstances are sweets. I guess it worked out for the best though, being that Noah ditched the skank he was with to hang out with me and eat cookies in the car.
My original plan was to never see or speak to Noah Richards again. Of course not for lack of want, but because I’m a fucking train wreck and I think it would be wise to keep other people, sexy tattooed TV stars in particular, out of my problems. But when I saw him at Insomnia, it really looked like he was excited to see me. And the rage I witnessed on his beautiful, chiseled face at the state of my cheek made my heart soar so hard and so rapidly, I had no choice but to run away in tears.
And then he chased me… Which caught me completely off-guard.
I’m still very wary of how wonderful it felt to be comforted by Noah Richards; having him hold onto me and whisper sweet words in my hair… It felt like I was in a dream I never wanted to wake up from. I haven’t been held like that in longer than I can even remember. It’s a high I’m still riding now, days later.
So I ditched my original plan and let my buzzing heart guide me to hang out with Noah as a friend, which ended up being even more fun than the waffle night. At first, I was worried he was doing it out of pity, because he felt bad that I’m a pathetic doormat who’s getting beaten by her gorgeous psychopathic husband.
But I kicked that idea when he was tickling me in the backseat in a way that felt reminiscent of the dry-humping at Sensay. Either he was rocking some kind of semi just from being next to me, or he was smuggling produce in his pants… I’m going with the former, which I must say, is immensely satisfying. And if we’re getting into the nitty gritty, he did rub it on me just a little, the memory of this subtle action moistening my panties even now.
I haven’t dry-humped so much since I was seventeen, and yet for some reason with Noah it’s all I want to do.
Well, not all. There are many things I’d like to do with him, and only some of them include humping through our clothes. Most of the rest include humping without our clothes…
Why does he have to be such a damn manwhore? He’s so sweet and kind, and funny as all hell. Why ruin it by being a fucking cliche, screwing every girl who crosses his path?
I sigh out of frustration and kick my easel. I’m sick of guys who fuck around everywhere. Or maybe I’m just sick of it because I have to sit here like an afterthought while they get to be out having all the fun.
I’ve only slept with three guys in my life, and the first two barely count because we were teenagers and they almost couldn’t find where to put it at first. Who’s to say I don’t want to be out sleeping around with no strings attached? It doesn’t seem complicated. I’m sure I could get the hang of it if I tried real hard…
Though at the moment, the only person I want to grind into the mattress is my new friend, the chronic bachelor. It’s never smart to develop feelings for someone who’s relationship-stunted. Remember that forever, Al.
Noah may not do the relationship thing, but apparently he does the friend thing, and does it damn well, at that. He was such a doll that night, asking me about my feelings and threatening to inflict violence on my scumbag parents. It totally wiped away the yuckiness of seeing him with that gross bimbo at Insomnia.
I smirk when I recall that I’m still wearing his hat. I’ve been wearing it since he dropped me off two nights ago, with the brief exceptions of taking it off to sleep and shower. I really like that it smells like him, but I know I’ll have to get rid of it before Roger gets home. So I’m getting in all my time while I still can, thus my reason for painting with a hat on.
My smile widens and I pull the brim down over my face. Then I freeze and gasp, remembering that my hands are covered in black paint.
Fuck!
I remove it carefully, and whimper to myself at the black fingerprints on my bright red hat.
“Waa… you dumbass,” I say to myself, pouting at the smudges. But then an idea pops into my head.
Maybe I should give it back to him. I mean, I’ll have to ditch it anyway in a couple days. And knowing Noah, he’ll totally love to rock this hat with my paint marks all over it.
And I’m back to beaming stupidly again. He’s just the sweetest thing ever, and mind-numbingly sexy. I don’t know how he does it… How he manages to be easy-going and funny, while also being so hot his clothes would burst into flames if they weren’t clearly made of some flame-retardant material.
My phone starts ringing on the table, and I think there’s no way.
I pick it up and see his name with the incoming call. Or rather Norma. Because not that I think Roger checks my phone, but to play it safe, he’ll have to be Norma for now.