Has Kip been spooning Elena all this time? Is he her big spoon? Does he make her—No! No. No. Opening my eyes, I stared into the dim room, just one small lamp casting our sparse surroundings in greyish light.
Acid and irritation coated the inside of my mouth, congealing my sadness and confusion into anger. When I’d married Kipling, he’d been twenty-eight to my eighteen and I’d trusted him. My vows had included obedience. I’d kept my vows; I’d taken them seriously. I’d obeyed. I’d been so obedient, I might as well have been a dog.
My chin wobbled and anger morphed into a monstrous kind of frustration, the kind that stings your nose and clogs your throat, makes thinking and breathing at the same time a labor. God. I know vengeance is Yours, but if You could smite Kipling Sylvester and make it excruciatingly painful, I’d be very much obliged.
Despite the violent turn of my thoughts, my darn chin kept on wobbling.
I needed to leave. Now. Before the waterworks burning behind my eyes burst. Before I cried in front of Mr. Repo and likely reinforced his impression of me as pathetic and desperate. I didn’t care one way or the other if he thought I was pathetic and desperate—I was pathetic and desperate—but I’d promised myself I would always, always leave every room from now on with my head held high, no matter what.
Inching away from the man behind me, I drew a steadying stream of air into my lungs. He must’ve been real tuckered out because he didn’t wake up. Mr. Repo had, after all, just given me more than ten orgasms and had seemed to have at least four himself. No wonder he was exhausted, poor man. The last thing he likely wanted was an awkward conversation in the morning with the pushy woman who’d badgered him to prove his salt. The least I could do is leave him in peace. If I thought it would be well received, I would sent him a gift basket for his pains and trouble.
Actually, maybe I would. I didn’t have to sign the card, I could just send it along with a note of thanks. Unless he handed out a baker’s dozen of orgasms to several random women regularly—which, given his skill, I wouldn’t find terribly surprising—he would know who sent the basket.
More and more determined to follow through with the gift basket idea, I hunted for my clothes. Having so many employees, I knew folks needed to be told when they did a job well. Withholding praise wears a person down, makes them feel helpless and weak. Ask me how I know.
You mean, how you’ve treated your daughter?
I sucked in a sharp breath at the thought, biting my lip until it stung as I battled a whole dang mountain of guilt. Gosh darnit.
“No,” I whispered, sniffling and shaking my head. “No, you will not think about this right now.”
Ordering myself around these days never seemed to work and soon my heart and chest seized with self-recrimination because I’d been a terrible, terrible mother. I’d allowed myself to be a tool for my husband to impose his will upon us all. Worse, I was also beginning to suspect I’d taken out my own bitterness and frustration on my sweet, kindhearted, beautiful daughter. Obedience had been a vow I’d hidden behind, used to justify shameful behavior. And for what? Scraps of Kip’s approval while he lavished affection on—
“Stop it. Stop,” I said under my breath, wiping my eyes with suddenly shaking fingers. When I got home, I’d take a shower and cry. The best place in the world to cry is in the shower. I always cried in the shower. Always.
And then I’d make a new list entitled, Ways to spoil Jennifer and make up over twenty years of being a horrible person.
Despite the pragmatism of my plan, my eyes continued to sting and leak. I stumbled, nearly tipping over as I pulled on my clothes and shoes. I’d liked how I’d looked earlier in the evening, but now the leather of the skirt made my undies ride up and the tank top felt like wearing nothing at all. Fisting the edges of my jacket together at my chest, I peeked at the sleeping man in the bed, wanting to be sure he was well and truly in dreamland before working on the locks of the door.
. . . Goodness.
I drew in a shaky breath, my gaze wandering over the substantial shape of him, the chaos of tattoos on his impressive bicep and massive shoulder snagging my notice before my attention drifted to the angular lines of his face. His demand that I keep my eyes open and on him while he touched me had not been a simple matter. Mr. Repo possessed a devastatingly handsome face, one I’d never felt comfortable looking at for too long when I’d spotted him around town.
His was a face that always made heat rise to my cheeks and my chest get all fluttery. It inspired sinful thoughts that had always made me feel a lingering shame and a determination to be a better wife, a Godlier woman. Looking at him now, he resembled that famous British soccer player quite a lot, the one with all the watch ads in GQ. The man was just simply physically breathtaking in every possible way.
And I’d badgered him into having sex with me.
With me. A bossy, no talent, ignorant country bumpkin who always aimed too high for reasons unknown. A used up and bitter forty-something mother of two adult children, now alone and perpetually unloved after foolishly investing decades in a marriage to a cheater and a liar and an abuser.
Why had Mr. Repo done it? Why had he agreed? Being bossy must’ve been my superpower, that’s for sure. If folks required evidence, they need look no further than the beautiful, capable, sensually skilled man in the bed.
But there’s no badgering your way out of a miserable life, Diane. And your horrid choices.
My gaze dropped and I turned to the door, swiping at an errant tear rolling down my cheek. I turned the locks and numbly stepped out, shutting the door behind me with a soft snick. Looking left and then right, I frowned at the long, nondescript hallway.
The walls were black, and the florescent lights buzzing above cast everything in a harsh, raucous kind of anti-glow. Mr. Repo’s room had smelled like furniture polish and pine; Mr. Repo had smelled like whiskey and heat. But this hallway smelled like bleach and sick. I didn’t recall it being so . . . so . . . so this when we’d come in. Oppressively depressing and oddly terrifying.
I gripped the front of my jacket tighter at my throat, lifted my chin, and squared my shoulders. It’s just a hallway, Diane.
Pretty sure we’d come in from the left, I turned that way and strode forward, hesitating when I reached the end of this first hallway and encountered another one, identical in design and stench. My heart kicked up and I glanced over my shoulder, eyeing the bedroom door I’d just exited. This place was a maze. It would be incredibly foolish for me to continue onward without a guide.
But I didn’t want to wake Mr. Repo. I didn’t want to talk to him. I already felt low about myself, and even though I’d twisted his arm and pushed him into it, the during part of our interlude had been really nice. Really nice. It had felt like a gift, actually. A memory I’d cherish, something for me to take out and recall on cold, lonely evenings. An example of me being brave.
I had so little examples of me being brave over the course of my life. I needed it. There had to be another way. Ruining the evening now by talking to the man felt—
“Mom?”
I whipped around at the voice and gasped so hard I choked on my own breath. OH MY GOD!
Isaac’s open mouth broadcasted the extent of his surprise. My son’s wide and round eyes swept down as he took a step back, his eyebrows slowly pulling together.