Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
Ashley
Acid rises in my throat, helpless ire rattling my bones.
More than anything, I’m humiliated.
To be identified as this man’s wife in front of…him.
Who is the other man? I’ve never seen him in town before. I would have remembered. Standing at least six feet three inches tall, his body robust in a way that whispers lethal , he’s a presence. Dark hair fashioned in a slick back, his eyes a piercing navy blue, face clean shaven, he stands eerily still, but his gaze ripples as he looks at the man I’m unfortunate enough to call my husband.
“I go where I want,” I say through my teeth.
Waylon, my husband of two weeks, laughs. But the sound contains a promise of punishment. I feel nothing. This whole marriage is a punishment, so what’s a little more?
“Apparently where you want to go is off flirting with another man,” Waylon says, making me cringe. It wasn’t flirting. This conversation with the stranger…it seemed like more than that, though I must be mistaken. Having a meaningful conversation with a man is about as likely as hooking a whale while fishing for trout. “Maybe you could try flirting with the man who put a ring on your finger. Even if you refuse to wear the goddamn thing.”
“I’d rather blind myself with a screwdriver,” I say, numb. So numb of anything but useless anger. I’m a prisoner. I’ve been stripped of my will. Might as well be in shackles.
I can hear Waylon’s teeth grind. “That can be arranged.”
It’s very subtle, the stiffening of the other man’s muscles, the slow tightening of his fist around the metal basket handle. The winding of his jaw. But I’m highly aware of the increase in his tension, because weirdly, my body constricts with corresponding winds of muscle, of flesh, like…I’m physically attuned to him in some way. It’s odd, to say the least. I’ve never felt physically connected to anyone, especially the man I married to cover my family’s debts. I’m so repulsed by his touch, I’ve found ways to avoid consummating the marriage, claiming I’m sick or I have my period. Outright hiding.
Last night, I pretended I’d seen a huntsman spider in the bedroom and thankfully, his fear of arachnids overrode his suspicion that I’m full of shit.
But I’m running out of time.
Sooner or later, this slimeball I married is going to force intimacy on me. That’s why he married me, isn’t it? Sex. That’s all men believe I’m useful for, simply because I was born with a pleasing face. I arouse them, which is considered my fault, so they’re entitled to take what they want. Too many times in my life, I’ve been spoken to in disgusting ways, groped and objectified. That’s why I started dressing like this. To deter the advances, even of my husband. Moments ago, when the stranger braced my hip in his hand so I wouldn’t fall, I assumed he was using an opportunity to cop a feel.
Now…I’m not sure.
Something about his lethal stillness is reassuring. Which makes no sense.
“Go sit in the car,” Waylon says, squeezing my arm. “Before you piss me off.”
“Seems like you’re already there,” the stranger says, a muscle leaping in his cheek. “You’re laying hands on your wife in the middle of the supermarket.” His expression doesn’t change, but the rippling of his gaze becomes infused with glacial intention. “While we’re on the subject, I suggest you stop or you’re going to have a problem to deal with.”
Waylon thrusts his chin out. “What’s that?”
“My motherfucking temper.”
My husband laughs, but he’s clearly intimidated by the much taller stranger, his stance shifting, his next words emerging with a stutter. “Hey, man. L-look. I know she’s pretty, but it’s all for show. God gave her that face and body as a cruel joke.” He hefts the waistband of his jeans higher. “This wife of mine is as frigid as a snowstorm in January.”
Heat suffuses my cheeks, but I lift my chin and refuse to break eye contact with the stranger. Yup, that’s right. I’ve got no use for men. This newcomer is no different, despite what my exhausted instincts are insisting on telling me. That he’s…other. Different.
“How long have you two been married?” asks the stranger.
“Too long,” I bite off.
“Two weeks,” Waylon snarls.
I try to rip my arm out of his grip, but he holds on.
The stranger takes one step forward. “Let. Go.”
My husband releases me, as if he’s been socked in the jaw. “Hey,” he says, getting jumpy. Definitely annoyed at himself for following the other man’s order. “Back off, bro. This is none of your business.”
The stranger stares at Waylon long and hard. Then he says something I’m not expecting at all. “Why? Don’t you want my help?”
Waylon goes slack jawed. “Huh?”
Huh?
“I’m a therapist.” He sets down his basket, which only appears to contain a tin of coffee and shortbread cookies. From the inner pocket of his suit jacket, he produces a business card and a pen. He writes something on the back, his eyes finding mine and lingering, as if trying to pass on a message. “My services include couples counseling.”
While I absorb that, Waylon scoffs. Predictably.
“I ain’t going to see no shrink.”
The stranger nods, only a hint of disgust bleeding into his features, but I can tell there’s a lot more hiding under the surface. And it makes me feel…not so alone. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel like a solitary mass of useless rage crying into a void, so even the briefest flash of unity is powerful. Enough to make my breath catch. “Then by all means. Continue along in your unhappy marriage with a wife you couldn’t possibly begin to understand,” says the man. “I’m sure no one will be surprised when you fail.” Those blue eyes look into Waylon’s soul and find the weakest point to inject venom. “It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? That you’ve failed to live up to standards.”
Waylon pales considerably. “Who the fuck are you?”
I’m wondering the same thing. The whole world has slowed and crystalized around the stranger and it’s like catching a glimpse of a higher power, his blue eyes and strictly controlled voice in charge of the earth’s next revolution. My belly and my knees reach for each other, the latter beginning to tremble.
What is going on here?
The stranger takes another step closer, blocking Waylon’s view of his hand, which is deftly sliding his business card into my pocket. Without touching me, I notice. Keeping the boundary I set. Oh. “Come see me when you build enough courage,” he says to Waylon. “Or should I say if you build enough courage.” Another step toward Waylon and he’s looming over my husband. “If you cause her pain again, I will know. And I will strike from the darkness when you least expect it. You won’t survive the first blow.”
I’ve never seen my husband shaken. Not in the two weeks we’ve been living under the same roof. Or the two years he haunted my family leading up to the wedding day, vowing to take me as collateral for their missed payments. Ultimately succeeding.
The stranger gives me a meaningful look as he strides away, turning the corner and disappearing at the end of the aisle. I wait until Waylon storms off out of the supermarket, cursing a blue streak, before unearthing the business card from my pocket.
Caleb Draper. Licensed therapist.
Unconventional methods.
On the back, he has written a two-word message. For my eyes alone.
Trust me.