44. Stevie
forty-four
stevie
I’M SITTING ON the couch trying to read a book to keep my mind off Hunter and to stop myself from texting him for updates.
He’s been gone for only about an hour, yet it feels like forever.
I’m trying to be patient, but I feel so restless.
After reading the same damn sentence three times, I get the bright idea to make pasta and the sauce to go with it, even though I have never attempted making pasta sauce in my life.
But I need a challenge, a massive distraction, and a book is not cutting it.
I put my book down and head into the kitchen, scrolling my phone for a simple marinara sauce recipe. Hunter’s fridge is always stocked, and anyway, how hard can it be? The sauce is mostly going to be made of tomatoes.
In fact, the recipe calls for canned tomatoes and tomato paste, so I don’t even have to chop up a bunch of fresh tomatoes, or whatever I thought marinara sauce entailed. Hunter has both ingredients in his pantry. Because of course he does. His housekeeper wouldn’t have it any other way.
After blending most of the ingredients in the food processor, I chop up an onion and cook it slowly in oil over medium heat.
Then I stir in the blended portion and add half a cup of white wine.
Dare I say it, it is blissfully distracting doing all this.
And for once, I’ll be the one making dinner. I think Hunter will appreciate it.
It’s fascinating how much he’s softened toward me.
When I think back to our beginning, he was kind of a jerk.
Now, he’s a total teddy bear, except when he’s tying me up and busting out the nipple clamps.
He’s definitely still rough and dirty during sex, but he never does anything I don’t 100% consent to.
I’ve never had to use our safe word, and I probably never will.
I let the sauce simmer, stirring occasionally, and thinking about how far Hunter and I have come. I want to tell him that I love him, but is it too soon? Sometimes there are these quiet moments between us, and the words are right on the tip of my tongue. But I always end up swallowing them.
I think if I say it and he doesn’t say it back to me, I might never recover.
But I’m so butt-crazy in love with him that the words will burst from my lips sooner rather than later. I just know it.
The sauce is ready, so I go back to the pantry to grab some pasta. I’m debating which pasta shape to choose (I love farfalle, but Hunter hates it) when I hear the front door opening. I step out of the pantry just as Hunter says, “What’s that amazing smell?”
“I made marinara sauce!”
Hunter rounds the corner into the kitchen and my heart skips a beat. I rush over and cling to him. He hugs me back, one of his hands in my hair, and we just hold each other like that for a minute. “I missed you,” I mumble against his sweater.
“I’m here.”
I slowly pull away and look up into his perfect face. “How did it go?”
He shrugs, stepping back and walking over to the stove. He sniffs the sauce I made. “Why did you decide to make pasta sauce?”
“I was stressed.”
He looks at me and grins. “You’re the cutest thing in the world.”
“Baby.”
He sighs. “It didn’t go well. But I’m glad I told him. I think my grandfather still can’t accept the truth about my father. He’s enabled my father his entire life. It’s…like a reflex at this point. I don’t know what it will take.”
“What will you do now?”
“I have to figure something else out. But my grandfather’s help would’ve been really useful.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe he’ll come around. Maybe he needs some time to process everything you said.”
Hunter grabs a wooden spoon and stirs the marinara sauce. “Maybe,” he concedes. He tastes some of the sauce off the spoon and groans. “Mmm, this is really good, princess.”
“Really? Should I take over cooking duties?”
He gives me a look. “Cooking for you is my thing.”
I sidle up to his side and put my head on his shoulder. “Well, what am I supposed to do for you?”
“You do plenty.”
“Like what?!”
He chuckles. “You make me come like nobody else has ever made me come. Is that good enough for you?”
I grin sheepishly, heat rising in my cheeks. “I’m gonna go get the pasta.”
“You do that.” His laughter follows me into the pantry. I settle on the angel hair pasta after a moment’s deliberation. It’s Hunter’s favorite.
“What, no farfalle?” he jokes when I return to the kitchen.
“I know you hate it.”
“Pasta shouldn’t be shaped like butterflies,” he says solemnly.
“You are ridiculous. The shape of pasta is what makes it fun.”
“Now who’s being ridiculous?”
I stick my tongue out at him. “Killjoy.”
Hunter laughs as he puts a pot of water on the stove to boil. “Oh, alright, go bring your butterfly pasta.”
I hug him from behind as he salts the water. “It’s—”
A knock on the door stops me short. I frown. “Are you expecting someone?” I ask Hunter.
“No.” Stepping away from the stove, he takes his phone from his pocket and checks the security camera. “It’s my dad,” he says.
“Oh.”
“Fuck.”
“Are you gonna let him in?”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding resigned. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Hunter…”
Before I can stop him, he’s striding to the front door and opening it. His father barrels in, his energy aggressive and heated. I’m immediately on guard. Hunter puts his body between his father and me.
“You little shit!” his father spits. “You think you can go behind my back to my own father?”
“He’s my grandfather,” Hunter returns calmly.
“You had no right!” his father says, stabbing a finger into the air. “Stay out of my fucking business. You don’t know anything. And you,” he adds, looking past Hunter at me, “stay the fuck away from my wife.”
“Stevie didn’t do anything,” Hunter says, moving his body to block me from his father’s view. “You’re the one who’s beating your wife. You broke her arm. What’s next, gonna push her down the stairs too?”
His face reddening, Hunter’s dad advances on him. “You piece of shit. I’ll kill you like I killed your mother.” He grabs Hunter by the throat. Hunter tries to push him off, and they scuffle. I skitter out of their way. My heart is pounding out of my chest, my mind spinning.
Hunter and his dad grapple, but now his father has both hands around Hunter’s throat.
They fall to the ground, and I scream. Hunter twists his body, trying to get away, but his father’s hands only tighten around his throat, turning his face red.
He can’t breathe. For a second I am frozen with fear and indecision.
Then I grab the bottle of wine I was using to make marinara sauce and slam it on Hunter’s dad’s head.