Chapter Seven
Seven
Caine
Present Day
All things considered, I’m doing pretty damn good.
I’m driving to the convention with Margot riding shotgun and a pair of sexy-as-sin panties in my pocket.
A robin’s-egg blue thong with lacy little side ties that I can’t think about too much, or I’ll get hard.
Can’t have Margot looking up from her laptop and spotting me at full mast. She’ll think I have a traffic kink.
I’m aware this thievery is questionable behavior, but considering she had her own lurker moment this morning, it’s not too bad in the grand scheme.
Besides, it’s closer to borrowing, and even more like appreciating.
I won’t hide my trophy from Margot forever, only until we’ve reached the point in our relationship where it’s funny, not creepy.
Eventually, I’m going to present them to her and ask for a fashion show.
Have her strut her sexy ass all over the house before she parks her pussy on my face.
And I’m hard.
Shit.
Subtly, I adjust myself. Time to think about un-arousing things, like this blasted event.
I would confess to underwear thievery all day long if it meant Margot would never find out I was on season one of Love they were tools to him.
A way to guarantee he was always the most interesting man in the room; an easy win in a metaphorical dick-measuring contest.” Her voice goes scratchy, but she’s looking out the window when I glance her way.
“It sounds silly, but realizing that was the beginning of the end.”
I swear I can see her rummaging through the filing cabinets in her head, deciding which words to give me.
Any of them. All of them. I want to beg.
I wish we were doing something. When Margot’s distracted, the filter between her brain and her mouth drops, and she rambles.
Determined to wait her out, I turn the radio off. “Tell me more. We have plenty of time.”
She huffs. “Well, there’s not much to tell. We had a horrible argument, our first real one. I was so angry that I slept in the guest room. In the middle of the night, I woke up to him leaning over the bed, whispering in my ear.”
What the fuck.
She side-eyes me. “You wouldn’t know this, but when I get scared, like truly, unspeakably scared, I freeze.”
“That was unnecessary.” Shaking my head, I try not to laugh. Margot would manage to slip in a dig at my inability to scare her while sharing what sounds like a horribly traumatic event.
Her self-satisfied smirk is ridiculously cute, vanishing far too quickly.
“It was…off. I didn’t know what to do, so I pretended I was still asleep.
He stood by the bed for a few more minutes, then left.
It rattled me, so when I heard our bedroom door shut, I got up and locked the guest room door.
I know it sounds silly, locking out my husband, but I had a bad feeling—”
I don’t realize I’m gritting my teeth until Margot interrupts herself to ask, “What’s wrong?”
Shaking my head, I wave away the question. “Nothing. Keep going.”
“Eventually, I fell back asleep. When I woke up, Nicholas was already gone for the day. While I was making the bed, Conquest slithered out from underneath.”
I’ve reached reckless levels of teeth grinding; my molars may never recover. “No fucking way.”
“Why would I make that up?” Snake-strike fast, Margot’s on the defensive.
“No, no, I believe you. I just can’t believe him.” Traffic’s picked up, and I’m surrounded by drivers acting like it’s their first time at bumper cars. Usually, it wouldn’t bother me, but right now, it’s irritating. I’d give anything to see her face.
“Oh.” She sounds genuinely surprised. “Well, long story short, I called Nicholas to come home and catch Conquest. He did, and kept saying he didn’t know how the snake got out of the enclosure, let alone into the house, but I knew it was him.
The whole time he was catching Conquest, he looked so pleased with himself. ”
“That’s why he was in the room, leaving the snake.”
“Yep.” Tugging the tie from her messy bun, she begins to finger-comb her hair.
“After that, it became a thing. We’d fight; he’d mention them casually, say he needed to check the enclosure latches.
If I backed down, no snake. If I didn’t, I knew to wear shoes in the house.
” Margot’s chuckle is grim. “I had no idea what to do. I tried to talk to a friend about it, but she was in the church and didn’t believe me.
I even went to the police and told them about the ‘escapes,’ hoping there was some venomous reptile permit being violated.
The cop ratted me out to Nicholas, which just made him bolder.
The day after I went to the police, I found Conquest in one of my drawers, and I snapped.
Didn’t call Nicholas, just dumped clothing and snake into a bin and drove to a reptile rescue a couple of towns over.
The woman running it was so kind, I ended up telling her the whole story. ”
My knuckles are white from how tightly I’m gripping the steering wheel, but I make a confirmatory sound and nod, not wanting to slow her roll.
“I’d known in my gut that this was fucked up—but trying to explain it to other people had made me feel so foolish.
Even my mom told me to work it out with him, that he was a good man, and I was being ridiculous by blaming him for the snakes getting loose.
I didn’t realize how much I needed someone to believe me and validate my fear until the woman at the rescue did.
That was the push that made me start planning how to leave. ”
Dozens of quirks I’ve logged in the Book of Margot without a second thought snap together, creating a picture that makes my heart ache and jaw clench.
That it took years to get her to give me her phone number.
How she has a social media account for Gremlin, but not herself.
The way she’s helped with nearly every aspect of the haunt over the years, but never, ever agreed to be on film in any promo content.
She turns toward me as far as the seat belt will let her. “You’re up.”
“Excuse me?” My throat tightens.
“I just spilled my guts. Now you have to give me something. Fair is fair. I refuse to be the only one with their baggage tipped over and dirty clothes all over the place.”
I force a laugh. “I don’t have anything half as interesting.”
Margot shrugs. “Try me.”
I need to tell her about the show, but faced with an opening, I don’t want to.
Suck it up, buttercup, the voice in my head insists. You want a real relationship? Use your words like a fucking grown-up.