Chapter 10 Bolton
BOLTON
Icollapse onto my stomach, gasping for breath. Stars could my vision, and I think my soul left my body for a split second. I-hate-you sex is hands down, dicks up the best sex. Period. I’ll die on that hill.
The thought of death is a bucket of ice water being poured on me. My husband moonlights as a serial killer. He fucked me in his Christmas Cleaver Sexy Santa costume, mask included, in front of a dead body hanging on a meat hook.
Oh my god…I just got my ass pounded out in front of a dead person! What if his ghost watched us?!
Every iota of self-respect I ever had for myself is gone now.
I should be furious—demanding he bring me home so I can pack my bags and leave him.
But a dark, fucked-up voice deep inside me tells me I’ll do nothing of the sort.
I’ll never admit it aloud…but I think I liked it.
I enjoyed being railed out by a dark serial killer—by my husband.
I feel like I’m going to puke. Cal’s hand rubs soothing circles on my back, his touch instantly calming me despite how conflicted I feel.
“Breathe, baby. Breathe. Please talk to me.” Cal rarely begs.
He isn’t a monster—he’ll apologize when he’s wrong—but I’ve only heard him beg once…when he asked me not to leave him at the cabin.
“Let me go.”
I don’t ask, and he knows better than to argue with me or pull his alpha man bullshit act.
He unhooks me, then uses my pocketknife to cut the ziptie.
Every muscle in my body screams at me as I stand up and put my sweatpants and shoes back on.
I can’t have a serious conversation when I know he’s ogling my body.
I sit down, so we’re eye to eye with each other.
“Talk to you about what?” He winces at the bite in my voice, but I couldn’t care less.
He’s lucky I’m hearing him out at all. “How you’re a murderer?
How you lied to me? How we fucked in front of a dead body!
How you put both of us at risk by recreating murders from my books?
Books you didn’t bother to read until recently… ”
Dr. Locke said to leave past transgressions in the past where they belong, but I can’t help adding in the last dig at the end about how he never read my books as I wrote them, even after one made the bestseller list.
“He isn’t dead, just concussed. He’ll eventually wake up.”
“Oh that’s wonderful,” I quip, rolling my eyes at him. “Love how out of all the major red flags I mentioned, you only address that one.”
“Talking about this is hard for me, but I’m trying. Your feelings are valid. I fucked up. Please let me give my actions context so we can move toward forgiveness.” Ugh. Why does he have to use therapy-speak with me? He knows it turns me on when he uses what he learned in marriage counseling.
“Fine, but I still hate you and reserve the right to pack my bags and leave,” I remind him.
A dark shadow passes over his eyes, his jaw tightening. Looks like I hit a nerve with Mr. Possessive Serial Killer. Boo-fucking-hoo, asshole.
“Twenty years ago, my younger sister, Eloise, was murdered,” he begins.
“Hold on, what?” I interrupt him. “Your sister?” You had a sibling you never thought to mention to me in the almost decade we’ve been together?” My best friend and I researched Cal when we first started dating, and there was no mention of any siblings.
“I don’t talk about her—I barely even mentioned her death in therapy. My father had her erased from all records, so she technically doesn’t even exist anymore.”
A tear slides down his cheek, and my heart aches for him. How painful it must have been to carry this alone for years? He takes a deep breath, then continues.
“Long story short, my father treated Eloise like property to advance his own agenda. She wasn’t allowed to work in the family business—her job was to form a business alliance through marriage.
She attended private finishing schools for young women, learned about party planning, and had strict rules about what she could do.
My father controlled everything about her, down to the books she read and the clothes she could wear.
At one point, he even controlled what she could and couldn’t eat.
I tried to stop him, to help her, but there wasn’t much I could do.
All the control and pressure affected her mental health, and she tried to end her life. ”
Now I regretted not meeting Cal’s father, because I missed out on the opportunity to kick his ass. I crawl over to Cal, and lean against his arm for support. It was just my mom and I, so I can only imagine how rough it was to have a sister experience this and feel helpless to stop it.
“He had her committed to a rehabilitation facility in Europe called Brighter Days, which was basically an institution for rich people.
They did something to her there—brainwashed her.
When she was eighteen, she came back as an entirely different person.
She had no emotions, no personality, no anything.
She talked only when prompted and barely ate.
I tried to ask her what happened, but she avoided the topic, claiming Brighter Days saved her.
“Less than two months after she came home, my father announced her engagement to Charles Bawdin, the son of a longtime friend. He was deplorable—a sick fuck who got off on treating women like shit. He’d brag about how he keeps women in line by beating and drugging them into compliance.
I begged my father not to go through with it, but he told me my sister wasn’t my concern and that she wanted the marriage.
She told me herself when I asked. The whole thing rattled me so much that I moved to California and founded my own company.
” He wrapped his arms around me, holding me to his chest and squeezing me like a life line.
“Leaving New York was the worst mistake I ever made.”
“What happened…” I whispered.
“A few nights before the wedding, my sister called me sobbing over the phone. She was having a panic attack, saying that Bawdin was hanging out with people who were involved in human trafficking. He made her do things she wasn’t able to do anymore.
She claimed he had a stake in their business model, that she eavesdropped on a meeting and heard him admit it. ”
“What the fuck…” I gasped, too stunned to string a sentence together. “Do you think your dad was involved too?”
Cal ran his fingers through my hair, separating my curls.
“No. When he got diagnosed with cancer and transitioned the company to me, I combed through every financial record for the past thirty years and found nothing remotely suspicious. I fired his entire leadership team and completely restructured, just to ensure there was no rot.”
“Did Bawdin…” I think better of finishing the thought. Cal hopefully never confirmed if he trafficked his sister. If he knows, I won’t reopen the wound by asking.
He thankfully ignores my misstep and keeps telling his story.
“I hopped on the first flight to JFK, but by the time I got there, it was too late. Baldwin claims he found her face down in the dirt, beneath the balcony of their home on the Hudson River. The police wanted to rule it a suicide, but he greased the wheels and they labeled it an accidental death instead…”
“It wasn’t an accident.” I didn’t ask because deep in my heart, I know it wasn’t. I know the caliber of man my husband is. He would never commit to a course of action like this without solid proof.
“For years I tried to find evidence, but I wasn’t the man I am now.
I didn’t have the resources or connections.
Even though our fathers were friends, Baldwin and his crew hated me because I never acted like a privileged piece of shit like they did—I didn’t get off on frequenting strip clubs, fucking models, and treating the waitstaff like crap everywhere I went.
I couldn’t infiltrate them and crack the walls they built around themselves.
Eventually, I gave up because it was too hard to constantly give my hopes up, only to have them shattered. ”
He sniffles, and I kiss his cheek, encouraging him to keep talking.
“When I started reading your books, I couldn’t help but think of Eloise.
Reading about these dark vigilante characters who sought their own justice inspired me to hunt for proof again.
And eventually, I exposed his business partners—DiMuzio and the Summerton brothers.
One by one, I slaughtered them just like the villains in your books, an homage of sorts.
Without your words, I’d never have the confidence to do this.
I left their bodies in the open as a message to anyone else they involved. ”
A deep sense of pride swells in my heart. I inspired my husband to become a real-life masked vigilante. My words gave him the confidence he needed to bring Eloise’s murderer to justice.
“So the man hanging on the hook is the second Summerton brother?” I switch my gaze to him, and see his fingers twitching.
“Yeah, it is. I’ve been torturing him for days, trying to extract more information from him. When you cut the head off a hydra, two grow in its place. I need to know who else is involved so I can eradicate the entire operation. I’m not done with this mission yet, baby”
I stare into Cal’s eyes, seeing the truth in their moss green depths.
He needs to finish this, and even though he didn’t ask for it, I know he needs my blessing.
How can I stay mad at him for avenging Eloise?
I write about vigilantes who turn the tide of fate—who seek justice for those who cannot get it themselves.
Deep down, even though my life wasn’t awful by any means, I felt wronged.
I felt the unjust pain of being abandoned by a deadbeat sperm donor.
I witnessed the struggles of a single mom who supported us on her own.
I wrote my characters for me—for people like me who needed a dark hero, even if it was a fictional one.
Wouldn’t I be a hypocrite if I didn’t help?
Standing up on slightly wobbly legs, I extend my hand, a peace offering. He takes it, hoisting himself up and holding onto me, as if he thinks I’ll leave if he doesn’t. His anticipation of my decision swirls around me like a physical caress as we stand in the dim light.
“Let’s get some answers.”
He smiles, his blood-soaked teeth and lip wound gleaming in the spotty lighting. My husband—the Christmas Cleaver—kisses my hand with a gentleness you’d never expect from a man who brutally ended three lives.
“Thank you, lightning bolt.”
“You’re welcome, Daddy.”