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“I’m not lying,” I say, hysteria creeping into my voice. “I—I like you, but you’re my boss. You’re Martha’s husband. I think the two of you could work it out.”
I’d love to be a fly on the wall when he explains this situation to their couples’ therapist. She’d be better off setting down the pen and notepad and calling the police.
“There is no working it out,” he says, sliding his hands down my back and to the waistband of my pants. “Martha will never be you. I haven’t wanted like this inyears.”
“Steven, please. I don’t—”
He closes the space between us, mashing his lips to mine. He’s kissing me, his tongue lashing against my closed lips, but I’m frozen in panic.
He breaks away to draw in a ragged, sour breath. “Don’t fight,” he growls, dipping to kiss me again. He clamps a hand around my neck, bending me back. When I still don’t return the kiss, he jerks away. “Fine. You can be stubborn, but I’ll make sure you enjoy it. I’m not a monster.”
A plea chokes me as he wrenches his hand between us to undo my jeans. I swat at his arms, squirming away so I’m practically climbing the shelves to escape him.
“Cut that shit out,” he demands. His neck is red and blotchy, his pupils blown wide. Whatever humanity was inside of him is long gone now.
This isn’t a discussion anymore; it’s a fight for survival.
So I start swinging.
My arms feel heavy and useless, like I’m in a nightmare slogging through quicksand. I connect with his head and his face, but it doesn’t seem to slow him down.
He lunges for my arms, trying to pin them to my sides. If he succeeds, it’s over.
“Stop!” I beg, thrashing. “Please don’t do this.”
“You’ll be begging for me to keep going in a minute,” he snarls.
We’re a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing. A few times, he grabs one arm, but I always manage to bat him back with the other. Then, just as I’m starting to lose strength from sheer exhaustion, Steven lets go.
It’s one second. One moment where he lets go of both arms to reposition his hold. But it’s enough.
I don’t waste the opportunity. As soon as he lets go, I lunge for the pantry door.
I make it two steps past the doorway before Steven is on me again, but the kitchen feels like a sanctuary. Here, there is more space, room to breathe—and something I can use to fight him off.
I scan the counters for a weapon—maybe a knife or a bowl—but he wraps his arms around me from behind. As much as I liked the kitchen, Steven liked the pantry. It’s small and dark. I was backed into a corner just like he wanted.
I can’t let him take me back in there.
He is grunting in his effort to get me back in the pantry. I lunge forward and grip the edge of the countertop. The rough underside catches and it feels like my fingernails might rip off, but none of that matters. Letting go isn’t an option.
“Fine. Fine! That’s how you want it?” Steven roars behind me.
He slams me forward into the countertop so fast there is no time to react. My arms are pinned between the edge of the counter and my chest, and drawing in a breath is a herculean task.
“St-Steven,” I manage, my voice little more than a broken croak.
He responds by putting more of his weight against me until I’m sure I’ll be crushed.
Then he reaches for my jeans.
A string of incoherent words fumbles out of my mouth with what little breath I have left. The panic gripping my chest makes it impossible to think coherently. I’m an animal caught in a trap, desperate for freedom.
“Relax, Rayne. Shh. Hush now.” Steven smooths a hand down my spine. He sounds almost normal. It’s the same voice I’ve heard greeting me every afternoon. The voice that yells goodbye from the front door.
The man grinding himself against me and struggling with my clothes is the man I’ve seen hug his wife close and kiss her cheek.
It’s hard to imagine the love he shows for Martha being fake, but it can’t be real. Not if this part of him is also real.
