AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Can’t I just have a conversation with my boyfriend?” I pretend as if the camping incident never happened as we walk down the hallway.
Blake’s eyes flip from side to side frantically.
“If you scream for help,” I threaten, just as Van Gogh did me earlier, “then the next time, it will be more than your tent that catches fire.”
Blake’s arms stiffen, and he flashes me a hateful glare. “I knew you were angry. I knew you tried to kill us.”
Let’s be real here. He knows about as much as a mosquito knows about pest control.
“Well, darling”—I smile as the crowd parts around us as we walk through the busy hall—“let that be a lesson to you: If my jealousy results in a campfire, what in the world am I capable of when I’m angry?”
Blake’s mouth drops into a frown. And honestly, I don’t know why I didn’t try this tactic before. Van was right. Fear is a great motivator—the best that ever existed.
We walk out into the open air, and immediately I feel the warmth of the sun.
But she grows stronger in the dark.
I can hear Van’s poem of his sunflower repeat in my head. That makes me smile. The romantic fucker.
“Okay, Carmichael, tell me what you want.”
Without further hesitation, I yank Blake to my chest and put my arms around his neck so it looks like we’re the happiest couple on the whole fucking planet. Leaning in, my lips to his ear, I whisper, “Your uncle. I want a meeting with your uncle. The chief of police for Orange Grove, South Carolina.”
Van
Fucking Blake.
Just seeing her with him burns me from the inside out.
I lift the flask from inside of my pocket, pry open the gas tank with my key, and pour cognac into this fucker’s gas tank before getting back into the fucking car.
Fuck my wife and her disgusting habit of betraying me over and over again.
Let me remember that she is my prisoner, not the woman I love.
The only vow I mean to take seriously is till death do us part. And hopefully, hers will be painfully slower than mine.
After a rather enjoyable plotting session of Blake’s death, Reese finally appears through the passenger window, flashing me a smile I don’t return.
“Unlock the door,” she hollers through the window.
This time, I smile and flip her off like she did me this morning. “Walk,” I instruct, tapping the gas hard enough that the car lunges forward. I watch her situate herself on the sidewalk from the rearview with a grin that she’d hate.
“Are you shitting me right now?” Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead as she hurries to my side, where she belongs.
“I assure you,” I clip, “I am not shitting you. It’s prisoner work detail. Your job is to pick up trash on the side of the road as you walk home.”
Lest she not forget, she is a prisoner, not a real wife.
She lets out a deep sigh and bangs her fist on the window before she composes herself and her anger. “Okay,” she chides. “You had a bad day. What’s it going to take to make it better? An ice cream? A nice little blow job?”
She says the last bit, like all this time she’s been fucking me just to get on my good side, and it meant nothing. That alone sends me into a rage as I rev the engine and pull out of the parking space with fervor.
I crack the window. “You have two seconds to start walking—in front of the car.”
She gasps. “In front of the car so you can run me over when the mood strikes?”
Look at my wife, coming up with all the fun ideas.
