by Dana Feldman
I wait for it. Rage. But it doesn’t come for me. He looks more confused and sad, but not angry. Gabe would’ve pulled me back towards him, forced himself into me, thought of this as a sick game.
But not Peter, he lets me back away. His look isn’t one of anything other than concern. Being this close to anyone terrifies me. I stand up and walk over to where my sweater landed on the floor. I pick it up and put it back on. And then I break down crying.
I cannot help but think of Gabe. Of the times that he kissed me so gently, of just how safe I used to feel wrapped up with him. I keep my sobs controlled, quiet. And then I can feel Peter’s hand on my back, rubbing gently, slowly, comforting me. I turn around to face him.
When I look into his eyes, I feel safe. I haven’t felt anything remotely close to that in years. I allow myself to crumble into his arms. I don’t want to fight what I’m feeling anymore.
“A part of me thinks that this is all wrong,” I say into his ear. He doesn’t move. He just keeps holding me, his hand continuing to gently rub my back.
“And the other part?” he asks, and I pull back just enough to look at him.
There is always that moment when you have to make a decision and hope that you know what you’re doing. I’m not sure that I know if this is right. Or wrong. Maybe it just is.
And then his lips brush mine once again, and I’m not thinking about right versus wrong. He picks me up, and I wrap myself around his tall, lean frame. He’s all muscle, holding me upright. I pull my sweater up and over my head and throw it somewhere on the floor.
And then both of my hands are on either side of his face, and we’re kissing, this time urgently and with a passion I’ve never before known. I’m moving backwards as he walks us towards the faux bearskin rug that lies in front of the fireplace.
The crackling of wood and the smells of soap and shampoo take over my senses. I can taste gin as I kiss him, now faster, harder. As he lays me down, I lean up and help him pull his shirt up and over his head. I take a moment to look at him. Strong, cut muscles and broad shoulders embrace me.
I run my fingers the length of a tattoo that wraps around his torso. It’s of two snakes intertwined, and it starts at his collarbone and goes down his chest and around to his back.
“What do the two snakes represent?” I ask, hoping that one isn’t him, the other a woman from his past. This is not the time to hear about past lovers.
“It’s good fighting evil,” he answers, looking me over, then nuzzling between my breasts. I arch my back and pull my arms behind me to unhook my bra. His hands travel down my back to my waist, and he holds me up, further arching my back as he runs his tongue around my left nipple before gently kissing his way over to my right and doing the same. And then there is no more talking.
He pulls my jeans down and off of me, and I arch my back and start to help him with my panties. But in lieu of pulling them down my legs, he rips them off with his teeth and buries his face between my thighs. I cannot help the screams that follow.
***
A laugh from somewhere deep within escapes me as we lay here post-coital. We’re lying on the rug on our backs, side-by-side. He’s just come back from the kitchen with a cold bottle of Prosecco wine and two glasses.
I’ve thrown more wood into the fire, and I watch as the flames dance, their reflections skipping across the ceiling.
“Well a woman has never laughed at me after sex,” he teases, pouring the bubbling wine into the two glasses, handing me one.
“Trust me, I’m not laughing at you,” I say, as we click glasses and sip the ice-cold wine. “Oh, this is good,” I say, not realizing just how thirsty I was. “I just feel so, how do I say this?”
“You just say it, you tell me how you feel,” he says, wine in one hand while the other is busy traveling up and down my naked body.
“Wonderful,” I say finally, after a few minutes. “So, I have to ask what won: good or evil?”
“I’d like to think good, though I’m not perfect,” he tells me. “And for you?”
“That’s a very good question,” I say, not knowing how to answer. I did plan to kill my husband, if it ever came to his life or mine. I suppose that’s self-defense, but it’s also premeditated. “I guess that I’ll go with good; though I’ve made mistakes.”
“Who hasn’t?”
“I’ve made some very poor choices,” I start to say, but he puts his finger on my lip.
“We all have, Ella. I hope that you know that I think that you’re the most beautiful, smart and sexy woman that I’ve ever known.”
I want to tell him that he’s the first since Gabe, but I also don’t want to say his name right now. Or think about him or my past. I want to just be right here, right now, in this very moment. He seems to understand my needs without me having to say a word.
He pours the ice-cold wine across my chest, covering my bare breasts. As my nipples harden I close my eyes, and once again, arch my back as his mouth and tongue explore every single inch of me.
I realize that there’s quite a difference between sex and love. This feels like a bit of both and though this is new, it feels somehow very comfortable.
A thought crosses my mind before I have the chance to push it away. It creeps in my head, and though it’s only there for a moment, it leaves its mark.
You don’t get the happy ending, Ella.
It’s gone just as quickly as it arrived. As I allow myself to get lost with Peter, it occurs to me that I do want it, the happily-ever-after. I thought once that I’d found it only to be sorely mistaken and very disappointed.
But tonight, right here and now, I’m going to let myself pretend that I, too, might just have a right to it like everyone else. Why not? Other than giving up on it altogether, what have I ever done that makes me so undeserving?
Nothing, Ella, you’ll have it. You’ll have your happy ending.
And then another thought crosses my mind, this one far more daunting. I wonder why it is that Gabe hasn’t surfaced the past few weeks. I know it’s not because he’s decided to let me go. He’ll never do that. I realize that he has to be close. He always is.
I always have eyes on you, Ella, he used to say.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BETRAYED
Gabe wonders how fucking long he has to wait around watching them play house. He’s frustrated, pacing the length of the room waiting for Jay to get off the damn phone. He hates this place, but it was the only vacant apartment with a clear view right into hers. Just across the waterway from her, with only the boats between them, he can see straight onto her patio and into her kitchen, living room and bedrooms, when the shades are open.
Through the lens of his telescope, it’s as if the two of them are just an arm’s length away from him.
“Ok, understood,” Jay says into his cell phone before finally hanging up.
“Tell me,” Gabe commands immediately.
“You’re not going to like it, but you’ve been advised to hold off making any moves just yet.”
“Why in the hell are they doing this to me?” he yells, finally stopping in his tracks.
“They said that they just want to confirm a few things,” Jay tells him calmly.
“So, I’m just supposed to sit in this fucking place and wait, while I watch them screwing each other’s brains out every day?”
“You don’t have to watch them every second,” Jay says, knowing that he’s pushed a button but not caring. “I don’t know why you insist on torturing yourself like this.”
“You don’t know? You really don’t fucking know?”
“Look, I get it. You feel betrayed and…”
“I don’t feel betrayed! I am being betrayed, and I want her finished!”
“I’m working on getting the clearance, but you know how strict they are about these things.”
“Explain why they’re making me suffer like this. Now!”
“Because they’ve been working diligently on getting a case built
against her. Don’t you agree that it will look suspicious if she suddenly disappears or is found dead?”
Gabe can’t really argue. He knows that it would ruin everything that they’ve been working so hard on.
“Look, Gabe,” Jay says, calmness in his voice, “it’s better this way. Let her rot in a prison cell for killing you. It’ll be far worse for her. If we do something to her now, it’ll blow the lid off this whole thing, and all of our work will have been for nothing.”
He waits, hopes that he’s talked some sense into his friend. He’s also trying to save her life. She’ll never know how hard he’s worked for her, to save her from certain death.
“You have to admit it, her going down for your murder will be much worse than just killing her. And I know that you don’t want to hurt him.”
Jay doesn’t say Peter’s name. He knows that just the mere mention of him is enough. Gabe would never do anything to hurt his offspring. Or would he?
“You have to stop watching them. You’ve become obsessed. It isn’t healthy.”
After several minutes of an incredibly uncomfortable silence, Gabe finally agrees with him. It’s worked for now at least. He’s bought them all a bit of time. But if he knows anything for certain, it’s that Gabe will always be quick to anger; and he also knows that he’ll never stop watching them. It’ll continue to eat him up inside, until he does something that everyone will pay for.
“I always knew that she was capable of destroying me. This one got to me like none before her ever could. She got under my skin, you know? She got in my head, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her. What do you do when a woman does that to you?”
“Me personally? I run in the opposite direction,” he says, knowing that Gabe has always had two weaknesses: women, this one in particular, and his son. It’s caused them both so much aggravation over the years, and he’s personally sick of it.
“Yeah, well, you’ve obviously never been in love then.”
“And I’ve also avoided many of the messes that you’ve gotten yourself into over the years. Peggy, Amelia and now this one.”
Gabe lunges at him now, his hand wrapped so tightly around his throat, that any attempts at getting oxygen are pointless. He wraps his hands over the one strangling him, trying to pull himself free. There’s no point.
He’s never been a match physically. Gabe could kill him right here, right now, if he wanted to, with just the one hand. He knows that he won’t do it. He needs him. But he’ll let him suffer, taking him to just the very brink of passing out, before he lets go.
Everything starts to go black and then he finally releases him, dropping him to the floor. He’s panting for air, clawing at his throat. He looks up at Gabe from his position down low, and knows that no matter what he’ll never be the one in charge.
He thinks of his family. And he thinks of Ella. He wishes that she’d have killed her husband that day on the boat. Everyone would be much better off now if she had. At least he knows that they’d both be free of him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ALL GOOD THINGS
As I walk in the door, I can smell the BBQ. I see Peter outside on the patio drinking a Corona while flipping a steak on the grill. I have to admit that I’ve loved playing house with him the past several weeks. This has been as close to a normal relationship as I’ve ever had. Well, despite the fact that he’s my husband’s son. But I try not to think about that.
“Hey,” he yells over his shoulder through the screen door at me.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m just going to grab a beer, and I’ll be right out.”
I head into the kitchen and grab myself a Corona and go over to the counter to cut myself a piece of fresh lime. As I do so, I spot blood on the cutting board and all sorts of terrible thoughts cross my mind.
I begin to back away from the counter and bump right into Peter as I do. I startle for a moment but quickly gather myself. For the first time, I’m afraid of him. I’ve learned that anyone can be capable of anything.
“Are you ok?” he asks, reaching over to hug me. And then I spot the white bandage wrapped around his left hand. There are brown spots of dried blood. He quickly pulls his hand away before touching me with it. “Sorry, don’t want to get your white shirt dirty,” he says.
“I think that I’m the one who should be asking if you’re ok,” I say, holding my hand out to look at his.
“Oh, this little thing,” he says, “just sliced my palm cutting some vegetables. It’s nothing.”
I take his hand in mine and unwrap the bandage. It’s tightly wound around his hand. Immediately as it loosens, fresh, bright red blood starts to flow from the deep cut on his hand.
“Peter! This is not just a little thing! You should get stitches! Let me take you to the urgent care. It’s just down the road,” I beg. I pull his hand toward the sink and run cold water over it. The water runs pink down the drain.
“Nah, it’ll be fine,” he says. “Do you happen to have any crazy glue?”
“What?” I ask, wondering what he needs with glue at a time like this.
“Just trust me,” he says. I run to my bathroom and grab the small tube from my drawer. I’m back within moments. I watch in amazement while he keeps his hand under the cold water. He grabs an ice-cube from a glass of water beside him and holds it tightly over the wound for a few seconds. Then he pulls it away holding a dishtowel over the now clean wound.
Then in a split of a second, he pours the crazy glue along the line of the cut and holds the skin together on both sides.
“See there, no need for stitches,” he says, holding his hand up to show me. “We didn’t always have access to an urgent care over there,” he tells me. He’s referring to his time in Afghanistan, obviously, and I have nothing to say. He’s clearly done this before.
He finishes what I started and cuts a slice of lime for me, squeezing it into my beer, and hands me my drink.
“Ok, then,” I say, smiling widely, wishing that everything he did wasn’t so damn sexy. “Smells good,” I say, referring to the steaks on the grill outside.
“Oh, shit,” he says, running outside. I follow him to the patio. He quickly takes both steaks off the BBQ and puts them onto a plate. “Ah, perfection!”
This has been our life the past several weeks. He goes to work with Chris, and I go to a local coffee shop and work on my business proposal for the shelter. Our evenings are basically spent in. We cook dinner, watch some television or a movie and just hang out. It’s what I always imagined a happy, normal life to be.
But underneath it all, there’s a lingering sense that something is about to destroy it.
“Dinner in five,” he says. I go and set the table inside. It’s a bit chilly tonight, so I throw some wood into the fireplace and light a match.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask, though he never lets me.
“Nope, it’s all under control,” he says, coming back inside and giving me a kiss on the cheek.
I watch him as he gets the salad out of the refrigerator and adds dressing before tossing and squeezing lemon on it.
“Please, sit and relax. Let me serve you,” he says happily. I do as requested. I know that this makes him happy. He likes to take care of me. And to be honest, I’m very much enjoying being taken care of.
After dinner I insist on doing the dishes. For the first time, he actually lets me. He’s in the other room watching television as I finish up.
“Can I get you another beer?” I yell into the other room at him.
“Sure,” he says. When I open the refrigerator and reach way into the back where the beers are, I feel something. I know what it is immediately as I touch it. A single red rose. I pull it out and stare at it for several seconds.
At one point in time a romantic gesture, it now leaves me feeling wide open and vulnerable. There was a time that I would melt in love opening a drawer in the dresser and finding a rose, or one in my purse, or closet, or next to my pillow. It now leaves me stone col
d.
“Ella,” he says, calling my name.
“Just a minute,” I say, grabbing and opening a beer for him. I cut a slice of lime and squeeze it, dropping it in, and walk into the living room to join him. My hands are shaking and my voice is trembling as I approach him. “Here you go,” I say, handing the beer to him.
He looks up at me as he takes it. With the beer in one hand, his other is holding my shaking hand. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
I sit down beside him on the sofa. If he was trying to be sweet, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Maybe he wanted to surprise me with a rose. Though he’s not the flower sort of guy, maybe he was trying to be romantic, and the last thing I’d want to do is to ruin the moment.
“Did you by chance get me a rose?” I ask, thinking that maybe I’m blowing this way out of proportion. After all, Gabe hadn’t given me a rose the last year of our marriage.
His eyebrows scrunch together, a deep line forming on his brow. A chill runs through me. I already know the answer.
“No, why?”
I pull the rose from my pocket and hand it to him. It’s still cold to the touch. I notice just how perfect the petals are. This rose was plucked from its bush no more than a day or two ago. I knew that Gabe would make his presence known sooner or later. I was just hoping that it would be out in public somewhere, not in my home.
“This was in the refrigerator,” I say slowly, quietly.
“I didn’t put it there,” he tells me, but I already know from the expression on his face that he’s completely confused. He knows that this rose represents something bad.
“I know. Gabe did,” I reply.
“What does it mean?”
“In the beginning, he’d always surprise me with roses. Never a full dozen. Always a single red rose. And they were always in the oddest of places: in my closet, on my pillow, in a random drawer somewhere, in the refrigerator. As time went on, he got more and more creative. Sometimes there would be one on my windshield when I’d go out to my car in the morning.”