White Widow

by Kaitlyn Cross

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  White Widow

  By

  Kaitlyn Cross

  Copyright © 2017 by Kaitlyn Cross

  Cover design by Creative Paramita

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or undead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter One: Jack the Mannequin

  Chapter Two: On the Gay He Cried

  Chapter Three: Proof

  Chapter Four: Tornado of Chaos

  Chapter Five: Mary, Mary

  Chapter Six: I Know

  Chapter Seven: The Foolish Girl in the Mirror

  Chapter Eight: Rocky Mountain High

  Chapter Nine: It's the Pot Sucker

  Chapter Ten: Lou-Lou!

  Chapter Eleven: DeAngelo’s Saw Blades

  Chapter Twelve: After-Sex Voice

  Chapter Thirteen: Chip and Joanna Gaines

  Chapter Fourteen: Some Weird Blair Witch Thing

  Chapter Fifteen: Lincoln

  Chapter Sixteen: Getting Stronger

  Chapter Seventeen: Slap!

  Chapter Eighteen: Whores, Gold-diggers, and the Weak

  Chapter Nineteen: Goodbye, Jack

  Chapter Twenty: Sayonara, Mi Amigas

  Chapter Twenty-One: The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Black Eye #1

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Not Mexico

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Paradise

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Blind Tiger

  Chapter One

  Jack the Mannequin

  I never thought saying goodbye would be this hard. I mean, it’s nearly impossible to look at my husband lying in that coffin without smiling. It’s even harder listening to some pastor I’ve never met read a sweet letter I wrote last night after four whiskey sours. Despite the laughter rising in the back of my throat, I had to make that letter sound good. Damn good. Not for this stuffy room full of people I hardly know, but for Jack’s parents. And his brother, Lincoln, and sister, Mary. They’re such sweet people and, for some reason, they like me. And I like them too. Swept up in a whirlwind of backyard barbeques and snowbound holidays in Aspen, my fairytale goggles kept me from seeing the real Jack. The one who turned distant soon after we married three years back. The one who turned verbally abusive before graduating into the dark, wet wastelands of full on physical abuse. The same Jack I caught red-handed with some pretty little thing two weeks ago today.

  His family, however, doesn’t need to know about the real Jack. It would crush his mom and dad, both of whom I love dearly. With all their money, you’d think they’d have sticks shoved so far up their asses they’d look like walking kabobs. But you’d be wrong. They don’t act like that, not around me anyway. Minni and Tom have become the parents I never had and I hope they’ll keep in touch after this tsunami of mourning comes to a flowery end. I like them. All of them. That’s why they don’t need to know about the real Jack. Besides, he only really hurt me that one time. Or maybe it was twice. Let’s see, there was the time he clocked me in the eye after discovering I’d secretly kept on my birth control. Check. Oh, and then there was the time he blackened my other eye after I foolishly suggested a marriage counselor after black eye #1. Yep, two times. Basically, that’s it.

  I glance at Minni and Tom seated to my right before peeking at Mary and Lincoln on my left. Everyone’s staring at Jack’s dead body and I’m stuck smack dab in the middle of the front row, like some heartbroken queen put upon a pedestal for the whole kingdom to weep for. I blow out a slow and low breath, lowering my shoulders. Heavy is the head. Twisting my fingers in my lap, Founders Funeral Home is unnervingly quiet. I can hear every sniffle and cough, and my fallen king’s face is so pasty and thin, I barely recognize him. The medical examiner told me Jack was dead before he hit the ground and I still can’t fucking believe it. A heart attack while cleaning the gutters? At his age? It’s like winning the lottery. I mean, you hear about it happening to other people but you never think it can happen to you. Yet it did and now I am finally free of Jack McConnel. In less than two months’ time – when people stop sending sympathy cards and dropping off pans of lasagna – I can go back to being Sienna. Party of one. Well, not the old Sienna. That poor girl is just as dead as my husband. The new Sienna is wiser, stronger, and even with the embalming fluid hanging thickly in the air, everything smells sweeter. It’s like I was color blind and, thanks to some new pair of glasses, now I can see. Everything is so vivid, I can literally taste the bouquets of pretty flowers on my…

  Jack’s mom sets a bony hand on my right leg and gives it a reassuring squeeze, pulling me from my thoughts. Noticing my distant gaze, she probably thought I was caught up in whatever sweet memory Pastor Ed was currently sharing. Or maybe Minni thought I was spacing off with a bored look pulling on my face and, man, I wish I had a veil! Do widows even wear veils anymore? Is that even a thing? It should be mandatory because I just want to get the hell out of here and drink some margaritas on a patio and goddamn it’s hot in here! Is the air even on?

  Barely turning my head, I toss Minni a faint smile – just enough to show how distraught I am over the loss of her son – my creep husband. Then, after that cumbersome task is finished, she takes her hand back and we return our attention to the shiny mahogany coffin. Jack looks…older. Sunken. Waxy. He always kept in such great shape, I could barely keep up with his endless running, biking, and swimming. A quick afternoon workout to him was a triathlon to me. I was surprised he didn’t like to shoot clay pigeons from the back of his bike, but now he looks different. His hair is thinner and he’s wearing way too much makeup and something is making my right eye itch. Probably a loose lash. Without moving a muscle, I silently weigh my options. If I go ahead and rub my eye, it will look like I’m wiping away a tear before it can destroy my mascara. And that’s a good thing. Or…will it look like a suspicious tic? Something a hardboiled detective would pick up on in a heartbeat. Either way, I have to be careful of my every move from this point forward. It’s the only way. No smiling. No laughing. And no dating.

  Inhaling deeply, I make the move and itch my right eye. With her watery gaze locked on her poor dead brother, Mary pats my other leg and holy hell it worked. God, how I wish I had a veil. I’m not an actress and can’t keep this charade up much longer. We still have to go to the cemetery after this, for fuck’s sake. Releasing a sticky breath, I straighten up in this ungodly chair and force myself to relax. I just have to think about something sad. The saddest memory I’ve ever had. Something that still haunts me to this day. Sighing, my heart sinks.

  Steven.

  God, I miss Stevie. Unlike Jack, he was always there for me. Especially when I had a
new chew toy or fresh bag of Beggin Strips. I still remember that midnight storm, when a dining room window suddenly…

  Oh shit, the organist is playing again and now we’re standing. Hurriedly getting to my heels, I pull down the black dress I bought at Target yesterday afternoon and focus on what Pastor Ted is saying. Or was it Pastor Ed? Shit, I can’t remember. All I know is the back rows are filing past the coffin to say their final goodbye to Jack the mannequin and, hallelujah, this party is over. I exhale a somber breath that fits right into my grieving wife thing because I can do this. Now, we go to the cemetery and listen to some more pointless praise from Pastor Ed – who, for the record, never met Jack a day in his life – and then it’s off to Minni and Tom’s for coffee, finger sandwiches, and more wistful stories about good old Jack. Then…I can finally go home and collapse into bed.

  But not my bed.

  The spare room bed.

  I haven’t slept in I don’t know how many days now, but I will never sleep in my old bed again. Not after that day. I notice Lincoln watching me and it feels like he’s trying to read my mind so I redirect it. I haven’t seen him in a suit and tie since my wedding and he’s so damn handsome, he could be the next James Bond. Dapper as he is, I can tell he’s worried about me. His strong silence can’t fool me. Yet, I can’t stop wondering if he knew about Jack’s afterschool specials. Lincoln certainly knows more about his older brother than his parents do, that’s for sure. A lot more. But if he knew about Jack’s cheating side, he should’ve warned me before I married the sonofabitch on a white sandy beach.

  Tearing my eyes from his invasive green ones, I stare at Jack’s withered corpse so I don’t have to face anyone else. I would rather make it look like I’m reliving some magical night we shared just before he died. One last special moment, held together by flickering candlelight and silky red wine. A moment that never happened. Our last special moment ended in a nasty fight – one that will follow me to the grave. My brow wrinkles as a new thought pushes to the forefront of my tired brain. Will I have to be buried next to Jack one day? Oh my God, that can’t happen! I’ll just have to…

  Minni takes my arm because, suddenly, we’re the only ones left in the boxy room and it’s our turn to walk by the coffin and gaze upon poor, wonderful Jack for the very last time. I want to smile so badly because I’m finally free. Free to stop worrying about what kind of mood he’ll be in when he gets home from work, or if he’ll like the baked ziti and garlic bread I spent half the afternoon preparing. Free to be me and not the fictional housewife he so desired. Releasing a sigh that could easily be misconstrued as forlorn, I run a loving hand along the glossy casket and think about the new condo I’m going to buy with Jack’s life insurance payout. One with a patio and pool right on the beach.

  Turning from the stench of death, the ghost of a grin brushes the corners of my mouth and it is a motherfucker to hide. I pass through a set of French doors and step out into a crowded hallway. People stop and turn, pressing their lips tightly together to quietly convey their sympathy for my loss and I just want to laugh.

  I never thought saying goodbye would be this hard.

  Chapter Two

  On the Gay He Cried

  Even with Jack gone, this massive house still doesn’t feel like mine. I’m more of a minimalist and there are way too many rooms just waiting to gather clutter. But Jack always got what he wanted. Tossing the keys onto the ridiculously large, and very marble, kitchen island, I kick out of my black heels and drop three inches back to Earth. I take out my diamond earrings and toss them on the counter before padding over to the doublewide fridge. The light inside is too bright but the beer is cold. Grabbing a bottle of Jack’s favorite IPA, I pop the top and send it sliding across the marble to join the keys and diamonds. If Jack were here now, he would’ve dumped that bottlecap in the garbage in 2.8 seconds without uttering a single word. His glare did a lot of the talking for him. He was good like that. But Jack is gone and the cap stays. Tipping the bottle back, I let the beer slide over my tongue and cool my insides. It’s been a long, hot spring day and, at this rate, I can only imagine how scorching this summer will be.

  Setting the bottle on the island, I unzip my dress and let it slide to my feet. When I free my black bra and let it slip from my fingers to the floor, I can finally breathe again. Stepping out of the dress, I scoop up the beer and head for the living room, determined to get lost in my Netflix queue and fall asleep on the couch. A sound stops me in my barefooted tracks. My eyes jerk to the ceiling. Something begins banging upstairs, spiking my adrenaline. Glancing at the clock above the mantle, I can’t imagine who could be in here. It’s close to midnight, on the heels of Jack’s funeral no less. Lincoln and Mary slash through my mind. They each have a key to the house but I just left them.

  Then everything gets quiet. So quiet, all I can hear is my ragged breathing and overworked heart. I’m glued to the floor and barely realize I’m dressed in nothing more than a pair of lace panties. A rapist’s wet dream. Jack’s nine-millimeter – tucked in his nightstand upstairs – flares in my mind. Without realizing I’ve even moved, my hand finds the bannister leading up the curved staircase. Thee curved staircase. The house is new and the dark stained steps don’t protest my weight with angry groans beneath my feet. Silently, I climb. The moaning and banging start up again, growing louder with each step. At the top of the staircase, my eyes draw to the light squeezing from beneath the master bedroom door. A light I don’t remember leaving on. I also didn’t close… The door slowly swings inward with a drawn-out screech, giving volume to the racket inside. Holding my breath, I boldly tiptoe closer. Blood pounds thickly in my temples and someone is talking inside the room. Someone I don’t recognize.

  “Harder, harder!”

  I want to turn and run but, hand over fist, curiosity pulls me closer. Stopping just shy of the doorway, I recognize the sound of a headboard banging against the wall with reckless abandon and I can only imagine what it’s doing to the porpoise-colored paint. Filling my lungs with a courageous breath, I barely peek around the corner and I’m not sure what shocks me more: The fact that Jack is still alive. Or the twisted look gripping the blond guy’s face he’s fucking from behind. Grinning a little higher on one side of his decaying cheek than the other, Jack works on his pretty little lover with a dogged determination tightening his eyes. The suit and tie he was just buried in are now soiled and frayed, reeking of earthworms and dirt. There’s mud on his wingtips and under his nails. A roach crawls across my bare toes, sending a shudder down my spine. But I don’t move. I can’t. I’m bolted to the floor by the impossible.

  Without noticing my presence, Jack reaches around and kindly strokes the blond guy’s erection while pounding him from behind. Their moaning gets so loud, it sounds as if they’re in pain. But I can tell by the perverse looks warping their faces, they are not. They are enjoying every minute. Suddenly, Jack stops fucking the guy and everything gets bone chillingly quiet. My breath lodges in the back of my throat as Jack and his boy toy stare straight ahead at the mirrored closet door. Heart aflutter in my chest like a bird trapped in a cage, it’s as if someone hit pause on the night. We become a snapshot in time I will never forget. Then, without making a sound, the two lovebirds slowly rotate their heads in my direction and stare right at me. Heart pounding, I drop the beer bottle to the hardwood and scream. Someone grabs my shoulder from behind and I open my eyes to find Lincoln bending over me with wrinkles lining his brow.

  “It’s just me,” he whispers, straightening up and glancing into the dining room.

  Sitting up on a blood red Victorian couch that’s only ever used on special occasions, I follow his eyes past the grand piano into the dining room, where everyone is seated around a long table and staring oddly in my direction. They look as if they’re afraid of me and now I know my dream wasn’t nearly as real as my scream.

  Giving Minni a sheepish smile she understands all too well, I turn back to Lincoln with heat creeping into my cheeks. �
�What time is it?” I ask, straightening the black dress I cannot wait to shed.

  “Almost midnight,” Mary replies from a cushion over. Leaning closer, hair falls over her shoulders in red rivers. “You are never going to believe this, Sienna, but Harold Patterson just tried to set me up with his son, Waldo,” she whispers, pulling down a dress that is similar to mine: black, tight, and timeless. Face aghast, her eyes jump between Lincoln and I. “At my brother’s funeral reception! Can you believe that?”

  Stuffing his hands into the pockets of some black slacks, Lincoln slowly shakes his head. “Rich people,” he groans. “Such a disconnect.”

  Rubbing my forehead like I have a pissed off hangover, I squint against the music room’s stained-glass lamps even though they’re turned down low. “Why did you let me fall asleep? That is so embarrassing.”

  “Because you were dead on your feet.” Smiling thinly, Lincoln runs a hand through his oily locks that glisten in the light. He really is a striking man. Hair a shade darker than milk chocolate, he’s freshly sheared along the sides and back. The top is longer, swept up and over, giving him a casual glamorous look I cannot deny.

  “Jeepers creepers, these people are never going to leave. Mom needs to put away the Chateau,” Mary says, twisting fingers in her lap.

  “Red, if you say jeepers creepers one more time, I’m telling Mom about Weaver Preston.”

  Inhaling sharply, she glares up at Lincoln. Mary opens her mouth but thinks better of it and turns back to me instead. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  “Yeah,” I respond, noticing my water bottle resting on the end table where I left it. Taking a long, lukewarm drink, I scoot to the edge of the couch and twist the cap back on before wiping my chin. Looking up, I find Lincoln’s green eyes that sparkle like emeralds to me. “Can you take me home?”