Jane Doe(70)

“Thank you, sir.” I tug his hands up and hold them to my bosom. “Thank you so much. You’ve made me feel better.”

His eyes are on his own fingers, resting against my cleavage. I smile as innocently as a mother cradling her babe.

No, there’s no reason to seduce him. But after what he just said about Meg, is there any reason not to ruin him too? Just like Steven, his father blames Meg for everything.

Their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them. Good old Deuteronomy.

This is hardly my first Bible study. I’ve already got the best parts memorized and I believe in them wholeheartedly. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth. But the rest is even better: burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.

They’re going to feel this for a long time.





CHAPTER 45

On our way home from church, I gasp at the sight of a liquor store. “Oh my gosh, I have the worst craving for a margarita right now! Could we stop and get some mix?”

“On a Wednesday night?”

“Is that too naughty?” I ask.

“I like you naughty.” He pulls a quick U-turn and drives me back to the liquor store; then he lets me go in by myself. I grab tequila and margarita mix. Beer isn’t going to cut it tonight. I need him drunk as a skunk.

He holds my hand for the rest of the drive, smiling because he can’t wait to get me drunk and nasty. I know the feeling.

As soon as we get to his house, I mix up a pitcher of mild margaritas. When I pour his glass, I add extra tequila. Then a little more.

His eyes widen when he sips it. “Too strong?” I ask before taking a sip of mine. I close my eyes and hum with pleasure. “Mmmm. So good.”

Steven laughs. “Not too strong for me, babe. Drink up.”

He can’t say his drink has too much tequila, because that would make him weaker than a woman. God, I hate this idiot. “Want to watch a little of the hockey game?” I ask.

He drops to the couch and switches it on. I hover for a moment, and as I expect, he drains the margarita quickly. He’s used to downing beer after beer. He can’t pace himself with hard liquor. I pluck the empty from his hand and rush to refill it.

“Thanks, babe,” he says, eyes on the screen when I deliver a second drink. “You’re the best.”

“No, you’re the best, sweetie.” I snuggle close and watch the game with him. When I finish my first margarita, I offer to get him his third. I fill the glass about three-quarters of the way up and top it off with an inch of extra tequila. My glass is mostly ice.

“Want some chips, honey?” I call out. I find some tortilla chips and salsa and my man is so content. The salt and spice make him thirsty. I keep his glass full.

Within forty-five minutes he is red-faced and yelling at the TV as he finishes his fifth margarita. During the next commercial break, I mute the TV and turn to him.

“Steven . . . that wasn’t true what you said about Rhonda, was it?”

“Huh?” The shift of topic is too sudden, and he grimaces with irritation as his gaze slides unsteadily toward me.

“You didn’t really have an affair with her, did you?”

His eyes go comically wide. “What?”

My God, he was so drunk, he doesn’t remember. “You told me about it, Steven. At the cabin.”

He shakes his head hard, but the movement is too much for him in this state and he tips back, collapsing into the cushions.

I gently touch his hand. “Steven?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“We need to talk about it. You had an affair with your own stepmom.”

His mouth contorts with rage. “No. Don’t call her that. She was, like, twenty-five years old. She was no one to me.”

“But, Steven, she’s your dad’s—”

“Shut up. She’s nothing more than a whore. That’s all.”

“I don’t get it. What happened? Did you seduce her or something?”

“Me? You think I seduced her?”

“I don’t know! I don’t understand how this could have happened. She’s your father’s wife!”

I’ve brought the pitcher into the living room, and he refills his own drink now, spilling some on the coffee table. His hands shake. “She wasn’t much of a damn wife,” he mutters.

“So she . . . she seduced you?”

He snorts. “She was desperate.”

“Desperate for what?”

“I’d just graduated from college and I moved in with them for a few months. I was living there, and . . . I don’t know. I did a little snooping around. I didn’t know much about her and I didn’t trust her.”

“What were you snooping for?”

“Whatever. Just anything. I figured she was a grasping little bitch. And she was. I found pills hidden under some clothes in the bottom drawer of her armoire. Birth control pills.”

“So?”

“So they’d been married for almost two years, and she hadn’t gotten pregnant yet, and they were seeing a fertility doctor.”

“Oh.”

“My father was torn up about it. He was upset that he couldn’t get his young wife pregnant and he thought he was letting her down. The doctor said it was his fault. Low sperm count and all that. And she was taking birth control the whole time.” Spittle flies from his mouth at this outrage. “I confronted her. Threw the pills in her face, and she begged me not to tell him.”