“God damn you!” she screamed. She’d never screamed like this in her entire life—she was sure of it. Her insides felt molten, boiling and she felt her throat scratch and tear as she railed “You fucking bastard! You son of a bitch!” she could almost taste blood.
“Nice language, very dulcet.” His tone was cool and mocking. Steely and unforgiving.
How could he be so fucking calm? She felt the walls of her perfect life coming down around her, crushing her. The humiliation. Her heart was shattered, her world spinning faster and faster out of control. It was all she could do to keep from throwing herself of the three-story sundeck.
Non-chalant, he stepped up and out of the swirling bubbles of the hot tub, not bothering to conceal his lingering erection. Not in any rush, he casually reached for a towel. “They teach you that at charm school?”
Her throat, sore from screaming, felt tight and constricted. Her French-manicured fingernails were digging sharply into her palms. “Shut the fuck up!”
“Oh, very nice-“
“No. No!” She cut him off, her expression murderous. “No. Don’t you say another fucking word, you Goddamned son-of-a-bitch!”
The hum and bubble of the electric hot tub was driving her out of her skull. She felt a thousand pinpricks, hot and cold, on the back of her neck and realized, vaguely, that the entire party three stories below had stopped dead. Everyone was watching. All their friends, all those people. She was making a spectacle.
She could hear her mother’s voice somewhere in her memory, it came rushing up now, unbidden and unwanted, to the surface of her consciousness: “Mark my words young lady, that man will bring you nothing but pain and heart-ache. He is a lothario. He’s a bastard. If your poor father were alive…” She pushed it back down, buried it forcefully. Swallowing hard again and again, she thought she might vomit.
“Anything else you’d like to announce to our guests—or are you quite through?” He smiled, a cold, twisted sort of self-satisfied smirk, and waited with eyebrows raised expectantly. When at length she made no reply he extended his hand lazily toward the hot tub. “Come—I’m terribly sorry about all the fuss.” He purred.
As the other woman’s hand reached to take his offered hand Velvet made a sound like an angry cat and lunged at the bastard. She was 18 and he was 40. She was a wisp of a thing and he was a professional athlete. She was furious and frenzied and he was dripping wet.
Velvet clawed and scratched, she even spat and bit and she screamed until she had no voice left. She was infuriated that he was implacable; he brushed off her assault like he might a stray animal. She wanted him to hit her back. She wanted to kill him or for him to kill her.
By this time some shocked guests had mobilized and people were pulling her off him, pulling her wildly flailing limbs to a distance where they could no longer make contact with his person.
During the scuffle the other woman made a scramble to get out of the hot-tub, but didn’t betray any embarrassment at her nudity. Instead she looked disdainful at the interruption, and when at last a spent and sobbing Velvet collapsed on the wet deck floor, tears streaming, breaths coming in painful heaving gasps, the woman looked down in mild disgust. Her upper lip curled in the same way it might be at the sight of a squalling child or a mangy animal, and when she spoke it was in a voice as cool and dry as the vodka stingers she was well-known for favoring.
“Someone had better calm the wretched thing down before she has a miscarriage out here on the sundeck.” And with that she placed her sunglasses atop her head and strode—perfectly arrogant and completely nude—into the townhouse and out of view.
“Nice language, very dulcet.” His tone was cool and mocking. Steely and unforgiving.
How could he be so fucking calm? She felt the walls of her perfect life coming down around her, crushing her. The humiliation. Her heart was shattered, her world spinning faster and faster out of control. It was all she could do to keep from throwing herself of the three-story sundeck.
Non-chalant, he stepped up and out of the swirling bubbles of the hot tub, not bothering to conceal his lingering erection. Not in any rush, he casually reached for a towel. “They teach you that at charm school?”
Her throat, sore from screaming, felt tight and constricted. Her French-manicured fingernails were digging sharply into her palms. “Shut the fuck up!”
“Oh, very nice-“
“No. No!” She cut him off, her expression murderous. “No. Don’t you say another fucking word, you Goddamned son-of-a-bitch!”
The hum and bubble of the electric hot tub was driving her out of her skull. She felt a thousand pinpricks, hot and cold, on the back of her neck and realized, vaguely, that the entire party three stories below had stopped dead. Everyone was watching. All their friends, all those people. She was making a spectacle.
She could hear her mother’s voice somewhere in her memory, it came rushing up now, unbidden and unwanted, to the surface of her consciousness: “Mark my words young lady, that man will bring you nothing but pain and heart-ache. He is a lothario. He’s a bastard. If your poor father were alive…” She pushed it back down, buried it forcefully. Swallowing hard again and again, she thought she might vomit.
“Anything else you’d like to announce to our guests—or are you quite through?” He smiled, a cold, twisted sort of self-satisfied smirk, and waited with eyebrows raised expectantly. When at length she made no reply he extended his hand lazily toward the hot tub. “Come—I’m terribly sorry about all the fuss.” He purred.
As the other woman’s hand reached to take his offered hand Velvet made a sound like an angry cat and lunged at the bastard. She was 18 and he was 40. She was a wisp of a thing and he was a professional athlete. She was furious and frenzied and he was dripping wet.
Velvet clawed and scratched, she even spat and bit and she screamed until she had no voice left. She was infuriated that he was implacable; he brushed off her assault like he might a stray animal. She wanted him to hit her back. She wanted to kill him or for him to kill her.
By this time some shocked guests had mobilized and people were pulling her off him, pulling her wildly flailing limbs to a distance where they could no longer make contact with his person.
During the scuffle the other woman made a scramble to get out of the hot-tub, but didn’t betray any embarrassment at her nudity. Instead she looked disdainful at the interruption, and when at last a spent and sobbing Velvet collapsed on the wet deck floor, tears streaming, breaths coming in painful heaving gasps, the woman looked down in mild disgust. Her upper lip curled in the same way it might be at the sight of a squalling child or a mangy animal, and when she spoke it was in a voice as cool and dry as the vodka stingers she was well-known for favoring.
“Someone had better calm the wretched thing down before she has a miscarriage out here on the sundeck.” And with that she placed her sunglasses atop her head and strode—perfectly arrogant and completely nude—into the townhouse and out of view.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment