The Righteous and The Wicked Page 3

  The local newspaper rests on the cushion beside her and she reads to distract herself. The door chimes as other customers enter, but Emma doesn’t look up from her paper. Her cappuccino arrives, and to her dismay she sees John, the guy from the club, sitting at a nearby table. She holds her paper up higher, hoping he doesn’t notice her, but John recognizes and approaches Emma.

  “Hey. I remember you. Emma, right?”

  Emma lowers the paper. “Uh, yeah. Hi.”

  “You left without saying goodbye the other night. I was disappointed.” John sits down without being invited to do so. He puts his thick arm over the back of the couch and touches Emma’s shoulder. He thinks he’s being smooth, but Emma disagrees.

  “I wasn’t feeling well. I mean . . . I don’t drink,” she explains.

  “Yeah, your friends told me you don’t get out much. Just relax, sweetheart. I’m not gonna bite you. I just wanna talk.” John moves closer.

  “Fuck!”

  Emma hears someone curse, and she knows that voice. She looks toward the counter and sees him. It’s Stormy Eyes.

  Emma feels chilled. Her mind flashes to the club and she crosses her legs at the erotic memory. Even though he never saw her, she’s embarrassed. She looks at him again; her eyes pass over his body and she sees him licking coffee off the back of his hand.

  Cleavage Girl behind the counter apologizes. “Oh, no! Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”

  Stormy Eyes is unfazed. He caresses his coffee-burned hand with his tongue again, and Emma feels something inside her flicker. The spark she wants to extinguish. The feeling she’s trying to ignore.

  No matter where Eric went, temptation was always there. “It’s all right. I’ll live.” He’s trying not to flirt with the hot piece of ass behind the coffee counter. All he wanted was a cup of coffee and a distraction from his incessant, disgusting thoughts. All he wanted was some normal, but here’s this girl. Eric knows just the type she is. He knows just what she’ll do for him. She’s an easy target. An unwitting victim of his charms. She’s coy as she wipes his hand with a napkin. He touches her wrist, and she doesn’t pull away. He didn’t think she would. His eyes linger on her abundant breasts, and the soft skin threatens to burst from the low-cut shirt she’s wearing.

  “What’s your name?” In his mind, he’s already acting out his desire. But then he hears a voice, and his attention is elsewhere.

  Eric turns his head toward the voice. It belongs to a woman. A meek little woman who sits near the window, her space being invaded by some meathead. She’s pretty, but not what Eric would call sexy. She has legs for days, but she’s too prim to know what to do with them. She looks uncomfortable, almost scared. The meathead is touching her. She doesn’t like it. She doesn’t want it. Eric forgets about the hot piece of ass behind the counter and walks toward the sofa.

  “Hey, man, can I speak to you, please?” Stormy speaks to John, but looks at Emma.

  “What’s the problem, bro?” John stands.

  Eric steps toward him. “I know what a woman looks like when she wants to fuck you, and this girl is definitely not looking at you that way. Leave her alone.” Having said his piece, Eric walks back to the counter.

  “Hey, fuck you, dude!”

  Eric doesn’t turn around or respond. He sits back down, smiles at Cleavage Girl and returns his attention to meeting his need. Then he hears small footsteps and a soft “thank you”. The door chimes and Eric sees the meek girl walk out of the shop and down the street. Her perfume lingers in the air.

  At closing time, Cleavage Girl locks the door to the shop and finds the sexy stranger has waited. He’s leaning against his Jeep and she saunters toward him, thrilled and stunned that he’s paying attention to her. She can’t count the times she has sat alone at work and dreamed about this: that a man she’s never met would walk in the shop and want her. His sudden flirtation and unexpected advances have made her almost high. She plans to do anything she can to keep his interest, to make him come back for more. She waits for him to open the car door for her, but he doesn’t. He keeps his arms folded across his chest and looks her up and down, from head to toe and back again. He steps toward her and gives her a grin that sends a chill through her. Then he walks around to the driver’s side, leaving her standing there, alone. She can see he’s seated there with a smirk. She knows what he wants. Within seconds, she follows.

  Emma arrives home, unsettled by the product that the deviation from her routine has yielded. She seeks to correct it as soon as she’s submerged in comfortable desolation. She changes into cotton sleep pants and a T-shirt, puts the dishes away, rifles through the fridge, and begins to cook. She tries to sedate her mind with everyday things, but she sees the raw lumber of her nemesis’ house through the thinned-out trees. The wood looks warm in the golden light of dusk. As she chops vegetables, she’s distracted, thinking about the note, and the house, and John, and Stormy Eyes, and . . . ouch. She cuts her finger.

  There are red splatters in the kitchen sink. Emma sucks the blood from her fingertip and runs up the creaky stairs to the bathroom, searching for a bandage. She hears the sound of a car engine through the window, and sees the black Jeep. She scowls, remembering the note. A cut finger, bad memories, a run-in with both the most attractive man she has ever seen and the biggest jerk she has ever met. She’s had enough today. She will vent the frustration she’s feeling.

  She bandages her cut, pulls on sneakers, and runs through her yard, emerging from the woods into the muddy clearing that’s now her neighbor’s property. She walks with purpose and fury toward the silver trailer. She raises her hand to pound on the door, but halts when she hears heavy breathing and a woman’s voice.

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  Emma clamps her hand to her mouth and turns to leave, but stops dead in her tracks when she hears a man speak. The voice sounds familiar, but Emma knows that’s impossible. With caution, she steps closer to the door of the trailer.

  “I’m not going to do anything to you. You’re going to do something for me. Get on your knees.”

  Emma gasps. She tries to shake away the idea that she knows that voice, thinking this scenario only reminds her of the man in the club. It can’t be the same person. Her neighbor can’t be Stormy Eyes.

  “Take your top off,” he says.

  Emma wonders if it’s the man, or the woman, or both who are building this house. She wonders which one of them removed her wind chime and left a nasty note. Something falls and breaks inside the trailer. There is movement—a scuffle—and then the low, guttural sounds of a man receiving pleasure meets her ears. The cut on her finger throbs with her pulse. The pain reminds her that she’s once again engaging in sin. She remembers Father O’Hara’s words, “you must pray . . .”

  “Just like that . . . shit . . .”

  Emma’s knees are weak, and she leans against the trailer listening to him. She’s never heard anything this profane before in her life. She feels that spark smoldering inside her.

  Run.

  He groans. “Fuck, that feels good . . .”

  Pray.

  Emma digs her fingernails into her palms. She’s frozen—desperate to leave and desperate to hear more. She welcomes the lust that courses through her. It outshines the pain. She closes her eyes and thinks of the man she misses: her husband.

  “Faster. Oh, shit . . . yeah . . .”

  In her mind, Emma sees brown eyes, soft brown eyes filled with love. She thinks of Aaron’s hands on her face, in her hair. She hears the man in the trailer groan again, and the woman whimpers. In her mind, Emma sees brown eyes, and then those eyes turn stormy blue.

  Refusing to believe it’s him, she runs back through the woods to her house. Once inside, she shuts the door. An uncomfortable realization is breaking in her mind. She looks at the kitchen table and finds the solution to her problem. Picking up the bait, she opens the front door and hangs the wind chime back up, then she sits on the porch, and waits. If it is
him, she’ll find out soon enough.

  The night grows cold. Emma scolds herself for coming up with such a silly plan and goes back inside the house, sure that she must be imagining things. She eats dinner, watches television, and ignores the sound of her neighbor’s Jeep leaving. She takes a shower and gets ready for bed. She opens the box and takes out the picture.

  Chapter Five

  Once Eric has the girl in his trailer, he wastes little time. He threads his hands in her hair, guiding her mouth over his hardness. He can feel how deep she’s taking him, and she groans but doesn’t protest. It feels good, so he doesn’t care. She’s next to him now, kissing his ear while he zips up his pants. She wants more, but he’s not going to give it to her. Now that he’s satisfied, he realizes how bad he fucked this up. He’s broken too many of his rules. This girl knows his real name and she knows where he lives. This kind of mistake has caused Eric trouble in the past. He’s trying to come up with a way out, and in his devious mind, he finds one.

  “Christie, baby, I think you’re so hot, but I’ve just gotten out of a long term relationship and . . .”

  She eats his lies up with a spoon. He drops her off where he picked her up, and promises himself he’ll never return to that coffee shop. He tells himself that’s the last time. He lies in bed making solemn and useless vows. He wants to smash something, anything. He detests how weak he is, how much he needs it, and what he’ll do to get it. He hears that goddamned wind chime again and remembers his unfinished business.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Emma jerks awake to a knock at the door and pads downstairs, barefoot. She turns on the porch light, looks through the peephole, and is shocked, but not at all surprised by what she sees. One haunting, storm blue eye stares back at her.

  The door swings open and Eric is confused. He expected a spinster, a mothball-scented cat lady with a cane . . . but this is a young woman, probably his age, and she’s pretty. Petite with dark eyes, long lashes, and flawless skin. Her hair is mussed. She was sleeping. He wonders if she lives alone, and glances down at her empty ring finger.

  “It’s you,” she says.

  “Have we met?” he asks.

  The girl looks away. Her face gets red and she stares at him with her hand on her hip. “You’re the jerk who stole my wind chime.”

  She’s angry and it’s cute. This tiny little person is trying to intimidate him. Eric knows just how to get out of it.

  “Yes. I’m the jerk.” He steps toward her, wielding his charm, the most deadly weapon he has. He expects to see her melt, but to Eric’s surprise, she steps back and her anger doesn’t fade.

  “Well, then. I’ve said all I had to say to you in that note. Get off my porch.”

  She slams the door in his face. With shaking hands, she slides the deadbolt into place and presses her back to the door. Her ears ring with the intensity of the truth that has just been shown to her. Stormy Eyes is her neighbor. She saw him at the gas station. He helped her at the coffee shop. He stole from her, and wrote horrible things to her. She listened to him being intimate with two different women. She fantasized about him. Her nemesis. Her neighbor.

  Unfamiliar emotions riot inside Emma and she feels faint. She goes into her father’s old bedroom and finds a pack of Camels. The smoke makes her cough and tastes terrible, but she needs to do something. She lies back on her father’s bed and, for the first time in a long time, she can’t sleep.

  The next day, a reluctant Emma goes bridesmaid dress shopping with Danielle and Abby. When Emma arrives at the shop, Abby is waiting for her in the parking lot.

  “I need to be serious with you for a minute,” she says.

  “What? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, I just want to make sure you’re okay with this.”

  “With dress shopping?”

  “You know what I mean. If this is too hard for you . . .”

  “It’s fine, Abby. Life goes on. People are going to get married and be happy, even if I wasn’t. I can handle it.”

  As the three girls shop, Eric is at the park playing basketball with Sean. “I’m swearing off women. I’m done,” he says. He sinks a shot and checks the ball.

  “Someone did a number on you, huh?” Sean fakes right and moves to the left, then shoots a jump shot.

  “I guess you could say that.” Eric wipes his brow. He’s tempted to share his secret, but he doesn’t.

  “Is that why you moved here?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. I just think it’s better if I don’t get involved with any more girls.” Eric dribbles and shoots. He misses.

  “Maybe you just need to find the right one.”

  Eric shakes his head and walks over to the bench to grab some water. Sean follows, with the ball at his hip.

  “That reminds me—you know I’m getting married in a few months, I wanted to ask you to be my best man.”

  Eric could tell Sean he would rather not taint his wedding day with bad karma. He’ll most likely end up fucking some bridesmaid in the coat closet. But rather than sharing this, he accepts the offer.

  After shopping, Emma drags the lawnmower from her garage and pushes the dreaded metal contraption to the end of the driveway. The grass in her yard is very overgrown, because cutting it is her least favorite chore. She yanks the pull handle, but it doesn’t make a rumble. She tries again. Nothing. Emma hears footsteps on the gravel and stops. There can only be one person behind her. Emma turns around and narrows her eyes at her unwelcome neighbor.

  A smile spreads on Eric’s face as he looks her up and down and walks toward her.

  “You need some help with that?” He’s covered in sweat, wearing a white T-shirt and black athletic shorts. His hair is damp. He’s beautiful. She tries to avoid his eyes, but fails.

  “No. I can handle it. And I thought I told you to stay off my property.”

  Eric stifles a laugh at her attempt to be rude. He can see the sweetness that lies beneath it. “Well, technically, I’m in the street, so it’s not your property.”

  He steps closer. His audacity and proximity fuel the fire inside her and she prays for him to leave her alone. She prays for what she thinks is right, not for what she wants. She yanks the pull cord again and it rumbles. He moves even closer and her heart fluctuates between her lust and her distaste for this man.

  “Please, let me do that for you.” The voice that was once perverse is now sweet.

  Emma lets herself study him. Tall, fit, gorgeous. Not unkind, but something dark lives in his soul. She can feel it. That darkness should frighten her, but instead she feels drawn to it. In truth, she would like nothing more than for Stormy Eyes to put his hand on the mower and make it purr. She’d like nothing more than to sit on the porch and watch him push this machine back and forth across the yard with no shirt on. Dirty and sweaty. Muscles flexing. She’d like nothing more than to bring him a beer when he’s done, and watch him drink it. To take him inside when he’s finished, and get in the shower . . .

  “I said I have it!” She yanks the cord with one final, furious pull. The engine roars to life. She turns away from him and begins to mow the yard. She doesn’t look back.

  That night, the silence in Emma’s house is heavy like a thick blanket covering her. She’s not hungry. She doesn’t want to talk on the phone. There’s nothing on television. She thinks of going to church, but it’s late. She takes the box from under the bed and caresses the wood. She opens it, takes out the picture and stares at her husband—his auburn hair and freckled skin. The person standing next to him looks like a stranger now. Aaron’s hand rests on her round stomach. The life that Emma could have had flashes in front of her, and is gone. The emptiness she feels is corrosive. It burns and it aches, and she wants to escape. Tears flow and drip off her face. She sees no point in wiping them away.

  Chapter Six

  Eric paces in his trailer. His need gnaws at his insides. He has to find a distraction. He takes his book from the shelf and lies down on his bed to r
ead.

  “I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself1 . . .”

  He lays the book upon his chest, rubs his hand along his jaw, and gazes out the tiny window toward the white house. He will always be alone. He deserves no better than this. He surrenders to what plagues him and puts on his black clothes.

  Eric grips the steering wheel like it’s a life preserver, like it will somehow save him from what he’s about to do. The drive is aimless; he lets it flow from moment to moment with the night as his guide. There’s a light up ahead, and a sign. He pulls into the dirt lot, jumps out of his Jeep, and enters the bar. It’s smoky and crowded.

  Guided by an unseen force, his brain shuts off. He orders a beer, and there’s his next victim. She looks nice, but not too nice. Short black hair, nice body, dark skin. She sits alone, tapping her foot to the thumping music. Her table is covered in empty beer bottles, wounded soldiers. Eric saunters over in slow motion and she watches him. She undresses him with her eyes. She wants him. This battle is won with ease.

  Headlights flash against Emma’s bedroom wall. Stormy Eyes is leaving and the spark flickers. The desire to move beyond her pain and toward something else overtakes her. She wants the spark to outshine the blackness in her heart. Losing the fight inside herself, she runs downstairs, gets in her car, and follows him. Racing along the dark road, she can see the red taillights of the Jeep. She would drive forever. She would follow this stranger forever, if she thought she could escape the ghosts that haunt her. She can almost see them in the rearview mirror, but instead of looking back, she looks ahead with defiance.