The Righteous and The Wicked Read online

  Emma’s face brightens in spite of herself, and her friends light up in response.

  “Yes,” she answers. “I did.”

  After her date with Danielle and Abby, Emma drives home, a little buzzed from the glass of champagne she shouldn’t have had, and full from dinner. She was careful not to share too much about her neighbor with her friends, knowing that the temptation for them to meddle would be too great. Telling them made it even more real. He’s the farthest thing from right for her, but she wonders if he would change if he knew how she felt. She wants him, but can a man so compelled to seek illicit pleasure from women ever be content with just one? Would she ever be enough for him?

  As she drives, something catches her eye and she slams on the brakes. The fact that Pine Lake is a small town is illustrated to her once again. She has just passed a bar and a black Jeep is parked in the lot. It’s Eric’s.

  The water in the shower runs black with the dirt and sweat that have coated his body after working all day. He begins to pace inside his trailer, his body overrun with his need. It has been on his mind all day, poking through his thoughts like a stubborn splinter. He needs a distraction and looks out his window at the empty white house. It’s a mirage in his desert. Frustrated, he picks up his book and reads for a brief time, then throws it on the floor.

  The parallels between his previous living situation and the one he has now are becoming much too similar. He remembers Camila, and the reason he had to abandon his previous home. His memories of his former self sicken him, but at the same time, it’s like thinking of an old friend. He could do it just one more time, just once more. After that, he will stop. Just one last time.

  The air surrounding the trailer is dead. Not a breeze. Not a sound. It’s eerie, and his desire is ripening. It’s fed by loneliness and boredom, augmented by memories that he can’t escape. He scoffs at his pathetic attempts to change. He is unchangeable. This is what he is. He dresses in black, slipping into his other self with ease. He looks in the mirror and everything is just right.

  He drives to the edge of town and finds what he seeks. A disgusting little dive bar. He sits in a dark booth with his beer in front of him. The bar reeks of old mop water and truck drivers. It’s visited by the worst of humanity. He smiles to himself, thinking that he fits right in. It’s crowded with drunken men who are most likely looking to do what he’s here to do, but for them it’s a want, not a need. A choice, not a compulsion.

  Eric’s looking for the kind of woman who can meet that need. The kind of woman who won’t say no. He looks around the bar again, and finds nothing. He thinks there may be a reason why he hasn’t found a victim. He thinks of Emma and what she said about faith . . . but then he discovers what he’s looking for.

  A woman who looks to be in her midforties. She’s drunk and laughing far too loud. Eric admires her curvy body and long hair. Her skirt is too short and her top is too tight. She looks like she comes here often, and a woman that would visit this kind of dive is what he wants. He follows the line of her curves with his eyes. She’s with a few friends and he begins to plot how to separate her, how to get her alone. Visualizing what will come next excites him, it gets him hard. His pulse races and his mouth waters. He’s hunting.

  Emma steps toward the bar like a timid fawn about to leave its mother’s side. Her heart is split with two desires. She wants to find him here. She craves the savage man who takes women and breaks locks. She wants to find him and to remain unseen while she spies on him with another woman once again. She wants him to have found what he’s looking for.

  But she also wants to be wrong. That it’s not his car. He’s not here. He’s at home, waiting for tomorrow to come, thinking of her. She wants to believe he could save his touch for her. That he would want only her, the way she wants him.

  Her mind fluctuates between images of him—Eric’s smile on her porch . . . the sound he made when that girl pleased him with her mouth . . . his face contorted with pain after the bee sting . . . his hands between another woman’s legs . . . his hands covered in soap while he washed her dishes . . . his mouth on someone else’s neck and lips . . . his mouth an inch from her own . . .

  She’s dizzy with the divergent desires that dance through her thoughts, but she pushes through the bar door anyway. The light is dim and she can’t see much. It reeks of spilled beer and sweat. She feels eyes on her, the eyes of drunken men and jealous women. She’s overdressed and out of place. Her hands shake as she orders a glass of wine, for the purpose of having an excuse to sit down. The tattooed bartender rolls his eyes at her order, and serves her. She holds the glass between her elegant fingers and continues to look for Eric, but doesn’t see him.

  A man seated next to her smells her perfume and looks up. He likes what he sees. He moves his stool closer. “Hello, I’m Ryan.”

  The woman laughs as Eric hoists her up onto the sink. The bathroom is tiny and cramped. There’s barely room for one person, let alone two. She kisses him, but he pulls away. He’s not here for that. She runs her hands over his chest, enjoying the feel of his body. He rethinks his position. Tonight he needs all of the control. He spins her around so she’s bent over the sink, facing the dirty mirror. He can see her face and she can see his in the reflection. The sound of his belt opening clinks and jingles. He pushes her skirt up over her ass and yanks her panties down.

  “You’re alllll business, huh?” She slurs and giggles.

  Eric plunges two fingers deep inside her and this silences the woman. He sees her lick her lips in the mirror, and she moans. He pulses his hand until he feels that she’s ready for him, and then he’s inside her. The sweet relief he feels when her warmth encircles him is inexplicable. It’s like coming up for air after being held beneath the waves. He was drowning without this, suffocating, and now he can breathe. He thrusts his hips and grips her hair, pulling her head up so he can see her face in the mirror. He never cares what it feels like for his victim, because he’s just there to take, but this time he wants to know it feels good for her, too. He wants to know he’s not the only one who is finally taking a breath.

  “Look at me.” Her body stutters against the sink, his hand is knotted in her hair. “Do you like the way my cock feels inside you? Do you like watching me fuck you?” He pulls her head back farther so his mouth is at her ear. He nibbles the soft flesh of her earlobe and neck. “Tell me.”

  “Ohh . . .” She moans and closes her eyes.

  Eric pulls on her hair harder. “Open your fucking eyes and tell me.”

  She obeys, and he sees the glaze of lust that coats her reflection. He knows the answer, but he wants her to say it. He pulses and thrusts, plunging into her again and again.

  She cries out. “Yes. I like it. You feel s-s-so good. Shiiit . . .”

  Eric grabs the hem of her shirt and lifts it up to her neck. He pulls the cups of her bra down, and watches the way her tits bounce and jiggle in the mirror every time he slams into her. He releases her hair and slides his hands over her exposed chest, pinching her nipples between his fingers, squeezing her breasts with both of his hands.

  “Has anyone ever fucked you this good before? Tell me.” Her skin tastes salty, she moans, and he pushes deeper. He feels himself tightening inside. Satisfaction is coming soon, and he can’t wait for it to wash through him. To feed him. His compulsive need to dominate and possess this woman’s body envelops him. It’s like she exists for the sole purpose of bringing him pleasure. He thrusts faster, gripping her hips. He forces her head down over the sink again, and now he can only see himself in the mirror. In his reflection he sees a beast—he is not a man when his darkness overtakes him, but an animal. He doesn’t recognize the image he sees, but it feels like his true self is reflected back at him. It sickens him, but he indulges it, surrendering to his demon.

  “Fuck. Fucking tell me, you slut. Tell me how good this feels.”

  “Oh God, oh God . . . you fucking feel so good . . .” The slapping sound of flesh meeting flesh gets fas
ter and louder. Then he brings his hand up and smacks it against her ass.

  She moans. “Oh, yes . . . shit. I’m gonna come . . . you’re gonna make me come like this . . .”

  He leaves a slight red mark on her, but she likes it, and so does he. He slaps her again, and her flesh gets redder. He’s taken over by lust. It seizes his mind and body; his passion eliminates his sense of reason. He plunges deeper and deeper into the abyss and groans as he grips her hips. He throbs and his ears ring with release. He lets go of what he has been trying to hold in, and he loves the way it feels. He needs this fleeting feeling more than anything else in the world.

  She turns to him and kisses him, and he lets her. She moves her lips against his, but he feels nothing. His rational self is reclaiming its throne, and he’s repulsed by what he has just done. He is sick. He is sickened, and filled with self-loathing. He is numb.

  Chapter Ten

  Emma scans the crowd again, thinking she must have been wrong. That it wasn’t Eric’s Jeep after all. She stares at her untouched wine. The man next to her has been making feeble attempts to hit on her and Emma is barely fending him off, declining his offers for more drinks. She stands up to leave, and then freezes. She sees him. Eric.

  A flushed and disheveled woman is walking ten feet in front of him. His hair is a nightmare and his eyes are downcast. It feels like someone has stopped time, and Emma has been turned to stone. A sob rips through her chest, and she gets wet simultaneously. She was right, and she wants to die. She was right, and she wishes she had been there.

  She imagines what went on. She feels jealous, empty, and angry. Angry that Aaron is gone, and yet she still can’t get rid of him. Angry that she’s alone. That this whore got to have Eric, and she can’t. She’s angry that the first person she has allowed to come anywhere near her is a twisted sex addict, but she’s most angry at herself for how turned on she is by his sin.

  Eric walks toward the door, but he’ll have to walk right past Emma to get there. She sits down, pulls her hair over her shoulder, and tries to hide behind it. She wants to disappear.

  Like Emma, Eric just wants to escape. He may have scrubbed his flesh clean of all evidence in the bathroom, but he cannot wash away the mark on his soul. His shame rises up like bile. Now that the rush is gone, he can see and he’s beginning to think with clarity. He feels overwhelming disgust, revulsion, and disappointment. He’s helpless and alone.

  Then he sees a girl at the bar. Beautiful dark hair, long legs, short dress. Some skeezy guy is trying to get with her and is failing. Eric wishes he had seen her before going for the other woman, and then kicks himself for having yet another sick thought. But it doesn’t matter now. It’s all over. The internal struggle he has wrestled with has exhausted him. It dawns on Eric that he’s no different from that guy at the bar. He’s just as bad. He’s no better. He walks past the dark-haired girl and his eyes move from her legs to her face. Shock and fury rise up inside him when he sees that it’s Emma.

  She’s looking down at her full glass like she wants to crawl inside it, avoiding the asshole next to her. The thought of Emma’s quiet elegance being tarnished by this hellhole is too much for Eric to bear.

  “What are you doing here?” He’s grinding his teeth. She looks up at him, and she looks different. She looks . . . sexy. Her eyes are angry.

  “I’m having a drink. What are you doing here?”

  “You don’t drink, Emma. This place is a shithole. You shouldn’t be here. And who the fuck is this guy?”

  Her delicate loveliness, contrasted with this filthy place, the abhorrence that he just partook in inside the bathroom, and Emma’s proximity to a scumbag are turning Eric into a vial of acid.

  “This is Ryan. And maybe I like it here.” She answers him in a voice he has not heard from her yet. Antagonistic, like a defiant child. He wonders why she’s here with this guy and why she would subject herself to someone so unworthy of her.

  Eric will not tolerate it. If he can’t save himself, he needs to save someone. To keep one thing in this world good and clean. And he needs to get her out of here before he gives in to the temptation to beat the shit out of Ryan.

  “Get up. Let’s go. We’re leaving.”

  Eric grabs her elbow. Ryan stands, but the look Eric gives him makes him think twice about starting an argument.

  Emma shakes Eric off. “I can make my own decisions.”

  Their eyes are locked in an impasse. Eric’s fury and her defiance battle between their irises. He’s the first one to break. He crumbles against his need to preserve her purity. She must remain untouched by the evil this place exudes. He will not disappoint himself twice in one night. His fury dissolves into a plea, his shout to a whisper.

  “I just can’t leave you in this place. I’ll worry about you all night. Please, let’s just go. Please, Emma. Please, just come with me.”

  He has such desperation in his voice and his eyes, Emma cannot refuse him, and she doesn’t want to. His face has changed from aggressive to kind. Stormy Eyes has once again been replaced by Eric.

  She relents, and Eric takes her hand, guiding her out of the bar. She looks down at their joined hands and her feelings of envy and rejection are amplified. She wonders if this is the closest she’ll ever get to him. She vows to make sure it’s not.

  They walk through the moonlit parking lot and reach his Jeep. The night is silent, except for the call of an owl up above. Eric holds the passenger door open for her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m driving us home.”

  Emma’s confused. “But I have my car here.”

  “We’ll come back for it tomorrow. Please, just let me take you home,” he begs.

  “I’m okay to drive. I wasn’t drinking.”

  They engage in another staring contest and Eric relents. He sighs and shuts the door.

  “Fine.”

  He folds his arms across his chest. He looks hopeless and beaten. Emma can’t understand why he’s having such a strong reaction to her presence in the bar, but it makes her ache to see him so upset. She longs to comfort him like she did after the bee stings. She wants to ease his pain. She steps toward him, following through on her private vow. He looks up, and the storm is evident in his eyes, plaguing and tormenting him. She wants to chase it away.

  She thinks of confessing and telling him that she knows about his struggle, but she fears he would push her away. Stepping closer, she takes both his hands in hers and then slides her palms up his arms, over his biceps, to his shoulders, around his neck. Their bodies linger an inch apart. Then Emma rests herself against his chest.

  Eric wraps his arms across her back, and pulls her closer, sliding his hand into her hair. He presses her into him, resting his cheek on top of her head. Their pain becomes one pain as they embrace, and the river of loneliness that runs through each of them evaporates. She can feel the storm retreat; his heartbeat slows to a steady, contented rhythm. She rubs her cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt, and feels the heat of his body just beneath it. He breathes in the sweet scent of her hair, and they are silent. Peaceful.

  An owl has left its perch in a nearby tree and circles high above them. It glides and soars through the starlit sky. It doesn’t notice them holding each other in the light of the moon. It doesn’t see the single tear that’s escaped from Eric’s eye. It is unaware that Eric’s arms are gripping Emma tighter, holding her closer. It doesn’t hear Emma whispering, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay,” into Eric’s chest, over and over again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Emma wakes to find her hand gripping the pillow next to her. No head rests there. She’s annoyed that she still searches for Aaron in her sleep, but this morning when she wakes, she wishes it were Eric lying there.

  She rolls over and stares at the clock. One o’clock. She jolts upright in bed and listens. Silence. It’s Saturday afternoon and it is silent. No hammering, bulldozing, sawing or banging.

  Silence.


  She feels rested, she feels awake. She lies back into her pillow and remembers last night. Eric, feeding his need. The sin Emma has witnessed several times before. She was repulsed by his obvious dirty deed in the bathroom and attracted to him for the exact same reason. Regardless of what plagues him, she craves him. She wants him. Witnessing him trying to protect her from Ryan heightened that deranged attraction.

  Eric, wounded and vulnerable. So lonely and desperate. The intimate moment they shared was profound. He let her inside just a bit further, she got just a little closer. His burden weighs on him, and Emma would do anything to try to take that pain away. She has thought of a way, but she’s not ready to share it with him. Not yet.

  Eric is the first man who has held her since her husband. While they were standing there together in the moonlight, she felt a burning desire for him, but also a need to save him. Once again, she felt the inexplicable sensation that Eric had been brought to her for a reason. He was meant to be in her arms. It was as if the world could fall away and she would be content to remain there, with her head pressed against his chest. She has felt that way for only one other man.

  The sunlight shines through her bedroom window, illuminating the empty side of the bed. The space that has been occupied by a ghost. She feels like she’s betraying someone who’s not even here. The wooden box lurks under her bed like a monster, and she gives in to the temptation to open it, to once again partake in her self-abusive ritual. She runs her fingers over the old initials “E.M.”

  Emma Mallory. The person she used to be.

  She takes out the picture and looks at Aaron’s hands resting on her full belly. Enormous smiles on both their faces, the joy that only expectant parents can know. So proud to almost be. She takes out her wedding ring and reads the inscription, “Our love shines brighter than the sun. You’ll always be my only one.”

  The grief Emma has been ignoring is ripping her apart again. She wipes her flowing tears, and wants to throw the ring out the window and set the box on fire. She wants to forget. Emma resolves to no longer labor as a servant to her past and her pain. She closes the lid with resentment. This time she doesn’t return it to its home beneath her bed. She stuffs it inside her closet, burying it alongside all of the other old things that she has no use for.