“I’ll get delivery,” I said.
“Of course you will.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.
Ignoring his comment, I placed an order with the Italian place on Canon Drive.
“I’m sure the food will be here soon,’ I said when I ended the call.
“Fine.” He had moved into the living room to grab the remote. “Let me know when it gets here.”
At least Patrick had left me alone for a bit—peace while he fixated on the sports. I released a deep breath before gulping wine. Maybe I should have felt bad about not preparing the dinner, but I didn’t. My day had been pure hell and he only made it worse. Before the food arrived, I had to shower. Maybe I could wash the crime off. The homeless man’s scent lingered as if he’d followed me home.
I finished off the glass with one more big drink. Patrick didn’t look up as I moved across the room and to the staircase. The basketball was more important—thank god. Once in the bedroom, I headed straight for the shower, passing through the massive walk-in closet to get there.
Dior, Fendi, Yves Saint Laurent, Gucci, Louis Vuitton—it all filled the space. Clothing, handbags, and shoes, all neat and orderly, arranged by color from dark to light. My dream closet. I’d seen something similar when my mother had taken me with her while housekeeping for a wealthy woman back in Atlanta. I’d been sixteen at the time and vowed to one day own the closet instead of cleaning it.
Water cascaded over my body as visions of the day flashed through my mind. I’d hoped the shower would rinse them away, but that didn’t happen. What could I think about to distract me from reality? Oh yeah, shopping. Contemplating my next purchase would surely help. A new Hermes bag, a Chanel… Would they call tomorrow and want to shop? What else would they do? It would be business as usual for Britney, Sophie, and Whitney.
After shutting off the water, I stepped out of the shower and slipped into gray sweats and a white T-shirt. Patrick hated when I wore these sweats, but I refused to dress up all the time. He’d asked why I even owned such clothing, although he thought it was fine that he lounged in something comfortable. I didn’t bother drying my hair and skipped any makeup too.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the doorbell rang.
“Got it,” I called out.
Not that he’d have gotten up to answer the door anyway. Patrick hadn’t even looked up from the Lakers game. With food in hand, I headed toward the kitchen. Seconds later, he made it to the room.
“Aren’t we eating at the dining table?” He rummaged through the plastic bags.
As in a sit-down dinner? No way. That would only leave an awkward silence in the air while we ate.
“Never mind,” he said before I had a chance to answer.
After grabbing a couple plates, I removed the containers from the bags.
Patrick watched every move I made. “I want more than that. And don’t spill the sauce.”
Red sauce dribbled from the spoon and onto the counter as I scooped pasta onto the plate. A flash of the homeless man’s face popped into my head and the crimson blood that had trickled from his mouth.
Patrick sprang into action, grabbing a towel from the drawer. “I told you to be careful. Why are you so damn careless?”
I pushed the plate toward him. “Dinner is served.”
“You spent a lot of time on this magnificent meal.” He peered down at the plate.
“I’m sorry if I didn’t make dinner, but it’s just one of those things.” I sat down on one of the stools at the island counter.
“However, you had time for shopping and drinks.” He grabbed a fork.
As fury built inside me, I stared at him. I couldn’t explain to him what happened today. Britney would snap if I told anyone. Sharing the day’s events would end badly for me. Britney would kill me. Now I’d forever watch my back every time I crossed a street, waiting for that Bentley to appear and mow me down.
“I just forgot, okay? We went out for drinks.” My words grew more agitated.
Now I had to make it seem as if it was no big deal. A couple minutes went by with not another word about it. I hoped he never mentioned it again. He’d taken his food to the living room to eat in front of the TV. I stayed in the kitchen, pushing the lettuce around my plate with my fork and then staring at the wall. Had this been the worst day of my life? Growing up, I’d experienced many bad days. Sadly, I wasn’t sure today was the worst.
Immediately after cleaning the dishes, I headed for bed. Patrick would watch the game for a while, but I just wanted to sleep. Maybe I’d forget about the horrific event for a fleeting moment. I wished my bed could be a comfortable sanctuary. It was not. The sheets woven with gold carat and silk jacquard felt like laying on a bed of hay. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
I suppose being mentally drained had made falling asleep not terribly difficult. Though not long after dozing off, I woke to Patrick’s touch. The sound of his breathing seemed louder than usual as if in stereo pumped from speakers around the room. The scent of that French soap he loved saturated the air. I hated the way it smelled like lavender and musty earth. The odor brought back memories of times spent at my mother’s trailer. My stepdad took me for walks in the garden, just the two of us.
Patrick’s hands lurched across my body with all the finesse of a grizzly bear. The touch from his fingers sent a shiver down my spine and not in a good way. Fully aroused, he pressed against me while attempting to caress my back. His fingertips glided awkwardly over the curve of my hip. There was nothing sensual about his touch. It felt like being poked with a stick. When he moaned in my ear, the sound reminded me of an injured animal.
The last thing I needed right now was his sweaty body on top of me. Saying no wasn’t an option so I went through the motions, trying my best to zone out for the two-minute session. His panting synced in rhythm with the in and out motion. When it was over, he collapsed back onto the bed. The mattress rocked like a raft battling monstrous waves of a stormy ocean.
“What’s wrong with you tonight? I’m sick of you lying there like a corpse,” he said while trying to catch his breath.
When the word corpse slipped from his lips, I knew I was going to be sick. I jumped up from the bed and ran to the bathroom. Just the mention of death had sent me over the edge.
Patrick stood on the other side of the door. “Are you all right? Do you think you’re pregnant? Don’t make a mess.”
God forbid I make a mess. When I opened the door, he was still standing there. I just looked at him, unsure of what to say.
After a couple seconds, I managed. “I’ll be all right. Too much to drink, I guess.”
“You really need to lay off the booze,” he said. “Did you make a mess in there?”
He stepped into the room for inspection. Once he’d examined to his satisfaction, he left the space. Silence remained in the air, which was fine with me.
Standing in front of the sink, I washed my face, staring at my reflection. No amount of concealer would hide the dark circles under my eyes. I had to shake this feeling. What was done was done. I couldn’t let this control me anymore. Yes, what had happened was wrong, and I should have done something differently. I was a weak person. A pathetic human.
I stood in front of the sink staring at my face for what seemed like forever. Exhaustion took over. The booming rattle of Patrick’s snoring filled the bedroom. Obviously, he hadn’t been that concerned about my well-being. I slipped back between the sheets and pulled myself into a miserable ball of shame.