The Righteous and The Wicked (12 page)

Emma knows Eric’s face will be filled with pity, and she’s had enough of that for one lifetime. She doesn’t look up, but feels his hand on her back. The hand begins to make slow circles and this touch holds no pity. Emma sits in silence, crying tears she has cried a million times, but this time she’s not alone. Eric is there, and he is comforting her.

Chapter Twelve

Monday morning. Emma tents her fingers in front of her on her desk and gazes at one of her students.

“But she was
looking
at me,” the child complains.

“What do you mean she was ‘looking at you’?”

“She was
looking
at me
mean
, Ms. Santori. It’s not fair and it’s not nice! She’s not nice; tell her to stop looking at me!” the little girl whines.

There’s not enough coffee in the world to help Emma get through this kind of day. Her work is meaningful and satisfying, but not on days like this. Little bullies, little tattletales. First grade in a girls’ school can sometimes feel like a shark tank. Emma manages to survive until her lunch break, and meets Abby in the faculty room.

“You look . . . rested.” She eyes Emma up and down. “How’s Sexy Neighbor Guy? Did you see him at all?”

Emma’s mind flashes back to Friday night—the moonlit parking lot.

“Um, yeah, we went for a bike ride.”

“Like a date? Emma, did you go on a date?” Abby is flabbergasted.

“No. No, we were just . . . hanging out.”

“Sure you were. You better not be withholding juicy details here. You know that I’m married. I thrive on other people’s juicy details.”

“I promise you there
are
no juicy details, Abby. Your marriage is much juicier than my single life is. Trust me.”

“Fine. But when the juicy comes, you better be generous with it. Did you get Danni’s e-mail? We have a dress fitting this weekend and . . .”

And Emma stares out the window, thinking of bulldozers, bikes, wind chimes, and bees.

“Danni, that’s the doorbell! Can you get the door?” Sean shouts from the bathroom.

Danielle pads down the stairs with a big smile on her face, expecting to find Jeff on the other side of the door, but it’s not Jeff, it’s Eric. Her face falls.

“Oh. Hi.” She greets him and holds the door open. “Sean will be down in a second.”

It’s awkward. Tense. Eric says nothing. His perverted eyes move to her hair, her breasts, her legs, and then back to her eyes again. He makes her feel dirty. He’s handsome, she can’t deny that, and maybe in a different time and another place, she would have enjoyed the eye sex he’s trying to have with her, but it pisses her off that he has the audacity to ogle her in her own home, with her fiancé—his
best friend—just feet away.

She folds her arms across her chest and shoots daggers at him. She won’t let him make her uncomfortable; she wants him to know that she doesn’t want any of what he’s offering. He smirks at the nasty look she is giving him. A chill runs up Danielle’s spine in spite of her desire to appear unaffected by his creepiness. Suddenly, he looks down and away, and she’s thankful that he stopped visually molesting her.

Eric finds it amusing that Danni’s standing here pretending she doesn’t want it, when he knows that deep down, somewhere inside her, she
does
want it—but she won’t admit it to herself. He imagines her blond head bobbing between his legs. The flesh of her breasts in his mouth. Her legs wrapped around his waist, or bent in submission. Her feet resting on his shoulders. He fantasizes about watching the angry look on her face melt into the ecstasy he knows he could make her feel. He can almost hear her begging him for more. He can almost taste her sweat. Swallowed by temptation, he gets rock hard and his hunger is all-consuming. Desperate to stop the avalanche of evil, he thinks of the one thing that can distract him. The one thing that can make him come away from the edge—Emma.

He looks away from Danielle and thinks of Emma’s eyes, her smile, her voice. Her sweetness. But the thoughts of Emma don’t quiet his thirst, they only shift its focus. He needs to be near her. He knows he has to see Emma as soon as he can—tonight.

“Hey, man, you ready to get your monkey suit?” Sean interrupts the tense moment as he thunders down the stairs and kisses Danielle goodbye.

Danielle watches them get into Sean’s car and drive away, then she does the same. She’s late for her bridal fitting.

“Oh my God. She looks gorgeous! Emma, doesn’t she look fucking gorgeous!

“Abby, watch the language, will you please? And yes. She’s stunning.”

Danielle stands on a pedestal in front of a three-way mirror. Emma is on her left and Abby is on her right, dressed in identical light blue, silk taffeta. The seamstress kneels at Danielle’s feet with pins between her teeth and glasses sliding down her liver-spotted nose, adjusting the hem of the wedding gown.

“Emma, you look happy today. I’m glad to see it,” Danielle says to Emma’s reflection.

“That may have something to do with
you know who
,” Abby says in a singsong voice, and Emma shoots her a look.

“Who? Sexy Neighbor Guy? Did you see him again?” Danielle has a smile from ear to ear.

Emma turns beet red and stares at her feet.

“They went on a
bike ride
, Danni. How romantic is that?”

The girls squeal and shriek, overjoyed for her. She wants to let herself feel happy, too, but they don’t know what Emma knows. At any moment, she could discover him entwined with another woman and, in addition to feeling devastated and overcome with jealousy, Emma would be turned on by it. Although she has embraced her desire for Eric, she has not yet embraced her attraction to his secret sickness.

Danielle and Abby think Emma’s new crush is cute and sweet. That it’s the beginning of a healthy relationship.

They are mistaken.

Chapter Thirteen

Emma stands in the kitchen, her eyes locked on Eric’s black Jeep. She could hear him working when she came home, and imagines what he would look like . . . exhausted and dirty. Instead of ignoring the fantasy, she indulges it, and she doesn’t regret doing so. She wonders if he’ll be leaving soon, if he will go to some random place tonight, looking for someone strange and beautiful. She is terrified and exhilarated by the idea.

If he did leave, she would follow him. She wouldn’t be able to resist pursuing his sin, even though they have formed a sort of friendship. She turns her attention away from the window, to the pot of boiling water on the stove.

Eric sits on the edge of his bed, staring through the trees toward the white house, dreaming of the sanctuary that lies within. He nibbles on the skin of his thumb and his leg jiggles up and down with nervous energy. The need is rising, and he’s not sure he can refrain from hunting. He’s torn. He doesn’t want to indulge himself by seeking an anonymous victim, but he doesn’t want to allow his urges to taint his relationship with Emma. To soil her with his desire would be unforgivable. She has brought him continuous peace and has distracted him from his compulsions, but he’s finding himself more and more interested in her. Drawn to her virtuous beauty and captivated by the way she shoulders her burden with grace. He wonders if this attraction will turn her into one of his victims. He doesn’t want it to, but he’s not sure he can stop himself.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her muscles contract, causing her to jolt. Tomato sauce splatters from the edge of her wooden spoon. She wipes the mess with a dishtowel, and walks away from the hot stove, smoothing her hands over her hair and trying to conceal her smile as she rushes to the door. What she sees on the other side sends a thrill through her. It’s Eric, dressed all in black, the outfit he wears when he’s looking for a woman. The same clothes he wore in the club, at the coffee shop, in the bar. But he’s not out looking, he’s here.

“Hi,” he says, smiling.

Attraction and revulsion revolve through her. The duality is dizzying. He will only torment her, but she wants him anyway.

“Can I come in?”

Desperate to see each other, they are now locked in the grip of formality. They shield their true desires behind it. He walks past her into the living room, and his eyes wander over all the antiques that live there. His hands pass over certain items, and Emma watches his long fingers. They stop when they find her father’s old record player. Eric kneels down and begins to browse through the vintage albums. Something piques his interest and he pulls it out, blowing the dust off the cover.

“May I?” He gestures toward the turntable.

“Of course.”

Eric lifts the needle and places it on top of the spinning black circle. He turns the volume up as loud as it will go and a woman’s gritty, melodic voice fills the house. He closes his eyes and begins to move back and forth to the rhythm. Emma’s body is ablaze, but she’s frozen where she stands. His eyes open and fall on her. The stormy blue pierces her and the six feet between them feels like miles as he steps toward her, devouring her body with his gaze.

Emma looks at his divine, supple mouth and the scruffy stubble that surrounds it. She wants to run the tip of her nose along his jaw. He takes another step and so does she. They’re an arm’s length apart, gazes locked, hearts pounding with longing. The lone sound that fills the room is the singer’s solemn voice. Just an inch apart now. So close.

He reaches for her, takes her wrists, and brings them up onto his shoulders, pulling her against his body. She feels his hardness press into her and she closes her eyes with pleasure as her breath escapes. He slips his hands around to the small of her back as he begins to command her body in a slow rhythm with the music. Her mouth is at his neck, and she can almost hear the blood pulsing beneath his skin. She’s afraid to look in his eyes, for him to see how much she wants him, even though she can feel he wants her, too.

“Emma . . .”

His lips are so close to hers, she has no choice but to look at him. She finds his eyes, and sees her own lust reflected back. They dance together, just barely moving to the music. Desperate flesh pressed against desperate flesh.

“Eric . . .”

She answers his plea and that’s all the invitation Eric needs. He takes her bottom lip between his own. Just enough to taste her. He opens his eyes and looks at her. She’s begging him to continue, and he cannot resist this temptation.

He presses his lips to hers with definite purpose. The feeling that rises and courses through his veins is unfamiliar to him. When he kisses her, he doesn’t sink into the blackness of his sickness. He’s not falling into the all-consuming void. Instead, her goodness flows into him. The passion he feels is not a desire to use her body and discard it, but to treasure it. She pulls him closer, and slides her hands up his neck and into his hair. She explores his lips, his tongue.

She tastes so sweet, her kiss so sensual. Her initiation excites him further and he cradles her face, with a tenderness he has never shown to anyone. She’s breathless, and he is savoring her. She melts against him and he slips his fingers through her thick, soft hair. She moans, and at that sound the tenderness leaves him, replaced with fire and urgent passion. He deepens their kiss and she meets him. They clutch at fabric and flesh, trying so hard to get closer. The heat of their bodies melds together. They burn for
each other. The crescendo of this first kiss rises and weaves like a symphony through their souls. Every wound that they have ever had is erased with this kiss. It is beautiful.

Emma drowns in the depths of Eric. She submits, surrendering to his taste and his powerful touch. Mosaics of color flash behind her eyelids. She’s overwhelmed with the pleasure of feeling his skin against her own, but an alien entity is trying to enter the sanctity of this moment. Emma can’t put her finger on what it is. Then she places it. It’s smoke.

Emma pulls away from Eric’s viselike grasp. “Something’s burning.”

Eric smiles at her. His face is flushed and he licks his lips. “Yes. Something’s definitely on fire.”

They run into the kitchen. The pasta water has bubbled over and it’s frothing and dripping down the stove. The sauce has burned and congealed to the bottom of the pan. Eric removes it from the heat in a swift motion and waves the smoke out of his face. He throws the pan into the sink and runs water over it. It releases a searing sizzle and steam encircles him. Then the kitchen is quiet.