The Righteous and The Wicked (9 page)

“Well, I think that’s bullshit.” Danielle folds her arms across her chest. “Fucking stupid
laws.”

“Just because it’s not official yet doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate. I think the fact that you’re even willing to take this step and move forward is major—that’s
absolutely
worth celebrating.” Abby beckons the waiter over to open the bottle of champagne.

“She’s right, Emma.” Danielle reaches her hands out across the table toward her friend. “This
is
a big deal and we are so proud of you. What made you want to finally do this, anyway?”

“I guess it was just the right time.” Emma looks down at her hands and smiles, thinking of Eric.

“Wait a minute. I know that look. Emma Santori, is there a
guy
? Did you meet someone?” Abby asks.

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 faster 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.