After Dark(18)

Maybe I’d freaked her out, or maybe she’d had second thoughts about tattling on Bethany. Either way, her disappearance—and the questions she’d spawned—unsettled me.

On Friday evening, I swung by the deli after work. The outdoor tables were empty, plastic tablecloths fluttering in a warm wind.

I strolled along the sidewalk¸ humming.

The universe seemed to be telling me to make my peace with Katie’s absence. Plus, I did feel a little guilty listening to potential lies about Matt. I should have told him about Katie, just like I should have told him about Seth and Chrissy. But now Katie was gone, taking her weird claims with her, and I didn’t need to tell Matt anything.

And anything I wanted to know about Matt, I could ask him. Right?

I tucked my hands into my jean pockets—casual Friday.

Asking Matt questions … easier said than done.

I turned a street corner aimlessly, enjoying the summer evening.

I shot a text to Matt as I walked.

Doing some shopping, might be home a little later than usual.

He replied quickly.

Buy yourself something nice. Isn’t your sister coming over tonight?

We’d decided to have Chrissy over to the condo rather than going to meet her someplace. My parents’ house was out of the question, and almost any public place was out of the question. We had private matters to discuss.

I replied to Matt’s text.

Maybe I’ll buy you something nice. Yes, she’s coming over at 7. Plenty of time. Love you.

I hoped Matt had gone for a run today, or at least sat out on our crappy little balcony for a while. This evening felt too good to miss.

My cheeks heated as I considered the balcony. He deserved something nicer. I made a mental note to re-raise the house-shopping issue.

I passed a narrow hole-in-the-wall shop—HORSE TACK AND WESTERN SUPPLY—and stopped in my tracks. I backpedaled a few steps.

A tooled leather saddle stood in the storefront display. Cowboy boots lined the bottom of the case, and against the wall, wound around a peg, hung a whip.

Holy shit. The whip looked innocuous enough, until I considered Matt wielding it.

No … way. No way. He couldn’t possibly want to use that on someone, could he?

I stepped into the store, bells announcing my entrance. My eyes adjusted to the low light. The pleasant scent of leather and polish filled my nostrils.

“Can I help you?” said the woman behind the counter.

“I was”—so glad for the semidarkness hiding my blush—“interested in the … whip. The one you’ve got out front.”

“Sure, hon. We’ve got more of those back here.” She led me to a slice of wall flanked by big western belt buckles and pocketknives. “All our whips are David Morgan. Here’s the model from the front case. You whip-cracking at the fair?”

“Excuse me?”

“The Boulder County Fair. They’re doing a whip-cracking show this year. We’ve been getting a lot of customers looking at whips for that.”

“Oh, no. But…” I edged closer to the whip, touching it tentatively. I shivered. The black plaited cord felt rough and merciless. A snake coiled to strike. “My husband does. He…”

Smelling a potential purchase, the woman launched into a speech about the virtues of the whip, which, I learned, was a six-foot bullwhip—the perfect length!—handcrafted, all leather, no stuffing, with replacement fall and cracker included, a bonus pot of leather dressing, and a one-year warranty—a real steal at … seven hundred bucks!

“Whoa,” I mumbled.

By the time the woman stopped talking, she’d removed the whip from the wall and unwound and wound it several times, and finally she laid the looped leather in my hands.

I swallowed and stared at it.

Matt and I were getting to know one another. Finally. Last weekend, he opened up about his parents and his upbringing. Was this whip another piece of the puzzle? Did Matt want things he was afraid to tell me about?

“I’ll take it,” I said.

I paid for the whip with my personal debit card, not our shared account, and the saleswoman packaged it in a flat velvet-lined box. I bought black ribbon from a gift shop across the street and tied it around the box. With a bow. Then I sat in my car gazing at it.

Did I seriously just buy a whip … that might get used on me?

Is this sexy, or totally messed up?

I got back to the condo and scurried to the bedroom before Matt emerged from his office. I shoved the box in our closet. Definitely something to deal with later.

“Bird?” His voice drifted down the hallway.

“In here! Changing!” I wiggled out of my jeans and threw them on top of the box just as he appeared in the doorway.

He grinned wolfishly at me.

“Changing into what? I could recommend something…”

“Pfft. My sister will be here soon.” I tugged on sweats and a tank top. Matt admired me as I sashayed past and bumped my hip against his.

“Tempting the devil,” he mumbled, trailing me out of the closet. Whew.

He hovered in the kitchen, watching me closely. I smiled and he narrowed his eyes. Yikes, what was he thinking?

“Hungry?” I said.

“Not very. You?” He stepped closer to me.

“Er, no. I had a late lunch. Kind of a big lunch.” I backed into the counter and peered up into his somber green eyes.

“How was shopping?”

I sucked in a breath. “Fine. Didn’t find anything … but it was so nice out.”

He folded his arms and sighed through his nostrils. His lips twitched. Shit, what was that look on his face?

“Hannah, I’m sorry I withheld your orgasm with no … verbal contract.”

My mouth fell open, my mind racing to grasp his meaning.

“Oh,” I whispered. Right. He meant last weekend, the “punishment” in the hotel room. I’d wanted to discuss that with him, but I never plucked up the courage.

In fact, I’d never asked to see the weird e-mail he got.

I’d willfully forgotten all of it.

“How did you—” He sneered.

“Baby, what is it?” I wrapped my arms around his neck.

“How did you feel about that?”

“Um … confused, I guess.” I stroked his neck. “You’ve never done that before.”

“Mm.”

“What do you mean, ‘verbal contract’?”

He frowned and folded his arms around me. “No idea. It’s something Mike said.”

“Mike?” My stomach somersaulted. “You told him about that?”

“Not exactly. We’ve been—I—”

Three loud knocks interrupted him. No! Matt disentangled himself and stalked over to the door. Fuck,I wanted to talk about this. I glared at his back as he greeted Chrissy.

For one weird, paranoid moment, I wondered if he timed this—planned this discussion on the cusp of Chrissy’s arrival so that it couldn’t actually become … a discussion.

“Hey, Chrissy.” I hugged my sister. She looked cute in leggings and a purple-to-white ombré tank top. My eyes darted to her stomach, then swerved away. “Come on in.”

We sat in the TV room, Chrissy in an armchair and Matt and I on the couch.

Hm. What now?

Matt was giving Chrissy an intense, scrutinizing stare, and Chrissy looked embarrassed for the first time in her life.

“Do you want something to drink?” I offered.

“Yogurt?” Matt said.

I blinked at him.

“Matt…” I patted his thigh. “We don’t have yogurt.”

“I bought some.” He moved briskly to the kitchen. “It’s low-fat,” he added. “Did you know that one cup of this is better than milk? More calcium. You need calcium, Chrissy. And protein, too. You like blueberries?”

“Uh, sure,” Chrissy said.

I twisted around on the couch and gaped at Matt.

Who was this guy, and who body-snatched my fiancé?

“Good. I threw a few on top. Berries are”—his brow knit as he returned with the yogurt—“a good source of fiber and vitamin C. All stuff you need right now.” He handed the bowl to Chrissy and returned to the couch. I grasped his hand.

“Can we talk for a moment?” I whispered.

“Sure.” He gazed at me evenly.

“In … private?”

My sister spooned yogurt into her mouth and watched us. The Matt and Hannah Show.

“Why? Aren’t we supposed to be getting things out in the open?” He gestured to our tiny living/family room.

“Fine,” I muttered. Apparently I should have prepped him for this conversation. “The thing is, Chrissy isn’t sure”—I smiled apologetically at her—“she wants to keep it yet.”

Matt scowled. “Could we avoid that phrase? ‘Keep it.’ Sounds so fucking inhumane. ‘It’? Is it a boy or a girl?”

“She’s only eight weeks. We don’t know yet.”

“Well, then.” He stood and paced beside Laurence’s hutch. The rabbit, who was as sensitive to Matt’s moods as I was, darted into a corner. “I don’t see why we can’t be prepared for the possibility”—oh boy, Matt was getting irritated—“that she might want to have the child. I bought you some groceries.” He addressed Chrissy, ignoring me now. “Frozen salmon filets, some whole grain bread and cereal. You need eggs in your diet. I read about it.”