Blush(71)
“I can stay and help. For a start, I think you have on too many clothes.”
“Don’t you have something to paint?”
“I do. But I need to run to the hardware store for another gallon for the trim, and might as well pick up those plumbing supplies. Want to come with me? We can stop for lunch at Sandy’s, or go into Houma.”
Mia shuddered at the name of the coffee shop. “Maybe she knows which rock her dickhead brother is hiding under.”
“She wouldn’t tell me if she did. Don’t worry, the cops will find him. Coming or staying?”
“Staying. I’m on a learning curve with my pole dancing. You’re on your own with picking out thingamajigs and other doohickeys. Get a rain shower jet while you’re at it.”
“Not enough water pressure, unless you get new pipes and a bigger water tank.”
“I’ll add those to my list.”
He cast a quick amused glance at the pole. “Maybe I should stay to supervise. You might climb too high and need help getting down.”
Mia laughed and pushed him with her palm on his muscular chest. “Go. Anticipate all the cool moves I’ll show you later.”
“Don’t break anything.”
She turned up “Tainted Love,” the pounding beat perfect for getting in the mood.
An hour later, sweaty and triumphant, she’d mastered a dozen moves, including hanging upside down like a bat. The problem with the basic inversion position wasn’t getting into the position; it was unknotting herself and getting on her feet instead of sliding down the pole onto her head. Currently she was twined, ankles tightly crossed, gripping the pole tightly between her legs, watching the video upside down, the blood rushing to her head.
The plan was to loosen her hands and tuck her head in a graceful slide, supported by her legs. Except that she couldn’t quite get the knack of opening her hands. Eyes closed for a moment, she visualized the graceful, head-tucked slide.
Mia had just started to let go with her hands, when she felt a hard hand on her ankle, and wrinkled her nose because Cruz smelled different—like stale pizza and booze. Her heart jerked in warning. “That was quick. Did you change your m—”
Starting to twist herself right side up, she opened her eyes. The smile disappeared as she was unceremoniously, and violently, yanked off the pole, saving her from doing it herself. It didn’t hurt any less.
Landing hard on her hip, Mia looked up at Marcel Latour with dread. He stood over her, his flushed face contorted in a rictus of fury. A vein bulged in his forehead. His dirty orange T-shirt was the same one he’d worn all week, and it smelled like sweat and desperation, and was covered with food stains and, she realized sickly, his wife’s dried blood. Clearly he’d had enough liquid courage for him to barge into her house with blood in his eye.
Her heart slammed up into her throat, and her mouth went dry. Mia scrabbled backward on her butt, trying to get her feet under her. Cold sweat prickled her skin at the feral look on his face “You have no business being here. Leave. Now. Get out of my damn hou—”
Unshaven, with bloodshot eyes and heavy stubble, he was mean drunk and furious. With shocking speed, he grabbed her throat and hauled her to her feet, his fingers digging into her skin like painful steel bands. Her heart leaped, then started pounding hard and fast.
Her throat hurt from the pressure of his fingers, and it was hard to drag in a breath between him cutting off her air and sheer, unadulterated panic. Mia grabbed his forearms, digging her nails into his skin, trying to break his hold. She gagged. Black spots danced in her vision and her ears roared as she struggled like a fish on a line to break free.
Bringing his face right up to hers, he shouted, “Where the fuck is she, bitch?” Boozy spit flew with every word.
She gasped for air as she dug her short nails deeper into his forearms, trying to break his hold on her throat, shoving as hard as she could, her legs flailing uselessly. His grip and the violent shaking just got harder and more out of control.
Her panic and fear rose like a black tide, wiping out all reason. She screamed in fear, in fury. But there was no one to hear her. She was an animal caught in a trap, and fought as hard as she could to break free. Nobody had ever put their hands on her in anger in her life. And while theoretically she knew what she should be doing, her brain went completely blank in the face of such violence.
“How did you get into the house?” Mia gasped inanely. The back door locked automatically. Why hadn’t Oso barked? How long until Cruz came back? An hour? More? She’d lost track. All she knew was that this man had beaten his wife and almost killed her, and he’d have absolutely no compunction doing that, or worse, to her.