On his face is a sneer. “What? Change your mind so soon?”
“Change my mind? About what?”
“About seeing me again.”
Sweet God! I’d told the Senator I’d do it, but I didn’t say when. No arrangements were made. And certainly none for this soon. It has only been a day, for God’s sake!
“What’s the matter? Kat got your tongue?” he asks, using my old name.
“No, I . . . I, uh, just wasn’t expecting you this soon. And certainly not here.”
“What’s the matter, Kat? Afraid to have me so close to your bed?”
His leer coupled with the smell of alcohol on his breath gives me a surge of adrenaline. My heart thunders and every subtle nuance of this moment is carving itself indelibly into my brain.
“Hardly. You disgust me!” I hiss in a burst of bold and brave honesty.
His expression turns furious and he grabs me by my upper arms. “So he’s so much better than me, is that it? That piece-of-shit fighter. Where is he now? If he’s so much better than me, where is he? Why am I here with you when he’s not?” A dart of fear pierces me. He was always much worse, much more forceful and unpredictable when he was drinking.
I keep my calm, at least outwardly. “You’re drunk, Calvin. You need to leave.”
“So anxious to get me out of here. Why? Is he coming? Will he be warming up that pussy tonight?”
His temper flares and his fingers bite into my arms, making painful indentations.
“Let me go, Calvin. I’m not kidding.” Part of me wants to cower in the face of his anger, the memories flooding me like salt water flooding a hole in the sand. But another part of me, a tough and slightly reckless part, wants to face him, wants to stand up in his face and scream that I’m not afraid of him anymore.
He stares down into my face and I see the battle waging. Stay or go. Lash out or calm down. Stay and fight or walk away. I see his pupils swell and I know which way the tide is turning.
The muscles along his jawline flex as he grits his teeth. He jerks me up close to his face so that I can feel the heat of his temper. And I do. I feel it. And I know what’s coming.
“I tried to forget you after the fire. I thought it would burn you out of my blood. And for a while it did. But when I saw you again . . . with him . . . Damn you for making me feel this way again! Damn. You.”
Before I can respond, Calvin straightens his arms and sends me flying across the entryway, a tangle of flailing limbs.
I look up to see him pushing the unbuttoned sleeves of his dress shirt up his forearms, like he’s preparing to get messy. I know that gesture. I remember it like I remember the bone-jarring ache of being punched in the ribs. Or kicked in the back of the head.
Courage flees me. Calm abandons me. And terror, pure terror turns my blood to ice in my veins. After a time, I knew Calvin had a bad temper and that he was prone to violence, but never would I have suspected that he might set me on fire. Yet he did. That’s when I realized that I had no idea the depths to which his mental illness extended. He could be capable of anything. Even murder.
With speed uncommon in someone as lanky as Calvin, he lunges for me before I can react, grabbing me by the front of my shirt and pulling me to my feet to sling me across the dining room table. I go skittering along the top before I crash down onto the chair at the end and topple it to the floor, the edge of the seat cracking against my hip. I gasp in pain, my fear nearly blinding me as I scramble to get my bearings.
“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to punish you, Kat. For leaving me. For making me hurt you. For spreading those legs for someone else. You’re mine, Kat. You always will be.”
My addled mind spins with solutions and scenarios, for any possible way out of this without getting myself killed. He set me on fire last time. I can’t give him the chance to hurt me again.
I stall until I can find a way, find something with which to defend myself. “I didn’t think you’d want me with all my scars,” I tell him. I swallow past the balloon of fear that inflates in my throat and I scoot into a sitting position.
Calvin frowns. I’m not sure what to make of it. Is he confused by my tactic? Disgusted by the mention of my disfigurement?
“I thought you knew how much I loved you. Yes, I hate the scars, but I’ll pay for plastic surgery to get rid of them, and you’ll be my beautiful Kat again. At least for a little while.”
For a little while? That sounds . . . ominous.
Absently, I push scraps of the broken chair out of the way so that I can find my balance and make my way to my feet. I pause as my eyes settle on one of the splintered legs. For a few seconds, I zone out of the present as I stare at it, as I think of the implications of it. As I look at it, I drift into a strange place of calm.