John Lutz - The Ex

She was trying to sell an article on editing from the editor’s point of view to Author magazine. It would be her second article for the publication whose readership was largely amateur writers. David was glad to see her working instead of worrying.

He kissed the back of her neck as he walked past her-without response-then went into the bedroom to put on jeans and a casual shirt.

Inside the bedroom door he paused.

The bed was unmade, the sheet rumpled. Molly always made the bed, even on the mornings when she was rushed. And there was the T-shirt she slept in, wadded up instead of folded as usual, lying on the bed.

As he moved closer, David saw the depression in Molly’s pillow, as if she’d been resting and had just gotten up. But he doubted that she’d taken a nap in the middle of the afternoon. In fact, he doubted that she’d returned directly home after having lunch with him.

Yet there was her bizarre story about having been followed. How might that have affected her behavior this afternoon.

He bent to straighten the T-shirt and saw that it had been smeared with something clear and oily, as if the substance had been deliberately wiped there.

Then he saw the single, long red hair on the pillow.

His grip tightened on the T-shirt as he figured out what must have happened. Deirdre had been here. Apparently Molly had set to work whenever she arrived home after meeting him, and hadn’t yet gone into the bedroom. Hadn’t yet seen this.

Deirdre again!

“Bitch!” David whispered.

Quickly he used a tissue to rub most of the slick substance from the T-shirt, then folded the shirt as Molly usually did and set it aside. He made the bed, straightening the wrinkled sheet and plumping the pillow. Then he laid the T-shirt on the bed where Molly kept it when it wasn’t in the wash, making sure the faint stains were facing down.

After changing into jeans and a faded Lands’ End shirt, he took a last look around the bedroom, then returned to the living room.

Molly was still working at her desk. She didn’t seem to have moved.

“I’m going out to get a Post,” he said. “Want anything?”

“Supper,” she said, without turning around.

“I’ll bring something back. Chinese? Pizza?”

“Anything,” she told him, working her fingers over the small, silent keyboard delicately, as if she were weaving.

He said nothing else as he went out the door.

He didn’t leave the building. As he climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, he became angrier with every step. And more frightened.

Deirdre answered the door immediately after he knocked, almost as if she’d been expecting him. She was wearing a robe fastened tightly at the waist with a sash and was barefoot.

“David,” she said simply, not in any surprise.

“We need to talk.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

She stepped back and he entered and closed the door.

“You look upset,” she told him.

“You were in our apartment, weren’t you? In our bedroom?”

“Why, you know I’ve been there. With you.”

“I mean today, while we were both gone. You were there today.”

“Heavens no.” She smiled.

“You wanted her to find it, didn’t you?”

“Find what?”

“The unmade bed. The shirt she sleeps in. Maybe even the red hair on her pillow. But I found the mess you left. Molly hadn’t been home long and didn’t go into the bedroom, never saw any of it.”

“Then even if what I think you’re implying is true, no harm was done.”

“Listen, Deirdre-”

“I just got home from work, David, and I was about to shower. The water’s running, if you’ll excuse me.”

“I won’t excuse you. Myself, either.”

“Martyrdom doesn’t become you. Guilt’s like acid, David. It’s a stupid thing to carry around inside you.” She walked away from him, toward the hall.

As he followed her, he became aware of the roar of water thundering into the old claw-footed tub. At least she hadn’t lied to him about that.

“I want your key to our apartment,” he said.

Still walking, she untied the sash of her robe and let it fall from her body as she made a right turn into the bathroom and left the door open.

He stepped over the robe and trailed after her, saw her part the shower curtain and step into the tub.

“Deirdre!”

She didn’t answer him from behind the curtain.

He moved toward the shower, knowing he shouldn’t. Her form was barely visible behind the opaque plastic.

Suddenly she opened the curtain and smiled out at him. Her hair was wet and plastered to her skull. A layer of soapy bubbles was just disappearing beneath the hot needles of water, flowing in milky streams along her smooth stomach, down between her thighs, to swirl down the drain.

“Come in here with me if you want to talk, David.”

Standing there staring at her, he wanted to, but he didn’t move. Heat rolled out at him. The shower continued to roar.

“Then you’ll just have to wait until I’m finished,” she said, and closed the curtain.

He knew his time was limited here. He had to talk to her. And what more could he be guilty of than he was already?

He hurriedly unbuckled his belt and peeled off his shirt, removed shoes and socks and stepped out of his clothes.

“Well, hello!” Deirdre said with a grin when he opened the curtain and stepped into the tub. “This is where you belong, David, with me. Birds of a feather fly together.”

He kissed her hard on the mouth, held the length of her wet body to him. The bar of soap thumped hard on the bottom of the tub, something to avoid. His hands moved over the small of her back, down the smooth soapy mounds of her buttocks.

“Isn’t this rape?” she asked, still smiling.

“Hardly,” he said, and kissed her again.

Her tongue slid into his mouth, then out. “No, don’t do this,” she said without conviction. “No means no, David. That’s the law. This is definitely rape.” She bit his earlobe, then inserted her tongue in his ear, flicked it around. “No is easy to understand.” Her words were distorted, her breath hot. He felt her fingers gently grip his erect penis and stroke it vertically. “No, no, no, please!” She laughed.

He gripped her slippery body with both arms, lifted her, then brought her down on him and was inside her, turning her sideways and pinning her against the wet tile wall. He felt the bar of soap with the edge of his foot and kicked it away, struggled and found purchase on the slippery porcelain and drove himself into her. She groaned and laughed again, breathlessly. “No, no, no!..”

He grabbed a handful of her wet hair and yanked her head back so she was looking up at him as he slammed into her, bouncing her off the wall.

She never blinked but her eyes narrowed beneath the stream of warm water from the shower head. “That’s right, David. You’re angry. Take it out on me. Get it all out. Harder! Harder!”

Gripping her hair tighter, he braced a foot against the side of the tub and hurried his thrusts into her, felt her body stiffen and her stomach press hard into his, heard the wet slap of flesh as his rhythm drummed her against the tiles.

He climaxed and pressed against her hard, then realized her eyes were bulging. He was squeezing the wet clump of her hair harder than he’d realized, straining her head back so that she was staring up at the ceiling. Her pupils were glazing over as if she were strangling, but she was grinning.

Alarmed at the violence within him, he released her, pulled out of her, and stepped back.

She stood gasping and hunched over, still leaning against the tiles, one trembling arm outstretched as if for balance.

When she caught her breath, she said, “So how do you feel now, David?”