Chapter Seventeen

Slap!

Two Weeks Ago

Tugging on his collar to relieve some of the red building in his face, Jack glares across the king-sized bed at me and all I can think about is why the sleeping pills I ground up and slipped in his beer aren’t taking effect. I’ve done this before and, usually, they’ve kicked in by now. Contrary to popular belief, he’s fuming and wide awake and I am in trouble.

“You want a divorce, Sienna?” he asks in a rhetorical growl, waving the divorce papers at me. “Here’s your divorce!”

“Jack, please!”

Tearing the packet to pieces, he tosses them into the air with my feelings. Together, they seesaw to the bed and floor and I see red. I want to kill him, plain and simple. Those documents took forever to round up, let alone fill out, and I just need his fucking signature. Curling his hands into those hammers I don’t ever want to see again, he spits to the carpet. “I’ll give you something alright, but it won’t be a divorce.”

“Look, I don’t want anything from you,” I say, keeping the bed between us while trying not to cry. “I just want out.”

“Oh, you just want out? Okay, I get it.” Hitting me with his signature grin, he unbuckles his leather belt and slowly pulls it through the loops of his dirty designer jeans, feeding my distress. He’s using his anger to make me feel small, to mask the fear I see hiding in the back of his eyes. He’s frightened and half drunk. Anything can happen. The gun in the nightstand flares in my mind’s eye and, as luck would have it, the nightstand is right next to me. I’m standing on Jack’s side of the bed and I may just get out of this alive yet.

Folding the belt in two, Jack pulls hard on the leather, producing a sharp slap. A destructive smile sweeps across his face and if he thinks he’s going to beat me with that belt again, he’s got another thing coming. Divorce papers or not, this is where that shit stops. Forever.

“Bend over and grab your ankles,” he whispers, letting the belt hang like a whip in his hand.

“Put it down, Jack,” I whisper back, cursing the quiver in my voice.

He takes a step closer and stops. “Bend. Over.”

My eyes dart to the nightstand, exposing my intentions. It’s now or never. Yanking the drawer back, I grab the gun hiding inside and swing it around to him. My pulse takes off running and hope pushes through my fear. “You come any closer and I’ll shoot,” I say, my rapid heartbeat slurring my words. “Just like you taught me at the range.”

Frowning, Jack looks up to the tray ceiling above and runs a hand down his face. “You disappoint me, Sienna.”

“Drop the belt, Jack.”

 Tipping his chin down and blowing out a tired breath, his eyes find mine and there’s something glimmering in the far reaches of his pupils. Something dark and twisted. I can see it as clearly as the Stanford logo on his soiled sweatshirt he only wears for yardwork. His eyebrows go up. “You going to shoot your own husband?” He steps closer. “After everything we’ve been through together?”

“Stop moving,” I warn, cocking the hammer back with a double-click that sends my nerves into a heightened sense of reality.

He stops and studies me through pity-filled eyes, like he actually feels sorry for me. Like he feels anything for me to feel sorry about. Then, as I might’ve guessed, his teaching voice comes out and I hate when he uses that trick on me. “Sienna, put the gun down and we’ll forget this whole damn thing ever happened. I promise.”

Holding the heavy gun out in both hands, my arms begin to shake. It feels like I’m holding a cinderblock. “I will never forget, Jack. And one way or another, this is where you and I part ways.”

His face falls and when he starts to chuckle, my skin crawls on my bones. Filling his lungs with a deep breath, the smile stalls on his face. Boldly, he comes around the foot of the bed. “I said, bend over and grab your ankles.” Gritting his teeth, he cracks the belt again and I squeeze the trigger.

Jack stops and stares at me, disappointment filling his eyes. “Looks like you forgot something, Sienna.”

My gaze falls to the gun in my hands. Ejecting the empty magazine inside, my hope sinks like a wounded ship. Tossing the magazine behind me, I jerk my eyes to the open drawer. Other than some lube Jack uses when he makes me do anal, it’s empty inside. Like me.

Jack pulls on the belt. Slap! “You’re going have to look a little harder than that, Sienna. In fact, you might actually have to put a little work into something for the first time in your life.”

Breath racing, I glance at the open doorway behind him.

Jack swings the belt down on the bed, making me jump. Laughter splits his lips. “You’re not going anywhere, Sienna,” he says, growing gravely quiet. “This is your home.” He comes closer and I back against the wall, gun hanging heavy in my hand. He smiles at my reaction and stumbles a bit, leaning against the footboard for support. The color drains from his face and sweat droplets pop out across his brow. Shaking his head to clear it, he pushes off and staggers towards me. It’s like he’s walking into a headwind and I want to laugh but I’m still too terrified to do anything but press up against the wall. Jack stops against our dresser to collect his breath and I almost smile.

Head hanging heavy, he glances at me. “You make me sick just looking at you. Try getting a real job,” he says, dropping the belt to the floor and stumbling from the room. “You’re just bored!”

His words fuel the rage burning in my chest. Tossing the gun onto the bed, I follow him out into the hallway. His crooked footsteps rattle the floor lamps and framed pictures against the walls. “Or maybe you just don’t have what it takes to satisfy a real woman,” I say from behind, ready for battle. My words stop him at the top of the stairs and when he turns to face me, there’s no masking the anger in his heavy-lidded eyes. I hit him where it hurts and it makes me glow.

I stop in front of him and those hammers pop back out on the end of his arms. I want him to hit me because this time I will call the police. This time I will end it. “You’re not a woman,” he says, the smell of sour beer floating on his breath. “You’re a prop. Now, go back to your room, order another handbag, and shut – your – fucking – hole.” The hint of a grin brushes the corner of his lips in a brazen show of triumph just before he turns to go downstairs.

My anger climaxes into a blinding ball of fury I cannot contain. It’s bright and hot and, sooner or later, a smoking volcano has to erupt. There is no other way. Nature always prevails. Setting my jaw, I shove both hands into Jack’s muscular back. He pitches forward in slow motion and everything gets graveyard quiet. His arms pinwheel through the air and I pushed so hard, I nearly fell with him but I grab the bannister and stop my forward momentum at the last second. Jack, however, isn’t so lucky. He falls awkwardly, twisting through the air. A loud crack breaks the uneasy silence when his head finds a wooden step. His body follows, cartwheeling down the stairs and landing in a heap at the bottom. For the longest time, I just stare at the blood pooling around his head and all I can think about is how lucky I am we don’t have carpet. If we did, I could be in serious trouble. But we don’t. We have dark hardwoods running throughout and my chest relaxes a little. Downstairs, I step over Jack’s lifeless body, certain he will latch onto my ankle at any second. Knowing that if he does, I’m as good as dead. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just lays there and bleeds on the floor. Chasing my breath, it doesn’t take me long to figure out what to do next because it’s written on my reflection’s face in the French door.