Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) (21 page)

Chapter Seventeen

T
he water is hot on my back and it feels good, vaguely. I watch the muddy bloody water swirling around my feet and I know I'm finally getting clean. I just want to be clean. I wish I could cleanse my eyes and my brain from seeing everything that I saw tonight. I still can't quite believe that I'm alive. Mitch is dead. I saw his dead body. I'm a widow. The ring on my finger is already a relic of a different time. I wonder how many times I'll be forced to relieve this moment. Maybe this is my own personal hell.

I go stiff when he returns to the bathroom. I can see him through the glass shower door, kicking off his pants and shoes and tossing his ski mask on top. I stand there, with my hands covering my tits and my thighs pressed together, wondering what he's going to do when he joins me in the shower. I'm paralyzed because it's too much to deal with. My body is so numb, I can't imagine feeling anything ever again. He could touch me, kiss me, fuck me and I probably wouldn't feel a thing. He leaves his gloves on and opens the shower door, letting the steam stream out into the bathroom. He stands on the threshold of the shower, his big body completely blocking the exit. I know there's no way around him. The shower, which is big enough to fit four people, suddenly feels so small and closed in.

His chest is stained rusty brown and there are streaks and splotches of dried blood running down his thighs and on his knees. I don't want him to come close to me. I don't know if I can stand it. He's a ghost, a ghoul, a demon that doesn't really exist. He shouldn't be here, and yet he is. He's been dead for so long and yet here he is, an angel of death bringing destruction and pain to me like a punishment. But underneath the blood and dirty, he doesn't look like a demon. He still looks like Elliot. His chest and shoulders are broad and his hips are slim. His legs are long and muscled. His toes still look the same. His dick looks the same, long and thick even when it's soft.

“I made sure she was secure in there,” he says, stepping into the shower. “Tied her up real good.” I don't respond because I can't. My whole body is focused on his naked body moving close to mine. He pressed himself against me in the bedroom and outside in the grass, but it's nothing like this. There's nothing between us now, except for blood and filth. There's nothing to stop him from doing whatever he wants to me. I steel myself as he pushes into the shower. He steps past me, his arm brushing my elbow, and stands under stream of water of one of the three working shower-heads. I feel myself start to shake and I can't stop myself. But I'm not cold. I just can't control my own muscles when he's near. “You should let me kill her,” he says, turning his face to look at me as the water starts to break up the stains on his chest. “We should get rid of her.”

“I don't even know who she is,” I say, the words coming out before I can stop them.

“She's the one fucking your husband,” he says, but his voice is flat. He doesn't sound like he's gloating or happy about it. He doesn't sound excited anymore, like he's full of bloodlust. I sneak a look at his face but he's not looking at me. His eyes are closed as he steps fully under the water.

“I don't blame him,” I say. I'm not sure why I feel the need to say it, but I feel like I have to excuse Mitch. He died for me, after all. I'm not going to be angry at a dead man. He already paid too great a cost despite being completely innocent. It was my fault after all. Mitch is dead because I lead a psychopath like Elliot to his doorstep. That's something I'll have to live with it, until Elliot kills me, too. But I won't have another innocent life on my hands. I wouldn't be able to take that. But it wouldn't phase Elliot in the least. “I was a shitty wife,” I continue, saying the words out loud that I've felt for so long. I didn't love Mitch. I can't love anyone anymore. I'm a barren shell of a person. Underneath the skin and muscles and bones, there's nothing left. I know that now more than ever. Denial is kind of pointless, at this point.

“You don't care that he was fucking someone else?” Elliot says with a low chuckle. “Has this big house and all his money made you soft, Joanie?” He turns to me. “It doesn't matter if you were the shittiest wife who ever lived. Dead men tell no tales.”

“Please don't kill her,” I say and it sounds so pathetic but I don't know what else to do. Maybe I should fight him, make him angry enough to kill me. Then it'll be over and done with. We're standing here in my master bathroom having a casual conversation about ending someone's life while a dead body lays in the next room. It's surreal but not completely foreign. As much as I've tried to forget and pretend like it never happened, I've seen him kill and maim right in front of my eyes before. It feels like a million years ago, but we've buried a body together before. I remember Lassiter's face as we carried him to his shallow grave. His skin was mottled blue and his eyes were open and unfocused as we shoveled dirt over him. And I remember Trace's face after Elliot stabbed him on my parents' patio all those years ago. All of a sudden, it was like it was yesterday. I can see him clearly, how his skin went pale and mouth gaped open and blood trickled down over his lips. And now Mitch, which is the worst of all.

Elliot grabs me by the upper arms and my brain blanks out and my muscles freeze. All of the old thoughts flee my brain as he pulls me under the shower-head. I'm suddenly painfully aware of the exact moment I'm living. He's still wearing his leather gloves, for some reason, but I don't bother asking him why. He runs his hands down the front of me, over my tits and stomach. Then he turns me around to face the water and shoves my hair over my shoulder. He works me over, cleaning me off quickly. His hands are rough and strong on my back and I close my eyes involuntarily, letting him do it. I wonder what he's going to do. I wonder what he has planned for me. His fingers linger against the small of my back and for a painfully long moment, I wonder if he's going to try to fuck me.

“Good enough,” he says. “Go. Dry off.” He shoves me out of the way and steps under the stream of water, squinting his eyes closed as the water hits him in the face. I leave him in the shower and grab a clean towel off the rack. I wrap it around myself quickly, liking that I don't feel as exposed anymore. My hair is heavy and I twist it and squeeze the water out. It splashes on the tile floor. The door is open and beckoning. I know I should try to escape. I know that I should make a run for the garage and get in the car and drive away and never look back. But I can only stand there and stare at the door.

I can't leave him.

No matter how much I know I should, I can't. I can't move much at all. My muscles have gone sluggish and I feel weak. I wonder if it's the heat from the shower. The steam in the bathroom is making it hard to see. When he shuts off the water and steps out behind me, I don't budge. He wraps his arm around my waist and pushes me to the vanity. He pulls off my towel and I don't fight him even as my heart squeezes in my chest. He drags it down his face and over his head. His hair is shorn close to his head, I notice, like he recently shaved it. I study him in the mirror, wondering what else I missed. He has a pale ragged scar on his cheek and his eyes are sunken. His skin is stretched over his bones and his muscles are prominent. He's not as big as he's been in the past, but he's still huge. I wonder vaguely if he's been eating. His cheeks are hollowed out and his forearms are veiny. His skin is pale, like he hasn't spent much time in the sun. He used to be tanned from the Texas sunlight. He used to be able to pass as a normal human. As I look at him, I can see the years etched on his flesh. I can see the manic flare behind his eyes. He can't hide his psychosis and propensity for violence anymore. It's written all over him. He's absolutely and completely dangerous from head to toe.

But he's still Elliot. That'll never change. There's invisible chains between us and I'm bound so tight there's no way I'll ever be free. As I study him, he dries his chest and arms quickly, sloppily, then runs it over my shoulders and down my back as well. He doesn't look at me in the mirror as he does it. There's nothing sexual about it but when he touches me my body responds. My nipples get hard and the hair on my arms stands up. I'm not in control, I tell myself. He's being nice now, but how long until he gets mean again? I know it's only a matter of time. Right now, he's in a rush and I wonder again what he's planning to do. He said he would follow what I said, but I don't believe him. Besides, I have no idea what to do. At the moment,  I can't think that far ahead.

He tosses the towel on the counter in between the sinks and sighs. I force myself to bring my eyes up to meet his in the mirror. He stares back at me and I wonder what the hell he's thinking. His breathing quickens and then before I know it, he snakes his left arm around my waist and  he drags his right hand up my body, his fingers rudely roaming up over my tits. He pulls me back against his chest and drops his mouth to the curve between my neck and shoulder, sucking hard on the moist skin. He pinches my nipple in between his thumb and forefinger as he licks and sucks at my neck. I shiver, my knees knocking together as I press my thighs together, like that will stop him. Nothing can stop him.

“Joanie,” he hisses in my ear, tightening his arm around my waist and forcing the air out of my lungs. I gasp, dropping my head back on his shoulder and he takes advantage, wrapping his hand around my throat and pressing his thumb against my windpipe. “Touch yourself,” he says, his voice rough like sandpaper in my ear. I shake my head even though I know it's foolish to try and resist. He has all the power and I have none. “Do it. I want that pussy wet. Now.” He squeezes against my throat and I know he's serious. I slid my hand down between my thighs and run my middle finger over my clit. The combination of the sensation along with his pressure on my throat instantly reminds me how he used to fuck me, how he used to try to destroy me in the quest to quench his endless thirst. But I wanted him to do it. I wanted to be destroyed. I let him do whatever he wanted, even if it hurt.

Especially if it hurt.

“How could you?” he asks, the words rushed and out of control. I can feel his cock, hard and hot against the crack of my ass. “How could you let anyone else touch you? How could you fuck him?”

“I don't know,” I whisper because it's true - I don't. Mitch liked me and I let him like me. He fell in love and I let the relationship spiral into a marriage. I married him because I wanted to take revenge on Elliot. I wanted to hurt him and renounce him and pretend that I didn't care about him anymore. I did it the only way I knew how, with my body. I fucked Mitch like it would fix me. I fucked Mitch like it would make me forget all about Elliot. But it didn't. And now here we are.

I'm starting to get light-headed but I don't stop rubbing my clit because I know he's watching. He's watching every movement of my hand and he can feel the rise of my blood pressure instantly with his hand on my throat. I wonder when he's going to spread my legs and thrust inside of me. I can't think about anything else. I wonder how much it will hurt. I wonder how rough he'll be. Sex might take the edge off or it might make him crave blood even more. My pussy clenches at the thought. It's wrong and it's disgusting, but I don't care. I can't. I can't think anymore. Just feel.

“Fuck,” he whispers and then he releases me from his grasp. Air rushes into my lungs and it's a few seconds before I can focus on anything else but breathing. My brain buzzes as the oxygen floods back in and I squeeze my thighs around my hand. I know from experience that an orgasm is near, but it stays frustratingly out of my grasp. The feeling is just as addicting as it always was. But I need more. I need him. “We don't have time for this,” he says, his words muffled in my ear. He takes a step back and grabs my arm. “Come on,” he says, turning toward the door. I don't move because I can't. My muscles feel weak and my heart is pounding. I'm lightheaded and my neck is throbbing, mostly phantom pain from a bad memory from a long time ago. My throat seizes and for a second, it feels like I'm going to throw up.

Then he's guiding me out of the bathroom, half-carrying me as I stumble into the bedroom. We leave the bloody clothes  and the wet towel in the bathroom and I vaguely wonder what we're going to do about them. We can't just leave them there for the police to find. He's completely naked and I wonder what he's going to wear. His dick is half-hard and it's distracting. My bare skin is pressed against his bare skin and it's painful. I hate his skin. I hate his face and his body and his hair and his strong hands. I hate everything about him. But he doesn't care. He's mumbling to me but talking mostly to himself since I keep missing things. I can't focus.

“I know what to do,” he says, the words floating up through the ether. “Don't worry, baby. I know.” I don't believe him, but I'm not in any position to argue. He leads me to the dresser and  wraps his arm around my waist to steady me as he opens the top drawer. He grabs a pair of black panties and one of the over-priced tank tops I wear when I go to yoga. Then he finds a pair of my yoga pants. He helps me dress because my fingers aren't working. He pushes me down into the arm chair by the window and tells me to stay put. I don't move because I'm putting all my focus on not looking at the bed. I can't see it anymore. There's bloody footprints on the carpet, so I don't look there. There's blood on the walls and ceiling, so I don't look there. Instead I turn my head to the window and focus on the pattern of the curtains. I want to memorize it because I have a feeling it's the last time I'll ever see these curtains. It's the last time I'll ever see this room.

I'm about to disappear.

When Elliot returns to me, he's wearing one of Mitch's T-shirts and a pair of his loose jogging pants. The shirt is too tight on his chest, but he doesn't seem to care. He's still wearing the gloves as he holds out his hand to me. He wore those gloves to kill my husband. He wore those gloves when he almost killed me. I don't like the sight of those gloves. But he doesn't wait for me to take his hand. He grabs it and hauls me out of the chair.