by Britney King
Tom is a liar.
He walks over to me and takes the glass from my hand. “I don’t like to see you like this.”
“What? Happy?”
My eyes meet his as he takes my chin in his hand. I don’t have a choice. He forces me to look at him. “Do I make you unhappy, Melanie?”
I shake my head slightly. It’s as far as Tom’s grip will allow. “I make myself unhappy,” I say. “I am not a nice person.” It’s one of the only truthful things I’ve ever really told him.
“How so?”
“I destroy everything in my wake.”
Tom offers a tight smile. I am too drunk to realize it’s not an appropriate response. “You won’t destroy me.”
“I might try.” This is the first time I come to understand that alcohol and Tom Anderson don’t mix well. There’s chemistry here. Maybe not love. But the chemistry is unmistakable. Without it, this would not have been a successful seduction to begin with.
He leans in and plants a quick peck on my lips. “Melanie,” he says as he pulls away and meets my eye. His expression is serious. More serious than I’ve ever seen. “Don’t take me to the deep end, if you know you can’t swim.”
When my husband exits the bathroom, he’s still in the process of toweling off. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he says, but in a way that it seems as though he’s just thought of it.
The room is spinning. I can’t recall the last time I was this drunk.
“Can you tell me a little about your previous lovers?”
“Why would you ask that?” My hand reaches for the wall. I have to steady myself otherwise I am going to be sick.
“You really shouldn’t drink,” he says. “Look what it does to you.”
I feel the weight of him as he sits down on the edge of the bed.
“Tell me what they liked.”
My eyes meet his.
I stare at him curiously. “You want to know what they were into?”
“I want to know everything about you.”
My breath catches.
Tom leans in and touches my face with the back of his hand. “I think we should do a little role playing.”
“You’re fucked in the head,” I say. “Seriously sick.”
His face is unreadable. “You have no idea.”
“Who raised you?”
“My aunt.”
“Really?” I realize I know nothing about this man or his past. Not really.
“But none of that is the issue.”
My head tilts. “What is the issue?”
“I want to know what they were like. The men in your past…”
“Why?”
“Because I want to be the best lover you’ve ever had. Which requires a little research on my part. Most things can be explained by digging at the past, right?”
I pull at the towel he has around his waist. Suddenly, I’ve got a second wind. “I think I just fell in love with you.”
“Hot and cold? You wanna play?”
I don’t answer. I’m headed south. It’s possible I might puke all over him. But who cares? I’ve just realized I’ve met my match. Someone who gets me. I feel something. And that something is pleasantly surprised. In this moment, this is all that matters.
Tom pulls my hair, forcing me to look at him. “Well—are you going to make me guess what they were into? Or would you just spell it out? Personally, I prefer the latter.”
Little does he know, that’s not nearly as much fun, which is why I roll my eyes. I get back to business, pushing against his grip. Tom seems like the kind of guy who likes a little resistance. “Can’t you see?” I smile up at him ruefully. “I’m working on it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tom
I can’t begin to tell you the things I discovered while I was looking for something else. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Most of science works this way. The obvious answers usually come indirectly. After Melanie’s confessions last night, I know enough to know I have to delay killing her. At least for a little while.
I realize it’s cliché to insinuate that a man should make a decision with his appendage. But I am, after all, a man and I am finding there is apparently something to that cliché.
If I’d rather not kill Melanie, on account of the sex—and the fact that I’ve pretty much solved the problem of her being expensive to keep around—and I am forced to make a move on one of Mark’s targets, at least there’s a silver lining in the whole thing. My lovely wife gave me another clue last night when she mentioned Josie Dunn.
A clue that deserves an in-person visit.
After three days, we fly home. Being with Melanie no longer grates on my nerves the way it used to. Well, not most of the time. She makes me think things could be different. I’m concerned I might actually be starting to like her.
This is a problem when determining whether or not she lives or dies. It’s akin to naming a puppy you know you can’t keep.
I know I shouldn’t let a prick like Mark determine the course of my life. But he holds all the keys.
Even if he didn’t kill me— say if I left the church and made a run for it—he’d have leverage. I’m not exactly an innocent bystander in the acts the church has committed. I know what goes on. I know how they manipulate and control, the allegations of abuse. I know about the payouts, the bribes, and the hush money. I’m their accountant, after all. Half of my job is seeing that funds are disguised as other things.
Unfortunately, that’s not all he has on me. Mark has hours and hours of video straight from the deepest recesses of my mind. The cover for Mark, his idea, a valid front for New Hope is that it’s in the business of rehabilitation. He started it when he wanted to rehabilitate Michael from his alcoholism. Well, let me assure you, this makes for good business. Everybody has a vice. Everyone. Some are worse than others. But a crutch is a crutch. And most people are running from something. From the get-go, I wasn’t willing to give up much. But I was wise enough to know I had to give something. If Mark’s goal was to rehabilitate me, the best I could offer him was my past.
Back then, New Hope wasn’t that sophisticated. Back then, Mark liked to do his bidding himself. He hadn’t yet learned who he could trust. So, he saw to my ‘healing sessions’ personally.
They always began and ended the same way. First, we would sit in a room adjacent to one another. He would start by asking me a single question. It got worse from there. His goal: to free me from my painful past. I’m an introvert. Up until that point, most of my life had not been that exciting.
Mark thought by talking through painful memories, it would help.
And you know what? To my amazement, it did. For a while.
Those sessions were the only time, except when June was killed, that I’ve ever cried. I cried for Michael and for Aunt Jeanie and for the father I hardly knew. He himself always said it was better not to feel. Logic runs low when emotion runs high. I didn’t see the truth in that. Not then.
At the time, I’d hit a low point. It felt like I had a friend again.
The sad part is that’s not the main reason I gave Mark what he wanted. I did it because I wanted to keep my job and my house. Most importantly, I wanted to keep my family intact. June would have left. Eventually, if not right off the bat. And I would have let her go. I knew the kind of life she wanted for herself and the kids. I had been working twenty-hour days just to provide it. The ability to keep it up was quickly slipping through my fingers. There was always more, and I knew she would have found some excuse to get it, and I knew it wouldn’t have included me. It wasn’t that she didn’t love me. It was that we both knew she deserved better. After all, it wasn’t her that had changed the unspoken rules of our agreement. It was me. I’m the one who let Michael fool me. I’m the one who nearly caused us to lose everything.
“Do you miss June?” Melanie asks one afternoon out of the blue. Sometimes I think she’s clairvoyant.
“Yes,” I say. I should lie. I�
�ve read enough to know that women don’t like to know you’re thinking of another woman. It doesn’t matter if that woman is dead.
But I don’t lie. I don’t want to betray June more than I already have.
“I thought so.”
Her eyes lit up. To say this reaction is unexpected would be an understatement. “I think we should do a little role playing.”
“That’s not funny.”
She comes closer. “I hadn’t meant it to be.”
I swallow hard.
“I want to learn everything about you,” she says in that sultry way of hers. “I want to be the best lover you’ve ever had.”
I take a step back. God, she’s good. Already, just the way she is. With slight tweaking, I can’t imagine. Which brings me to my biggest problem yet—I really think I could love this one.
“Do you miss it?” I ask Josie.
I’m seated on her new sofa in her new condo downtown. It overlooks the city, and I should be surprised she’d trade the suburbs in for this, but I’m not. Josie has the illusion of safety here. She likes being at the top, looking down at others.
“Me? Miss the church?” She thinks about my question for a long while. I realize, glancing down at my watch, that I should have called and asked for a visit. I can see she’s in shock. Everything is taking longer than it needs to. It’s rude to show up unannounced, and I abhor rudeness. But I knew she wouldn’t have agreed to see me. So, I apologize once again.
“Sometimes,” she tells me finally. She sucks in a breath and holds it. At some point, she lets go. “Under different circumstances, maybe I could have made it work.” She pauses and then turns to meet my eye. “But I assume you aren’t here to learn about my regrets.”
I don’t respond. Not at first. I tell her I like her place.
She crosses the living area and comes to a stop by the window. “Who sent you to spy on me?”
“I’m not here to spy.”
“Let me guess…Beth? Mark?”
“No one.”
She rolls her neck. “Adam? Cheryl?”
I see her point. People work as teams at New Hope. Usually husband and wife. But not always. That’s part of the reason I’m here.
“No,” I tell her. “No one sent me.”
“How are Adam and Cheryl these days?”
“Fine.” I haven’t a clue.
“I do miss them,” she offers, looking over her shoulder at me. “They were a fun couple. You know, the kind that’s for real.”
I know what she’s talking about. I didn’t come here for fun or for gossip.
Josie looks away again, out at the expanse of the city. “And Melanie? How is she?”
“She’s great.”
“Adjusting, then.”
I nod. She can see this is not why I’ve come either.
“Those old neighbors of yours…” I start. I pause to pull my phone from my pocket. I need time to gage her reaction. “Do you have any way of getting in touch with them?”
She turns on her heel. “The Becks?”
“No.” I shake my head. “The other ones. Jude, I think his name was. And her name was—”
“Kate.” She finishes my sentence.
“That’s right.” I hold up my finger. “It’s coming to me now… Kate. Kate Anderson. Same as mine.”
“It’s a common name,” she tells me. Her expression gives nothing away.
“Yes. And you know…I always liked them. They say people like things that are familiar.”
Her brow raises.
“Remember they had that party that time, and that woman OD’d in the bathroom?”
“Yes,” she says.
Her memory makes me smile. It means success in getting what I’ve come for. “Man, they were interesting.”
“Trust me,” she tells me, heaving out a sigh. “They wouldn’t be good candidates for your church.”
“So you’re still in touch with them, then?”
“No, not really.” Her voice cracks.
“Do you have an address or a phone number? I remember Jude…didn’t he work for Maxicorp?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Well,” I sigh as I stand. Sometimes it’s important to get on eye level. This way she’ll know I’m as eager to get the hell out of here, as she is to see me go. “I’m in need of a contact there. And I thought of him.”
She seems to understand. Finally, she retrieves a number from her phone.
I look on, taking care not to appear too eager, as she scribbles it on a piece of paper. When she hands it to me I can see we both know I’m lying about the reason for needing it.
“Be careful,” she advises. I smile then. We have a secret, a bond.
“Thank you,” I say, and then I start for the door.
“Oh, and Tom…” Her voice stops me in my tracks. “Jude is a good guy. I bet he can help you out.”
I turn back. I know what she means. Her old neighbor is a contract killer. In effect, she’s saying with different words, that she knew all along. She wants me to know she understands why I’ve come.
“But you know the saying…never wrestle with a pig. You just get dirty, and the pig enjoys it.”
“Yes,” I tell her. “I’m familiar with it.”
A tight smile plays across her face. “Just wanted to make sure.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Melanie
New Hope is having its annual Spring Fling tonight. I have no idea exactly what this means nor do I know what to expect. I only know what it means for me: a new dress, shoes, and jewelry to match. I’m also aware that my purchases in preparation for the event will mean having to ask Tom for more money, as I have depleted my “expense account.”
I have a feeling this news won’t go down easily because as good as my husband is with numbers, he is clueless when it comes to inflation, not to mention what it takes to look good. Being the kind of woman he wants me to be, looking the way he wants me to look, isn’t cheap.
I plan to break it to him at the actual black-tie charity thing. He should be in the mood to receive this kind of information, given the nature of the event. It’s a fair assumption. I know because when I asked what the party was all about, he told me it’s where members go to feel important, and more importantly, to look altruistic.
I’d meant to grill Beth on the dollar amount of her expense account at our sponsor meeting this morning. But as it turned out, she had other more pressing matters to discuss.
“We’re on such a tight deadline for enrollment,” she cautioned over coffee. “We really need to end the quarter strong. Tom has told you, no?”
My husband has not, in fact, explained this.
As I tried to determine why he would have kept this information to himself, Beth retrieved a cell phone from her purse. “This is yours,” she said handing it to me.
“Nice.” I pressed the button to power it on. “Thanks.”
She leaned over until she was practically on my side of the table and pointed at the screen. “I’ve set up all of your social media accounts for you. Your church email address is in the notes. I’ve listed your new phone number, too.”
“I’m not really a fan of social media. Everyone just seems…I don’t know…narcissistic.”
Beth gave me a patronizing look. “I doubt millions of people all suffer the same disorder, Melanie.” She cocked her head and glared at me like I’d just reached over the table and backhanded her. “Well,” she said. “Personally, I don’t feel that way at all.”
“I mean—”
“Listen, Melanie. Let me explain how this works, okay?”
It’s not a question, and she doesn’t wait for me to answer. “You take photos of the things you’re proud of. That new car in the drive…pretend you just got it. Those new earrings, they were a gift from your adoring husband. June’s china: a gift from your new best friend.”
“I don’t have a best friend.”
She grinned wryly. “You do now.”
&
nbsp; “Wow,” I said as my hand clutched my throat. “I’m honored.”
Beth shifted proudly. “We’re all in this together.”
“June’s china is old…maybe I need new.”
“No,” she countered. “Old is good. It’s very fashionable these days. Caption your photo with the hashtag #antiques. That sort of thing always gets a ton of likes.”
“Is that the goal…likes?”
“The goal is to sell. Sell yourself. Sell the church. Sell products. Get money.” Beth laughed. “Get it?”
“So…basically…Sell. Sell. Sell.”
“Well, yes. But you’ll want to be interesting. You have to increase your followers. It’s like anything, a numbers game.”
I crossed my legs and settled in for the long haul. “A numbers game…”
Beth pointed at the phone. “I put some sample captions in the notes too…just in case. It’s easier if you plan your content out,” she said, and then she waved me off. “But you’re young. You’ll figure it out in no time.”
I made a play at uncertainty. “This feels a bit like curating my life.”
“Maybe,” she relented. “But everyone loves a good story, don’t they?”
As Beth rattled on, I scanned through the notes. She went on and on about me going to spin class. She’s scheduled it out on my phone. I’m supposed to post that I’m there with “the girls.” This, I’m told, is for community building. After spin, I’m supposed to have coffee, but not just any coffee. Per Beth’s instructions, it has to be designer coffee. She explained how I’m supposed to take a picture of my designer coffee with my designer sunglasses, next to my key displaying the Maserati symbol, and a copy of the latest New Hope Book—penned by her of course—Ten Ways To Live a Top Shelf Life. She tells me how I have to make it all look natural, and then asked me if I knew what a flat lay is. Of course, I lied. She’s very intense, Beth, when she sets her mind on something. This intensity had me thinking about other top shelf things, and thankfully, it too is on the list. In order to show we are non-judgmental at New Hope, I’m supposed to post photos of champagne and strawberries with the caption #datenight.
