by Zoey Parker
We pull into the driveway. The garage door opens, its shadowy interior beckoning.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says.
He tells me what it is. My jaw drops. I didn’t thought my life could get any worse.
Chapter 3
One Week Later
Who would have thought that ringing church bells could make someone so miserable?
It’s been a hellacious week, easily the worst of my life. Just seven days ago, I was in my studio kissing a man who caused the strangest butterflies to take flight in my stomach. Now, I am standing on an altar with a man who makes them all die.
Grady is wearing a suit and staring straight at me as the priest reads whatever it is he’s reading. I’m not listening. In fact, I haven’t heard a word he’s said since the ceremony started. The only thing I’m capable of doing is breathing: in, out, in, out. It’s taking my full concentration, like I’ve never done it before and I have to focus or else I’ll fuck it all up and that’ll be the end of me.
Which, to be honest, doesn’t sound so bad. It’s preferable to the life that lies ahead. A life of silent dinners and make-up caked around my eye to hide bruises. A life of awful, grunting sex. A horrible life.
I think back to the moment he told me.
We’d pulled in the garage and that awful smile came over his face. Then, “I have a surprise for you.”
He flicked on the headlights of the car. There, illuminated on the back wall of the garage: a wedding dress.
Those awful, beady eyes turned to gauge my reaction. Bile rose in my gut, my throat, my mouth. Nausea. Headache. Dizziness.
“We’re getting married. Next week.”
For five years, I’d pretended that we could keep staving off the day that Grady finally made good on the deal—or the threat, promise, or whatever you wanted to call the sick arrangement I’d been forced into. Sure, I went through the motions in that time. We picked a venue and flowers, crafted invitations, done all the various bullshit involved with a real marriage. But the thought that kept me going throughout that time was that the whole ordeal was never actually going to happen. Grady didn’t care about marrying me; he just cared about keeping me hostage. The loan for the studio was leverage enough, but the engagement was just an extra link in the chain—more icing on the wedding cake, so to speak.
But now it is real. It isn’t a threat anymore. It’s happening. In front of me. Around me. To me.
When will I ever not be a victim?
The priest is droning on. “…together discovering the joys of holy matrimony…” I tune him out. Every word only adds another layer to the sickness in my stomach. The thought of everything that comes after this—all the congratulations and alcohol and people I have to talk to—nearly makes me vomit then and there. The world is conspiring against me.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing nerves and settle the churning storm in my gut. It helps, if only a little bit. For the first time, I dare to take a look around the church. The pews are filled with people. They’re all Grady’s friends. I haven’t had a true friend since I moved in with him. He just wouldn’t allow it. I hardly ever left the house if it wasn’t by his side or to go to the studio. Living with him was the closest thing to being a prisoner.
The cops all look the same, too. They all share the same squinty glare and the same wobbly jowls. Even the skinny ones have that shaky fat in their cheeks, like it’s as much a part of the uniform as the badge and gun. Nearly half the precinct is here. I’m not sure whether it’s because they actually like Grady or if they just want to lick the boots of the man in charge. It doesn’t matter to me either way, but it’s a slight comfort to pretend that I’m not the only one in the world who doesn’t recognize that he’s a monster.
I look to the back of the church, behind the pews filled with people I don’t know and who won’t ever be able to rescue me. The far wall is lined with massive bouquets of flowers. It’s a shame that such beautiful objects are being wasted on such a hideous occasion. I would have preferred dead trees instead.
Then my eyes settle on the man standing in the doorway. For the second time in a week, I see Mortar leaned against the wall, hands resting in his pockets, eyes coolly fixed on me, like everything is normal and good and okay. It isn’t, of course. Things are worse than ever. But looking at him, you’d never know it.
The strangest thing happens when we make eye contact. He’s far away, but even from where I’m standing, I can see the corner of his mouth curl up into a sad smile. Just the hint of it, but enough that I can read volumes from his expression. It sends a tsunami of depression ripping through me.
Is he giving up? He must be. He offered to help, but now it’s too late for that. There’s no rescuing me anymore. Not even Mortar can intervene.
I feel a bitter taste settle into my mouth. He broke his promise.
“And you, Kendra,” the priest booms, “do you take Grady to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?”
I gulp. So this is what it feels like to look over the edge of a cliff and know that the only direction you can go is forward. Part of me always wondered. I used to have nightmares like that when I was younger, about looking down into the canyon below. I never got far enough to actually learn what it would be like, though. Luckily, I had Grady to point the way.
My voice is dry and raspy as I say the words. “I do.”
The priest repeats the question to Grady. His stare does not waver. He says in a loud voice, “I do.”
The crowd stands and cheers as Grady grips me by the waist and pulls me into him for a rough kiss. His lips are chapped and nearly jagged. His breath reeks as he presses against me. I have no choice but to let him.
Eventually, he lets me go, but keeps one hand tight on my wrist. He raises it like a boxer winning a prizefight, to thunderous applause from everyone gathered to witness.
I try not to cry.
* * *
The reception is as painful as I imagined. The same conversation over and over again is like twisting a knife in the wound.
“I’m so happy for you, dear. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. We’re very happy.” My cheeks hurt from smiling too hard. I can feel the molars in the back of my mouth grinding with the effort.
“What a joy. Best wishes for a long and happy life together.”
“We appreciate it.” Pain. Lying. Tears barely being held back.
“When can we expect some little ones, Grady?” I overhear a fellow cop asking him.
“Gonna be real soon, I bet,” says another.
Grady winks. “No sense in delaying the inevitable.”
The bile rises higher in my throat. The thought of having children with him hadn’t even occurred to me yet, as bizarre as that seems. Looking around the guests, I see plenty of couples with children in tow. I used to love kids, but now the thought of it makes me sick. Being pregnant with Grady’s child would be no different than carrying a parasite. To have him own everything around me—my art, my freedom—is bad enough. But to let him own my body, too? That’s too much. That would be like eliminating the boundaries between us. If I’m carrying his baby, where does he stop and I begin? I shudder and shove the thought away. I’m close enough to tears already. I can’t manage this.
To add to the maelstrom in my head, Mortar has drifted to the back of the party. I’m sure he’s not invited. Grady hasn’t spotted him yet, so he’s safe for now, but I doubt that either one would be thrilled to see the other.
Every time our eyes land on each other’s, I feel the same heat in my body. I associate it with him now, like I’m a candle wick and he’s this insane flame that sets me off whenever he gets near. It burns hottest between my legs.
I wonder if he touched me, could he feel it? If Mortar touched between my legs, would he know that just looking at him makes me moist and fidgety? Would he be a
ble to see the images forming in my brain: of him pushing a hand up the folds of my wedding dress, pushing aside the white lingerie, and pressing a long finger into my wet cunt? Would he bury his tongue there, too?
Enough, I tell myself. I force my attention back to the food in front of me. Grady and I are sitting at a table in the middle of the auditorium where the reception is taking place. We haven’t said a word to each other.
“Eat,” he tells me. “We paid a fuck ton of money for this food.”
I slice a forkful of fish off of the filet and raise it to my mouth. As it passes under my nose, I get an overwhelming whiff of the spicy seafood smell, and my stomach rumbles warningly. I set the silverware back down.
“I’m sorry. I’m just not hungry,” I tell him.
“Fine. Just waste my money. Same as you always do.”
I can’t respond to this. I thank God that someone comes up to the table just then to pat Grady’s hand and give him their best wishes.
“You and your wife must be so thrilled to get married finally,” says the old man. He’s a retired cop, I remember, who I’ve met a few times before. Thompson is his last name, I think. Wife. The thought is even more repulsive than the food.
I seize the wine glass next to my plate and toss the whole thing back. I need to be blind drunk right now, or maybe I’ll skip the drunkenness and go straight to unconscious. Anything to make this go away.
It’s all too much at once, and the alcohol breaks down the last of my power to hold all these thoughts at arm’s length. They come rushing in at once, hungry to batter me into submission.
The studio. Mortar. Grady, my husband. The money I’ll never be able to make. It’s a broken record of failures and punishments I never thought I deserved. But they’re relentless, bashing into me over and over. I’ve been fighting it all day, but the urge to vomit rises another notch, and I decide I can’t fight it anymore.
“I’ll be right back,” I gasp, and tear away from the table before Grady or Thompson can say anything.
I push through crowds of people, ignoring everything they’re saying. I need to get out, to breathe, to escape for just a moment from the encircling tentacles looming around every corner. Threading between tables with my skirts clutched in one hand and the other pressed against my mouth, I finally make it to the double doors at the far end of the hall.
I push through. To my right is the front door, while the kitchen sits at the end of the left. I turn left.
The heat of the kitchen hits me like a humid slap. I keep moving. “Fresh air, fresh air,” I repeat to myself endlessly, like that will make all of this go away. Waiters look at me, confused why the bride is storming through the food prep area. There’s an exit sign above a rusty door just past the ovens.
I make it there and push through, and then finally, finally salty, open air rushes into my mouth. I manage to keep the vomit in my stomach, but the tears are unstoppable. I fall to a seat on the steps. I don’t give a damn if I ruin my dress. The only thing left to do is cry. It’s a hideous, full-bodied cry, like the tears are starting in my toes and gathering steam all the way through my legs and torso before they erupt out of my mouth and nose like a gushing faucet. I feel disgusting. My face is blotchy and wet with snot. Isn’t a bride supposed to feel beautiful on her big day? If this is the best day of my life, kill me now.
Eventually, the flood of tears starts to slow somewhat. I let my head fall into my hands. Hiccups rack my frame for a while until they, too, subside, and I am left huddled and shivering. I’m wearing a wedding dress while sitting in the back alley of a hotel, bawling my eyes out and wishing I was dead.
This is what it feels like when you don’t wake up before you hit the ground.
“I didn’t expect you to join me out here,” someone says.
I look up. Of course. It’s Mortar.
He’s standing at the foot of the steps, smoking a cigarette. His frame blots out the sun, which hangs low and red in the sky behind him.
“I wasn’t exactly planning on it,” I say with a choked voice. The tears have stopped, but I still feel blubbery and weak.
His fingers press under my chin, lifting my gaze up. He wipes the dried tears away with one thumb. His calluses are rough, but the motion is gentler than I imagined possible. I know I shouldn’t be here. If anyone happened to wander out and see us, it would be a debacle to end all others. But I’m powerless to resist anymore. I see a buoy floating out in the ocean and for the first time I can empathize with it. Neither of us have any ability to control where we go. We’re victims, helpless against tides way bigger and stronger than us. Fighting back just means we drown sooner.
Mortar plucks the cigarette from his mouth and puts it between my lips. “Suck in, gently,” he tells me.
I haven’t smoked since high school, but the tangy edge of the smoke helps to clear my head. I cough a few times, my eyes watering, but once the coughing eases, I feel a little better.
I still can’t bear to look at him. I keep my eyes fixed on the ground at his feet. There’s a graffiti tag on the concrete sidewalk that reads, “Joan + Pablo 4ever.” How is something so stupid making the tears start all over again?
“I can’t go through with it,” I whisper. My throat is hoarse.
“So don’t. I told you already: come with me.”
“I don’t know how.”
“It’s easy. Just start walking. I’ll be right here.” He reaches out and lays a hand on top of mine. The warmth of his skin against mine is exactly what I need. It’s like catching hold of something solid in the middle of drowning. All my attention is riveted on his touch.
Before I know what I’m doing, I stand up and hurl myself at him. My arms wrap around his neck and my lips find his hungrily. His hand keeps me pinned against his torso, which is the solid granite I need. He’s stable, unmoving, completely the opposite of everything else in my life. My tongue dives into his mouth and he meets me with the same intensity, the same passion.
I pull back. “You have to help me get away.”
“I will.”
How could I have doubted him? Of course he didn’t break his promise. He’s right here, right where he said he would be. I feel silly for thinking he wouldn’t be here when I needed him. He brushes away another tear from my cheek.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells me. Normally, I would balk at the compliment. I’m not beautiful, never have been. No one has even told me I’m pretty since I first got engaged to Grady. But when he says it, it’s impossible to deny. He isn’t trying to persuade me or flatter me. He’s stating a fact as he sees it, and the thought is every bit as immovable as he is. Even though there’s mascara running down my cheeks like an oil spill, he says it and means it. And I believe him.
He leans forward to kiss me again. This one is gentler, softer, fainter. Our lips are hesitant to meet each other’s, like birds flirting in the sky. Touch and go, touch and go. Mortar’s hands on my waist are just as fleeting. He’s tap dancing on the skin that peeks through the slitted dress, just enough to tantalize before retreating again. I wrap myself against him. Maybe I can just fold myself away, let him consume me, and then everything will be fixed. That’s what it feels like kissing him: a cure-all.
He kisses me harder. His lips break away from mine and slide across to my earlobe. He suckles with the tiniest nip of teeth against my skin before moving down my neck. I sigh. I want him to kiss me everywhere.
“Mortar…I need you.”
“I know.”
He spins me and pushes me up against the brick wall behind us. I’m trapped between a wall and a man who is every bit as permanent, but for some reason, I’m not scared, not even a little bit. It feels right, like I’ve stepped into a shelter that was designed for me and me alone.
The lingering rational part of my brain tells me that this is insane, borderline suicidal. If Grady stepped out here, we would both be stone cold dead before we could blink. I’ve seen him rage at a passerby tossing a casual compliment in my d
irection. Full on infidelity is a death sentence.
That’s what this is, after all. I’m officially married, in the eyes of the community and the church and whatever cruel God is subjecting me to this life. To be kissing Mortar here and now is breaking vows that are hardly an hour old.
But this is a deeper vow. Mortar made me a promise. He swore to take me away, to protect me from the man imprisoning me. I don’t know if I can trust him yet, although my body responds to his like they speak the same language. He is, after all, a criminal, a drug dealer, a bookie, an outlaw in every sense of the word. Even more so than those surface details, he is the type of man who always has an angle. The type of man who always wants something. I don’t know yet what he wants from me.
