Toxicity

by Katie May

  For a moment, I marvel at the contrast of skin tones before he carefully pulls up the sleeve of my jacket... revealing the numerous bruises traveling up my arm. Some are healed, fading to a dusky green, while others a dark blue and black. Icy dread cools my veins, stealing all the warmth from me.

  “What the…?”

  Before he can finish his sentence, I wrench my hand free of his and take off in a run.

  One word reverberates in my head repeatedly as my heart ricochets up a notch.

  Fuck.

  Chapter 2

  I don’t stop running until I’m safely in my car and veering out onto the highway. Even then, my damn heart won’t stop pounding against my rib cage as tears blur my vision.

  “Fuck!” I scream, hitting my hands against the steering wheel. I’m grateful that the highway isn’t crowded at this time of day. The last thing I need is to get pulled over for reckless driving or get into an accident.

  Again.

  After what feels like hours, but I know to only be fifteen minutes, I pull into my neighborhood.

  Neighborhood is too mundane of a name. It evokes images of picket-fenced homes, smiling faces, and children running the streets. In reality, each house is separated by thick shrubbery and low-hanging trees. Wrought iron gates adorn the end of each driveway, obscuring the houses from view.

  I pull up to the one at the very end and type the familiar code into the metal box in front of the gate. It swings open immediately on silent hinges.

  Heart still racing, I park the car in front of the closed garage and stare at my home.

  Home.

  It has never felt like one.

  I can’t deny it’s beautiful. Rising three stories off the ground, the house resembles a gothic manor...or a castle. Gables and turrets erupt from the top, each one displaying a small window. Five pillars are erected from the front porch, holding up a portion of the house. The color scheme is dark brown and black—brown siding but black window panes and doors. Bushes cover the front entrance while hedges separate our house from our neighbors.

  Speaking of…

  The first thing I see is his hand, resting on top of the shrubs.

  He brings his thumb to his fingers to mimic talking.

  “Well, if it isn’t little Mallie,” he says, voice high-pitched. His second hand joins his first until I’m staring at two, tan hand puppets.

  “She’s home early,” the second puppet says in a low, growly voice.

  “Way to sound like a stalker!” the first puppet exclaims in that annoyingly high-pitched voice.

  “Stalking is too strong of a word,” Puppet Two drawls.

  “What would you call it then?” Puppet One retorts.

  I walk slowly closer, my lips curled into an amused smile. The puppets continue on, oblivious to my approaching presence.

  “Watching her without her knowledge,” Puppet Two says matter-of-factly.

  I snort, placing my arms on the hedge and leaning over.

  Byron Greene drops his hands, smiling sheepishly.

  “You’re such a dork,” I say with a shake of my head.

  “But I’m a sexy dork,” he replies easily, ambling to his feet. I’m always struck by how big Byron actually is. The man is muscle upon muscle upon fucking muscle. His thick thighs look like tree trunks in his tight-fitting jeans, and his flannel shirt hangs loose over a gray tank top. Blond hair, lightly curled, grazes his forehead and heightens the golden flecks in his eyes.

  “Nah,” I say, resting my cheek on my arms. “Just a dork.”

  He grips his chest in mock offense. “My God, woman, way to bruise a man’s ego.”

  “Oh please. Your ego can stand to be bruised every now and then,” I retort.

  “That’s just mean.”

  I stick out my tongue.

  Byron Greene doesn’t live in the house next door, at least not technically. He’s the gardener and housekeeper for Mrs. Lumber, a widow whose husband died a couple years prior. Jared once told me that Byron became Mrs. Lumber’s much younger love...and that thought speared me. Killed me. I hadn’t realized how much I had fallen for this large man until my perception of him was turned on its head.

  Even now, staring at his smirking face and adorable dimples on each cheek, I remind myself of my internal promise to keep my distance. If he’s truly the lover of Mrs. Lumber, it wouldn’t make sense for me to develop a crush.

  Besides, I’m a married woman. Off limits.

  My smile fades at the somber thought.

  Byron notices right away, ever perceptive.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Mallie!” The familiar voice comes from behind me and immediately fills me with dread. I try to craft my face back into an apathetic, slightly bored mask. If Byron’s furrowed brows are any indication, he doesn’t believe me for one moment.

  “I need to go,” I say indolently. “And you shouldn’t be talking to me. You’re the help.” My voice drips with disdain, revulsion, and when hurt flickers in his eyes, I know I strike a nerve.

  Can’t he see it’s only an act?

  A part I’m forced to play like a marionette on strings?

  Byron’s eyes flicker behind me, and his gaze hardens.

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll talk to you later, Mallie.”

  “Please don’t.”

  I don’t bother to look his way as I spin on my heel. Behind me, I hear Mrs. Lumber call for Byron then his retreating footsteps. I picture her on the front steps, dark hair peppered with gray pulled into a bun and already dressed in a translucent robe and nightgown even at this hour. I picture her leading him inside, and his lips devouring hers passionately in the foyer. I picture his strong arms holding her ass as he—

  “You’re here early,” my husband snipes the second I’m in front of him.

  My husband.

  Jared FaCent.

  Age hasn’t done him well. A large beer belly protrudes over the waistband of his pants. He’s beginning to bald at the top, but the sides of his hair are streaked with white. As always, he’s impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, black loafers polished to perfection.

  “Class got out early,” I say with false cheerfulness, offering my cheek for him to kiss. Instead, he pulls my lips to his own and plunders my mouth. I try to keep my face and eyes expressionless. That last thing he needs to see is how much he disgusts me.

  Because that would go over well.

  “Meet me upstairs in fifteen minutes,” he says, wrenching his lips away from mine. His expression is a blank mask—no lust coating his gaze, no tender smile, no heavy breathing. He could be asking me to tell him the weather, not insinuating we’re going to do the dirty.

  “Okay,” I reply with a smile I don’t feel. Never feel.

  Without a word, he strides into the house, not bothering to leave the door open for me.

  Fucking asshole.

  Fuming, I enter the foyer, surprisingly modern despite the gothic exterior. In one direction, I can make out sleek marble countertops, white flooring, and brand spanking new kitchen appliances. In the other is the living room complete with a flat screen tv mounted to the wall and two leather armchairs flanking a black sofa. It’s there I walk, heart hammering in my chest at what I know is to come.

  It doesn’t get any easier touching that man.

  Aurora and her crew are sitting in the living room, laughing and talking, their homework forgotten around them.

  Aurora is my...my stepdaughter, though I hate calling her that given we’re the same age. She’s pretty, I suppose, with golden blond hair that cascades down her back in ringlets and cerulean eyes. Those eyes narrow at me when I enter, and the laughter dissipates as quickly as it came.

  “Don’t mind me. Just passing through,” I say cheerfully, forcing a quick wave.

  Why am I so fucking awkward?

  Oh wait. It’s because I’m married to an asshole and the stepmom of an evil bitch.

  Yeah, that would make anyone awkward.

  I glanc
e at her friends, unsurprised to see Bitch One and Bitch Two on either side of her. Honestly, I learned their names, but they look so similar I can never tell them apart. I’m pretty sure their moms fucked the same man, though both ladies would deny it profusely. And slap me in the face for asking.

  Apparently, the bitch doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  Surrounding them are the men I refer to as “Aurora fanboys.” All the same age, and all with one thing in common: their desperate need to get into Aurora’s too-tight pants.

  Lastly, sitting separately from the others and the only one not staring at me with animosity, is Phillip. The only man in the world who doesn’t seem to want to bone Aurora...not that she doesn’t try. Wearing a “fuck me” shirt would be less obvious than what she currently does.

  My heart, as always, speeds up when Phillip rests his dark eyes on me. As usual, he’s dressed in dark clothes with a single black earring in his left ear. Tattoos race down both his arms to his fingers. More twine up his neck, stopping just at his jawline. I know for a fact he has tattoos on his chest and back as well. Down his thighs. His legs.

  A living, breathing canvas of art.

  “Off to go fuck Daddy?” Aurora sneers. And though, to the untrained eye, Phillip may appear unbothered by that question, I can see the tightening of his eyes and clenching of his jaw.

  “Isn’t that a little perverted, Aurora?” I ask sweetly. “After all, he is your dad. Or is that your thing? Do you ask him about all his fucks? Talk to him about all of yours? Is that why you call him Daddy?”

  Some of the guys snicker, but Aurora casts them a scathing glare, and they shut up immediately.

  “Go spread your little hoe legs,” Aurora sniffs. “We all know you like it rough. Is that where the bruises come from, Mallie? Rough play in bed?”

  Phillip’s hand grips the armrest so tightly I think it’ll break, but his face is cool. Bored, almost.

  “Knock it off, Aurora,” he drones. “Let the poor girl fuck her husband.”

  Aurora’s sinister smirk turns softer, warmer, when she turns towards him. Girl has it bad. She practically preens under his attention, even if it’s just him reprimanding her.

  “Whatever. You’re right. She doesn’t deserve my time or attention, won’t you agree Phil?” she asks, batting her abnormally long lashes. Fake. Like the rest of her.

  Pretty sure her boobs are fake, too.

  She doesn’t notice his grimace at the nickname. The man hates being called “Phil”—says it reminds him of an uncle or some shit.

  “We should probably get back to work, guys,” Aurora addresses the room, effectively eliminating me from the conversation. “Phil, can you help me with this equation?”

  As she babbles on, I stealthily slip out of the room, Phillip’s eyes burning a hole in my back. I don’t stop until I’m bracing myself in front of the master bedroom. My hands tremble, but my strides are surprisingly steady when I walk inside. Chin up, eyes down, voice even. My rules to live by.

  Without a word, Jared’s cold lips press to my neck while his hands push my chin up. I tilt my head, allowing him access to my skin.

  His skin.

  He made quite clear that he owns me, body and soul.

  “I’m going to fuck you,” he says evenly. “And you’re going to take it like a good hoe.”

  I never know if this is his idea of dirty talk, or if he’s just a very vocal person. I do know it’s his version of being in control: telling me what to do and expecting me to do it.

  I’m silent as he unzips my dress, removes my bra and panties, and pushes me on the bed. In the next second, his suit and undershirt are off as he folds them onto a chair.

  Yup, folds.

  Because apparently even during sex, you have to be mindful of wrinkles in your clothes.

  There’s no foreplay as he thrusts into me. Hell, we don’t even make eye contact. I sometimes wonder if he hates me as much as I hate him.

  But then that thought is swept away in a tidal wave of anger.

  There is no fucking way he can hate me even a fraction of how much I hate him.

  Movement over my shoulder captures my attention, and my brain goes numb.

  Standing in the open doorway, the hall light illuminating his slender frame, is Phillip. His eyes are fixed firmly on me as Jared pounds into my pussy, one eyebrow raised.

  Asking me if he should stay or go.

  Almost imperceptibly, I nod my head.

  With a quick glance in both directions down the hallway, he unzips his pants and pulls out his half-erect cock, stroking himself. My throat goes dry, and I lick my lips.

  Fuck.

  Eyes trained firmly on Phillip’s dick, I bring one of my hands towards my bouncing breasts, kneading the flesh and twisting the nipple. My other hand goes down to my clit.

  “Oh fuck,” Jared curses as I begin to fuck him back, my hips jerking up to meet each of his thrusts. I know with this angle only one of my breasts are visible to Phillip’s eyes, so I make sure to give him quite a fucking show. I pull at my nipple to the point of pain before releasing it, watching the flesh bounce. I moan low in my throat, and that sound seems to spur Phillip on. His lips part as his hand erratically moves over his throbbing cock.

  I hold and maintain eye contact as my orgasm reverberates through me. Cum explodes from his cock, splashing on his dark shirt.

  “Holy fuck,” Jared breathes, skin slick with sweat. He collapses practically on top of me, and I barely move my body away in time.

  Without another word, he moves from the bed, wipes his cock on my dress, and gets dressed. He glances towards me, only once, before giving my breasts a firm smack.

  I wince, rubbing a hand against the sensitive flesh, before chancing a peek at the door frame.

  Phillip has already disappeared.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror, marveling at my dress and how perfect it looks off paper. I made it myself, using an old spinning wheel I bought from an antique shop.

  Even I can admit that it’s beautiful, and I’m my own harshest critic. It stops just above my knees, a swooping skirt lined with dark green thread. The top consists of black straps that crisscross to create an upside down star, the lowest point revealing my cleavage. My dark hair is intricately braided away from my face, and I wear very minimal makeup. Pursing my lips, I twist this way and that, eyes tracing my form. The bodice makes my boobs look pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. And the skirt shows off my shapely legs.

  I feel hot and sexy and beautiful.

  My eyes latch on the dragon tattoo visible on my arm. The black stains my milky white skin, and I scrub at it absently. I don’t hate the tattoo anymore. I don’t even hate what it stands for.

  It’s a reminder of where I came from. How I rose from the bottom up. I may not like my life now, but I’m no longer a little whore. I’m stronger. Faster. Better. I don’t tremble with revulsion when I look in the mirror. My glass may not be full, but it’s no longer half empty.

  Slipping on my ballet flats, I run out of the master bedroom and into the living room. Fortunately, Aurora is nowhere to be seen.

  Thank god.

  I don’t know how much longer I can deal with the little bitch before I lose my mind.

  I check the last text I received from Jared, confirming he won’t be back until late tonight. He claims it’s a business meeting, but I know he’s screwing someone on the side. Thank fuck.

  Whoever she is takes his attention off of me.

  Before I can put my phone away, it begins to ring.

  I nestle it between my ear and shoulder, grabbing my purse off the side table. My lips curl down when I see my open - and empty - wallet. Damn Aurora.

  I don’t make a lot with my “on the side” clothing business. Jared threw a fit when he first discovered I wanted to design and sell clothes. However, I could be quite persuasive when I wanted something badly enough.

  Read as: my
vagina could be quite persuasive.

  “Is the asshole gone?” an angry voice says through the line the second I answer.

  “What would you do if I said no?” I ask around a chuckle, heading towards the front door.

  “Beat his ass. I still think you should let me. I’ll be good. Promise. Just a light beating. It won’t even include death.” I wrench open the front door, unsurprised to see my phone buddy standing on the other side.

  I met Natasha Blemming at the local college when we sat next to each other in Introduction to Fashion Design. Her larger-than-life presence and boisterous personality made her more than just an acquaintance, but a friend. My best friend.

  Today, Nat has her ebony hair pulled into a high ponytail, rainbow streaks woven throughout. She wears a polka dot purple dress with five-inch heels and black stockings. To anyone else, the ensemble would look strange and unpredictable. But I know it’s intrinsically Natasha.

  As bubbly and bright as she is.

  Only today, her lips are curved into a frown and one hand is on her hip while her other holds her phone to her ear, despite the fact I’m only inches from her.

  “Let me drop-kick that asshole to Neverland,” she finishes dramatically. I roll my eyes before purposefully clicking the red button on my phone. She appears momentarily aghast at me having hung up on her before she puts her phone back in her dress pocket.

  The scowl diminishes when she catches sight of my dress.

  “Is that the one from class?” she gushes. Nat kind of reminds me of a golden retriever puppy. All bark, no bite. Distracted by anything shiny. Peeing on legs to demand attention.

  “It is.” I spin slightly to showcase the weaving on the back. Nat claps her hands enigmatically.

  “Damn, Girl. That’s gorgeous. And hot as fuck. You’ll have all the guys eating out of your hand.”

  “What about you? Anyone you want eating out of your hand?” I ask, desperate to get the attention off of me. Nat doesn’t understand my need to be loyal to my husband. Honestly, I don’t understand it either. He’s an asshole—an abusive one, at that. He wouldn’t know love if it was staring him in the face.