CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I walked into my cabin and stood in the shower a long time, letting the hot water rain down my neck. I stepped out and was toweling off my hair when I heard, “Hello, Matthew.” The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I pulled the towel off my head and found Ginger standing in the corner.

This was not unexpected.

She was wearing a long trench coat. High heels. Makeup. Life had been kind to her, as had her plastic surgeon, and to say she was beautiful and attractive would have been an understatement. “Hi.” She sauntered around me while not necessarily toward me. She did this while unbuckling her trench coat.

I wrapped my towel around me and felt my fists tighten. She circled closer, tracing my shoulders with her index finger. When she got in front of me, she walked off a step or two, her back to me, then turned, facing me and slowly let the coat slide off her shoulders, hips, and calves.

I guess I don’t need to paint you a picture.

Her voice dripped. “Miss me?”

I didn’t want her in my cabin. Didn’t want her within three states of me, but I did want to know one thing and I’d been wanting to know it a long time. I tried not to look where she was wanting me to look. Admittedly, I’d been in prison a long time. She continued circling. I’d seen sharks do the same thing on TV. She stood behind me when I spoke, “Why do you hate me?”

She smiled and traced the lines of my chin with her finger, mindful of how her hair, her body, barely brushed against mine. Her voice was sultry. Inviting. “It didn’t start that way.”

“What then?”

She moved back. “You had something I wanted.”

“What?”

She stopped in front of me, looking up. Aware of how the light above showered her. Her hand rested on my dripping chest. “You.” She patted my butt and started to circle again. “Your charisma. Others’ allegiance.” She stopped, her eyes locked on mine. “The power you wielded.”

It didn’t take a dummy to see she was playing me. She’d orchestrated this, and my history with Ginger told me we were just getting warmed up. I didn’t trust her as far as I could throw her, so I kept an eye on her. But that was also problematic in that totally naked Ginger was, well, totally naked. She was also making me dizzy so I stepped off to the side, forcing her to swim in another direction. “Ginger, did it ever occur to you that maybe I was just a kid playing a game? And I happened to love a girl other than you.”

She nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes.”

“Then why not sink your teeth in someone else and leave me alone.”

“Because I blamed you.” Half a smile. “Still do.”

“For what?”

She paused, weighing her words. “Things.”

“Does the irony of your life ever bother you?”

“Irony?”

My internal radar sounded like a gong going off in my head. I had two competing emotions. One half wanted to turn and run. Fast. In the other direction. To get as far away from her as possible in the shortest amount of time. The other half wanted to break her in half, hurting her badly. There was also a third emotion, but I was trying desperately not to listen to it. I also had a pretty strong feeling that she knew all of this. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that putting one finger on her would violate the conditions of my parole and land me back in prison. She’d scripted everything about this moment, and it was heavily weighted in her favor. “You’ve made a career, a life, off comforting women who’ve actually been raped when you don’t know the first thing about it.”

She tried to stuff her reaction but the look on her face told me I’d just dented her armor. I continued, “You’re not really qualified to speak on it.” She recovered quickly. I was in the process of slipping one leg into a pair of jeans when she seized on the opportunity, crossed the floor, stood me upright, and pressed herself against me. “Aren’t you just the least bit interested?” She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Twelve years is a long time.”

I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I was tempted. I was. The touch of her skin, the softness, the invitation, the warmth of her body pressed to mine. There was a voice inside my head screaming at the top of his lungs, saying, “Dude… you deserve this. Trust me, you’ve earned it. Dive in.” But as intoxicating as all that was, it suffered one major defect. One fault from which it could never recover.

Ginger’s body could never do for me what Audrey’s love had.

So while my lustful friend screamed at the top of his lungs, the memory of my precious and magnificent wife stood silently inside my heart. Beckoning. Prison didn’t erase that. Couldn’t.

Unaware that her spell had been broken, Ginger hung her arms around my neck and kissed me on the cheek. Moist, warm, lipstick lips stemming from a cold heart makes for tepid love. In all her conquering, Ginger failed to realize that Audrey and I had known one another. Shared our love. Our laughter. Our tears. Our best and worst. What Audrey and I had known was far more than just sex. I’m afraid that’s all Ginger had ever known. Ginger had known the act of conquering, while emotively and physically, my wife had offered herself to me, given unselfishly, and pursued me—wanting nothing but my love in return. Despite her best attempts, Ginger with her A-game and her perfectly sculpted body, fueled by an insatiable desire for power, couldn’t compete with that tender girl who’d given me her heart in high school. Ginger had been outclassed and was too dumb to know it.

I whispered, “Ginger, you don’t hold a candle to my wife.”

It was only then that I noticed someone standing at the front door. Someone looking in.

Instinctively, Ginger pressed tighter against me as we turned our heads in unison to find Audrey staring through the glass at the two of us. Disbelief and disgust blanketed Audrey.

Reality set in. Audrey and I were little more than game pieces, and Ginger was the giant hand moving us around the board.

Checkmate.

Ginger smiled—smugly, triumphantly—then separated just slightly, touching the tip of my nose with her finger and whispering, “Who holds the candle now?”

For the first time in a long time I felt rage. Rage because I knew no matter what I did, Ginger would never be satisfied. Never stop.

Ever.

And that meant Audrey would continue to suffer.

I pulled on my jeans only to look up and find that Audrey had disappeared from the window. When I put an unaffectionate hand on Ginger’s shoulder in an attempt to lead her out of my cabin, the first of her two bodyguards walked through the door.

Goon number one was freakishly big. He was a tank. He stepped toward me and lifted his hand to wrap it around my neck, but I was in no mood for jousting so I sidestepped him and kicked at his knee. My heel kicked through his ACL, his knee snapped, he crumpled and hit the floor grunting.

Goon number two was more wiry, quicker. He flew through the air, took me off my feet, and hit me two or three times in the face before my left hook crushed his nose. His face exploded like a balloon, his eyes rolled back and he hit the floor, arms out, stiff, like a cockroach.

Amused, Ginger pulled on her coat and walked out, stopping just feet from Audrey, who stood paralyzed on the porch surrounded by the shattered pieces of what once made up her soul. Ginger took her time tying the belt of her coat and smoothing the smeared edge of her lipstick with her right index finger. She turned slightly, said, “Audrey,” and walked to her Mercedes parked beneath the trees just beyond the cabin. Cranking the engine, she whistled for her dogs, punched the button that automatically folded the soft top into the trunk, and drove slowly out the drive.

I stood frozen beneath the shadow of suspicion. Audrey stood in the shadows of the porch, steadying herself with the railing.

I had just gotten “Audrey, I can—” out of my mouth when she bent at the waist, vomited, and then vomited again. I stepped toward her, but she held out a hand as the dry heaves wrenched her off her feet and sent her to her knees. This continued for several minutes as the veins rose on her neck and Audrey sought to catch her breath. I sat on the porch and hung my head in my hands, listening to Audrey vomit me out of her life. When she finally stood, she reached inside her collar, broke the chain around her neck, and dropped the dove on the porch. Wrapping her arms around her, as if holding herself, she was walking off when I spoke. “Please… let me.”

She never turned.

An hour later, I stood staring through her window when Audrey twisted off the cap to the sleeping pills. She didn’t shower, and she didn’t change into her pajamas. She just sat on her bed and stared at the pills a long time. On the bedside table sat a picture of Dee and her following a game. He was sweaty, smiling, she was wearing his jersey, her face was painted, her cheek pressed to his. She stared at it a long time. After several minutes, she poured one, and then a second, and finally a third into her hand. She tossed them into her mouth, drank from a glass of water, and then sat there staring at the bottle. Finally, she lay back and pulled her knees into her chest. No remote. No TV. I didn’t leave until her shoulders relaxed beneath the sheets and her head fell limp. Only then did the pain in my left hand register. When I looked down, I found the bone broken, pressing up against the underside of the skin, and my hand was swelling pretty good.

I soaked my hand in ice off and on throughout the night, which brought the swelling down and helped pull out the tenderness. It was pretty good and numb when I set it, but the second time around was easier. Staring at my hand, the acrid taste of anger returned.

In my mind, Gage’s voice echoed, Tell me… I sunk my hand elbow-deep into the ice, silencing the playback. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say.