His Missing Wife by Jaime Hendricks (nice books to read .TXT) 📕

“Sure,” I say. “Is your roommate here?”

“Nope. He usually just stays at his old lady’s place.”

I sting at the term old lady. It’s so white trashy. Maybe I was wrong about Damon. Wouldn’t be the first time the radar broke.

Damon takes two beers out of the refrigerator and opens them and hands me one. I immediately get anxious remembering Asshole’s anger over his frosted mugs, but Damon just sips it from the bottle, so I do the same.

“What’s our plan for tonight?” I ask.

After swallowing his sip, he licks his lips. “What do you like? Dinner and a movie? Is that a proper date?”

So, it’s a date? Do I want that? Is he like the others? “I can eat,” I say.

“Cool,” he says, and places his full beer on the counter. “Let’s go.”

He’s nothing like the Damon I met in the bar, and I’m trying to figure out if that’s good or bad. Broken radar and all.

We head out and walk to his car, a blue Mustang. He hits his keychain and there’s a beep and two flashing yellow taillights, so I know it’s open. He doesn’t open the door for me, just heads to the driver’s side and gets in. Which is fine—I’m not used to being treated with chivalry anyway.

Yet, it always crosses my mind when it doesn’t happen. For some reason I still think I live in a rom-com, with no past to dictate why I would. Goals.

There is a tapas place right across the way from the theater, so we get a quick bite there. Out in the wild, he’s more relaxed than he was in his apartment. Damon talks mostly about himself. Thirty-five. Divorced, which is good to know. Ex-spouses can be such a pain in the ass, as I’ve come to discover. He says his regular day job is cable and Wi-Fi installation, and usually works from seven A.M. to three P.M. Monday through Friday, and only bartends on Friday nights. For quick cash, according to him.

He doesn’t ask me much about myself, which is honestly welcoming. The only thing he asks me is where I’m from, and I lie to him. It’s not like he’s going to check.

After the movie, he asks me back for a nightcap. Experience says this will end badly for me. However, he never got handsy on me once all night—didn’t even try, so I assume we’re still doing the getting-to-know-you thing. I’m sure he won’t flip into some animal.

It’s a quick ride back to his place, and when he opens the front door, there’s a girl in the kitchen. Tall, medium build, mousy brown straight hair. She startles me, as I didn’t expect to see a woman in his place, but she enrages Damon.

“What are you doing here?” he says immediately. “He’s not here, I thought he was at your house. Go home. God, I fucking hate that he gave you a key.” He looks at me. “This is my roommate’s girlfriend.”

Jesus. Calm down, buddy. He certainly acts differently in front of strangers. Pretends to be a good guy? Should I get out of here?

He looks back at her. “Can you leave? I have company.”

“Relax, Damon. I know he’s not here. I was just leaving him a note,” she says, points to a pad on the counter, and heads to the door. She stops and looks at me. “Girl to girl, I have to warn you against this one. He’s an asshole.”

Asshole. Man, I love me an Asshole with a capital A, huh?

“Get out!” Damon shouts and slams the door behind her. “We never got along. Don’t listen to her.”

He drops his keys on the table and then heads to the TV and turns on the cable box until it gets to a slow music station. Then he presses the remote-control button until the volume can surely be heard by the neighbors. His earlier rage turns me on a little, because I’m wired that way. He spins me around and kisses me. Hard. Rough. Without remorse, and without asking, which is also how I’m used to it.

He removes his shirt from the back of the neck and his gaze pierces mine and we fall onto the couch, him on top of me. He goes for my belt. At this point the couch pillows are under my back and making me arch, which I don’t want to do—it’s practically an invitation.

“Hey,” I say and push back a little. “Let’s take this slow.”

Ignoring me, he goes for my belt again, and my stomach turns inside itself. Goosebumps develop on my skin, not the good kind, when he aggressively kisses my neck.

“Hey, wait.” I try to push him off, but that just makes his grip tighter. “Damon, stop.”

Now he’s biting my neck, not listening. Not stopping. Fussing with my tucked in shirt, trying to lift it over my head. I push it back down with my free hand. He’s got the other pinned above my head.

“That hurts,” I say. “Damon, stop.”

I think quickly about what Kenny taught me. Palm of my hand up. Break his nose.

Before I can act, my tiny wrists are gripped into one of his strong hands above my head. I sink further into the couch, making it hard to try to get control of the situation. I scream stop again.

He works his zipper. “You wanted to come here tonight. You started it.”

I’m struggling beneath him, tears falling. My muffled sounds beg for help, but there is no help. There’s nothing. There’s just him, pushing his pants down and trying to get mine off. I’m kicking every step of the way. I try to knee him in the groin, but the way I’m pinned makes it impossible. His face is on my breasts, my shirt and bra now up around my neck, and he’s vulnerable for one second and I make my move. My right knee goes up as best as I can lift it, and he wails.

He stops.

Then he hits me. Closed fist. Opposite