Hell Hath No Fury – Excerpt
Chapter 1
His hand on my side, bare skin on bare skin, is delicious torture, a gnawing, arousing hunger for him again. Each time, I am spent, and each time, I crave him again. His breath is warm on the back of my neck, and then his lips, the faintest touch of his hand sliding forward to my stomach and down-
“Mmrmm,” Shawn mumbles blearily.
My eyes snap open, shuddering out of the dream, all tangled in the sheets with my legs clamped together. I’m sweating like I’ve just run a marathon and my muscles are like Jell-O, but I shudder again, guilty but undeniably delicious.
Shawn shifts beside me, and I freeze, not even daring to breathe. I stare wide-eyed at the ceiling, panicking for an excuse.
Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.
Of course, he doesn’t; it takes more than a little cover-pulling to wake him up. Thank God. In a moment, his breathing is steady again.
I wait until I can’t anymore, then slowly let out my breath, opening my mouth wide to avoid making a sound. A smaller wave ripples through me, catching my breath again, then I slump back, embarrassed and infuriated.
This is the second time this week.
After another minute, I slide out of bed and go to the bathroom. The floorboards are frigid under my overheated soles and I’m pretty sure if there was any light, I’d be able to see my breath. Growing up in my parents’ house, the thermostat never got above 65; turning up the heat meant putting on a sweater. Ice storms, blizzards, it didn’t matter; Dad refused to budge. Normally I’m not that bad, but the price of oil’s shooting through the roof again and even Shawn would notice money spent there.
After cleaning up, I stare at my still-flushed reflection and shake my head. I look like hell.
Hell, as in capital ‘H’, as in Umber.
I lift up my t-shirt and turn to the side in front of the mirror. The line of his scar is still there, a pale white ridge that I’m beginning to believe just isn’t going to go away. It started itching again recently, with that loose-tooth ache, but it’s been almost six months since…
I stare at it for a full minute before moving my hand closer.
I touch it slowly, deliberately, not a scratch, feeling the rise of my blood as I do. The urge to press harder rises, too. I half-remember the dream, but it’s much like the rest; his hand touching me, the press of his fingers there, before-
I jerk my shirt down. Stop it. This is crazy.
I soak a washcloth under the cold tap and press it under my shirt, against the heated scar. The icy dampness soothes the urges, calming my mind as much as my skin, and I just breathe. I have to soak the cloth twice more before returning to bed, but I have to admit, it beats the nightmares. At least I haven’t had one of those in a couple months.
Enough. I shake the memory away and go look in on the kids.
They’re sleeping soundly; just a couple of normal kids in a normal family. I can’t help but smile as I watch them. This was the right choice.
Back in our bedroom, Shawn hasn’t moved. Seeing him, though, I get that same wet-blanket of guilt again, even though I know it’s just a dream. Everybody has them. They may not talk about them, but they have them. I slide into bed beside him.
Besides, it’s not as if I’d ever cheat on Shawn. I love him completely and we have a wonderful life. Well, except for his MS, the fact that we hardly see each other lately, and my lack of a full-time job.
It was touch and go for a while there at the end of the summer. I couldn’t find a steady job anywhere; the supermarkets weren’t even hiring baggers for the back-to-school season. Shawn was able to pick up two evening courses at Central Maine Community College, in addition to his three at the university, but that means he’s skipping back and forth between campuses all week and grading most nights after the kids go to bed.
I did temp work all over the place until I finally got a job answering phones for LL Bean during the holiday season. That’s really made all the difference, financially, but with Shawn’s extra classes and me taking every shift I can get my hands on, we’re still barely ships passing in the night, usually.
Jen and Mom have really made this work – they’ve been taking the kids whenever Shawn and I are both out or totally sapped – but there’s got to be an end somewhere. I check the job boards and the hiring agencies when I can, but the economy’s still lousy, and Bean’s still pays better than anyone else right now.
Until New Year’s, of course, when the season ends and the job disappears.
I stare angrily up at the dark ceiling. If they’d only make up their minds on that professorship at the university, everything would be fine, now. How can they not see how awesome he is and just give it to him?
He says it’s just how it works in Higher Ed, but it boggles my mind. I’ve never seen any business go as slowly as those folks. They’ve been dragging this decision through committee after committee for almost six months and they still haven’t decided, and it’s supposed to be for the Spring semester, which is barely three weeks away.
I close my eyes and take a slow breath, unclenching my jaw. Count your blessings.
Plenty of folks have it worse. At least Shawn’s MS seems to be staying put for the time being, and the kids are healthy and happy, especially with Christmas just around the corner.
I breathe in and turn to watch Shawn sleep; my husband and best friend.
His slow, steady breaths ground me as they always do, bringing me back to where I belong.
It’ll be okay. We’ll be fine.
Chapter 2
“Look,” the man snaps in my ear, “I don’t care about your apologies, okay? What I care about is the fact that I can’t get my wife the things she wants for Christmas because you idiots didn’t order enough stock of even a single damned thing I’ve asked for. Do you think that’s acceptable somehow? Do you?”
I smile at the computer monitor, trying to kill it with fake kindness. “I certainly appreciate how you feel, Mr. Hutchins.”
That much is true, anyway. I mean, we do have the linen pants he wants, even in the Moss Green, but every other thing he’s asked for is on back-order for at least three weeks.
We had a team meeting about this, back when the calls started to spike. Nobody expected much this Christmas, what with the economy still mostly in the tank, so the big wigs scaled back forecasts and warehouse stock. Now, though, it seems credit cards are cool again and people are buying. Or trying to.
“Really,” Mr. Hutchins sneers. “Well, excuse me if I don’t believe that you do appreciate how I feel. If you did, you’d be trying a little harder to find a way to fill my order, rather than give me some patronizing line. Now what are you going to do about this situation?”
Okay, it’s one thing to be angry, but it’s a whole different ball game to take it out on the messenger, especially when you’ve left it to the week before Christmas to do your shopping.
“I can put you through to one of my supervisors, if you wish.” Sandy’ll tell him the exact same thing, but at least I won’t have to listen to it.
“Can he get me these clothes?”
“I don’t believe she can,” I reply, emphasizing the gender automatically. Why do men still assume bosses are male? “The items-”
He huffs. “Then what will talking to another useless drone do for me?”
“L. L. Bean is committed to customer satisfaction, sir.” I keep the acid out of my voice as I recite from the Seasonal Employee Training Book, because I just know this will be the one they randomly record for ‘quality assurance’. “Sometimes customers prefer to speak to-”
“You know what? Forget it.” He’s actually angry, now. “You’ve wasted enough of my time already, so you can just tell your boss that you just lost them another customer. I’m sure Land’s End will be happy to fill our orders from now on, so you can take our name off all your lists.”
“Sir-“
“And if we get so much as another catalogue or phone call from you folks, I’ll sue. Is that clear?”
Fine. I give him my cheeriest phone smile and perkiest voice. “I can certainly do that for you, Mr. Hutchins. Does this also mean you wish to cancel the order for the Washed Linen-”
“Yes, goddamit! Cancel everything!”
“Very good,” I continue brightly, twisting the handbook prompts to work in my favor for once. “Is there anything else I can help you with today, Mr. Hutchins?”
“Are you stupid?” Then the phone goes dead.
“And you have a great holiday, too.” I tap the ‘Away’ button on my phone to get me out of the queue and slide my headset down around my neck.
“That sounded fun,” Ruth-Anne says, settling back into the station next to me. She’s in her late sixties, with photos of her twelve grandchildren that she sets up at each station she works at, but get her going and she can make a teenager blush, which always cracks me up.
“I’m not used to day-folks,” I say with a shake of my head. “That’s the third one in an hour and a half.”
She nods knowingly. She’s carrying a paper plate with two donuts and a small pile of Munchkins. She pulls a second plate from under the first, putting the coconut-crusted chocolate donut on it before handing it to me with a wink. “Thought you could use something sweet after all that sour.”
I smile and take the plate. I know I shouldn’t, not after the banana bread and peanut butter cookies someone brought in earlier, but Ruth-Anne knows I love the coconut-crusted. Besides, I wasn’t exaggerating; the whole day’s been like this. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” she waves at the Munchkins, “and those are for sharing.”
I smile and bite into the donut. There’s something sublimely perfect about the combination of toasted coconut, chocolate, and, of course, plenty of sugar.
“So night-folks are better, you think?” Ruth-Anne asks, popping a sugar-glazed Munchkin into her mouth.
I shrug. “Maybe they’re just more tired. Not as much energy to get angry.”
She huffs. “Not day-folks; no, sir.” She makes a twisting motion with her hands and her jowly face screws up. “I just want to wring their obnoxious little necks until their eyes pop out.”
I almost choke mid-swallow.
“I’m serious,” she says, taking another Munchkin. “It’s a tragedy what happens to folks when they forget they’re talking to a human being. Everybody blames the Internet nowadays, but that’s a load of shit.”
I smirk as I chew.
Her finger wags in the air. “It’s the parents’ fault, is what it is, pure and simple. No-one ever had a bad word to say about my kids, and you know why? Because I raised them, not the television, or these computers.” She glances past me and gives her big fake smile. “Hello, Timothy.”
“Mrs. Dennesy,” Tim says behind me.
I swivel around. Our team’s co-supervisor looks all of seventeen, smiling down at me with that fake grin they must teach courses on in MBA degrees, the one supposedly intended to instill a sense of camaraderie and general tranquility, but which actually only serves to forecast negative criticism and browbeating.
“Hey, Kelly,” he says brightly, leaning one arm on the top of my cube wall.
“Hi, Tim.” I keep my voice easy, guessing that Mr. Hutchins had a change of heart about wanting to complain to a superior. Whatever.
“How’s it going today?” Smile in full force. “Everything okay?”
I shrug, not interested in playing the game. “People are still angry at all the backorders and taking it out on us. About normal, I guess. How about you?”
He pauses for a fraction of a second, trying to gauge on the fly whether I’m being sarcastic or not, and I feel a pang of regret. What was that about shooting the messenger? He’s not a bad kid – man; he’s twenty-four, despite the baby face – he’s just doing his job.
“Oh, great thanks.” He says, a little off balance. “Well, actually, I just got a flag that you initiated a full cancellation on an account. Everything okay?”
“The customer requested it,” I say evenly. “He was upset about the back-orders and demanded the cancellation.”
Tim nods, looking more relaxed. “Yeah, I played it back. He was a real ass.” He winks knowingly at me. “You handled it pretty well.”
“Thanks.”
He nods. “No problem. Just wanted to make sure you were fine.” He turns slightly, as if to go, then pauses. “Just one thing, though.”
Cue the reprimand. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s not an absolutely huge deal, but next time a customer requests an account cancellation like that, make sure you put it through to one of us first, okay?” The smile again. “Not that this Hutchins person sounded like he was in a mood to talk, of course, but you never know.” He winks again, but the earlier believability is gone. “It’ll give us supervisors something to do, though, right?”
Does he even hear how that sounds?
I make a vaguely agreeing sound and reach up to my headset. I’m feeling equal parts frustration at this boy for telling me the right way to do my job and anger at myself because he’s right and I knew better.
He pats the half-wall. “Great. Keep up the good work.” He nods to Ruth Anne briefly. “Mrs. Dennesy.”
“Timothy,” Ruth-Anne starts to say, and he stops in mid-turn. “You know what I was remembering the other day? I was remembering when I used to babysit you and some of the other kids in the neighborhood after school.”
Tim nods and ducks his head slightly. “Of course.”
Ruth-Anne grins. “Well, I was remembering how you used to chase that little black-haired girl with all those lovely freckles, and I realized I couldn’t remember her name. Do you remember?”
A vague pink comes to Tim’s cheeks, but this time his smile is more awkward and more genuine. “Beth,” he says immediately, glancing at the floor. “Beth Mason.”
Ruth-Anne smiles beatifically. “Yes, of course. Oh, she was a handful, wasn’t she?” She turns to me, shaking her head in amusement. “I think all the boys chased that girl at one time or another. Why she even- oh,” she says, looking back at Tim. “Sorry about that Timothy. Talking out of school.”
He shrugs meekly. “No, that’s fine, Mrs. Dennesy. It’s fine.”
Ruth-Anne waves dismissively at him. “For the last time, Timothy, call me Ruth-Anne.”
He laughs a little too loudly and straightens up. “Oh, I don’t think so, Mrs. Dennesy. Thanks all the same.” He pats my half-wall again and coughs slightly. “Okay, well, I’ll get out of your hair, then.”
His exit is quick.
Ruth-Anne chuckles as he disappears around a corner. “He’s a good boy. Gets a stick up him sometimes, if you know what I mean, but he’s not really bad. Just needs a little reminding from time to time. He gets that from his mother, unfortunately.” She finishes her Munchkin and rolls her eyes at me. “Ah, well.” She un-clicks her ‘Away’ button and faces her monitor. “Thanks for calling L. L. Bean . . . ”
Chapter 3
They were looking for a couple folks to stay extra, but it’s just not my day. I feel a little guilty about refusing, given the extra money, but by the time three o’clock rolls around, I’m ready to wring a few necks, myself; everything from back-orders to color changes to why we don’t carry their favorite style anymore.
How should I know? Some of us can’t even get jobs and you’re complaining because you can’t blow money on a whole new wardrobe?
My wedding ring snags on the inside of my parka as I shove my arm in and it tears the lining. My first impulse is to shred the whole damn thing, but I put a lid on it and take a slow breath. Another day done, another bit toward the mortgage.
It’s been a little tight playing catch-up since the boiler blew up on us Thanksgiving morning – yeah, that was fun – but the flu’s going around again and I’ve got at least eight hours the rest of the week, plus two double shifts for the weekend. It’s crazy, but Sunday’s the last chance for anyone desperate enough to try and order overnight in time for Christmas. FedEx won’t guarantee anything after Saturday, but that doesn’t stop folks from trying.
I do have Monday off, though, to take the kids shopping. Two days before Christmas. Along with every other procrastinating shopper on the planet. I sigh as I pull up my jacket, mindful of my ring, and shoulder my purse.
Ruth-Anne touches my arm as I turn. “Let me check,” she says into her headset. “One moment.” She clicks her mute button and hands me a red and green envelope.
“Ruth-Anne,” I say, feeling guilty. It never occurred to me to get anything for her or other folks here.
“Hush.” She shakes her head. “I’ve got an empty house and plenty of time. You’re here almost as often as the supervisors and you’ve got that family to take care of. I remember what that’s like.” She gives me an empathetic look. “Anyway, it’s nothing special – just a card – but you’re a good egg, Kelly.” She smiles. “Have yourself a great Christmas.”
What can I say to that? “Thanks, Ruth-Anne.” I smile. “You, too.”
She nods happily and turns back to her screen, tapping her mute button again. “Yes,” she says behind me as I leave. “We do have the Canvas Driver Shirt in stock. What size are you looking for?”
My nerves go right back on edge, but I keep walking. Am I the only one with back-order problems? I know it’s not true and it’s totally irrational, but it’s still annoying. I really need to get out of here. I should’ve stayed in bed.
That thought hits me as I reach the front doors and my cheeks and neck flush immediately. I didn’t mean it that way, of course, but as soon as I thought it, I remembered him, clear as a bell, and then the idea of spending a whole day in bed with him swept over me before I could stop it.
What is wrong with me? I start acting like some sex-crazed teenage boy whenever I have these dreams. It’s ridiculous.
I swipe my card and push through the door quickly, stepping out into the windy afternoon. I leave my jacket open and my hat off as I stand on the sidewalk in front of the call center. A squall of wind blows yesterday’s snow in circles through the parking lot under a grey sky. My skin tightens immediately from the chill, but the goose-bumps of cold at least chase my heated thoughts away. I suck in a great big breath of icy wind, close my eyes and smile.
“Starting to cool off some.”
I open my eyes to see John, a prematurely retired lobsterman, smiling at me as he comes in for his shift. He’s not wearing a coat or gloves, and he hardly bats an eye at the wind. Suspenders hold his hunter’s plaid shirt over his rounding belly, and with his dungarees and his beat up Red Sox ball-cap, he’s the archetypal Mainer, right down to the Down-Easter accent.
“Starting to,” I smile, taking another brisk breath and reveling in the elements. “Have a good one, John.”
“Ayuh,” he nods. “You, too, Kelly.”
In the minivan, I get the engine running and the heat on, then grab the ice scraper and get back out. I could wait for the defroster, but the heater’s never been quick. Shawn’s car is great, though. It’s front-wheel drive and has trouble in heavy snow, but the heater is amazing.
My scar begins to itch as I reach the scraper across the windshield. I stop and rub it automatically, but the back of my neck prickles with a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature. It doesn’t feel as strong as when I’m dreaming, but it’s still there.
And I’m awake.
I stop mid-rub and look around. A handful of folks are getting in or out of cars, but most of the lot is quiet. Snow blows across the pavement. Traffic hisses along Warren Ave.
It’s still itching.
I get into the car quickly, feeling both exposed and stupid. This is ridiculous. I’m getting worked up over an itch?
An itch on a scar that won’t go away. A scar I got from the wing of a demon. A demon I helped set free. A demon I’ve been having erotic dreams about.
Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just an itch.
My knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
No, it’s not.
I shift into gear and back out. I didn’t finish scraping, but there’s enough to see through.
Umber.
By the time I reach the lights up by Amato’s, the itch is gone, but my mind is racing. Now I’m imagining something growing inside me, maybe something planted in me when he cut me. I really wish I’d never seen those Alien movies.
But what if it is him? Or something he did? Is this how he gets women’s souls?
That makes no sense.
But what if?
Stop it. I helped him do . . . whatever it is we did down there. He helped me get away. He could’ve let them get me, but he didn’t.
Is there such a thing as a good demon?
I glance at my cell phone. There are only two folks I know with answers for stuff like this, and Gernish is on sabbatical somewhere.
“No.” I focus back on the road. I’m being silly. It’s just an itch. And it’s gone, now, anyway. It’s probably just me not getting enough sleep. It’s got to be all in my head.
I cruise through the E-ZPass lane at the Turnpike tolls, still trying to convince myself. Besides, it’s been months since all that. I’m done with it. I’m back to a normal life.
As if on cue, it starts to itch again.
I clench my teeth and grab the phone. I’ll just have them look at it. That’s all. Maybe one of Sofia’s stitches is still there or something.
Yeah.
***