Reader's Note:
The following is a long single scene, about 6500 words, written as an excerpt from a "trashy novel" being read by another character as a "story in a story," intended as the opening for a longer work but capable of standing alone. If it is great, the credit goes to my volunteer Editor, Jen Litgirl, and if it is not, the blame rests with me. Please enjoy!
*****
"Katherine," he said in his usual reserved and quiet manner, "I want you to pull off at the next exit."
"Should I pull over right away," I asked in a mildly concerned voice.
"No," he said curtly, "the next exit will do."
Now I was perplexed. Michael was not the sort to be melodramatic or car sick. He was never genuinely disrespectful or unkind but I knew that he resented me. I did not blame him for that I suppose; after all, it was natural for a child to dislike the second wife.
"Are you okay," I asked in a slightly perturbed tone.
"I am very well," he answered almost smug, "I just want to talk to you, Katherine."
Part of me welcomed the opportunity and part of me was rather concerned. He had never allowed me to be maternal towards him in nearly six full difficult years. He insisted on calling me by my first name no matter how his father admonished him, a. And he always said my name as if he were speaking to a servant rather than his step-mother. NowPerhaps now that he was eighteen and poised for adulthood; "
perhaps he wanted to reconcile with me,
" I thought hopeful.
"Okay, Michael," I replied. The next exit was the old rest area they had closed almost two years ago. The buildings were all locked and it offered nothing but a place to pull off and park. "I would love to finally talk to you," I tried to sound cheerful.
In less than a mile and about another minute I saw the desolate exit ramp that no longer bore any sign of welcome. As I lifted my signal lever the blinking light sounded in the cabin and I eased my car off the highway to find a place to park.
"I prefer the end," he said casually.
The whole place was empty, the larger open area for trucks was between the highway and the now dilapidated rest area, the angled car spots were between that and the now overgrown woods that flanked the highway out here.
"Okay," I said dumbly, and drove slowly down to the very end near the exit ramp loop.
Once parked, I turned to look at him and wondered if I should start or just wait for him.
"Katherine," he said slowly, in a low masculine voice that reminded me of his father, "I have something very important to ask you;" he paused for a breath, "and discuss with you."
"Yes, Michael," I said sort of relieved but feeling my apprehension for the unknown.
"Do you know why I asked to go to your church with you yesterday?"
"I can guess," I started, "but I don't know why actually."
"Do you remember your wedding there," he asked sort of melancholy.
"Of course I do," I answered.
It was the same church his deceased mother had attended. Like me, she was Roman Catholic, his father was an Episcopalian, and I had insisted we marry in my Church rather than at the one he barely attended anyway.
"I was very mad at you then," he said more steely.
"I know, Michael," I was at a loss for any more words.
"There is a lot I would like to say to you," he interrupted my thoughts, "but I want you to know that I no longer hate you."
My eyes began to well with my first tears and I knew I would begin to cry.
"I am truly sorry for how I have hurt you in the past," he continued, "for hating you so deeply."
The big tears in my blurry eyes broke and started to flow down my cheeks. I used my fingers to wipe at my cheeks and then my eyes as I tried to stem the flow of my tears.
"But I was convinced that you were nothing but a gold-digging whore and that you never truly loved Father," he continued now matter-of-factly.
His words stung me, as I still wept. Of course I felt angered, yet sorry too, and relieved by his youthful honesty.
"I assumed you had Nicholas to trap him and that you were certain to divorce him as soon as you figured out how to get his money," he added coldly.
As I cried, I clamored for words and understanding. But just as I started to tell him that I loved his father, speaking out the word "I" and the first letters of "love," he interrupted me.
"Please do not speak yet," he said in the tone of a command.
Stunned, my mouth hung open and my eyes searched his for more meaning.
"I want you to see something first," he said in a flat tone, reaching into his coat. He took out an envelope and handed it to me. "Please open it."
Reluctantly I took it and used my index finger to tear open the envelope. Inside were two sheets of folded paper; one a full-page print of a picture and the other text. My hands were shaking uncontrollably, I could not believe what I was reading, and when I opened the picture I was whip-sawed by horror and grief.
Michael saw her face almost literally go completely pale as she read the log of her chat messaging. "
Oh my god,
" was the scream that her expression uttered plainly on her face.
"
Where did you get this,
" my mind formed the words but I had utterly no voice to speak it out loud to him now.
"Tell me
slut,
" Michael emphasized the word, "does your pussy still quiver when you think of those pictures?"
His words mocked something I said in that conversation. "
Pictures,
" I screamed inwardly. And I knew he had them all, the rest of the filthy chatting I had so eagerly and foolishly played along with during my brief and illicit affair. "
Oh dear god no
" my brain screamed in agony.
Michael showed absolutely no emotion when I finally looked at him. My palms were sweating, my heart was suddenly beating a hundred times a minute and I felt ready to literally faint, collapse into a ball and just die.
Michael enjoyed how her breasts were rising and falling to the rhythm of her panicked breathing. Beneath her cream sweater he could see the shape of her and he admired her beauty, the long seductive form of her body, her stunning good looks, her long natural blonde hair, the feminine shape to her body, the curve of her breasts and hips, those long legs and stunning blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires.
Seeing her tears and how her mascara had begun to run filled him with an oddly arousing sensation of pleasure, but seeing her pinned like a helpless butterfly on her own infidelity was the thing that actually stirred him sexually. It was true that he did not hate her, in fact he loved her in a way, but never as a mother or the wife of his father; no, she had proven she was none of those things at all really. She was just hopelessly "sinful" as she would say in her now obvious hypocrisy.
Michael had stumbled over the chat logs when she had left her email open. She did not realize that the software logs you into your messenger automatically and that it records everything into memory. In them, near the end of her affair was the login and password for a picture sharing site and there he found almost two dozen pictures of her naked at what he surmised was her lover's house. A few were of her posing in slutty clothes, lingerie or naked, but a few were of them having sex or just after. Lurid images of her, obviously wanton and sexual, so very different from her familiar to her prim, proper and conservative persona.
Disgustingly all I could do was remember my affair, no matter how desperately I wanted to forget it. I had deleted everything and tried to erase it all from my mind. But the one picture before my eyes forced it all to tumble right back into my mind as if I was reliving it again. And the black-and-white text spurred me to think suddenly again of all those wicked conversations and how despicable I must seem with those ugly things recorded without feeling or context.
"Now," he interrupted my thoughts, "what do I do with you?"
A long terrible silence formed and hung in the air between us. I could no longer look at him and my eyes fell to my lap. I could no longer cry, I could barely breath, and my throat closed tight, dry and suddenly sore as if I had been screaming myself hoarse.
"I will do anything," I wept quietly.
My marriage was over! My entire world was crushed in this instant. My husband was wealthy and I was the mother of a young child, and in almost every way I lived a perfect life in gilded luxury and high status.
"Please give me the pictures," I begged, "forget this and forgive me." And I began crying again now, deeply and painfully.
Michael watched as she slumped forward and buried her face in her hands, he heard her sobbing and felt genuine sympathy for her, he had hoped she would just be a bitch about it or something. She just sobbed for a long time like that until finally she seemed to stop the weeping sounds.
All I could do was weep after a while and then I had no more tears at all.
"Please stop crying," he said gently, "here," he added.
Between my opening fingers I saw him handing me a handkerchief. He always carried one, his initials monogrammed in the corner.
"Thank you," I weakly responded.
Taking it, I patted my swollen eyes and wiped the trail of tears from my flushed cheeks. Finally, I wiped the wetness from my nose and tried to smile.
Michael had read the messages, every single one was recorded in a log by her computer; only those she had conducted on her phone or another computer were missing. There were plenty of gaps but what he had printed was damning enough. He knew a great deal about her inner thoughts, fantasies and feelings. He knew her reasons for cheating and had read the explicit banter she had typed to both confess things and be seductive for her lover. He had read the end of the affair too. Michael forgave her in a way, but he also knew how it would devastate his Father. The man loved her, he knew it, and it had taken him years to understand that. But he knew how he himself would hate any woman who said and did the things he knew she had done. He was angry at her for that, a
Sword of Damocles
she had placed over his Father's heart with her affair; the revelation of it would hurt him deeply.
