Public Secrets Part 198

glaring, her gown in tatters.

His fingers dug into her hips as his mouth clamped down on hers. Choking

on the smell of whiskey, she tried to say his name. When she began to

fight in earnest, he locked her hands in one of his, and took her

virginity in one hard swift thrust.

She cried out both in shock and pain. Then he was plunging and pumping

into her, panting, groaning. She was weeping when he collapsed, when he

rolled aside and fell instantly to sleep.

HE WAS FULL OF CONTRMON and shame and tenderness in the morning. With

shadowed eyes and trembling voice he cursed himself and begged her

forgiveness. He'd been drunk, a phor excuse, but his only reason for

behaving like a monster. When he held her, gently stroking her hair and

murmuring promises, she believed him. It was as though another man had

come to her on her wedding night to show her how cruel and heartless s.e.x

could be. Her husband showed her only sweetness. When her first day as

a new bride ended, she lay in his arms, content, dreaming only rosy

dreams of the future.

MICHAEL STAGGERED iNTo the kitchen. He'd meant to get to the dishes. In

fact, his intentions had been so firm, he was shocked to find the sink

full and the counter cluttered. He gave them a bleary, accusing stare.

He'd been working double s.h.i.+fts all week and wondered why things like

dishes couldn't just take care of themselves.

In the spirit of self-sacrifice, he decided to deal with them before he

settled in with breakfast and the morning paper. He began to stack

plates, bowls, cups, forks. Dragging over a five-gallon Rubbermaid

kitchen can, he shoved the whole business inside. They were all paper

and plastic, a system that appalled his mother, but which suited Michael

just fine. Although his modest kitchen boasted a Whirlpool dishwasher,

he'd never owned a plate that required its services.

Satisfied, he poked through the cupboards, knocking over a bottle of El

Paso salsa and a jar of Skippy peanut b.u.t.ter. Shoving them aside, he

grabbed the box of shredded wheat. He shook some into a Chinet bowl,

then lifted the coffeepot and poured the steaming brew over the cereal.

He'd discovered this delicacy purely by accident on another groggy

morning. He'd nearly eaten his way through his breakfast when he'd

realized the coffee was on the cereal and the milk in the Styrofoam cup.

Since then, Michael had dispensed with the milk altogether. Before he

could sit and enjoy, he was interrupted by a banging on the back screen

door.

At first glance it appeared to be a five-foot gray mat. But mats didn't

have wagging tails or lolling pink tongues. Michael pushed open the

screen and was greeted exuberantly by the scruffy, oversized dog.

"Don't try to make up." Michael shoved the huge paws off his bare

chest. The paws. .h.i.t the floor, but most of the mud on them remained on

Michael.

Conroy, pedigree unknown, sat on the linoleum and grinned. He smelled

almost as bad as a dog could possibly smell, but was apparently

unoffended by his own aroma. His hair was matted and full of burrs.

Michael found it hard to believe that he'd picked Conroy out of a litter

of cute, gamboling pups less than two years before. As an adult, Conroy