Van2, page 4
“I am,” I reply simply. “Van hasn’t stopped loving me. In fact, he thinks that this is the right thing to do because he loves me.”
“Fucking moron,” Malik mutters.
Not going to disagree with him there. “I know what I’m doing. Just support me while I do this, okay?”
“Fine,” he says, holding up a hand in capitulation. “But promise you will spend time with us.”
“That is a promise I can absolutely make.”
“And when Lucas and Max come week after next, we’ll figure a way we can all get together.”
That would be awesome. I don’t know how their schedule will pan out if they’re doing an overnight or an out-and-back when they come to play the Titans, but at the very least, we’ll manage to hang for a bit. At least that gives me something to look forward to.
♦
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, working on my laptop, when I hear Van slip his key into the door. I stand up and walk that way because his key no longer works. He was gone when I woke up this morning, and it’s nearly nine p.m. He said he was going to be gone as much as possible to avoid me and I should feel guilty about it, but I don’t. I don’t intend to make this comfortable for him.
The knob jiggles and then he bangs on the door.
I open it and step back.
“Why the hell doesn’t my key work?” he fumes, but I can see by the look on his face, he knows.
I nod to the small table to the new spare sitting there. “There’s your key and the new alarm code is 5683. It spells LOVE, in case you forget.”
Van curses but I turn away and walk into the kitchen. I don’t look back at him but I can hear his keys jangling, so I know he’s switching out the old for the new.
“Did you eat dinner?” I ask pleasantly. “I made salad and baked chicken. It’s in the fridge.”
Van doesn’t look at me or answer my question. I log out of the Dartmouth portal after saving my work and shut my laptop.
Opening the fridge, he pulls out a beer, twists off the cap and throws it in the sink, done specifically to annoy me, I’m sure. He takes three long pulls from the brew and then rummages through a cabinet, pulling out a can of soup. I watch as he pulls the top off the can and eats it cold with a spoon.
Ignoring me.
Refusing to eat perfectly good food I prepared.
“I’m done with my work,” I say, an innocuous attempt at conversation. “My boss is going to let me project manage remotely until we can figure out how to fix things.”
Van doesn’t even flinch, concentrating on his icy chicken noodle while leaning against the counter. He stares blankly ahead.
I wonder what he’d do if I just blurted out to him that I’m pregnant. Just to get a reaction from him because this patent ignoring me is grating on my nerves. I don’t do it, though, because I am never going to use this baby as leverage. I don’t want him beholden to me in any way. I’d rather be a single mom than force him into a lifelong commitment with me that he doesn’t want.
Van tosses the empty soup can in the garbage, the spoon in the sink without even rinsing it, and I have to restrain myself not to get up and do it. He walks back into the living room and settles in the middle of the couch, resting the beer on the coffee table. Grabbing the remote control, he turns on the TV and flips through the channels.
I grit my teeth when I see him land on a reality TV show about three mechanic brothers who refurbish old cars. They’re obnoxious loudmouths who make crude jokes and belittle people. Van watches it for the cars, but I want to scratch my eyes out and pour acid in my ears when it’s on. Back home, he’d only ever watch it if I was busy doing something else. He would laugh at me—my hatred of the show—but he never subjected me to it. Just like I never subjected him to my obsession with The Bachelor.
His intention to drive me away made clear, I push up out of the chair and walk through the living room. I cross right in front of the TV and watch him carefully. He doesn’t let his attention focus on me at all.
He thinks by ignoring me, I’ll go away. He thinks by failing to engage with me, I’ll leave him alone.
Yeah… he’s wrong about that.
I walk up the stairs with purpose. I slept in one of the guest rooms last night. It had no linens on the bed, so I made do with a blanket I found in one of the closets. But if I’m in that room, I can’t be near Van, so things will need to change.
CHAPTER 5
Van
I watch Simone as she heads up the stairs and fucking everything on my body clenches tight. My fists because I’m angry, my body because watching her ass sway as she takes the steps is killing me and my heart because everything is all fucked up.
This was supposed to be a clean break and she’s making a mess of everything.
Rationally, I understand my wife doesn’t want our marriage to end. I even believe her without reservation when she says she can handle the nasty fallout from Arco’s book. But I can’t go through watching her or any potential children suffer. I’m protecting her the best way I can and that’s by breaking away from her life so she can go on to find someone to love her—never as much as I do—but who can give her a beautiful life with beautiful kids who will never have a moment of this ugliness in their lives.
Leaning forward, I pick up my beer and bring it to my mouth, but it freezes halfway as I hear Simone coming down the stairs. I settle back onto the couch, rest the bottle on my thigh and laser my attention to my show.
She moves in front of the TV and once she’s passed, I permit myself to look at her.
Jesus fucking Christ!
I have to suppress a groan and order my dick to behave. Simone’s wearing next to nothing—just a tight white tank top with spaghetti straps and a pair of white bikini panties. Her ass is slamming, her tits full and nipples pushing through the fabric. I wonder if the little minx played with them upstairs to get them hard to grab my attention. There’s no doubt in my mind this little display of near-nakedness is part of the war she’s waging.
If it was just her wearing skimpy clothes I could probably deal but I’m confused by the fact she’s carrying a blanket, a pillow and a small tote bag, so I continue to watch.
Rounding the coffee table, she moves to the end of the couch and tosses the pillow and blanket there before resting the tote on the floor.
I hate to break my self-imposed silence but I can’t help but ask, “What are you doing?”
Her gaze lifts. “I’m going to sleep on the couch tonight.”
“Why?”
She proceeds to fluff the pillow and spread the blanket. I slide to the far end of the couch away from her. My move amuses her as evidenced by her husky laugh. “I’m going to recreate how it was when we first met. You tried to ignore me and I was sleeping on the couch.”
Simone flips the blanket back and slides onto the cushion. She extends her legs and I scramble off before her feet touch me.
“So jumpy,” she coos and makes no effort to cover herself with the blanket. Smooth-as-silk legs with red painted toenails and my heart fucking thumps hard. I hate being attracted to her so much.
I settle into a corner chair, refusing to be forced out of the room. I intend to sit here, watch my crappy TV show she hates and completely ignore her so she can see she has no effect. Although, admittedly, the way I jumped away from her was a point in her favor.
I sip my beer, settle the bottle back on my leg and try to focus on the TV. But from the corner of my eye, I see Simone lean over to rummage through the tote she brought down. I cut a glance at her to see she’s pulled out a bottle of lotion, and not just any lotion. A special brand that I buy her that smells like cherry blossoms.
Putting my focus back on the television, I hear the click of the bottle opening and I can see her moving, rubbing lotion on her legs and arms. The sweet scent reaches my nose and fuck if that doesn’t make my dick take notice.
She’s a witch and she knows all the subtle ways to seduce.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asks.
I refuse to look at her. Refuse to answer.
Simone sighs. “I just want to know if you’d have sex with me tonight.”
There’s no stopping my head from turning her way. “What?”
“Sex. I want to have sex with you. I miss having sex with you. So will you?”
Yes!
“No.” My head swings back to the TV, but it’s not enough to just deny her. I need to start breaking down this eternal optimism she has for us. “Besides, I told you before… you lost your shine.”
“No would have sufficed,” she pouts. “You don’t have to be a jerk.”
“Apparently, I do,” I mutter before taking a long pull on my beer.
She doesn’t reply, doesn’t move. Several minutes go by before she lets out another sigh and then reaches over to her tote. I refuse to peek but from the periphery, I can see she grabbed something from the bag and she settles back onto the couch.
A buzzing sound fills the air and it forces me to look at her, my curiosity just too fucking sensitive.
My jaw drops when I see she’s got a vibrator in her hand. Purple, about six inches in length and a fairly thick girth. I know it well because I bought it for her probably a year ago and I use it on her from time to time. She runs the tip of it casually along the top of her thigh, then back down again, her eyes pinned to it.
“You know,” she says softly, her gaze lifting to meet mine—assured I’ll be watching. “I’d really love to crawl on my hands and knees to you. I’d kill to take you in my mouth. I’d make you see stars, baby.” The fingers on my free hand curl into the chair’s upholstery. “But I know you don’t want me like that since I’m not shiny anymore.” Simone changes the trajectory of the vibrator and it slides along the inside of her leg where she rubs it along her panty line. “Guess I’ll just have to take care of myself.”
My cock swells to aching proportions and I cannot stop watching her. She lets her legs fall open, uses her delicate fingers to pull her panties to the side so she can—
I lunge out of the chair, spilling my bottle of beer and cracking my knee on the coffee table. I abandon the beer and try not to hobble through the living room and down the hall to the master bedroom.
I slam the door behind me, locking it for good measure because Simone can’t be trusted. I pace with agitation. Christ, she knows how to rile me up, and there is nothing in this world I want more than to go back out there, put her across my lap and blister her backside with my palm before fucking her hard. It’s what she wants me to do. It’s what she’s goading me to do.
I hear something and freeze.
Was that laughter? She’d have every right to be amused over my hasty retreat and I’ll let her have this joke because she played that perfectly.
I tip my head but I can’t tell exactly what I’m hearing. Ever so carefully to not make any noise and with much thanks that this house was recently renovated so there are no squeaky hinges, I unlock the door and ease it open just an inch.
The soft sounds of weeping reach me and it feels like my chest cracks right down the middle. Out of all the fights we’ve had the last few weeks, Simone has held a stiff upper lip. She only cried once and that was the day I left, although I suspect she might have done so in private. She’s a proud woman and likes to be strong.
The desolation within her soft sobs makes me question what kind of monster I am. Because no matter how much it kills me that I’ve hurt her, I’m not changing my mind about anything.
Quietly, I shut my door again and lock it.
Moving to the bed, I sit on the edge and open the drawer of the bedside table. I pull out the thick hardback book. The dust jacket is bright white and on the front is a black-and-white picture of my father. The publisher chose to go with a candid taken during his trial. It was of him sitting at the defendant’s table, leaning back in his chair to talk to me and my mother as we sat in the front row. My stomach cramps seeing eight-year-old me sitting there, in my Sunday suit with my hair slicked down. I look terrified and out of place. My dad is smiling, holding hands with my mom, propped on the low wall that separates the front of the courtroom from where the public sits. He does not look like a man on trial for multiple rapes and murders but rather a good father and husband who has been separated from his family.
Nausea wells and bile surges up my throat as I read the title of the book. “Chip Off the Old Block.”
I don’t know how much input Arco had into this book. I only know he sold his prison diaries to a biographer, but the title is a direct message to me.
When I visited my father in prison before he died, he knew exactly why I was there and he played right into my fears. Arco sat across from me, thick, bulletproof glass separating us. We communicated through a phone, but it didn’t lessen the crudity of his words.
“My jizz is what knocked up your bitch of a mother,” he told me with an evil glint in his eye. “You got my fucking DNA, boy. You’re my son no matter what some paper says. A regular chip off the old block.”
It’s what he used to say to me growing up. Arco wasn’t a tender man and he didn’t believe in hugs or cuddles. He was funny, gregarious and everyone loved him. But he never told me he loved me and he never hugged me. That’s because he had no conscience and no capacity to love.
He could only deceive.
And murder and rape.
Arco used words carefully and when he called me a “chip off the old block,” he did it with intent. When I was little, I only wanted his pride in me and I’d beam when he declared such. Now it makes me physically sick to think of his DNA coursing through my body.
I’m wondering why the biographer focused on that phrase. It was clearly in the diaries and perhaps my dad wrote about that last encounter between us. Maybe he had a good laugh over how easy it was to terrify his grown son who was a big, tough hockey player.
My fingers play at the edge of the book. I want to read it, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. I know Simone bought a copy and she read it.
“It’s nothing but drivel, Van,” she had said with a wave of her hand, like it was nothing more than a nuisance, like a gnat buzzing around her head. “The biographer didn’t do much other than regurgitate Arco’s words with bad literary prose and he comes off like the lunatic he was. None of it’s credible.”
I didn’t have the guts to ask her what it said about me and she didn’t offer. I think she figured I’d never read it and what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me.
Taking a deep breath, I open the cover of the book and stare blankly at the title page. My hand shakes as I grab a chunk of pages and start flipping, not with any real intention of reading anything. It’s a victory just opening the book.
But a phrase catches my attention as a chapter header whizzes by and I stop, flip back to the spot.
Chapter 5: Unveiling Shadows
I skim the first few paragraphs and realize it’s about me. Or rather, Arco’s reflections about his only son who was called Grant VanBuskirk at the time.
I think I might vomit and my brain is telling me to slam the book shut. I think of the weeping woman on the other side of the door who doesn’t think this is a big deal.
That I can persevere.
I inhale deeply, blowing out slowly.
Try to calm the frantic racing of my pulse.
I focus on the words and start reading.
Within the faded pages of Arco’s diaries lay a chilling chronicle of his observations on Grant, his son. The entries, devoid of warmth or remorse, offered a disconcerting glimpse into the mind of a convicted serial killer. Veiled within these revelations, the secrets of Grant’s young existence came to light, raising unsettling questions about the twisted threads of their shared bloodline.
Through the prism of Arco’s warped perspective, a peculiar essence emerged—the contours of Grant’s character and a sincere desire that his son have the same unnatural detachment that made him a sociopath.
Arco found himself captivated by his son’s unquenchable curiosity, recognizing in it a familiar hunger for exploration. At the tender age of six, Grant’s quest for knowledge surpassed mere childhood inquisitiveness, evoking memories of his father’s own sinister proclivities.
I try to suck in a breath, but there’s no air in my lungs. What the fuck is he inferring?
Among the haunting tales, one incident loomed over their shared history. Grant’s encounter with a delicate bird’s nest concealed within their backyard sent ripples of unease through the mind that penned these unsettling memoirs. Instead of a passive appreciation of its fragile beauty, Arco writes how Grant succumbed to what he called a “predatory instinct.” It welled Arco with pride when his son’s innocent hands closed around the unborn lives within. For Arco, it was a chilling reflection, a confirmation of a dark legacy he had unknowingly bestowed upon his son.
From behind prison bars, Arco reveled in the twisted possibilities. The notion of Grant carrying forth his father’s malevolence, of mastering the art of manipulation, ignited a nefarious pride within him. His imagination wove intricate narratives within his diaries where Grant’s path intertwined with his own, both predator and prey, mirroring each other’s dark desires.
In this enigmatic dance of nature and nurture, the omniscient observer glimpsed the blurred lines of Grant’s fate. Would he succumb to the haunting allure of his lineage, embracing the legacy of darkness that coursed through his veins? Or would he defy the shackles of his bloodline, forging a path untainted by the sins of his father?
Jesus!
Fuck!
The book falls from my hands, thudding to the carpet. I lurch off the bed and stagger into the bathroom. Falling to my knees, I barely get the toilet cover opened before I vomit. The beer comes up mixed with the soup, splashing in the toilet bowl. My stomach empty, I continue to wretch as the words I just read reverberate through me.
Panic starts to overwhelm me and it feels like a cinder block is on my chest. I try to drag in a deep lungful of air to break the claustrophobia of my anxiety, but I’m only able to pant through the terror of it all.
