Finally, he wakes. It’s the coffee, not because of my voice. “Jesus, Carina, why did you let me sleep so long?” It’s one minute past the time he usually wakes.
“Sorry. It’s my fault. I was caught up with my work,” I lie. “I’m headed to the café to work some more this morning. If you don’t need anything else?”
Swallowing, I try to make eye contact without seeming frightened by him, and I smile. This tactic worked for me as a child. Abusive men are like mean dogs. Don’t make eye contact. Seem happy. Smile. It makes them less likely to lash out. My stepfather was an awful man, though he’s paying his penance now that my mom passed away from colon cancer—in hell. A drunk driver mowed him down while he was riding his motorcycle about a year after Mom died.
Thinking about my childhood gives me hives. Literally. I try not to dwell in the past or think of my mother. When I grew up and left the house, the face she would make when I left after a visit was embedded into my nightmares for days after. A visit to the house of horrors was never worth it. Although the house was left to me, I don’t want anything to do with it or the backyard. I haven’t returned since she died. A property management company keeps up on the yard maintenance and checks in from time to time to make sure everything is okay. I can’t even fathom renters in there, so it sits cold and empty—a haunting reminder of the truth in my nightmares.
Roarke isn’t nearly as bad as Greg was.
“I need a lot of things. None of which you ever give me. I don’t know why I stick around here. Look at you. Do you even try anymore? Are you so comfortable that this is what I’m expected to be happy to have?”
Sucking in a deep breath, I taste my words before they exit my mouth. It’s time for prudence, time to select just the right thing to say to avoid his wrath.
I look down at my jeans and T-shirt. “I was planning on putting on a sweater. The nice one your mom gave me last Christmas. Would that look better?”
Scoffing, he takes a sip of coffee and hums in delight. “A face transplant would look better, Carina. Go work. Make money. I’m sick of being the only one to pay the bills. Your royalty checks don’t cover the electricity.”
My royalty checks don’t go anywhere near our joint accounts. A paltry fraction of my pay does. The rest is safely hidden in accounts my agent controls. I let Roarke believe whatever he wants. Usually it’s best not to respond when he’s in a mood.
I grab the pastel pink sweater that I hate out of the closet, kiss Roarke on the forehead, and grab my laptop bag on my way out of our house. It’s a nice, beautiful house. Roarke owns, or inherited, better yet, his father’s home-building company. He takes care of me. Even though he’s cruel sometimes, I know he loves me—he needs me. I’m lucky to have him in my life.
I start the oversized SUV he forces me to drive and make my way to my coffee shop.
After I check my email, I make a list of the work that needs to be done. I have two articles to write. I should be able to finish that in an hour or two and then focus my attention on my current passion: a nonfiction piece on military soldiers and the effects of war on the psyche. Roarke doesn’t know I’m working on this. No one does, actually. It’s a personal project. I want to shine light on something important that I’m uneducated about. I want to help people.
I put out a request for interviews on my website a couple weeks ago, and I’ve called around. No one wants to talk to me. Stalking the web and Facebook for stories and information isn’t helping at all. Who wants to spill sordid details of their life to a complete stranger? I understand. It’s still upsetting to not have any leads.
I’m texting Roarke to ask him what he wants me to bring him for lunch, when my email pings with a new message.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Interview me
I saw the ad you posted online looking to interview military members for your work article. Are you still interested? I have multiple years of experience, and like the ad states, I definitely have a story to tell. I’m active duty now as well. Would you like to meet for coffee?
Your ad did promise free coffee along with anonymity.
In your service,
Eppington
Throwing a hand over my mouth, I let out a small squeal. Finally. And he’s active duty, so he’ll have recent stories that will be relatable to those seeking help right now. I can barely type a response with the excitement reverberating in my bones. Novels are fun to write and articles make money, but this will be something that may help someone. It could save a life.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Interview me
Thank you so much for getting back to me, Mr. Eppington. I would love to interview you at your earliest convenience. It may take several sessions to get the information I need for my piece. Is that okay? I understand if not. I’m sure you’re a very busy man. I’d like to meet in a public place. There will definitely be coffee in it for you. (I’m sure you can appreciate my reservations about meeting someone after only communicating online.) And my undying, unyielding gratitude for the rest of time.
Café on 6th? You pick a time. I’m flexible Monday-Friday.
Best,
Carina
