From
Let Them Eat Crow
Alison Tyler
“Let them talk,” Marcus said. “That’s what they do.”
He was right. They talk about how you remodeled their kitchen—their kitchen—even if they sold the house back in 1984. They talk about people who were dead before you were born—and they hold grudges that last longer than generations. So I knew they’d be talking when the plumber started coming by every day. There was no way they’d miss his battered white truck parked out front, miss the fact that he was stopping by regularly—too regularly for his visits to be strictly professional. Marcus didn’t care. But I did.
“I have to see them at the grocery store, and the post office, and the bank.”
“So see them.”
I grimaced. “They look at me.”
“Not the way I look at you.”
I was naked when he said the words. I was standing in front of him, arms over my head, wrists attached to a silver chain dangling from a beam in the ceiling. He’d already whipped me with his belt, and he seemed to be considering how to punish me next.
“No,” I agreed. “Not the way you look at me.” A shiver worked through my body.
|