—

“HOW come you never told Chris about what happened with Hugh?”

That unwelcome question came out of the f**king blue. I paused midchew, suddenly finding the bite of pizza in my mouth unappetizing. Dropping what was left of my slice onto the plate in front of me, I grabbed a napkin and wiped my mouth. “Why are we discussing this again?”

Eva frowned at me from where she sat beside me on the floor in between the coffee table and the couch in the living room. “We didn’t talk about it.”

“Didn’t we? In any case, it doesn’t matter. My mother told him.”

Her frown deepened. She reached for the TV remote and lowered the volume, muting the voices of the NYPD detectives on the screen. “I don’t think so.”

I pushed to my feet and grabbed my plate. “She did, Eva.”

“Do you know that for sure?” She followed me into the kitchen.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“They discussed it at the dinner table one night, something I don’t want to do.”

“He acted like he didn’t know.” She braced her hands against the counter as I dropped my leftovers into the trash. “He seemed genuinely confused and horrified.”

“Then he’s as conveniently obtuse as my mother. You shouldn’t be surprised.”

“What if he didn’t know?”

“So what?” I set the plate in the sink, the lingering smell of food making my stomach roil. “What the f**k does it matter now? It’s done, Eva. Done and over with. Let it go.”

“Why are you so mad?”

“Because I was settled in for the night with my wife. Dinner, wine, a little TV, a couple hours making love . . . after a long, rough day.” I left the kitchen. “Forget it. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Gideon, wait.” She grabbed my arm. “Don’t go to bed pissed. Please. I’m sorry.”

I paused and removed her hand from my arm. “So am I.”

—

“START out slow,” he whispers, his lips near my ear.

I can feel him becoming excited. He reaches around my hip to where I’m stroking my penis. His hand covers mine. His breath is quick and shallow. His erection brushes against my bu**ocks.

My stomach feels sick. I’m sweating. I can’t stay hard, even as my oiled fist slides up and down, guided by his.

“You’re thinking too much,” he tells me. “Concentrate on how good it feels. Look at that woman in front of you. She wants you to f**k her. Imagine how it’d feel to push your c**k into her. Soft. Hot. Wet. And tight.” His grip closes harder over mine. “So tight.”

I look at the centerfold spread over the top of my toilet’s water tank. She’s got dark hair and blue eyes, and her legs are long. They always look like that, the women in the pictures Hugh brings.

He pants in my ear, and the sickness is back. Wrong. There’s something wrong with me. This feels wrong. His eagerness makes me feel dirty. Bad. I’m a bad boy, even Mom says so. She yells it at me when she’s crying, when she’s angry with me about Dad.

A low moan cuts through the sound of his heavy breaths. It’s me making that noise. It feels good, even though I don’t want it to.

It’s hard to breathe, to think, to fight . . .

“That’s it,” he coaxes. His other hand pushes between my bu**ocks.

I try to pull away, but he’s got me trapped. He’s bigger than me, stronger. No matter how I struggle, I can’t push him off.

“Don’t,” I tell him, squirming.

“You like it,” he grunts. His hand pumps me harder. “You shoot off like a geyser every time. It’s okay. It’s supposed to feel good. You’ll be better once you’ve come. You won’t fight with your mother so much . . .”

“No. Don’t! Oh, God . . .”

He pushes two slick fingers inside me. I cry out, writhing away, but he won’t quit. He’s rubbing and thrusting into me, hitting the spot that makes me want to come more than anything. The pleasure grows despite the tears burning my eyes.

My head falls forward. My chin touches my heaving chest. It’s coming. I can’t stop it . . .

Abruptly, I look down from a higher vantage. My hand is suddenly bigger, my forearm thicker and coursing with veins. Dark hair dusts my arms and chest, my abdomen ripples with muscle as I fight the orgasm I don’t want.

I am not a child anymore. He can’t hurt me anymore.

There’s a knife atop the centerfold, gleaming in the light from the vanity beside me. I grab it and jerk free of the fingers f**king me. I turn and the blade sinks into his chest.

“Don’t touch me!” I roar, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him into the knife, all the way to the hilt.

Hugh’s eyes widen with horror. His mouth falls open in a silent scream.

His face morphs into Nathan’s. My childhood bathroom shimmers and transforms. We’re in an eerily familiar hotel room.

My heart pounds harder. I can’t be here. They can’t find me here. Can’t find any trace of me. I have to leave.

I stumble back. The knife withdraws in a smooth, blood-soaked glide. Nathan’s eyes turn milky with death. They’re gray. Gray eyes. Beautiful, beloved dove gray irises. Eva’s eyes. Clouding over . . .

Eva is bleeding in front of me. Dying in front of me. I’ve killed her. My God . . .

Angel!

Can’t move. Can’t reach her. She crumples and pools onto the floor, those stormy eyes dull and sightless—