Also-Ran

I nodded, unable to speak, and she continued. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." The shower no longer hid either of our tears; hers fell freely. "If you never forgive me, I'll deserve it. I know that. I have no right to ask for your love after the way I took it for granted. But if you let me... If I can bask in that- that glory again, I'll do anything, be everything for you. I promise you."

She searched my face for any sign. I knew what she wanted, but I hurt so much that I couldn't give it to her. I didn't trust her. I wasn't sure I ever could. But God, I wanted to. Because now I knew what it was like to feel truly, completely loved, and I wanted her to feel it, too. My wife had hurt me so badly that I couldn't even describe it. My wife. I whispered, almost inaudible, "Mine."

Jeanne nodded fervently, desperate to grab any lifeline I'd offer, no matter how thin and frayed. "Yes, yours. Yours, Scott. I'll always be yours no matter what, even if- if you can't be mine. You can cheat on me, ignore me, hurt me, anything. You saved me. I'm yours. You can put a collar around my neck or brand your initials into my skin or any other way you want to mark me. I will do anything to prove--"

I kissed her, really kissed her for the first time since the horrible, fateful day I found her crying at that damned table. I didn't trust her yet. I didn't know if I ever would. But I knew that I had to try.

Her hands moved across my body, one to my waist as she clung tightly to me, the other to the back of my head, pulling my lips more forcefully to hers. Her tongue slipped out, pressing against my lips; I took it inside, then forced it back out, sliding past it and into hers. She moaned at the intrusion, then whimpered when my fingers dug into her ass.

I needed her. She needed me. It wasn't trust, not yet. A twisted, angry, possessive desire on my end, at best. But her body yielded to my need, to the way I crushed her against me. The dynamics had shifted; she was the supplicant now, the one desperate to prove her love, to prove that she was worthy of my love. The subtext of our marriage had become text, and I rewrote it with every rough, heedless expression of my ownership.

Later, I might think to blame it on the alcohol and its effect on my inhibitions, but that would be a lie. I still felt the effects of the whiskey; if I hadn't, I might have tried to fuck her right there in the shower. Instead, she turned the handles blindly as we stumbled from the shower, still partially soapy and dripping wet.

We made it no further than that; I pushed her shoulder gently, and she laid on the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor. "Beautiful," I whispered again. She was mine. This was mine. My cock, which had stayed dormant for months, stood proudly, ready to claim that which should always have been mine and mine alone.

When I buried myself in her, she cried out with a joy I'd never heard in her voice. I hurt her. I know that. My anger and my fear and my resentment burst forth in something that stepped right to the edge of a hatefuck, one which was meant to punish her as much as bring pleasure to me. The angry, jilted thing in the back of my mind cried out for vengeance, to show her I could hurt her like she had hurt me. But I couldn't; there was no physical pain I could inflict on her that would mirror the way she had hurt my heart. And as I hammered into her, I gradually stopped trying.

It wasn't just that I felt shame at trying to hurt the woman I loved, although that was what first slowed me. It was the look in her eyes, and what it meant. She was present, clearly and wholly and enthusiastically present. She didn't fantasize about her first love; he wasn't there with us anymore.

He hadn't been for a while, not since she'd returned, even if I hadn't recognized it. In every moment of our life, of the kid's lives, at every time of the day, she stayed present. She hadn't daydreamed about the adventurous rogue that left her behind. She'd never looked out the window wistfully or needed me to repeat myself with a startled, guilty look. My wife thought only of her present and our future, not her past and not her foolish fantasies of what could have been.

That recognition of her steadfast presence created the first cracks in the coal-black shell I'd formed to keep my heart safe.

Jeanne wrapped her legs around me, heels digging into my back, as her voice implored. "I'm yours, Scott. Show me. Hurt me, if you need to. I deserve it. I'll take it. I'll take anything you'll give--" My lips stifled her prayer of atonement, but that silence didn't last long.

Her voice changed into a low, wordless groan as her walls fluttered around me. I hadn't felt this in so long; for a long time, I doubted I'd ever feel it again. When Jeanne stiffened, her back arched so rigidly against the unyielding tile that I'd later find bruises on her shoulderblades. She came so hard around my cock that the tightness almost hurt. Only almost, though; instead, the exquisite pressure triggered my own orgasm. I claimed my wife's body anew, filling her full of molten heat.

She held me tight to her, crying with love and sorrow and joy. We hadn't healed. We wouldn't for a while. But this first step back had given her hope for the first time in months. I loved her. I desired her.

That would have to be enough for the moment. It was all I could do. I mean that quite literally; the alcohol hadn't entirely left my system, and even standing up seemed only just within my grasp. My loving spouse got me back in the shower long enough to rinse us both off, then dragged me to our bed--our bed, really our bed again for the first time in months, instead of just the place where we both slept--and tucked me in.

I watched sleepily, boozily, as Jeanne threw on a ratty old t-shirt and shorts. She kissed my forehead and laughed, "Gotta go clean up the floor. Get some sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

I smiled and said, "Good." Sleep started to take me, but I managed to mumble. "Need you." I heard her breath catch, a little gasp of surprised joy, just before the darkness came.

She was there the next morning, just like she promised. My head pounded, but I remained silent for a time. Her lithe body curled around me, half laying atop me, as if she was afraid I might disappear while she slept. A day before, and she might have been right. It had all hurt too much, and the weight bore down harder each day. A single night wouldn't heal us, but it made me believe, really believe for the first time, that we could heal.

Jeanne must have felt me move, because she shifted as well, her weight moving more fully on top of me, her arm and leg tightening as she made a little scared sound in her sleep. I stroked her back, kissed her hair, and whispered, "I love you." She settled once more. I desperately wanted ibuprofen, but I'd make this small sacrifice to let her dream a while longer. For the first time in a long time, I didn't resent making a sacrifice for her happiness. For the first time in a long time, I believed she'd do the same for me.

When she woke, not long after, we made love. No traces of the angry near-hatefuck marred our intimacy this time. That's not to say the anger wasn't there, but it could wait. My wife looked down into my eyes as she rode me, gasping and grunting and softly moaning, trying to hide our dawn assignation from the ears of curious children. I whispered sweet words of adoration and desire to her as she took me inside over and over.

Eventually, her orgasm stole the strength from her, and she leaned over, her beautiful breasts almost taunting me. I took a lovely coral nipple in my mouth, sucking and biting on it as she came, and her self-control faltered. She loudly called out my name, and I exploded, filling her womb for the second time in as many days. I'd claim her body many more times as we found our way back to each other, but the sound of little feet pounding down the stairs sent us scampering to find our discarded clothing.

I'd let her in, created a place where she could plant a seed in my heart, and somewhere in the next few weeks, I'd planted a seed inside her as well. Both would flourish over the following months. We both committed to us and to our family.

Full trust didn't come for a long time. Jeanne had mortally wounded my trust in her, and we both knew it would take time and regular reassurance for it to heal. She made a number of gestures intended to foster that process. No more words were spoken of lost loves or might-have-beens. She burned her letters from him, and would have burned the journals if I hadn't stopped her, pointing out that they documented our lives as well as her weakness; that made them valuable enough to keep.

And, well, she did keep one of those promises about proving that she belonged to me. A collar made its way into our bedside drawer, one she'd wear for me when asked, or when she wanted to remind me of her self-assigned place. A variety of chokers entered her wardrobe and jewelry collection as well. She would look at me as she touched them, quirking an eyebrow up or biting her lip when no one else was watching; we left a few social engagements early as a result. Did it build trust? Not exactly. Were they anything more than a fun bit of kink that we used to rebuild our intimacy? No, not really. But did they make me want to reinforce the notion that she was mine? Vigorously.

We rolled along like that until about eight months after the news of her former paramour's death threw our lives into chaos. Things got better. Not perfect, but they weren't perfect before. Too many lies lay between us back then for perfection. But better, and not just better than our low point, but better than our high point, too. In every way, she showed me that she loved me, cherished me, cared for me. I began to believe that I really was first in her heart, even if it had been a long time coming. But a little voice quietly nagged, constantly holding me back: 'You're only first because he's dead.'

We talked about that, talked around and over and under it. Talked about it until we were blue in the face. She had no way to convince me that it wasn't true. James' death undid us, but we had rebuilt as best we could. With his demise, though, she couldn't prove to me that my first-place status didn't come with a big fat asterisk next to it.

Until a specter from the past visited us.

It came on an afternoon when I worked from home. Jeanne and I both enjoyed those days, especially during the school year; I might have not gotten as much work done, but my morale skyrocketed. We'd had lunch an hour earlier, and I was trying to wrap up a project so that we could spend a little time together before she needed to pick up the kids.

The doorbell rang; not an uncommon experience, especially given the number of deliveries we received. The scream that came when Jeanne opened the door, though, was wholly outside the norm.

I almost knocked my chair over as I leapt from it, nearly broke a hall table as I skidded around a corner. When I cleared that turn, though, I found myself wishing I had slowed down. There, in the flesh, stood my nemesis, the little big man that had tried to steal my wife. That had, if only in spirit.

He had been stepping forward, arms wide and ready to embrace Jeanne, when I entered his field of view. She stood stock still, not responding. I couldn't see her face, but I could only imagine the thoughts flitting through her brain right then. Imagine, and fear. Did her love for me still hold now that it could finally be put to the test?

He saw me and smirked. "Hey, Slim. How's it hanging?"

"Get the fuck out of my house." Not my voice, although they would have been my words. Jeanne had spoken, the cold fury in her tone doing much to erase my fears. "Get the fuck out of my life, James."

He smiled at her with the unctuous, condescending grin one might see on a used car salesman. "C'mon, Jeannie! Don't you want to know where I've been? I'm sorry for scaring you, but I had to fake my death. There was this whole thing with a cartel down in--"

"GET OUT!" She screamed this time, and his smile faded. Faded, then turned to something else entirely. Something malevolent.

"You don't talk to me like that." She took a step back, but he grabbed her arm. "You're mine, Jeanne. I ain't spent the last eight months--" I was already in motion, but she had slapped him before I could reach them.

The rage in his eyes frightened me. He looked like a berserker of old, the madmen that the Vikings sent first into battle to do as much damage as possible, regardless of the consequences. He drew back his other hand as she struggled to get away; I don't know if he planned to slap her or punch her. Either way, I didn't give him the chance.

I'm not a fighter. I'm not built like one, I have no training, and I don't have the instincts for it. But no one was going to strike the love of my life while I could draw breath. No, I wasn't a fighter. But I could still make a fist.

It slammed into the side of his head, distracting him. That's all it was: a distraction. My hand felt like it was on fire, like I'd punched a solid block of steel. A crunch sounded, but it didn't come from his skull.

James sneered at me, releasing Jeanne from his grasp and turning his attention towards me. "Oh, looks like hubby finally got himself some balls." He reached back, telegraphing a slap, a strike intended to demean as much as hurt. I blocked it with my good hand, but it felt like I'd deflected a baseball bat. The decade since I'd last seen him had done nothing but add more muscle to his bulldog frame. I retreated as he advanced, trying to find a way to even the odds.

"She's mine, bub. She might be confused right now, but once you're out of the way, she'll come around. Your kids'll be calling me Daddy within a week." An evil gleam twinkled in his eye. "She'll be calling me Daddy a lot sooner than that." One hand disappeared into his jacket, then emerged clutching a long, thin object. With a quick movement of his thumb and a soft snikt, the folding knife's blade unfurled.

"Jeanne, run!" She darted away from him; I had hoped she'd run through the door, but she didn't. Instead, she ran back towards our room, and my heart sank. She needed to get away. I needed her to get away. This maniac couldn't have her, couldn't have my kids. I might not be able to stop him, but I'd die trying. 'Almost certainly,' I thought grimly.

Luck was on my side in one way: James was a cruel man. I don't know if he had always been, or if his travels had made him that way. Probably some of both. But, as cruel men are wont to do, he enjoyed tormenting his prey before dispatching it. The first few swipes were meant to scare me. They did, but they also gave me time to retreat further, drawing him towards the kitchen and giving my wife a clear path to the door if she returned. Giving me a means to fight back.

He realized why I'd led him into the kitchen and laughed, gesturing with his blade at the counter. "Gonna get your own knife? Bet mine's bigger. Jeanne said it was." I frowned at the taunt, drawing a gratingly loud laugh from him. He stepped back a full step, weapon going behind his back in a faux-magnanimous gesture. "Go ahead. You're still gonna die here."

He was right. I was sure of it. But Jeanne might get away. That's all I cared about, that she get away and keep our kids safe. I would sacrifice my life for her, for them, and I would do it willingly.

I pulled the butcher and carving knives from the block, and he laughed even harder. "Amateur." Then he lunged forwards, feinting a strike to draw me out. It worked. I felt a searing pain along one rib as he drew the serrated blade across my side. He could have killed me then, but he didn't. Cruel, like I said. Stupid, too.

The sole advantage I had was reach. He drew back after striking, but it didn't matter; he stayed within the arc of my arms, and I punished him for his arrogance. My sloppy, artless stab drove the tip of the butcher's knife into his bicep before he could dance away. His narrowed eyes didn't match the insouciant grin on his face. I'd hurt him. Not badly, but I had. I watched the wheels spin as he upgraded me from 'prey' to 'threat.'

A burst of motion followed this change in status. That damned blade was everywhere, driving me back further and further. He had me cornered, and the knives I'd grasped hoping they'd even the odds proved worse than useless. I didn't know how to fight, much less fight with a knife. Only my luck and his arrogance had let me get in the single shot that connected, while I felt the sting of multiple small slices and pricks.

I was going to die. It was only a matter of when, not if. And so, I did the only thing I could, the sole thing that would buy my love more time, wherever she was. "She hates you now."

James stopped, perplexed. "What?"

"Jeanne knows what a worthless shitstain of a man you are. She'll never love you. She's mine forever, and even if you murder me, you'll never change that."

He cocked his head, then chortled as he raised the knife. "You'll be dead. That's good enough. You stole her from me, so I'll kill you. I've already faked my death once, and I can do it again. You know, right after I remind her what she's going to be missing out on."

"James." Jeanne's voice halted his step towards me. I looked past him, and he shot a glance over his shoulder. My wife stood there, staring at him as if trying to kill the bastard with her mind. If that didn't do it, though, I felt certain the goddamned hand cannon she aimed at him would manage. "Get away from my husband."

His attention had split, but not enough to make me confident I could stab him before he'd gut me. And I don't think either of us was certain that Jeanne would shoot him. Hell, I didn't even know if the gun--a present from her father--would fire. It had stayed in a box on the top shelf of our closet since he'd given it to her years before. But I took the chance that he'd focus on her rather than chase me and moved a few steps away, out of the potential line of fire.

"C'mon, babe. You ain't gonna do it." James turned his back fully on me, and I placed the knives as quietly as I could on the counter, casting my eyes about for something a little more in my wheelhouse. He moved towards her, speaking to her like one would a wounded animal. "You can't. You know that. I love you, and I know you love me. I--"

CLICK

Jeanne pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. We all froze for half a breath, then the kitchen erupted into chaos. She frantically looked at the gun, trying to deduce why it had only produced a tiny noise rather than the expected explosion of violence. He snarled and shouted, "I'll fucking kill you, bitch!" as he lunged forwards. And I found the handle of my new instrument of violence.

I had reach on him, but along with that, I had speed. Longer legs, a lighter frame, a runner's training, and a velocity born of primal fear rather than entitled indignation meant I reached my former rival before he reached her. That same primal fear granted strength as much as it had speed; the flat black surface of a cast-iron pan against the monster's skull channeled it wonderfully. A loud CLANG rang out, accompanied by an enraged, pained shout. And still, the son of a bitch didn't go down.

James turned towards me, murder in his eyes, bellowing with fury. The knife came up, but too slow. I might not have been a fighter, no; but I was a hell of a tennis player. The skillet's edge caught his chin on the backswing, staggering him again. Dazed but not out, he took one staggering step towards me. I reared back for another swing, not certain whether he or I would strike first, but then a blur of red appeared out of the corner of my eye.

Jeanne had apparently given up on the hows and whys of her weapon's misfire, instead turning the modern marvel of engineering into a stone age throwback. The butt of the pistol caught her former lover across the face. I don't know if the force of the blow, the shock of her raising a hand to him, or the accumulated damage finally did it, but he wobbled like a punchdrunk boxer, staggered a few steps, tripped, and landed on our kitchen table, reducing it to kindling.