“My husband is a brute,” she said, her bubblegum sweet tongue tracing his ear. “Comes to bed smelling like a dog. Mounts me like a dog. So foul.” She rested her dainty foot high upon his thigh. Electric pink toenails. Certain folks held that while she might be too young for Cray, she was too old to dress as tartishly she did. Not including Gage, though. He burned for her, dressed, undressed. Her smile clobbered him. Her enfolding softness. “I’ll come into a lot of money when he’s gone,” she said the way an earnest politician recites a campaign promise, hand to heart. “Assuming I survive his bullshit. If he doesn’t get sick and blow his wad on dialysis or a home. Baby, those homes are… well, you wouldn’t believe how expensive. Seventy, eighty grand a year, easy.” Whispering with affected th
