From that point on, he became obsessed with her climaxing, rating every encounter not by his satisfaction, not even by their mutual satisfaction, but by hers alone. When it was good—like today—the high would last him for months. When it wasn’t good, he became angry and sullen, berating her and himself for what had gone wrong, analyzing it ad nauseam. No amount of reassurance would change his brooding state. He had failed, and though she was quick to take the blame, it didn’t help. He’d castigate himself, causing nothing but misery for both of them.

Once she tried to fake it just to please him, and that had made him even angrier, the fire so encompassing that he had lashed out at her in a blinding rage, a heartbeat short of hitting her. But he was better than his old man was because he knew how to control it, although she didn’t know that. The pure fear on her face had haunted him for weeks. Still, in the end, it was worth it. She had learned her lesson and had never tried to deceive him again.

He knew he was making her nervous, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had this self-imposed obligation to satisfy her sexually, to sate her with his cock, and anything less than an orgasm meant he was less of a man.

Today had been a success.

Even in excruciating pain, even with the fever and the dehydration, he had managed to bring her to orgasm two out of three times. He would have gone for the perfect record, but she claimed she was sore because it was right before her period or something ludicrous like that. He didn’t challenge her because he was wiped out, glad to have an excuse even if it was a lame one. Afterward, he sat while she bathed, watching beads of water fall off her breasts, roll over her flat stomach. He thought about asking her to spend the night, but didn’t. Although she’d never refuse him, it wouldn’t have been what she wanted.

What she wanted was to get back to the kid.

It was all about the kid.

Which, in general, was okay. He was glad that she was a good mother. But sometimes it did piss him off.

Now she was gone, and he was in agony. He felt as mean as a tethered dog. Once she had loved him totally, had been willing to risk everything to follow him across the country with no promises in return. Then Decker came along and all that changed.

He took a small sip of scotch from the bottle.

It’s not that she wouldn’t have found out. Of course, she would have found out. He had just wanted it on his timetable, after he had dug a hole for her that was way too deep for her to climb out of.

Decker.

Goddamnmotherfuckingsonofabitch.

After she had dumped him, he had been consumed with thoughts of revenge against her. He had wanted to pop her but held off because he wanted to do it with style. So he kept his watch, witnessing her steady decline into a deep abyss of debt, looking on as she exhausted all of her possibilities with no one around to bail her out. When she had neared rock bottom, he came to her in the dead of winter, into her shitty jail cell of a tenement—a one-room number with just a toilet and a sink—no shower—and a hot plate for cooking. Around nine in the evening, as he remembered it. The kid had been around three, asleep on the couch, and swaddled in covers. A twin mattress lay on the cement floor.