T he Seattle Seahawks bobblehead had come with the office. Ethan was tempted to throw the ugly thing out just to piss everyone off. All five of Sheila’s teaching assistants shared this office, all with different hours, and sticking Post-it notes on Sonny (as the stupid toy was affectionately nicknamed) was someone’s fun idea for keeping the TAs posted on important matters.
Currently Sonny was asking Sheila’s assistants for twenty bucks to put toward her wedding gift. Valerie Kim was planning to purchase a set of wineglasses from Williams-Sonoma. Fancy schmancy. So far Ethan hadn’t contributed anything-and had no plans to.
There wasn’t going to be a wedding; he’d made up his mind. Her text message telling him to go fuck himself had been the nail in her coffin.
It had been fun for a while, watching her squirm. The picture he’d sent her had given him great leverage for the past couple of weeks. She’d been handling all his e-mails and taking his student calls, but he couldn’t play that card forever. Sooner or later she’d realize there really was no video, and she’d allow herself to be happy.
And that was unacceptable.
The question was, just how much damage could he do? Should he go right for the jugular? Or find some other way to torment her until she cracked?
Voices drifted in from the hallway and Ethan straightened up. Through the open doorway he could see Sheila in her red Donna Karan suit as she passed, animated, chatting with another professor. No pause, not even an apprehensive glance into his office even though she knew he’d still be there.
The only thing worse than being insulted was being ignored.
Ethan waited sixty seconds, mentally picturing the length of time it would take for her to catch the elevator to the first floor. Then he bolted out of his chair and followed suit.
He made it to the parking lot in time to see Sheila drive away in her white Volvo sedan. He was on his Triumph ten seconds later.
It was barely 6:00 p.m. but the skies were already darkening, the road slick with the light rain that seemed to torture Seattleites from September to June every year. Motorcycles on wet roads were never a great idea, but Ethan wasn’t planning to do anything stupid. He was getting pretty good at tailing her. Making sure to stay a few cars back, he kept one eye on Sheila’s car and the other on the vehicles around him. Traffic on I-5 South was bumper-to-bumper, something he’d normally weave around, but he couldn’t if he wanted to keep pace with Sheila.
He’d been following her a lot the last couple of weeks. One never knew what information might be useful. Besides, everybody had secrets. If he was going to ruin her life, it would help to know everything about it first.
A little over an hour later, in a city called Renton, Ethan parked at the curb outside the Front Street Methodist Church. Sheila’s car was parked in the lot. She had entered the church through a side door a few minutes before, and Ethan, still in his helmet, was frowning, trying to figure out why the hell she was here. She wasn’t religious. If she’d suddenly found God, it was news to him.
Over the next few minutes, he watched as more cars pulled into the parking lot. Adults of all ages, races, and attire entered the church the same way Sheila had, through the side door rather than the front entrance. Ethan checked his watch. Were there normally church services at seven fifteen on a Thursday night? Wasn’t that a Sunday thing?
Ethan had never been to church, so he didn’t know. But even in his limited experience, something seemed off.
If this was a regular church thing, or maybe an evening wedding or memorial service of some kind, why weren’t people entering the church through the front door? And why weren’t people in pairs? Most people didn’t go to church alone, right?
He finally locked his bike and headed toward the side entrance, keeping his helmet on. He didn’t think this would seem weird since it was raining and the lower half of his face was completely exposed anyway. The door was sticky and it took a good yank to get it open. Stepping into a small landing, he had the choice of taking the stairs up or down, or he could walk straight through. A glass door was six feet away, leading to what he assumed was the main area of the church.
He wasn’t sure which way to go.
He peered at a bulletin board to his left, hoping it would tell him what was going on here tonight. Scores of notices on colored paper were stapled to the corkboard-bake sales, yard sales, Sunday-school updates, walking and exercise groups, offers for free Avon makeovers. He squinted to read them through his tinted visor, his scalp beginning to feel hot under the helmet.
The door in front of him swung open and a man with red hair and a wiry, ginger beard stepped through. He passed Ethan, eyeing him curiously as he headed toward the stairs leading to the basement. About two steps down he stopped and turned around.
“Are you looking for the SAA meeting?”
“Uh, yes, I am,” Ethan answered quickly. Essay meeting? What the fuck’s that?
The man sighed and shook his head. “They don’t post it on the bulletin board. It’s such crap. The church lets us use the room in the basement, and we pay a fee to use it, but they refuse to let us post even a small notice, which would clearly”-he gestured dramatically to Ethan-“help new members like yourself figure out where to go. And yet they have no problem advertising the AA and NA meetings that go on here three times a week, each. But sex addicts? Forget it. We only get the room once a week, no bulletin board, and we’re supposed to be grateful.” The man pursed his lips. “Sorry, didn’t mean to rant. It just irritates me. The meeting room’s downstairs and we start in ten minutes. I’m Dennis if you have any questions.”
Sex addicts? This was Sex Addicts Anonymous?
“Thank you.” Ethan’s mind reeled. “I’ll be right there. I just need to use the restroom first. Say, Dennis?”
The man glanced at him.
Ethan cleared his throat. “Do you guys hire professional therapists or psychologists to do some sort of counseling at these meetings?”
Dennis looked confused. “Of course not. It’s a twelve-step program like any other. Addicts helping addicts. Why?”
Ethan grinned under his visor. “Just wondering. First time and all.”
Dennis returned the smile. “You should know that today’s the first day of the rest of your life. You took an important step by coming here tonight, and you should be proud of yourself. See you inside.”
Ethan waited until Dennis was out of sight, then exited the church. He could barely contain his exhilaration as he headed back toward his bike.
The infallible Sheila Tao was a sex addict.
He wondered if Sheila’s fiancé knew and thought there was a helluva good chance the big Texan might just be as clueless as Ethan had been five minutes ago.
It was too delicious for words.
Abby looked up from her station at St. Mary’s Helping Hands. The brown hairnet might have looked ugly on anyone else, but she still managed to look gorgeous. Large blue-violet eyes searched Ethan’s face.
“Where have you been?”
He stiffened at her tone. Her voice was reproachful so he didn’t respond, just watched as she dropped a helping of mashed potatoes onto the plate in front of her. The recipient, an older woman with two missing teeth, smiled and moved on to the next station.
“You totally blew off tonight’s shift,” Abby said, wiping a drop of rehydrated potato from the side of the large tin. “We’ve been really swamped and Maxine’s pissed you didn’t call in. I didn’t know what to tell her.” Maxine was the head volunteer, in charge of scheduling.
“I’m sorry.” Ethan touched Abby’s arm. “My cell phone died. I had a last-minute meeting that took longer than expected.”
“With Dr. Tao?” Abby’s gaze was cool.
Ethan blinked. “No, with a student. A guy named Dennis.” The lie rolled off his tongue.
Abby turned back to her mashed potatoes.
Ethan couldn’t read her body language and a ripple of fear went through him. “Is there anything you need me to do now?”
“Start cleanup.” His girlfriend’s voice was clipped. “Or wait for me outside. Or go home. I don’t care.”
He touched her arm again. “You’re that mad at me?”
She shrugged off his hand. “We’ll talk later.”
He was dismissed. Chastised, he slunk into the kitchen, where another volunteer named Horace was loading the dishwasher.
“Look who decided to show up.” Horace grunted, his pockmarked face shiny under the harsh kitchen lights. “We have a schedule for a reason, rock star.” Horace jerked his head in the direction of three black garbage bags piled in the corner, bursting at the seams. “Take those out for me. Least you could do.”
Ethan’s skin immediately itched at the thought of touching garbage, but he managed a weak smile. “Sure thing, H.”
He grabbed two of the bags, his nose wrinkling at the smell. Pushing open the back door with his hip, he stepped out into the alleyway where the large metal trash bin sat. It was already overflowing with garbage, but he heaved the bags up and into the bin anyway.
One missed. Swearing under his breath, he heaved it again.
The alleyway smelled like piss and shit. It made him think of Marie, the former beauty queen from Albuquerque turned meth addict and whore. He took out his small bottle of hand sanitizer from his jacket pocket and liberally doused his hands with the clear liquid, savoring the memories of the last time he’d seen her.
Marie. Who had twisted and writhed under him, helpless, while his hands were around her throat. Who had looked at him with terrified eyes, just as he liked it…
His groin twitched. Hands clean, he reached into his jeans to adjust himself, his fingers lingering down there a little longer than necessary. She never did get her hundred bucks. What for? Dead people don’t need money.
A voice spoke suddenly and Ethan jumped, his hand flying out of his pants.
“You a bad man,” the voice said softly, seeming to come from nowhere.
Ethan whipped around, almost dropping his hand sanitizer. The alleyway was completely dark. Only the spot he stood in was lit, thanks to the dim bulb above the soup kitchen’s back door.
“Who’s there?”
“You do bad things.” The voice was deep. It had to be a man’s. And he sounded forlorn, as if things weren’t strange enough. “Very bad things.”
Ethan’s heart thumped. He stepped away from the trash bin and closer to the door, his posture rigid.
Was it his imagination, or was the voice vaguely familiar?
“Who’s there?” Ethan hardened his voice. “Speak, motherfucker, before I call the cops.”
“Bad things happen to bad people,” the voice said, drifting away.
Ethan looked down the alleyway, first left, then right, but there was nothing but blackness.
Shaken, he pulled open the door to St. Mary’s and stepped inside quickly.
And came face-to-face with his very pissed-off girlfriend.