She's Gotta Be Mine by Jasmine Haynes, Jennifer Skully Page B

hometown, call it atonement, whatever, with Jimbo’s new minimall doing all the sucking of Cottonmouth’s lifeblood, Nick would keep his commerce inside the city limits. The ball cock would suffice for today.
     
    * * * * *
     
    I just want to die .
    Her muscles had tightened into painful, immovable masses. It would take a team of masseurs to untangle all the knots. Her whole body seemed encased in concrete. Her hands had gone numb.
    Like those lonely nights she’d lain next to Warren, silently begging, please, please touch me , until the cadence of his breath roughened into sleep. But she’d never lost hope. Not until the day he told her he wasn’t coming back. How could Warren do that?
    Because he was...an asshole. There, she’d said it. Or at least thought it. Her stomach knots lessened a smidgen. The man was an asshole, and he didn’t deserve her pain or grief.
    Yet it hurt just the same. She missed the good years she and Warren had. He had wanted her in the beginning. She was sure of it. He’d surprised her with weekend getaways. Once he’d even closed the garage door and made love to her on the hood of his car. And boy, that man could make her laugh, or make her cry as they watched a sentimental movie together. When had they stopped doing those things? Had he faked it all, the laughter, the fun, the desire? Depression hadn’t been part of the lexicon then. Or had she not seen it?
    All her triumphs of the day—her new job, the male population’s adulation of her Bobbie-self, and the generous tips—were stolen by Warren.
    The spineless jerk had left her for a woman who hadn’t even ditched her own husband yet. What’s up with that? Who did Cookie think she was? To steal Roberta’s husband without taking a loss of her own? That sucked.
    It wasn’t fair.
    She’d finally have to admit it, even if only to herself and within the four walls of Mrs. Porter’s house, the Cookie Monster frightened her. She’d changed her life, changed her name, moved to Cottonmouth, all for nothing.
    As she lay on the bed, concentrating on each breath and trying to ignore the butterflies wreaking havoc with her stomach, an ingenious insight flashed across her mind. Seeing Warren, she’d reverted to Roberta. Roberta was afraid of the Cookie Monster.
    But Bobbie wouldn’t let this minor setback get in her way. Bobbie had slammed Warren mercilessly. Bobbie had lied about the BMW and the Austin—she’d eventually tell him the truth—and given him an anxiety attack. People had noticed Bobbie and liked her. She wasn’t going to let Cookie and Warren take that away from her.
    For their entire married life, she’d let Warren make all the choices. What job she took, what promotion, when they made love—which meant never—whether they had children. God, she’d given up children for him. He’d kept putting it off, saying they should wait. She’d meekly agreed, then finally stopped asking. And now it was too late. She’d given up the chance to have children because he hadn’t wanted them. She’d let him make that decision, too. She’d let him make all the decisions, whether she agreed in her heart of hearts or not.
    Now he’d made the final choice to divorce her.
    And that was the last decision she’d ever allow him to make for her. If she just laid here on this bed feeling sorry for herself, or worse yet, if she’d stayed in San Francisco and kept the job Warren thought was best for her, lived the life he thought she should, she’d be Robert Jones Spivey for the rest of her life. She’d be Spineless Spivey.
    She’d rather die at the hands of the serial killer.
    The moment screamed for action. Something momentous, something Roberta would never do.
    Five minutes later, teeth brushed and lips freshened with her new bubblegum gloss, Bobbie knocked on Nick’s door.
    It took him forever to answer. And when he did, he glowered down at her with a formidable look exactly like a...well, like a serial killer.
    A lock of hair