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The Gate House :: Demille Nelson
Страница: 472 из 490My father fucked her, I’m gonna fuck her, and maybe we’ll let Tony fuck her later. Right?” He looked at me and said, “I don’t hear much coming out of your wise-ass mouth now, Counselor.”
He pulled the tape off Susan’s mouth. “What do you have to say, bitch?”
She took a deep breath between her sobs and said, “Please. Just do what you want and leave us alone.”
He laughed. “Yeah. I’m gonna do what I want all right.”
He threw his cigarette on the rug and ground it out with his heel. He asked me, “Why’d you slash my painting, John?”
I didn’t reply, and he said to Susan, “I liked that painting, and your husband here fucked it up. So you’re gonna paint me another one. And when you’re done, you and John are coming over to the house to give it to me and Megan. Right?”
Susan nodded. “All right.”
He smiled, then looked at me. “Okay, John? You and your wife come over for coffee. Just like the old days. And you sit there, like you did ten years ago when you knew my father was fucking your wife, except this time, it’s me who fucked your wife. And you won’t have shit to say about it.”
I nodded. It was possible, I thought, that we’d get out of this alive, and if I ever got close enough to Anthony Bellarosa to have coffee with him, then I would be close enough to put a knife in his heart.
He said, “And you’re both gonna be nice to my wife, and bring over a bottle of wine, and say, ‘This is a very nice house, Mrs. Bellarosa,’ and ‘Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. Bellarosa.’”
This was Anthony’s revenge fantasy, and he’d obviously thought about this for a long time, and he was going to draw it out, to taunt us, humiliate us, and do everything he could to make sure this stayed with us long past the time he walked out the door.
And then I thought of the other painting in his den – the Rape of the Sabine Women . And now I understood – or had I always understood? – why it was there, and why Susan’s painting was also in his den.
I realized, too, that this bastard was so sure of himself that he thought he could rape Susan and smirk about it every time he saw us. And I didn’t want him to think otherwise. I said, “Just don’t hurt her.”
He smiled at me and said, “I’m going to make her feel good . Like my father did.”
Susan said to him, “Please. Just do it and leave. We won’t say anything.”
“You’re fucking right you won’t say anything.
He pulled the tape off Susan’s mouth. “What do you have to say, bitch?”
She took a deep breath between her sobs and said, “Please. Just do what you want and leave us alone.”
He laughed. “Yeah. I’m gonna do what I want all right.”
He threw his cigarette on the rug and ground it out with his heel. He asked me, “Why’d you slash my painting, John?”
I didn’t reply, and he said to Susan, “I liked that painting, and your husband here fucked it up. So you’re gonna paint me another one. And when you’re done, you and John are coming over to the house to give it to me and Megan. Right?”
Susan nodded. “All right.”
He smiled, then looked at me. “Okay, John? You and your wife come over for coffee. Just like the old days. And you sit there, like you did ten years ago when you knew my father was fucking your wife, except this time, it’s me who fucked your wife. And you won’t have shit to say about it.”
I nodded. It was possible, I thought, that we’d get out of this alive, and if I ever got close enough to Anthony Bellarosa to have coffee with him, then I would be close enough to put a knife in his heart.
He said, “And you’re both gonna be nice to my wife, and bring over a bottle of wine, and say, ‘This is a very nice house, Mrs. Bellarosa,’ and ‘Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. Bellarosa.’”
This was Anthony’s revenge fantasy, and he’d obviously thought about this for a long time, and he was going to draw it out, to taunt us, humiliate us, and do everything he could to make sure this stayed with us long past the time he walked out the door.
And then I thought of the other painting in his den – the Rape of the Sabine Women . And now I understood – or had I always understood? – why it was there, and why Susan’s painting was also in his den.
I realized, too, that this bastard was so sure of himself that he thought he could rape Susan and smirk about it every time he saw us. And I didn’t want him to think otherwise. I said, “Just don’t hurt her.”
He smiled at me and said, “I’m going to make her feel good . Like my father did.”
Susan said to him, “Please. Just do it and leave. We won’t say anything.”
“You’re fucking right you won’t say anything.