The midnight air was biting; it was sharp and cold as he drew his breath in, letting it out again in a gusty sigh. He collapsed against the car, a 1985 dark blue Cressida that gleamed against the blackness of the sky behind it.
Taking another deep breath, the icy tingles in his lungs somehow calming, he opened the door and slung himself into the driver’s seat. He closed his eyes, allowing his head to fall against the seat, and he relaxed. His heart beat slowed.
“You’re out of shape, Dominic,” he said to no one, his eyes still closed.
Snapping his head up, he sighed again and turned the key in the ignition.
“Sleep later,” he muttered.
He drove in silence for as long as he could stand it, maybe ten miles. Maybe fifteen. He wasn’t sure. He pressed the radio button, hoping for something from the vast expanse of nothingness beyond him. He didn’t know if he’d get radio reception here, but he needed more than the hum of the tires beneath him.
AM sixty-three was playing country music. That would do. It was better than the loud emptiness of the car screaming at him. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was a quarter of one. Sheila liked him to be home by two o’clock on his nights out. She didn’t mind if he played pool until the bar lights came on, but it was understood she wanted him home right after. There were too many pretty women in tight t-shirts and jeans who might be interested in a ride home, and Sheila didn’t want them getting their rides from Dominic.
He gave a rueful smile. If only Sheila knew the number of times he’d heard offers from those pretty women. He’d buy them a drink, maybe two, maybe a few games of pool. He’d listen to them talk, and he’d let them curl a hand on his shoulder while they pretended to watch him shoot a game. He’d hold a gaze or two, letting them think they saw promise in his eyes as they lowered their lashes, thick with mascara, in mock coy glances.
Dominic liked to flirt.
He was tempted once in a while, and sometimes he’d have to excuse himself to the bar for a bourbon, letting the smooth oak taste squelch the urge to slide his arms around a slender waist and accept what was being offered. He wasn’t a man to cheat on his wife. Those were urges to fight.
Now he fought the urge to close his eyes again. He cracked the window of the Cressida, wanting to feel again the surge of the chill night breeze.
It didn’t matter anymore. As the miles sped underneath his tires and behind him, his mind eased. It didn’t matter if he arrived home at two o’clock, three, four, or five. It didn’t matter if the faint aroma of Obsession clung to his hair or his shirt, and it didn’t matter if a dab of coral pink sullied the cuff of his shirt.
It wouldn’t matter if he came home early again. Sheila’s wide blue eyes, half-hidden by a wall of pale blonde hair, would no longer tell him he wasn’t expected; her lusty gasps would no longer tell him he wasn’t wanted.
The pungent tang of the fresh earth was all that perfumed him now, the damp bits molded into the tread of his shoes, dark strips outlining the edges of his fingernails. Soon, even those traces would be gone, the shoes rinsed in the icy water of the tap on the porch, and the fingernails raked through thick black hair under the spray of an extra hot shower.
Tonight, Dominic would have the king-sized bed to himself.
