Marital Bitch (Men with Badges) - By Jc Emery Page 0,68

out—anyone who kidnaps me is in for an ordeal. He is entirely convinced that my abductor would return me within the hour.

I swipe my I.D. badge to unlock the door, and then walk out. He doesn't smile at me, he just places his hand on my lower back and escorts me to the truck. This is the most contact we've had in over a week.

It's Friday now, and he's come to pick me up all week since I've been putting in fifteen-hour days: getting off usually no earlier than 9 p.m. Monday and Tuesday nights he didn't look at me, either, nor did he place his hand on my back. It was the same with Wednesday, but at least then he opened the door to the truck for me. Thursday night he gave me a sad smile. Tonight, I don't even get that; and I don't even know what I did that was so awful to deserve any of it. All I know is that he's angry with me; but he won't talk about it, and by Tuesday I was tired of pressing him to open up.

Brad normally has no issue telling me what I've done to piss him off, but this silent treatment is faintly reminiscent of The Heather Incident and that scares me. Deep down I had a feeling he would never truly get over that, and maybe he never will.

The whole thing used to make me a little sad. It's been years and he has yet to really move on from it. I used to wish that he could just get over it and we could erase the whole incident from memory. But I get it now. If I saw him with someone else, I'd lose it, too. He really loved Heather and I messed that up for him.

A tear slips from my eye and I try to wipe it away without notice. He scoffs. I look over to him and he's shaking his head. "What the fuck are you crying for?" His lack of sympathy or even general regard for my emotional well-being sends me over the edge and I break out in a full cry. "Crap," he grumbles.

"I'm sorry," I say. Since he's barely speaking to me, I decide to take the floor. "I'm so sorry about the whole Heather thing. I am! I am!" I sob, turning into a blubbering mess. I don’t even know where this is coming from.

"Don't!" he shouts, startling me. "Don't you fucking go there!" He grips the steering wheel tightly, his face reddening. I ignore him and continue. Fighting with Brad is far better than being ignored by Brad.

"I know I can't take it back and I'm sorry for that! I have no excuse!" I scream. "But at some point you have to forgive me or not. There can't be an in-between anymore." I cover my face with my hands.

"You? You!" He barks an angry laugh. "You have no clue how shitty it is to follow you around like a lost fucking puppy, just waiting to be pet and then shoved aside when something else interests you!" My stomach churns at his words. One moment, I feel a little light headed and the next I can feel my dinner making its way up.

"Stop the car!" I panic as the intensity of my queasiness skyrockets.

"She's not a car, Colleen," he chastises, not even looking away from the road.

"Stop the damn truck!" I yell, my arms stretched out before me on the dash. Still he doesn't look over.

"Why!" he snaps, "for what goddamn reason should I stop the truck?"

My line of vision goes fuzzy and I can't make out the road in front of us. I dry heave once and my stomach calms. But the peace doesn't last. I take two deep breaths and then expel my dinner onto the floorboard.

"Oh, shit," Brad says, startled. He slowly pulls over and puts the truck in park. "Baby, are you going to get sick again?" he holds my hair back away from my face. His free hand is rubbing my back in the most soothing manner. I shake my head.

"I told you to stop the truck, you imbecile," I groan and wipe my mouth. This is so disgusting.

“I wish I had listened to you. Poor Sweetness,” he says. Sweetness? Poor Sweetness? Seriously? Even the truck gets more sympathy than I do. And only Brad would name his damn truck Sweetness. Really? I kick the floorboard and find myself disgusted when my own throw