Underestimated Too(2)By: Jettie Woodruff
“Oh god, yes. Hmmm, right there, Drew,” I moaned, dropping my head, spiraling out of control at the twisted hands of my husband.
“Turn around,” Drew rasped in a husky tone, the husky tone that drove me crazy.
Falling to my knees, I waited for the condom to come off and parted my lips. Drew moaned, coating my lips with his come. “Hmmm fuck, Morgan. Yeah, baby, swallow me. Hmmm, that’s it,” he hissed, sliding to the back of my throat.
Sucking him clean, I looked up to his half smile and sad eyes. Sometimes I wished he’d just talk to me; tell me what was on his mind. He wouldn’t. I’d tried too many times, always getting the same response. It was his job to take care of me and Nicky, and I didn’t need to worry about him.
“Drew, don’t. I’m fine,” I said, looking up as Drew brushed the palm of his thumb across my bruising cheek.
“Goddamnit, Morgan. Come here.”
I stood, wrapping my arms around his neck. He pulled me close, burying his face in my hair.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.”
“I’m fine. Stop. Let’s go see your son. We were standing at the window waiting when you came home.”
“I thought you said he was napping.”
Shit. I hated it when I made him feel guilty. It never helped a thing. It always made it worse. I turned away from him without answering, retrieved my clothes, and dressed while he stared at me.
“You sent him upstairs when you saw me arguing with Celeste, didn’t you?”
“You weren’t arguing with Celeste. You need to call and apologize to her.”
Drew sat on the brown leather sofa and disgustedly ran his fingers through his hair. I placed my hand over his and begged him to let it go. It’s what I did. I don’t want to make it sound like this was normal, or our routine or anything. It wasn’t. Most of the time Drew came home happy, missing me and Nicky. The times that Drew lost money on a sale, or when business was down, or something happened at work that upset him were the times things ended like this.
Whatever. It was over. He’d be sorry and be the best husband and father a woman could ask for—until the next time anyway.
“Go see Nicky. I’ll be up in a minute.”
I jumped when Drew stood and put his fist through the wall, literally through the wall. “You’ll be up in a minute because you need to go get ice, right?”
“Drew. Damn it. Will you stop? Let it go. Please,” I begged, exasperated. This was the worst part of his temper. I would rather deal with the temper than the guilt that followed it.
“I’m sorry, Morgan. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not mad at you. I’m fine. I forgive you. It’s Friday, you have two days of no work, just me and your spoiled little boy.”
“He is not spoiled.”
I breathed a sigh of relief at the smile on his face. “He is so spoiled. He thinks you have to be with him every second. As soon as I walk out of the room, he screams.”
“He just doesn’t want you to leave him. I don’t want you to leave me either,” Drew sadly spoke, kissing my bruised cheek.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”
Drew went up to see Nicholas, and I walked to the kitchen for an icepack. I could already feel it swelling and could see the puffiness below my eye.
“Don’t Marta. It’s none of your business,” I said, turning to see the look on Marta’s face; it was telling me how stupid I was. Maybe I was. I don’t know, regardless it was none of her business.
“I’m not saying a word. I don’t need to. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“You do know that Drew hears everything you say. He can rewind every camera in this house,” I warned.
Marta shrugged her shoulders and took the icepack from me. “Is he going to fire me for sticking up for you? Telling you how you deserve better? Is that what you’re afraid of?” she asked, placing the blue gel over my eye.
“Marta, please don’t do this. This has nothing to do with you.”
“This is the second time this month, Morgan. That’s two too many for me. I’m not sure I can sit around here and watch this escalate. Is this how you want Nicholas to see you?”
“Marta. You’re out of line. It’s none of your business.”
Marta nodded, smiled a weak smile, and turned to prepare our dinner. I walked away. Was she right? Did I really want my baby to see this? Walking into the bathroom, I shook my head at my reflection. I had a black eye—again. Marta was right. This was twice in one month. Was it always going to be this way? No, no it wouldn’t. We were going to counseling. We’d get through this. We had to.