She fell hard for Scott, changed her life to have him for her husband by moving to Sedona after a romantic two-month courtship, abruptly ending her newspaper career at the Los Angeles Times. But soon after the marriage, after the initial euphoria, she realized she made a disastrous mistake.
The adoring, fondling lover who publicly kissed her passionately on the mouth was often impotent as his drinking escalated. And with the drinking came the violence--from a sharp punch to her arm, to the attack the night she left him.
The longer she was married to Scott, the more she realized what a bastard he was, particularly in his attitude toward her. Scott knew how to make Kathleen feel like a married whore, doling out money when the mood struck him. If she did a particularly good job hosting one of his political dinner parties, Scott would leave several hundred dollars next to her bedside table just as if she’d favored him sexually.
When he first did it, about a year after their marriage, she was puzzled, and asked him if he put the money on the table by accident.
He smiled his dazzling smile. “No, it’s for you. You did a nice job handling those political assholes from the county. They think they can sweet talk me out of pushing for Sedona becoming a city. It may take a few more years, but I’ll make sure it happens.”
“I did a nice job? Why are you giving me money when all I did was act like your wife?” There was anger in her voice.
“It’s insurance, baby, insurance. Just to make sure you stay on my side.” He pulled her to him, kissed her hard, fondling her breast.
Kathleen crumpled the money in her fist. “Honest to God, Scott! Sometimes you’re such a son of a bitch. I don’t want your goddamn money anyway. Not like that! Not like I’m some whore. I’m your wife, remember?”
He shrugged his shoulders as if he did not understand her anger. “Do as you please. If you like, I’ll give the money instead to Jessica or Natalie.”
Scott knew that would raise Kathleen’s anger to a fevered pitch. Instead, Kathleen placed the crumpled money on Scott’s dresser.
“If you want to treat your daughters like the whores they are, that’s your business,” was her even-voiced response.
Scott’s smile never changed, but he grabbed her by the elbow and squeezed hard, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.
“My daughters know how to fuck for pleasure and for profit. don’t think you know how to do either, Kathleen. That’s what comes from being too good a Catholic.” He laughed. It was a nasty sound, humiliating her.
Kathleen yanked her arm from him and he walked into the other room to get his usual nightcap from the bar. She went into the kitchen and put an ice pack on her elbow, knowing she would have to wear long sleeves for two weeks to cover the bruise.
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