their table.
Christina wrenched free of his grasp. “No.”
“Christina.” Jason’s voice dropped low into the danger zone.
He could shove it. She was about to tell him so when she felt pressure on her other elbow.
It was Pamela’s husband, Richard Lofting. “Let me give you a hand, Jason.” Richard was all smiles and smooth talk, but the grip he had on Christina’s elbow was a perfect match for the one Jason had on her other arm.
Tight, with not so much as an inch of wiggle room.
“I don’t need a hand,” Christina protested.
But it was no use.
They propelled her across the tent, directly to the exit.
“Sorry you’re not feeling well,” Richard said, loud enough to be heard by the hushed diners.
Christina was indignant. “I’m fine,” she slurred.
They were outside by then, at the valet line.
Two men sprang into action at Jason’s signal.“Thanks, Rich,” he muttered at his brother-in-law through clenched teeth. “I can take it from here.”
Richard Lofting kept his death grip on Christina’s arm. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” Jason squeezed her arm so tight it hurt. She would wake up with bruises the next day, four purple blobs marching up her arm that would take more than a week to fade.
Richard Lofting nodded, careful to avoid eye contact with Christina, before heading back inside. “Good night.”
Leaving Christina alone with her husband. “That was embarrassing.” She spat the words out, furious, and tried to wrench her arm free from Jason’s grasp.
He tightened his grip and lowered his face close to hers. “That,” he said in a voice ragged with anger, “was pure bullshit.”
The valet pretended not to hear, fiddling with the keys hanging from pegs on a wooden board.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Christina shouted, belligerent now. She tried to wrench free once more, but all she managed to do was yank herself around so she nearly lost her balance. A few strands of hair tore loose from the up-do she’d gotten that afternoon at the salon. “Especially now.”
“Shut up.” Jason scanned the drive for his BMW.
“Don’t you tell me to shut up.” Christina’s voice rose, loud enough to be heard back inside the dining tent.
It attracted the attention of the photographers drinking at a makeshift bar that had been set up near the catering generators.
“I know all about your fling with Lisa!” Christina shrieked.
Jason spun her around, bringing her face close to his, and for the first time in her marriage, Christina saw the depth of his anger and was afraid of what he might do.
In that moment, she knew he no longer had any love for her.
He clamped down on her arm so hard she gasped for breath. One silk strap of her dress slid off her shoulder, but she was helpless to do anything about it.
Jason held her in a vise grip. “Don’t you talk to me.” His voice shook with anger. “I’m finished with you.” To prove his point, he twisted her arm back until she felt a sizzling bolt of pain.
Christina cried out. They had never gotten physical. Not like this.
When she came across a photo on some stupid Hamptons’ party blog the next day, she realized this must have been the moment they had snapped her photo.
As it was, she never noticed the flash. She was too hurt, too angry. “Let me go.” She stared into her husband’s eyes with a determination that transcended all the wine she’d drunk. “Or I promise you’ll regret it.”
She had caught him off guard, she could tell by the way his eyes widened in surprise.
“You bitch,” he snapped. But he let go of her arm like it was a hot potato.
Looking back, Jason had been less drunk that night than Christina but probably too drunk to drive. Normally, Jason took advantage of the dessert hour at parties to sober up by downing a few espressos so he could drive.
As it was, she just wanted to get the hell out of there, and so did he.
The sports coupe peeled off into the night, spinning loose gravel in its
Christina wrenched free of his grasp. “No.”
“Christina.” Jason’s voice dropped low into the danger zone.
He could shove it. She was about to tell him so when she felt pressure on her other elbow.
It was Pamela’s husband, Richard Lofting. “Let me give you a hand, Jason.” Richard was all smiles and smooth talk, but the grip he had on Christina’s elbow was a perfect match for the one Jason had on her other arm.
Tight, with not so much as an inch of wiggle room.
“I don’t need a hand,” Christina protested.
But it was no use.
They propelled her across the tent, directly to the exit.
“Sorry you’re not feeling well,” Richard said, loud enough to be heard by the hushed diners.
Christina was indignant. “I’m fine,” she slurred.
They were outside by then, at the valet line.
Two men sprang into action at Jason’s signal.“Thanks, Rich,” he muttered at his brother-in-law through clenched teeth. “I can take it from here.”
Richard Lofting kept his death grip on Christina’s arm. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” Jason squeezed her arm so tight it hurt. She would wake up with bruises the next day, four purple blobs marching up her arm that would take more than a week to fade.
Richard Lofting nodded, careful to avoid eye contact with Christina, before heading back inside. “Good night.”
Leaving Christina alone with her husband. “That was embarrassing.” She spat the words out, furious, and tried to wrench her arm free from Jason’s grasp.
He tightened his grip and lowered his face close to hers. “That,” he said in a voice ragged with anger, “was pure bullshit.”
The valet pretended not to hear, fiddling with the keys hanging from pegs on a wooden board.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Christina shouted, belligerent now. She tried to wrench free once more, but all she managed to do was yank herself around so she nearly lost her balance. A few strands of hair tore loose from the up-do she’d gotten that afternoon at the salon. “Especially now.”
“Shut up.” Jason scanned the drive for his BMW.
“Don’t you tell me to shut up.” Christina’s voice rose, loud enough to be heard back inside the dining tent.
It attracted the attention of the photographers drinking at a makeshift bar that had been set up near the catering generators.
“I know all about your fling with Lisa!” Christina shrieked.
Jason spun her around, bringing her face close to his, and for the first time in her marriage, Christina saw the depth of his anger and was afraid of what he might do.
In that moment, she knew he no longer had any love for her.
He clamped down on her arm so hard she gasped for breath. One silk strap of her dress slid off her shoulder, but she was helpless to do anything about it.
Jason held her in a vise grip. “Don’t you talk to me.” His voice shook with anger. “I’m finished with you.” To prove his point, he twisted her arm back until she felt a sizzling bolt of pain.
Christina cried out. They had never gotten physical. Not like this.
When she came across a photo on some stupid Hamptons’ party blog the next day, she realized this must have been the moment they had snapped her photo.
As it was, she never noticed the flash. She was too hurt, too angry. “Let me go.” She stared into her husband’s eyes with a determination that transcended all the wine she’d drunk. “Or I promise you’ll regret it.”
She had caught him off guard, she could tell by the way his eyes widened in surprise.
“You bitch,” he snapped. But he let go of her arm like it was a hot potato.
Looking back, Jason had been less drunk that night than Christina but probably too drunk to drive. Normally, Jason took advantage of the dessert hour at parties to sober up by downing a few espressos so he could drive.
As it was, she just wanted to get the hell out of there, and so did he.
The sports coupe peeled off into the night, spinning loose gravel in its
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