"Bradley-WeLoveLydiaLove" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bradley Denton)

be something like "Lydia Performs Satanic Ritual to Bring Boy-Toy Back from
Beyond the Grave." I don't think she can handle that just yet.

But if I slip out by myself, I tell her, I'll be inconspicuous. Christopher
Jennings is an ordinary guy. Put him in his old jeans and pickup truck, and no
one would suspect that he's the man living with Lydia Love. I have the jeans,
and the pickup's still in Lydia's garage. So I can hit the Kerrville H.E.B.
supermarket and be back before the sweat from our last round of lovemaking has
dried. It makes perfect sense.

But Lydia shoves me away and gets out of bed. She stands over me wild-eyed, her
neck and arm muscles popped out hard as marble.

"You just got back, and now you want to leave?" Her voice is like the cry of a
hawk. She is enraged, and I'm stunned. This has come on like storm clouds on
fast-forward.

She's waiting for an answer, so I listen for a prompt from the Christopher chip.
But there isn't one.

"Just for groceries," I say. My voice is limp.

Lydia spins away. She goes to her mahogany dresser, pulls it out from the wall,
and shoves it over. The crash makes me jump. Then she flings a crystal vase
against the wall. Her hair whips like fire in a tornado. All the while she
rants, "I thought you were dead, and you're going out to die again. I thought
you were dead, and you're going out to die again. I thought --"

I start up from the bed. I want to grab her and hold her before she hurts
herself. She's naked, and there are slivers of crystal sticking up from the
thick gray carpet.

Stay put. We never try to stop her.

But she already has a cut on her arm. It's small, but there's some blood --

She always quits before she does serious damage. So let her throw her tantrum.
It's a turn-on for her. She expects it to have the same effect on us.

Lydia looks down and sees herself in the dresser mirror on the floor. She
screams and stamps her feet on it. The mirror doesn't crack, but she's still
stamping, and when it breaks she'll gash her feet. I have to stop her.

No.

This isn't right. But if Christopher would let her rage, then I must do likewise
if I want her to believe I'm him. Even now, as she attacks the mirror, she's
looking at me with suspicion inside her fury.

She expects arousal.