Feed by Nicole Grotepas Page A

of their pact—to never watch the adult feeds, especially to never look for themselves, and so, to never look for Sue. To trust her. To know she trusted him.
    But trust was gone. He couldn’t trust himself because of what he’d done with Blythe. It was the other half of the sinuous line that divided the ancient Taoist symbol. The symbol was split; the pieces separated and cracked down the middle. He was left with one half of a covenant. And that left him with nothing.
    He hunched over the slate in his office with the door shut and locked, lights turned down, while the heavy weight of distrust, guilt, and fear ate its way through him. Again his consciousness seemed to be separate from his muscles and bones, watching Sue on his slate as though from over his own shoulder, outside his body, and yet he was rooted to the raw edges of the jagged hole in his belly.
    It hurt more when Sue left the reception. With a man. He pulled Sue along by her hand and she followed, her eyes glittering. They crossed a cobbled plaza with fountains spraying from small dimples in the stone. Water rained down on them and they danced in it, twirling and laughing. Ramone didn’t know who the man was that was cuckolding him, though he looked like a prick. The kind of man who talked about the dialectic of sculpture in the twenty-first century while at the same time molding a beautiful form from clay like a cocky jerk. The kind of man Sue would love to talk to. Ramone imagined Sue entwined in his arms, her fingers playing with his hideous long hair—of course his hair was long—as he screwed her repeatedly. Of course he was impossibly virile. 
    A groan formed in Ramone’s throat. He felt it vibrate in his neck. The ragged hole had swallowed him. Everything seemed cast in a hue of red.
    Onscreen, the fountains stopped and the water disappeared into drains as they crossed the plaza. The man led her up a grassy hill shielded from the streetlights by weeping willows and sycamores. Please leave him, Sue, please leave him. Ramone leaned closer to his slate. His back began to ache. Painful minutes passed as the merciless scene unfolded. He could not tear his eyes away.
    Ramone leapt from his chair and began to pace. “No, no, no, no, no.” He clawed at his temples and ripped his glasses from his face, throwing them to the rug. He dropped to his knees, hunched over, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to forget the image of Sue in someone else’s arms, vulnerable and willing.

 
    Chapter 7
     
     
    It was the most unprofessional thing she’d done. For the love, Blythe scolded herself for the fiftieth time, what the hell was that? Who do you think you are? Who?
    Would he come back? Now what? They needed to finish the patent, and not only for monetary reasons. Ramone’s creation was rational society’s answer to the problem of the feeds.
    Nine o’clock. Darkness clung to the large windows in her office. She hovered at one, arms crossed, feeling chilled as she stared at the glittering lights of the monolithic office towers jutting into the night sky of downtown. The Tiffany lamp on her desk was turned down, casting rainbow hues across the glossy surface of her desk.
    She drew a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. The mortification of Ramone running off without warning hung over her, a dark cloud showering her with negativity and scathing self-recrimination. You deserved that response. What did you expect? Get yourself together. And she knew she would. If there was one thing she could do, it was pretend that nothing was amiss and go about her business in a cold, calculating manner.
    Turning from the window, she saw the patent application arranged carefully in the center of her desk. Ramone had dropped them before he fled. Her shoulders collapsed inward slightly at the reminder and she leaned against the back of her desk chair, bowing her head and closing her eyes. A quivering hand went to her brow just before she stood straighter and ignored the ache