Feed by Nicole Grotepas Page B

between her ribs.
    The muffled ringing of her cell phone disturbed the suffocating silence. She reached into her briefcase and pulled it out, her breath catching in her throat.
    It wasn’t Ramone. Why would it be ? “Peter.”
    “Where are you?”
    “The office.”
    “I’m just leaving. I thought I’d say goodbye, but . . .”
    “There’s no need. Just go.”
    “I have all my stuff. This is it.”
    “Have a good time.”
    “For hell’s sake, Blythe.”
    She pressed her lips together to stop the obscenities. “Tell her hello from me, and remind her of your disability. A friendly warning from me.”
    Peter laughed. There was a morbid tone to it, as though he didn’t actually find humor in the situation. “It wasn’t just me, Blythe.”
    “Oh yes, I know, Peter. It was us. Our problem. The problem of a cold, frigid wife.”
    He sighed. “More than that. It’s the situation. I’m not blaming you, exactly.”
    “I’m blaming you, however. At some point, I know I’ll be over it. For now I require a scapegoat.”
    “I love you Blythe. I do. I wish you no ill will.”
    “That’s fantastic, for you. In this case, the witness is a liar. A jury would have a hard time believing your words when your actions say otherwise. And I agree with the jury.”
    “Well, as Bob Hope once said, ‘Thanks for the memories.’ I guess.”
    “Bob Hope? Really? Bob Hope, Peter? Just shut up and go.” It was the coldest thing she could say without letting her tone become more vicious.
    “The house is yours.”
    “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
    There was no click, just the absence of Peter as the call ended. She collapsed dejectedly into her desk chair and stared at the partial glass door leading away from her office. A few of her colleagues remained, working late, but no one Blythe desired anything from. There was only one person she desired.
    Closing her eyes, she recalled the electrical moment when all had clicked into place and the most unlikely of events had occurred. She moved toward him, deciding the moment. And he had moved toward her, pressed himself against her, his hand—so perfectly shaped and roughly elegant—slid across her back and pulled her closer. For a moment she felt small and fragile. He touched her and kissed her in a careful way. It was nothing like she expected. Nothing like the rough way in which Peter had begun to handle her.
    Peter. Blythe hadn’t been able to stay abreast of his changes. He was a stranger, as much as she’d tried to keep pace with him. 
    The cameras had changed everything. The feeds sprouted, then Peter’s addictions to the feeds—all of them—and with it, his lust to become a star. First he watched them hungrily. Then he began to shape his life in a way to make a name for himself.
    Blythe cringed. Make a name for himself. It was a mantra for him. “If I can make enough money, you won’t have to work any more, Blythe.” He often repeated.
    “But I like my work.” She would say. He didn’t listen.
    She sat forward suddenly. “Fucking feeds,” she growled. Then, quickly, before she could change her mind or think too hard about it, she pulled her slate out and began scouring the feeds.
    With a slow hiss of concern, she found what she’d been looking for. Ramone.
    Something was wrong. He was lying on the floor somewhere—in his house, she presumed. His face was streaked with tears and red marks—scratches, it looked like. Her stomach twisted. Is this my fault? She felt a moment’s revulsion at the realization that Ramone’s suffering was being broadcast. She had avoided the feeds as much as possible, hating the voyeuristic feeling they engendered in her.
    It was too much. If it was her fault, she had to do something.
    In seconds her phone was against her ear. It rang, and as it rang, she watched, waiting for him to answer.
    He didn’t move. An odd, ill-fitted song played as he lay there, the camera swirling above him, making the room seem to swim in a