The Cripple's Wanton Wife - Chapter 10: Chapter 10
You are reading The Cripple's Wanton Wife, Chapter 10: Chapter 10. Read more chapters of The Cripple's Wanton Wife.
Back at the factory, Director Roland dismissed her early, granting her the rest of the afternoon off.
Lawrence pedaled her bicycle home, lost in thought. What a whirlwind these past two days have been. First Director Roland, then Nathan, and now Mr. Valentine. Have I turned into some kind of loose woman?
But she quickly dismissed the thought. Everything I've done is for my family. And besides… Mr. Valentine had been… satisfying. Young, handsome, and surprisingly skilled in bed. A warmth spread through her at the memory. I've never felt pleasure like that before. As long as no one found out, what was the harm? And the extra money certainly didn't hurt.
As she reached the village entrance, an elderly man called out to her. "Mrs. Evans! You're home early. About that $800 I lent you last year—I'll be needing it back soon. Have it ready in a few days, will you?"
recognized Henry Ashcroft from East Village. He'd been kind enough to lend her the money when her children's school fees had fallen short. Now that he needed it, she had to repay him. "Of course, Mr. Ashcroft," she said quickly. "I'll bring it to you in a couple of days."
He nodded, satisfied. "Good, good." Then he continued on his way.
As she rode home, 's mind raced. I've got $500 saved, but I still need $300 more. Where am I supposed to get that kind of money in just two days? Then it hit her—Jacob's drunken boasting last night about sleeping with a woman her age.
She knew what that meant. Prostitution. The thought made her stomach twist. How could I ever do something like that? She shoved the idea aside. I'll think of something else.
At home, she busied herself in the kitchen, chopping vegetables while her thoughts wandered. I've heard stories about truck drivers picking up women on the road, paying them for a quick encounter. Maybe I could… But the idea made her pulse quicken. It's my first time. How would I even approach them? I'm not some young girl anymore. Would anyone even want me?
Then she remembered. Mr. Valentine certainly did. Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.
After dinner, she cleaned up, then changed into a simple white sundress—sleeveless, modest, falling to her calves. She wasn't one for revealing clothes, but the dress showed just enough to feel… intentional. She slipped on a pair of low heels—never stilettos—grabbed her small purse, and told her husband, "Daniel, I need to run into the city tonight. Don't wait up for me."
Daniel Evans barely looked up from his newspaper. He trusted his wife completely. "Alright," he said absently.
At the edge of the village, she stood by the road, scanning for passing vehicles. A few cars sped by, but she wasn't interested in them. She needed a long-haul truck—those drivers were usually more… open to company.
Then, the deep rumble of an engine approached. A massive truck rolled into view. Heart pounding, she waved it down. To her relief, it slowed to a stop. She hurried to the passenger side. "Excuse me, could I hitch a ride into the city?"
The door swung open. "Hop in," the driver said.
"Thank you," murmured, climbing into the cab. She settled into the seat and stole a glance at the man behind the wheel—a rugged, sun-weathered man in his thirties, his hands rough from years on the road.
Lawrence pedaled her bicycle home, lost in thought. What a whirlwind these past two days have been. First Director Roland, then Nathan, and now Mr. Valentine. Have I turned into some kind of loose woman?
But she quickly dismissed the thought. Everything I've done is for my family. And besides… Mr. Valentine had been… satisfying. Young, handsome, and surprisingly skilled in bed. A warmth spread through her at the memory. I've never felt pleasure like that before. As long as no one found out, what was the harm? And the extra money certainly didn't hurt.
As she reached the village entrance, an elderly man called out to her. "Mrs. Evans! You're home early. About that $800 I lent you last year—I'll be needing it back soon. Have it ready in a few days, will you?"
recognized Henry Ashcroft from East Village. He'd been kind enough to lend her the money when her children's school fees had fallen short. Now that he needed it, she had to repay him. "Of course, Mr. Ashcroft," she said quickly. "I'll bring it to you in a couple of days."
He nodded, satisfied. "Good, good." Then he continued on his way.
As she rode home, 's mind raced. I've got $500 saved, but I still need $300 more. Where am I supposed to get that kind of money in just two days? Then it hit her—Jacob's drunken boasting last night about sleeping with a woman her age.
She knew what that meant. Prostitution. The thought made her stomach twist. How could I ever do something like that? She shoved the idea aside. I'll think of something else.
At home, she busied herself in the kitchen, chopping vegetables while her thoughts wandered. I've heard stories about truck drivers picking up women on the road, paying them for a quick encounter. Maybe I could… But the idea made her pulse quicken. It's my first time. How would I even approach them? I'm not some young girl anymore. Would anyone even want me?
Then she remembered. Mr. Valentine certainly did. Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.
After dinner, she cleaned up, then changed into a simple white sundress—sleeveless, modest, falling to her calves. She wasn't one for revealing clothes, but the dress showed just enough to feel… intentional. She slipped on a pair of low heels—never stilettos—grabbed her small purse, and told her husband, "Daniel, I need to run into the city tonight. Don't wait up for me."
Daniel Evans barely looked up from his newspaper. He trusted his wife completely. "Alright," he said absently.
At the edge of the village, she stood by the road, scanning for passing vehicles. A few cars sped by, but she wasn't interested in them. She needed a long-haul truck—those drivers were usually more… open to company.
Then, the deep rumble of an engine approached. A massive truck rolled into view. Heart pounding, she waved it down. To her relief, it slowed to a stop. She hurried to the passenger side. "Excuse me, could I hitch a ride into the city?"
The door swung open. "Hop in," the driver said.
"Thank you," murmured, climbing into the cab. She settled into the seat and stole a glance at the man behind the wheel—a rugged, sun-weathered man in his thirties, his hands rough from years on the road.
End of The Cripple's Wanton Wife Chapter 10. Continue reading Chapter 11 or return to The Cripple's Wanton Wife book page.