My Wife's Li'l Secret Read Online Free Page A
Author: Eve Rabi
love. Hell, I left my country and migrated to Australia to be with my sister because I worried about her.
Growing up, Arena was my Go-To Girl. I always sought her advice, knowing she would steer me in the right direction.
When I was ten and a group of bullies kicked my butt and stole my remote controlled helicopter, I called Arena. She took on four bullies and got back not only my helicopter, but also a six-pack of batteries, as well as two long-reach, water-squirting, light-up swords. (She used the five words guaranteed to instill fear into little boys— I will tell your mum .)
When I was seventeen and busted for hot-wiring and driving my friend’s father’s Datsun (with my friend in it), I called Arena, not my parents.
When I was seventeen and arrested in a bar-room brawl, I called Arena.
When I was seventeen and busted for stealing (with three of my friends) a speed camera from the road that had photographed me driving one hundred and forty kilometers in a seventy zone (which we later dumped in a lake), I called Arena.
When I was seventeen and my boss fired me for sleeping with his wife and refused to pay me for days worked, I called Arena. She had a quiet word with him, made me apologize and promise never to have sexual relations (her words) with his wife again, and got him to pay me.
When I was seventeen and was busted for smoking pot in the back of the church with a young priest, I called Arena.
She always had my back, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do for my sister.
So, I understood that Liefie loved her douchbag brother, said little, and counted the days leading to his demise. Eh, departure .
Three weeks.
Twenty-one days.
Five hundred and four hours.
Make yourself at home...
Chapter Five
Some of the changes Liefie made to herself irked me.
I disliked her new hair color – brassy, blonde, brittle.
I reeled at the sight of her bright, metallic-blue eye-shadow that she began to wear during the day and at night.
Her red lipstick that I initially liked started to look harsh. When it faded, it left a hard red line around her lips, making her look like the tired and sleep-deprived hookers I used to arrest when I was a cop.
Her black nail polish, her orange fake tan, and that severe, black eye liner she constantly wore did nothing to enhance her looks.
She used to be really lovely and fresh-faced, but all that changed; now when I looked at her, I saw so many colors on her face, I could no longer see the person behind the make-up.
In the bedroom, when she came to bed (which was around 3 or 5 a.m. most mornings), even though she was happy and smiling during the day, she still slept at the far end of the bed. Still kept up that giant Keep Out! sign.
Even though I wanted to, I didn’t push her.
Give her time, I told myself. She’ll come back to you when she’s ready.
As if her make-up wasn’t bad enough, her dressing began to change. For the worse.
Give a girl an inch and she will make a skirt out of it.
Those words gonged in my brain when I saw how short her skirts had become and how much thigh she flaunted, something she had never done before. Her tops, which she wore during the day and at night, clung to her and showed way too much cleavage for a mother of two who had to pick up her kids from preschool. I was embarrassed.
She took to wearing stilettos all the time, something she hadn’t done before. I didn’t have a problem with the stilettos, but together with her slutty ensemble, she looked like a bloody prostitute!
How could I not be embarrassed?
Every time she dressed, she’d totter up to Viggo, close her eyes, and with palms facing him she'd ask in a little girly voice, “Do I look nice?” He always answered in Russian, so I couldn’t tell if he approved.
Viggo’s opinion seemed to matter most to her and that really pissed me off. Especially since both of them treated me as if I was invisible.
They held all their conversations in Russian even
Growing up, Arena was my Go-To Girl. I always sought her advice, knowing she would steer me in the right direction.
When I was ten and a group of bullies kicked my butt and stole my remote controlled helicopter, I called Arena. She took on four bullies and got back not only my helicopter, but also a six-pack of batteries, as well as two long-reach, water-squirting, light-up swords. (She used the five words guaranteed to instill fear into little boys— I will tell your mum .)
When I was seventeen and busted for hot-wiring and driving my friend’s father’s Datsun (with my friend in it), I called Arena, not my parents.
When I was seventeen and arrested in a bar-room brawl, I called Arena.
When I was seventeen and busted for stealing (with three of my friends) a speed camera from the road that had photographed me driving one hundred and forty kilometers in a seventy zone (which we later dumped in a lake), I called Arena.
When I was seventeen and my boss fired me for sleeping with his wife and refused to pay me for days worked, I called Arena. She had a quiet word with him, made me apologize and promise never to have sexual relations (her words) with his wife again, and got him to pay me.
When I was seventeen and was busted for smoking pot in the back of the church with a young priest, I called Arena.
She always had my back, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do for my sister.
So, I understood that Liefie loved her douchbag brother, said little, and counted the days leading to his demise. Eh, departure .
Three weeks.
Twenty-one days.
Five hundred and four hours.
Make yourself at home...
Chapter Five
Some of the changes Liefie made to herself irked me.
I disliked her new hair color – brassy, blonde, brittle.
I reeled at the sight of her bright, metallic-blue eye-shadow that she began to wear during the day and at night.
Her red lipstick that I initially liked started to look harsh. When it faded, it left a hard red line around her lips, making her look like the tired and sleep-deprived hookers I used to arrest when I was a cop.
Her black nail polish, her orange fake tan, and that severe, black eye liner she constantly wore did nothing to enhance her looks.
She used to be really lovely and fresh-faced, but all that changed; now when I looked at her, I saw so many colors on her face, I could no longer see the person behind the make-up.
In the bedroom, when she came to bed (which was around 3 or 5 a.m. most mornings), even though she was happy and smiling during the day, she still slept at the far end of the bed. Still kept up that giant Keep Out! sign.
Even though I wanted to, I didn’t push her.
Give her time, I told myself. She’ll come back to you when she’s ready.
As if her make-up wasn’t bad enough, her dressing began to change. For the worse.
Give a girl an inch and she will make a skirt out of it.
Those words gonged in my brain when I saw how short her skirts had become and how much thigh she flaunted, something she had never done before. Her tops, which she wore during the day and at night, clung to her and showed way too much cleavage for a mother of two who had to pick up her kids from preschool. I was embarrassed.
She took to wearing stilettos all the time, something she hadn’t done before. I didn’t have a problem with the stilettos, but together with her slutty ensemble, she looked like a bloody prostitute!
How could I not be embarrassed?
Every time she dressed, she’d totter up to Viggo, close her eyes, and with palms facing him she'd ask in a little girly voice, “Do I look nice?” He always answered in Russian, so I couldn’t tell if he approved.
Viggo’s opinion seemed to matter most to her and that really pissed me off. Especially since both of them treated me as if I was invisible.
They held all their conversations in Russian even
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