“Then order in.”
“I think I should face the fact: my marriage is beyond repair. I’ve failed.” I shrug. “He’s failed. We both have.”
“Since when is Erika Ellis a failure?”
“Do you ever think about things?” I ask, afraid to vocalize my true thoughts. “Things that you shouldn’t think about?”
“Are we talking a hot fudge sundae or something else?”
I shrug. “Something else.”
“Go on.”
“It’s that I’m tired. I’m tired of the fight. The fight to keep my anchor seat, of trying to move to bigger markets when there are women five years my junior sitting in those chairs. I’m not getting any younger. I’m also tired of working to save that spark that isn’t there. I can only fan the flame for so long. Why should it be up to me?”
“Because you said I do. Tell me, has a line been crossed? Has he ever cheated on you?”
“I don’t think so.”
Her brow furrows. “You don’t think so?”
“He seems preoccupied.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked.”
“Have you ever cheated on him?”
“No. I wouldn’t...willingly.” I wasn’t sure where the last word came from, but it slipped out.
“Excuse me?”
“Okay, I wouldn’t. It’s just that I have these thoughts, and my husband is damn perfect. He’s supportive of my career. He’s always there, like that worn-out sweatshirt or a pathetic puppy. Maybe that’s the problem. He’s too...too accommodating.”
“There are people who would kill for a handsome man who’s supportive and accommodating.”
I fidget with the remains of my salad before lowering my fork to the table and taking a drink of the ice water. Jenn is right. I should be happy with what we have, but I’m not. Maybe it’s my concern over my career. Maybe it’s that the spark went out and I don’t know how to rekindle it. Maybe it’s that I’ve let my fantasies overpower my reality. Maybe it’s...I blurt it out, “He wants a baby.”
Jenn’s eyes open wide. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” I pick up the fork and go back to moving the lettuce, pine nuts, and clumps of feta cheese around. Though my appetite is gone, in the red vinegar dressing the design is rather appealing.
“Erika, look at me.”
I don’t. I keep moving the contents of my plate.
Her hand slaps the table. I jump as the silverware rattles. “What?” I look up, knowing my eyes are moist.
“When?”
“He first brought it up over six months ago.”
“And now...is that when...?”
I suck in a breath as my shoulders straighten. “With a kid, my chances of advancement in my industry are less than fifty percent of what they would be now. And now, they’re not great.”
Jenn shakes her head. “Does he know your feelings?”
“Sort of. He said he’d raise it.”
“It?”
“The kid.”
“That’s not an it. It’s a person. Besides, I thought the two of you talked about children before you married.”
“We did,” I say, “but that was nearly five years ago. Back then, we said we’d wait. In his mind, we’ve waited. I just can’t think about that right now. And since he brought it up, every time he suggests...sex...I panic. You know that I can’t take the pill and with the possibility of weight gain with some of the other forms of birth control... He’s always...I know I’m being paranoid, but what if he made the condom defective on purpose?”
“Do you think he would?”
“I don’t know what I think anymore.”
“Honey, have you brought this up at the marriage counselor’s? You said you’re seeing one, right?”
“I haven’t brought it up to anyone...until now.”
Jenn’s head tilts in her understanding way.
I can’t believe I’m being this honest. It’s cathartic and liberating...and I know what needs to happen. If I can’t be who my husband wants and in my heart, he isn’t being who I want...who I need, then the answer is clear. I just need to face it. But why does it always fall to me? For once I wish he’d take control.
I take a deep breath and sit straighter. “Thank you for meeting with me. I really needed it.”
“And?”
“And I need to get to the station.”
“Erika?”
“I know what I need to do. I just wish sometimes that it’s not always up to me to take the lead. But it’s time to face the facts and move on. I’m not happy. I don’t make him happy. We need to come to terms with the reality.”
“Maybe if you told him.”
“Why, Jenn?” My eyes fill with tears. “Why do I need to tell him? Shouldn’t he know?”
“I’m not sure that’s fair.”
I stand and reach for my large purse on the back of the chair. The restaurant is virtually empty, yet I can’t allow Erika Ellis to appear anything less than perfect. I straighten my shoulders and plaster my smile in place. “Life isn’t fair.”
Jenn stands and gives me a hug. “Call me. You know I’m here for you.”
I nod before walking away.
Chapter Three
Erika
“That's a wrap,” Lonnie, my producer, says as his hand drops, and the red lights fade from the multitude of cameras.
“Ms. Ellis, Ms. Ellis,” Lonnie's assistant, Jackie, calls as she rushes past the cameras in my direction.
I can't help but notice how the cameraman on camera three scowls at her as she calls my name.
“Yes, Jackie,” I answer as stagehands unclip my microphone, pull wires, and remove a small box from my waist. Sometimes it feels as if I'm bound by a million tethers as I sit appearing carefree, discussing the day's events. If only they weren't delicate wires, but unbreakable bindings.
Stop it, Erika!
These thoughts need to end.
Everything I’d said to Jenn is true. I’ve worked my ass off for this career, literally and figuratively. It needs to be my main focus. I’m Erika Ellis—news at five-thirty and six on channel fifty-three. That's me, Milwaukee's sweetheart. I look the cameras in the lens and smile as I either recount the gory details of a school bus crash or discuss the Future Farmers of America annual fund drive. I can laugh and joke with my male co-anchors because that is what the audience wants to believe—that we’re one big happy family here at channel fifty-three.
Even though I have a degree in broadcasting, I sit behind the glass desk with my legs poised in heels too high to walk in, because the shoes make my calves appear sexier. That's another thing that the people who crunch the numbers say. Our ratings drop every time my heel length goes below four inches. Little do they know that when I’m standing behind a counter, such as the ones in our faux kitchen set, I’m barefooted on a box. No one wants to see Milwaukee’s sweetheart fall face first into this week’s special recipe. Coming to you from Milwaukee with béarnaise sauce dripping off my nose.
There’s more to this job than looking good. It requires constant work. I must know the material, stay current, pronounce every name—even foreign dignitaries'—correctly while smiling in a carefree manner, as if one mistake couldn’t get me sent back out to the streets for on-the-scene reporting.
I'm glad there's no pressure.
Keeping the balancing act going with each ball precisely in the air is an exhausting art. I can’t help but think about my conversation with Jenn. I’m not ready to face any of it. Though my husband and I aren’t lighting up the sheets, there is something comfortable and safe about our marriage. In my earlier analogy, the worn sweatshirt is still comfortable. I need to concentrate on that.
Thankfully, it’s Friday and I'm not due back on this set and in front of the cameras until Monday. That doesn't mean I can totally walk away. I have preparation for next week and the never-ending workouts. But for a few days, I can take off the plastic smile and relax.
> My husband is always trying to get me to do that. Maybe Jenn is right—that he and I need to talk, but not talking is easier. Not facing the demise of our marriage and instead finding comfort in the predictability is easier. Sometimes when life seems too much, we all need easier.
Besides, you'd think he'd understand the pressure it takes to be me, but he never has. Even this morning while we were running, he kept trying to talk. He knew I had the earbuds in my ears. I didn't have time or the energy to listen to him then. We should probably make some time to talk about each other's desires and concerns. What Jenn said is the same as what our marriage counselor has said. However, that one hour once a week is all I can devote to it. If we can’t say it there, then it gets pushed away. She encourages us to be honest with one another.
That’s difficult when I’m not sure I’m being honest with myself.
I want more.
I want less.
I want to have control in my life.
I want to give it all up.
I don’t know what I want. How can I tell my husband? Why doesn’t he know?
I never intended to be dishonest with him. What I'm starting to understand, after nearly five years of marriage, is that honesty isn't only about telling the truth, but also about not withholding the truth. I’m confused, and instead of telling him, I’m letting it eat me from the inside.
“Ms. Ellis,” Jackie says, “I just got the call—Tamara is ill.”
Shit! My weekend reprieve and any time for my husband and me to talk will need to wait. The reality is that I probably would have avoided it anyway. This just gives me an excuse.
My shoulders straighten. I don't want to stay and do the eleven o'clock news. I want to go home—not to talk, but to wash off the makeup and curl up with my Kindle. However, I know that isn't the answer that will advance my career, that will get me out of Milwaukee and into a bigger market. Instead of saying what I want to say, I feign concern. “She is?” And then, I broaden my plastic smile. “I'm sorry to hear that. Does Lonnie need me to stay?”
“Yes. He does. We all do. You’ll be helping us all out, Ms. Ellis.”
“Not a problem,” I say as I notice the cameraman from earlier. His scowl has morphed into something deeper, something closer to anger. I move my gaze away.
Lighten up, Mr. Cross. It isn't like you have to stay, just because I am. The eleven o'clock set has its own crew. Your night is free. I'm the one tied up.
Dead on my feet and ready to collapse. That's how I feel as the stage crew untangles me from my wires for the second time today. My feet ache from my shoes though I have only sat while wearing them. Thank God there were no cooking segments at eleven at night. My legs cramp from the way they are perched on the bar beneath my chair, crossed daintily at the ankle.
“Erika,” the eleven o'clock co-anchor, Shawn, calls as he is also freed from his microphone and other apparatus. “Thanks for filling in. It’s always great to spend time with you. How about I buy you a drink—in gratitude?”
I shake my head. “Thanks, Shawn. I'm beat. I need to get home.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Come on, there's a group of us. We always go out Friday night to the little bar down the street. It’s tradition. We all need to unwind.”
I roll my neck to relieve a few kinks. “Rain check?”
“Well, at least let me or one of the stagehands walk you to your car. The garage is no place for a lady to be alone at this time of night.”
“I'm good. I parked close by.” I look down at my shoes as I contemplate going back to my dressing room to change. “Of course, I need to do a quick change of these shoes or I won’t make it even three feet, much less to the garage. Then I'll be out of here. I hope Tamara is feeling better by Monday.”
I really do.
In no time at all, I have my shoes stowed away with various other pairs that stay at the news studio and have my Chuck Taylors laced up. I run my hand over the jeans and top I brought to the station to change into. That was for before, when I thought maybe my husband and I could talk. That didn’t happen, and now I don't want to take the time to change clothes. I just want to go home and go to sleep.
As I reach for my purse that’s secured in the cabinet near my desk, I see the note:
Don't leave without the red heels.
I swallow as my pulse quickens. Slowly, I turn and look around the room as a chill prickles my skin. No one is supposed to be in my dressing room without me, much less in this cabinet.
Who left the note?
I shake off the uneasy feeling the note gives me, chalk it up to sleepiness, crumple the post-it into a ball, and toss it into the trash bin. Reaching for my purse, I head out.
The hallways clear fast after the late news. There’s just a skeleton crew down in the bull pen keeping an eye on the happenings of the world so that the early morning team is up to date. Even the elevator is empty. A short ride down and I'm in the parking garage. I scan the floor where I parked my car. There are considerably fewer cars at nearly midnight than when I arrived in the late afternoon.
I search left and then right.
Where's my car?
Chapter Four
Victor
Erika steps from the elevator, still wearing the dress from the set. It's a different one than the one she wore at five-thirty and six. I know because I caught most of the eleven o'clock news live on my phone's app.
She's absolutely gorgeous in the blue V-neck dress and high-tops on her feet as she scans the garage. The hint of panic as she searches for her car adds to my excitement. I want her on edge. I plan to keep her that way, begging for mercy that only I can give.
I narrow my eyes and clench my jaw as the vein in my neck pulsates. Other than her purse, she's not carrying anything else. Where the hell are the red heels? She had to have seen my note.
Her offenses continue to mount.
I straighten my neck. Erika Ellis has a ways to go and lessons to learn about being obedient. My cock twitches. I’ll be her teacher. She’s been lost for too long. I won’t sit back and watch her unravel any longer. Soon, she’ll welcome my tutoring as well as my retributions.
I make a mental list.
First, she agreed to work the eleven o'clock news, upending my plans. I almost lost it right there on the set. Everything that I’d worked diligently to get into place...it was all supposed to start earlier. Instead of making a scene, I told myself it was all right. It would work out. I could adapt. Five hours won’t matter, not when we have the rest of our lives together.
When I went into Erika's dressing room, I'd done more than leave her the note. I’d taken her key fob from her purse and moved her car. Since she doesn’t need to take it out at all to open or start her car, I bet she hasn’t even realized it’s missing.
While she was working an extra broadcast, I took the shiny red Lexus back to her apartment and parked it on the street. No one noticed. No one said a word.
The obvious preoccupation that each and every person has with their own life makes executing my plan easier than I imagined. I had considered just abducting Erika from the garage, but if I had, her car would have been left here all weekend. That could have raised questions.
The last thing I want is for any of our coworkers to call and interrupt our plans. This weekend is about us.
As Erika reaches for her phone, I pull up beside her and lower my window. “Ms. Ellis, is there a problem?”
Her blue eyes open wide at the sound of my voice. I grimace at the fact that they're still covered with too much makeup. One of the first things I'll do once we’re to our destination is scrub her face.
That is, if I can wait to fuck her. Those are number one and two. The order is still up in the air, like my cock would be right now if I didn’t have it trapped in these jeans.
“I-I,” she stammers, so different from the confident newscaster. “What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you’re okay.”
Her cheeks pinken as if
she doesn’t deserve my attention. She couldn’t be more wrong.
“You didn’t...” She sighs. “I don’t know what happened. I could have sworn I parked my car right here.” She motions to the row of empty parking spaces. “Have you seen it?”
I hit the unlock button, lean over, and open the passenger door to my truck. “Climb on in. It's too late to be wandering around the garage. You never know who may be out and about.”
She looks again at her phone, like she wants to make a call, but then stuffs it back into her purse. “Thank you.”
Every nerve in my body sparks at the sound of relief in her voice. I plan on being the only one to give her relief, not only this weekend, but for the rest of our lives.
“You could drive me around the garage.” she suggests. “I might have the floor wrong. I don't know. I think I'm tired.”
I tilt my head toward her. My time of listening to her direct me is over. Get ready, Erika Ellis: you’re in for a ride. “Fasten that seatbelt. We don't want you getting hurt.”
She peers at me from the corner of her eye as she does as I say. I inhale her scent. In the small cab, I’m able to smell her uncertainty—her fear—and it fucking turns me on. I don't speak as I maneuver the truck around each curve, down the garage floors to the exit, swipe my badge, and drive us onto the street.
“Y-you didn't look for my car,” Erika says as she reaches for the door handle.
I hit the gas. The city streets are virtually empty. I blow through one, two, and then three red lights.
“What are you doing?”
I don't answer, allowing her question and anxiety to hang in the air. My knuckles blanch as I grip the steering wheel tighter. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
Some traffic lights cooperate while others don’t. It doesn’t matter. I don’t stop. I don’t slow. Erika shifts in the seat beside me but doesn’t speak as the tires roll and the miles accumulate on my odometer. The landscape is becoming more remote as the traffic signals grow farther and farther apart.
“Please,” Erika finally begs, “I don't know what you're doing, but stop. I want to go home. We’re going in the wrong direction.”
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