Trouble By Numbers Series
Page 40
I take the glass wordlessly. Bringing it under my nose, I hope to drown the overwhelming scent of him. It’s torture to my senses; the spice of his cologne and the underlying scent of laundry detergent from his shirt. If I reached out right now and touched his cheek, I know exactly how those dark bristles would feel against my fingertips, almost recalling the sensation of them against the tender skin between my thighs. It’s the little things that hurt the most. Small reminders that steal my breath—the tiny scar on his jawline that most people wouldn’t notice, and the way one of his incisors overlaps ever so slightly, making him appear less than perfect up close. And a little more real. Small things that, from across the ocean, I could choose not to recall, but this close to him, I don’t have that luxury, and the sense of nostalgia pains me acutely.
I throw the fiery liquid back, closing my eyes tight against the burn.
‘You never did appreciate good liquor.’ His mouth lifts in one corner as he takes the empty glass from my hand.
‘The good stuff is rarely made in Tennessee.’
‘You’re a disgrace to our people.’
A long-standing joke between us. Scots are supposed to have whisky in their veins, and he’d often said he was looking forward to the day we’d travel to Scotland together. That we’d visit the distilleries, sampling spring water and single malts, and it’d take him nothing more than a few hours to convert me. Because I’m so malleable to his wants and desires. But the truth is I’m a lightweight; I like a glass of wine or two. Maybe a fruity cocktail by the side of the pool on holiday. Spirits have never been my deal until . . .
‘I developed a taste for vodka this afternoon.’
He lowers his gaze from mine quite suddenly, lashes as black as the lies I’ve told shading his eyes. As he looks up again, our connection is severed, his focus sliding over my shoulder to where the other man stands.
‘Let’s get on with this,’ he says, his voice all business.
He turns fully from me, and I begin to shake bodily at his denial of me, almost stumbling to the dresser in my haste to fill my glass again. And that’s what I do; no measly half shot this time. Much like the first mouthful, it burns on the way down; only this time, I’m able to sell it to myself that it’s the booze stinging my eyes.
I can do this. Even if I think I can’t. I won’t break down.
Across the room, Dylan lowers himself to an armchair, my glassy gaze making his image watery and indistinct. I’m a tactile person and always have been, so it’s fair to say as Sandy appears next to me and strokes my cheek, I lean into him. Lean into him, all the while looking at Dylan and feeling his fingers touch me. Blame the bourbon. Blame the man watching me from a chair at the end of the bed. Blame his cruelty. Blame a career choice where I spend my day touching strangers. Massaging heads.
This is so fucked up, but I can do this. Dare me, Dylan. Let me call your bluff.
Sandy’s hands turn me to face my husband fully and panic grips my throat. This is where it starts. Or ends. But how can he sit there watching? Watching another man touch me. Defile his marriage bed. The fist holding my heart squeezes tight, demanding I take action. Demanding I leave. But I don’t. I don’t have that luxury.
Hands run from my shoulders to hips then kisses press against the back of my neck. Wet, open-mouth kisses while Dylan’s green eyes bore into mine. As soft breath feathers across my skin, I shiver again, rolling my neck to keep my jawline—and mouth—away from this man. It’s not meant as a green light for him to begin sucking there, but he does. I try to muffle the sounds of my distress, the emotion hitting the air as a shaky groan.
Tactile. I’m tactile, I tell myself as his hands move to my shoulders once again. I realise a moment too late that he’s pushing at my dress. It slips from one shoulder then the other, sliding down my arms and catching at the elbows where my fingers grip them. And I’m frozen like a deer in the beam of Dylan’s gaze because, of the two men in the room, one is whispering seductions while the other just stares. Watches me. Watches my fingers flexing against the urge to cover myself.
Fuck you, Dylan. Fuck you, and fuck all those girls you fucked since I left. Fuck you for believing what your eyes couldn’t see. And fuck you for coming home covered in the evidence of some slut sucking on your dick.
When I’d chosen this dress earlier, I hadn’t anticipated coming this far, yet here we are. I’ll show him . . . Uncrossing my arms, I allow my dress to slither to the floor, my bareness reacting to the cool of the room. Not at all a gentleman, Dylan’s eyes consume; from the hard peaks of my breasts to the brevity of my thong.
I try not to react—try not to jerk—as Sandy’s arms slide around my ribcage, his fingers rising to caress.
I’m tactile. It’s just physical contact. I can deal.
My nipples tighten as his fingers pinch. I try to make sure my face doesn’t do the same, casting my eyes heavenwards. Beyond the sounds of this man sucking on my neck and my heart pounding against my ribs, I hear the liquid swish around Dylan’s glass.
Fuck you and the plan you rode in on.
Fuck you if you think I’m backing down.
Sandy straightens, rubbing his hardness against my ass, so I reach my hand over my shoulder to pull his head to mine, and all the while his mouth moves over me, whispers to me—as his hands maul and his dick rubs—I’m watching the man in front of me. The man whose relaxed demeanour is made liar by a very taut jaw. The man who stabs my heart with his gaze. And like a rapier through my heart, truth passes between us. For the first time since I arrived in LA, I feel the truth. This thing; this monstrous act he’s brought me here to complete, is his severance of me, not my punishment. And I can’t lie to myself anymore; he’s going to make me go through with it, and he’s going to watch. He truly intends to watch me debase myself with another man, to sully my skin because he needs this from me.
Maybe there’s an ounce of love left in him even if he doesn’t want it anymore.
I bite my lip against the tears sure to form, but then Sandy moves in front of me, and I close my eyes and see Dylan no more. Bending over me, he draws my nipple into his mouth, groaning his appreciation while he paws my other breast as he begins to walk me backwards to the bed. He doesn’t quite push me onto the mattress, and I don’t exactly fall, but this is where I land, and suddenly, he’s over me. Working his way up my body. Whispering words that don’t make any sense—words that can’t take up residence in my head for all the thoughts I have there.
I can do this. I can—I will.
Fifteen minutes out of your life.
Fifteen minutes to erase the past for us both.
And if I’m lucky, he’ll only be inside me three.
A warm, wet mouth. A willing tongue, dragging nearer and nearer to my mouth.
Panic crawls into my throat, a ball big enough to choke me. My arms are jerky, my instinct to reach out—to push him off—while the hairs on my neck stand like pins.
I can do this. I won’t give Dylan the satisfaction of my naked retreat. I’m not going to cower in a corner while he sees off this man. While he looks at me with disgust. While he hates me for still wanting him.
Because he’s not the only one who’s sick.
I try to take myself out of the moment. To go to that euphemistic happy place, but my happy place was always with Dylan. And usually in bed.
Sandy’s hands are on my hips, kneading my flesh; his mouth enthusiastic and wet as it makes its way to my neck.
Can I cope with him kissing me? Why does this seem so wrong—more so than a three-minute fuck?
I tip my chin and roll my neck, hoping to hide one rogue tear, my despair and loathing causing me to breathe through a series of tiny, shallow breaths.
I won’t push him off. I won’t let Dylan win.
I forcibly relax my hands from fists, my gaze sliding to the side of the room unconsciously. How can he sit there sipping his drink so calmly? Why isn’t the sight of me spread out under another man hurting him?
We’re both pretending this moment, this act of insanity, isn’t having any effect. The realisation makes my blood boil. Yes, the blood running through my veins at forty-proof doesn’t help, but I’m so bloody angry. So sodding angry—fucking angry, in fact.
I curl my fingers around Sandy’s shoulders and my legs around his waist. Moreover, I do so enthusiastically while writhing against him, digging my nails into his flesh. But I still can’t let him kiss me and push his head into my shoulder instead.
It’s here our gazes connect, over the stranger’s sandy head. But my husband isn’t looking at me with longing or love. No, he stares with a mixture of desire and hate. Maybe he desires to hate me, or maybe he hates what he desires? Either way, he’s looking at me like I’m going to pay.
‘Fuck you,’ I mouth silently. And one more time for good luck. ‘Just fuck you.’
He blinks slowly; once, twice. Then he slams the glass down with a shattering sound.
‘That’s enough.’ His voice isn’t loud, but it might’ve been less frightening if he’d actually yelled. ‘Get the fuck off my wife.’
Chapter 15
Dylan
If revenge is a dish best served cold, then it seems I’m not quite cool enough to partake. Ordinarily, I can do indifferent anytime of the day, but it seems not with her. Never with her. I thought I was ready. It’s not like she left yesterday, and it’s not like my plans for today are something I’d put together overnight.
I’d thought about it.
Long and hard.
Strategized.
Theorized.
Obsessed.
Then released the tape of us fucking to show that I was capable of hurting her further than she’d ever appreciate. I wasn’t her Dylan anymore. I was some other kind of hell. I wanted her to know I meant business. And that my business was severance. I needed to be done with her. But right now, I want things I shouldn’t. I want to hurt those things myself, and I feel anything but cool.
I’ve been kidding my fucking self.
Point: My mouth is dry.
I take a mouthful from my glass.
Point: My skin feels pierced by a million hot pins.
I feed a finger into the neck of my shirt, pulling it away from my skin.
My jaw aches, heat creeping up my chest as I force myself to watch the freak show.
A freak show of my making. Bodies dancing to my tune.
Point: My eyes won’t move from my near naked wife.
Her body is almost rigid, and I hate myself for feeling any sort of sympathy for her distress. She looks like she wants to push him bodily away—erase the feel of him from her palms by rubbing them against the bed.
I get no satisfaction from that.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! Why didn’t I factor in my reactions to this travesty? Blinded by so much hurt and anger, I gave no thought to how being in the room would feel. Maybe that’s not true. I was convinced I’d feel vindicated. Victorious. I thought I’d feel triumph, not pain.
Yet it hurts to watch Ivy’s distress.
A better man would stop this, but I’m not him, that better man. I have no choice. I need this to happen—for our ties to be severed irrevocably. I need this. To move on. Because it’s clear I haven’t. And by her reactions, it could be that neither of us has.
It was easier when I didn’t know—easier when I thought she was an unfaithful whore. And even though it makes not one ounce of sense, I get no satisfaction from being wrong.
Out of all the men at that fucking party, she finds a gay one to take her home.
Why couldn’t she have done it right—broke my heart cleanly instead of leaving it fractured and leaking hate?
That fucking girl. It was easier when I thought she was a slut. Easier when I tried to convince myself she’d moved on in Scotland. Until she confirmed my worst nightmare; no one else had been inside her since.
I can’t say the same. I’ve fucked my way through LA. I don’t like who I’ve become, and I can’t even say it was fun while it lasted. I blame her for that, too.
When this is done—when she’s done—I’m gone. Moving on and moving away. I can’t stay in this room, or the place that was our home, for a moment more than necessary because the scent of her assaults my memories, sucking me back in time. To kissing her our first time. To fucking in our bed. To hating her so much, I could’ve wrapped my hands around her neck.
I’m angry, not jealous, I tell myself. This is a fucking of my bidding, even if she wasn’t supposed to go through with it. Not without some persuading, at least, to provide me with the satisfaction of putting her there. I’d thought the moment someone tried to kiss her, slide her a little tongue, she’d be out. I thought she’d beg for mercy. Appeal to the husband in me.
I flex my fingers as the bastard begins sucking on her neck. I must keep calm. Remember I’m here to punish. Not protect.
Punish myself, maybe.
I run my tongue over my teeth because I can smell her; smell her perfume. The lotion she rubs on her legs, and the shit she sprays in her hair. Her scent—that unique mixture of sweetness and sex—coats the inside of my mouth and drips down the back of my throat like the nectar from between her legs.
But it’s not me who gets to fuck her now; that was never my plan. Why the hell can’t my body get on board? Why, after everything, do I crave to taste her myself?
The fucker’s fingers are tight on her nipples, and he’s all slick fucking tongue. Breaths begin to heave from her chest in small bursts. My stomach along with it. Heaving. Lurching. The bourbon threatening a comeback appearance—a one-night-only kind of deal.
The gods of revenge are cruel because not only can I smell her, but I also smell him. Fucktard’s cloying cologne and beer, I think. His hand grasps her hip, plucking the tiny string of her panties. Is that what comes next? They come off then he comes? She comes? What if he wants to eat her out? Is that the kind of fleshy recompense I want to watch?
She sees me watching, and before I can wonder what’s apparent on my face, she’s grabbing him. Rubbing herself against him like she’s a cat and he’s the thing she suddenly needs to scratch that itch. Like she’s so into him. Like she’s desperate.
Ivy lifts her head, honey eyes burning, her lip curled back. Before it’s even a thought in her head, I know what she’s going to say.
‘Fuck you,’ she mouths silently. A look right into her brain.
Fuck you. And against everything, I want her to.
Still. Always.
‘That’s enough.’ I hear the words before the neurons connect, my voice belonging to someone else. Something else. ‘Get the fuck off my wife.’ He doesn’t hear me, or maybe he does. Maybe he’s adjusting to the reality of blue balls. ‘I said get the fuck out.’
The asshole leans up on one elbow; his pelvis pushed between her open legs. ‘Are you fucking kidding me? Does she look like she wants me to move?’
She looks like she’d screw you to spite me, I don’t say, while hating every minute of it. I don’t answer him at all, conscious only of the fact that I’m moving. Synapses firing, neurons delayed, and before I can acknowledge it, I know I’m going to hurt him.
‘What the fuck!’
His shoulder in my grip, I tear him from between her legs. He rolls awkwardly, slipping from the edge of the bed. Falling. Splayed out on his back. Crawling backwards like a crab. ‘Hey, take it easy, man. I get it; you changed your mind, but you invited me here—’
I invited him here to fuck my wife. What does that make me?
I stop. I glare. I try to make sense of the animal I’ve become as both hands rake through my hair.
‘Get the f
uck out.’ The words are harsh, and my throat burns.
‘S-sure thing.’
He leaves. I don’t watch, but I doubt he looks back as I turn my gaze to my quarry. The girl on the bed. My wife clad in nothing but a thin sheen of fear and a scrap of underwear. Ready to fuck someone else at my behest.
‘Fuck you,’ she hisses, scrambling backward to the head of the bed.
‘You’d like that.’
I grab her ankle, the bones delicate beneath my fingers. Stare at her dark painted toes. I don’t feel right. I’m amped—feel uncontrolled—like I’ve somehow stepped out of myself. This isn’t who I am yet not someone I’m pretending to be. I love my job—love slipping into a role—but this isn’t the same. Emotions and reactions, I collect. I hoard them like a squirrel for when I play professional pretend. For when I place myself in someone else’s skin. A scene, a photo shoot. An interview.
But that’s not what’s happening now, and this person, the person I am right now? He won’t be the same once he leaves this room.
‘Dylan.’ Her voice is husky with emotion, her eyes laced with sex. ‘Please.’
I look up from her foot in my hand. ‘Please?’ My brow furrows because I don’t understand. Any of it. I don’t understand a thing. I don’t know why she hurt me or why I’m trying to hurt her back.
‘You want reasonable?’ I ask. ‘How can I be reasonable, and how can you ask that?’ She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off as words begin to spew. ‘For fucking months, you let me think you’d screwed him—and I don’t know which is worse; that you didn’t, or that you might have.’
‘Maybe if I had, you wouldn’t be acting like a jerk.’
‘Maybe,’ I whisper, tugging hard on her foot and pulling her to the end of the bed. ‘But that’s the difference between you and me.’ Her arms frame a halo of dark hair above her head; her knees bent over the edge of the mattress. I make quick work of sliding them wider and slipping between.