by Mia Asher
“You could say that.” Looking down at my watch, I realize how late I am. “Ben, I’ve got to go. I’m running late again. I’ll see you tonight. Not sure about dinner, I guess I’ll have to play it by ear, so if you don’t hear from me assume that I went out with Mr. Radcliff and his family. I’ll text you to let you know what’s going on when I get a chance. Alright. I’ve got to go. Love ya.”
I almost hang up before letting Ben say something back to me.
Almost.
I don’t know why, but sometimes his familiar deep voice pisses me off.
I know women find him very attractive, and almost every intern at his law firm has a crush on him, but sometimes I can’t bear to see his face.
“Babe, is something bothering you?” Ben asks, curiosity in his voice.
Can’t I hide anything from him? Must he always be able to read me like a flipping open book? I want my privacy back. And yes, I sometimes want Ben to stay the hell out of my life and mind his own damn business. Sometimes his niceness drives me fucking insane.
“No…I really have to go. Bye, babe. Love you.”
I hang up before I give him a chance to answer me back, or say goodbye.
Shoving the phone back in my bag, I straighten to leave, looking at myself in the mirror one more time. As I’m about to turn around and head for the door, something catches my attention. Walking back, I look closely at my reflection. Lifting my left hand to touch my lips, I notice my bare ring finger. When I took my rings off this morning to put lotion on my body, I must’ve forgotten to put them back on.
In the six years we have been married, not once has that ever happened.
Until today.
Buildings, people crossing the streets, walking, laughing, living; cars speeding or slowing down as the traffic lights direct them. Shapes blending with one another, creating a blur of color flashing through my eyes. It is beautiful and alive.
It is New York City.
After the limousine leaves the Midtown Tunnel behind, escaping into the freedom of the night, we speed through the Long Island Expressway heading to JFK. The Radcliff’s estimated arrival is roughly 8:00 P.M. At first, I thought they’d be flying commercial, but I should’ve known better. They’re traveling on his personal jet. Really, after so many years working in the hotel business, I shouldn’t be surprised by how much money some of these people make.
Ben’s family has a lot of money, too. The kind of money that would afford us to live without working and let us travel the world, but Ben hates the idea of just living off his family’s wealth. He loves his job as a lawyer, and he works because he wants to.
Pulling into the private landing strip, I don’t see a jet anywhere near. I take my cell phone out and dial Amy to give her a heads up. She’ll be happy to know that I got here before them.
After one ring, Amy answers the phone in that breathy voice of hers, “Are you with him?”
I chuckle because she doesn’t bother saying hello. “Nope. They haven’t landed. You owe me big time, you know? I should be having dinner with—”
“Yes, I know. You don’t have to shove the fact that you have sex-on-legs waiting for you at home. I get it. If I were married to that divine husband of yours, I would probably be giving you shit as well, but I need you tonight.”
“Which reminds me, I was about to call you because there has been a slight change of plans. Bruno’s assistant phoned me about five minutes ago, letting me know that only his son and wife will be arriving tonight. Apparently there was an issue with one of his top clients that only he could take care of.” She pauses, and I hear some shuffling on the other end, “Back, sorry. What else…Yes! You need to take the wife and son to dinner.”
Okay, this is so not what I wanted to be doing on my Friday night.
“Ugh, Amy! You’re killing me here! I don’t want to sit with a Stepford wife and an entitled rich child and make small talk when I could be spending it with Ben. You know better than anyone that we haven’t been in the best place lately…”
And we haven’t. Not at all. I mean, sometimes Ben and I are like friendly strangers living under the same roof; we say hello and ask each other about how our days went, but the intimacy ends there. If it wasn’t for the sex, like today’s rare occurrence, we would probably be more like roommates than a married couple. There’s an emotional disconnect growing between us, and on bad days it seems like it’ll be impossible to bridge.
“I know, Cathy. And I am sorry. If I had known this before you left, I would have sent Ryan, but hey, when you get home Ben may want a second round.”
“Seriously, Amy? I shouldn’t have told you why I was late this morning. And it’s not going to happen again. I don’t want it to happen—”
“Cathy, shut up and listen to the HBIC. Go have dinner with these people, get drunk, eat shrimp or something that’s supposedly an aphrodisiac, then go home and fuck your hubby. All your issues are because you are not getting enough at home. If Ben were my husband, I seriously would be hitting that as often as he felt like it which is apparently pretty often. By the way, I didn’t mean to pry into your business, but when you arrived late this morning you looked so flushed that I thought you had a fever. I only asked because I was concerned for my top employee.”
Okay, that was funny.
“That’s because I’m your favorite sales coordinator. And what in the world does HBIC mean?”
“Head Bitch In Charge, luvah…”
We both laugh at that. Amy, the red headed minx, is a spitfire of a woman with no shame. She is thirty-eight years old, twice divorced, and a force of nature. She has the balls that a lot of men lack, curses like a sailor, loves sex, younger men, and she uses her drop-dead gorgeous looks to her advantage...always. Seriously, that woman has perfected that swaying-your-hips-as-you-walk kind of thing.
“Alright, HBIC, should I take them to the Ritz for dinner?” I ask, smiling into the phone.
“Yes, darling. When you get there, let them know that you are Bruno’s party. They should take you right to the best table available. And please, Cathy, play nice and use those green eyes of yours with the wife. She’s probably the kind of woman who whines if her foie gras isn’t cooked properly.”
“Amy, I’ve got this. Why do you think you pay me the big bucks except to do my job, and do it right. I’m sorry I complained before. Too much going on.”
“I know, but this is a big deal, honey. Bruno just bought the chain, and I need you to be more than your usual perfectionist self. This could mean we both get promotions. And you know how I feel about your marriage. If you would just tell Ben how you feel, a lot of pain could be saved,” she says, sighing deeply.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s easier said than done, but don’t worry. I will take care of Mrs. Stepford Wife and their child as if they were my own in-laws.”
“Well, in that case we’re all good,” Amy answers, laughing.
Hearing the loud noise of engines, I turn to look at the dark sky when I see the jet coming into view, “Amy, I’ve got to go. The jet is about to land. Wish me luck. Hopefully I won’t disappoint you.”
“You would never disappoint me, girl. Go get them, hot stuff.”
Ending the call, I laugh at myself. I don’t know why Amy insists on calling me hot stuff when I’m pretty average looking; straight blonde hair, green eyes, slightly too thick lips, and a skinny body. Petite to the tee.
Robert, the driver, gets out of the limousine and comes to stand next to me. Yelling over the noise, he says, “Well, Mrs. Stanwood, let’s hope this new boss of ours is a good guy.”
I look at Robert and smile. “I hope so, Robert. We don’t want to work more than we already do, right?”
As the jet approaches us, I think back to what Amy said about not having enough sex with Ben being the root of our issues.
I wish it were that simple.
Sex is not a problem. Love isn’t either. I love Ben as much as the first time we said those three beautiful words to each other, but as each baby was tak
en away from my body by fate, by life, a part of me died and was buried with them in the cold-hard ground. The first miscarriage ripped a painful hole inside of me, the second one widened it, and the third just about broke me.
Time has fed that hole with inevitable boredom, monotony, and resentment towards life, Ben, and myself for not being woman enough. Enter doubt, and what you thought was an already rocky ride becomes a turbulence-ridden journey with no relief in sight except for the end.
The very end.
Doubts. They seep into your bloodstream, they plague every unused crevice inside your brain with revolving questions and no real answers. Is love a strong enough glue to put me back together again? Is the love between Ben and I strong enough to keep us together and our marriage afloat?
With this huge gaping hole inside me, and my taunting doubts as constant companions, I’m left hollow, angry, and afraid of intimacy with my own husband. Physical intimacy won’t close that gap.
After a perfect landing, the jet finally comes to a halt. I address Robert, “Well, it’s show time.” I wink at him and begin tapping my left high-heeled foot on the ground.
I hope this guy doesn’t change the dynamics of the office too much.
When the door to the jet finally opens, a beautifully dressed blonde woman appears. She is statuesque, and her body clothed in all shades of cream looks like it belongs on the runway of a Chanel Paris fashion show. Her ashy blonde hair is tightly coiled in a French bun, showcasing a lack of wrinkles all over her face. If that is Mrs. Stepford Wife, I already hate her. Behind her, comes a…
Wait, is that supposed to be the kid? I expected a puberty ridden teenager.
Oh, my.
No. There is no boy in that body. He is all man. If that is, in fact, Mr. Radcliff’s son, he doesn’t look anything like I’d imagined. For one, this blond stud doesn’t look like a teenager, at all. And two, there are no pimples on his perfect face. And well, he is at least ten inches taller than what I expected.
The man walking behind Mrs. Stepford Wife Perfect Skin No Wrinkles is wearing faded distressed jeans that hang so low on his hips you can see the waist-band of his Armani underwear as he walks, and a light pink oxford shirt with the first three buttons opened, exposing his tanned and very muscular chest.
This guy exudes confidence and sex. I bet that if I got near him, trying to catch a whiff of his scent, I would be able to breathe in what pure sex smells like. Even his leisurely walk is sexy as hell. My God.
When my eyes land on his face, I notice he is watching me with a lazy smile playing around his lips. He is beautiful. His chiseled face is the kind of perfect that belongs in an Abercrombie & Fitch ad to which thousands of girls daydream about kissing someday. But there is a deceptive sweetness in his features too; when you look at those eyes of his, you know you are in trouble.
Big trouble.
William Shakespeare said that the eyes are the windows to your soul. When our eyes connect, I see danger, and maybe something exciting. Something forbidden. Some basic instinct in me instantly recognizes that this man doesn’t make love to a woman.
He fucks her.
As I’m locked in his gaze, I am suddenly gripped by this feeling threatening to choke the air out of my lungs. A premonition or an omen, this feeling is shouting in my head, telling me to run and hide, to never turn back. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I just blink. My hand goes to my chest as I start to rub the area surrounding my heart.
He is danger.
My head is shouting to get away, and my heart is yelling danger, but my body isn’t letting me move. All I can do is watch as he makes his way down the stairs of the jet towards me. His grin has grown from lazy and crooked to a full-blown kilowatt-powerful smile.
His smile is electrifying.
His smile frightens me.
His smile hypnotizes me.
Shaking my head, I break my gaze from his hypnotic one. Get a grip, girl. Stop thinking about silly omens and wicked eyes. You need to listen to Amy and get laid. Like, as soon as you walk into your house, you better jump Ben.
Putting my best smile on, I clear my throat as I step forward. “Hi, my name is Cathy Stanwood. Nice to meet you.”
On our drive back to the city, my cheeks are still tingling from where his lips touched my skin. I was definitely not expecting him to ignore my handshake and plant two of the most electrifying kisses I’d ever received on each side of my face. I felt my cheeks flush as I clumsily took two steps back, extending my hand for a now useless handshake. He must have seen how affected I was by the close contact, because out came that stupid lazy smile of his that seemed to be doing stuff to my lady parts, my very married lady parts, as he took my hand in his own very large one.
Shaking hands, I noticed the unique and exotic color of his eyes. They were a pure aqua blue. Beautiful. I also noticed how they slowly perused my body, sending a shiver so strong running through my spine it made me tremble. He seemed to like what he saw because as his eyes covered more areas of my body, his smile grew wider. When his eyes finally landed on mine, and he realized that I had been watching him the entire time, he winked at me.
He smiled again. “Nice meeting you, Cathy.”
That smile should be illegal.
“I’m Arsen,” he said, still shaking hands.
“Arson?” I repeated. “Like, Fire-raising Arson?”
“No, Arsen with an E instead of an O, but very close,” he said, his eyes shining bright.
It’s funny that his name reminded me of fire because he certainly looked like someone who could burn you to the ground. With just one look, he made me feel as if my body was burning scarlet. The clearing of a throat breaks me away from my trance. “Miss Stanwood...Cathy…”
Shit, I hope I haven’t missed much of the conversation. Turning towards his voice, I see Arsen sitting on the leather seat with his legs spread apart. As he sips his water, his gaze lingers on my mouth for a moment longer than necessary.
“Cathy, my mother was wondering whether you happen to know if Amy has seen to the buying of that property in Purchase or not?”
“Yes, we closed two weeks ago. I’ve met and interviewed a couple of interior designers who—”
I’m cut off by Victoria Radcliff. Yes, Mrs. Stepford wife has a name.
“Oh, There’s no need for an interior designer. I only use Charles.” When she turns to look at her son, I am struck by how much they look alike. All American blonde perfection.
My phone rings, breaking my perusal of perfection.
“I’m sorry. I should probably take this phone call. It must be Amy making sure you arrived safely.”
Victoria shrugs her shoulders and continues talking to her son as if I don’t exist. Turning my body to the side so that I can give them and myself some privacy, I take the call.
“Cathy Stanwood.”
“Babe, it’s me. I know you’re working, but I just got called into the office…emergency meeting. I’ll probably be working all night long, so I don’t think I’ll be back until you’re in bed and already asleep.”
I can feel eyes on me. Suspecting Victoria is watching me because I’m interrupting her conversation with her son, I lower my voice.
“Okay…”
Ben must sense that I shouldn’t be on the phone because he chuckles. “I’m probably getting you in trouble with this call. Tell them to go to hell. I’m talking to my woman.”
“Ben…”
“Alright, babe. I just wanted to wish you a good night. And to let you know not to wait up for me. I love you.”
He waits on the line for a second longer, probably expecting me to tell him that I love him back, but I can’t. I don’t know why. Sighing into the speaker I only say, “Night.”
Wait. That’s not fair.
I’m about to say something more meaningful to Ben when I hear him release a deep breath and end the call.
Shit. Fuck. Damn it. Why do I always behave like such a bitch to him when he’s just trying to be
sweet?
Frustrated with myself, I put my phone away and lift my eyes, expecting Victoria to be shooting daggers at me. She’s not, though. She’s looking out the window. Instead, my eyes connect with aqua ones.
It has been Arsen watching me all this time.
Arsen is making me very uncomfortable. He keeps watching my every move, and it’s unnerving. I don’t know why. He is much younger than I am, and I usually don’t cower in front of men, not even when they are as drop dead gorgeous as the man sitting next to me.
I’m used to some of them watching me and flirting with me, but I’m never made uneasy by just a simple stare.
Not like this.
Not ever.
And, I never squirm in my seat, not even when Ben is trying to be funny and kinky at the same time. But this guy is seriously getting to me. The intensity in his gaze feels as if it’s burning a hole through me.
I break our staring contest and reach for my glass of Pinot Noir. For a moment, I get lost in the taste of the wine, tasting its fruity flavors mixed in with warm spice and earthy undertones. Letting the delicious wine roll around in my mouth, seeping into the taste buds of my tongue, I avoid looking at the man sitting to my left and the woman sitting right across the table from me. Instead, I let my eyes wander around the restaurant that Arsen picked instead of going to the Ritz. Homme. It’s the “it” restaurant in New York City at the moment. Zagat, the New York Times, and The New Yorker all swear by it. I’m surprised they let us in without a reservation because I’ve heard that the wait list is currently one month in advance.
I guess I shouldn’t be though. Arsen seems to know a lot of the people here tonight, and so does Mrs. Radcliff. Looking around, I take in the very upscale and expensive décor. It’s all white and glass. The light fixtures are a mix between classic designs of sparkly clear crystal and large modern Swedish-looking orbs of white, opaque bulbs. Aesthetically it is beautiful and very zen. On the other hand, the music is loud and very Ibiza. The juxtaposition of the techno blasting in your ears while you’re trying to eat a hundred-dollar duck is pretty funny if you think about it.