Bent not Broken

by Lisa De Jong

  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 taken 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.”

  Chapter 4

  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.

  But it works.

  Smiling at the very cute waiter when he comes over to fill my almost empty glass, I don’t see Arsen move closer to me until I feel the whisper of his hot breath against my ear.

  “Why don’t you smile like that at me?”

  I feel his pinky finger touching the outside of my thigh as his hand supports his reclining body on the edge of my chair. His nearness is crowding me. The insignificant contact of our bodies makes me want to fidget in my seat, and his words make me want to get up and flee away from him and what they just made me feel.

  Excitement.

  I don’t know what to do or say, so I turn to look at Mrs. Radcliff to see if she’s watching us. But she’s not. With her head lowered, I can see that she’s texting someone. I try to move away from Arsen and his mouth when his hand is suddenly on my knee. His large hand manages to cover my entire knee and then some. “Why are you afraid of me? I don’t bite unless you want me to. And if you do…”

  I clear my throat and gently but firmly remove his hand from my knee. I don’t know this guy, and he should not be touching me like this at all.

  Meanwhile, ignoring the part of me, of my body, that enjoyed his touch.

  Trying to think of Ben, I look at Arsen, about to say something cutting to put him in his place, but I stop short. Instead, I watch as he brings the pinky finger that was touching my leg not a minute ago to his mouth and slowly lets his tongue trace it. Somehow, I get the impression that he can taste me. My throat dry, I can’t deny how erotic I find it.

  Arsen watches me flush and squirm in my seat and cockily smiles at me. Then he reclines back in his seat, grabbing his glass of wine and draining the contents in one big gulp. I know I need to say something, but I can’t. So many warring thoughts are running through my head; fear, dislike, shock, but the voice that is the loudest is lust.

  His cockiness is doing things to my body. The way he is watching me, the way he is smiling at me, and the little touch of his finger is making me wet. I am shocked to discover that I want my tongue to be the one tracing his finger. I want to open my legs, take his head, and guide his tongue inside of me so he can drink me, swallow me just as if I were that glass of wine. I want his tongue to taste me.

  Alarmed with the direction of my thoughts, I find my voice to shut him and my own imagination down.

  “I…Excuse me—”

  I don’t finish my sentence because Arsen lifts his index finger to his mouth signaling me not to say anything more.

  Is he kidding me? I can’t.

  Putting my napkin down, I push my chair back and excuse myself, saying that I need to use the ladies room. I don’t bother looking at him or at Victoria.

  I need to get away.

  Walking out of the bathroom, calm but still lost in thought, I don’t see Arsen approaching me until he’s standing in front of me.

  “Hey.” There’s a teasing tone in his voice.

  “Hi,” I say dryly. I need to get back to the table and get this night over with; he’s making me very uncomfortable. Actually, t
he thoughts he’s invoking in me are making me uncomfortable.

  “Did I say something to bother you back at the table?”

  “Um…No. Not at all…” I stutter nervously.

  “Really?” He steps closer to me and lifts a hand, letting his fingers touch my shoulder and caress it slowly. I want to take a step back, but I can’t move. I’m frozen under his spell. “Because when I did this, it looked like it bothered you a lot.”

  “Please stop doing that…” I shake my shoulder off.

  “Why? How about we ditch my mom and have some fun?” he asks, reclining his shoulder against the wall and taking in my body.

  “No. I can’t.” I feel myself blush under his scrutiny.

  “Why not? I’m known to be a good fucking time.”

  “B-because...because I’m—”

  Doesn’t he know I’m married?

  “I like you. There’s something about the stiffness in your demeanor that makes me want to see if you have a wild side.”

  He’s telling me all these things while he stands there looking cool and composed. Confident. Cocky.

  “No. You didn’t let me finish before. I can’t. I’m married and not interested. Now can you please move to the side so I can get back to your mother?”

  He seems shocked when I tell him that I’m married. Good. Whatever this is between us needs to be nipped in the bud.

  “You’re married? You’re not wearing a wedding band,” he says, pointing at my finger.

  “Well, I forgot to put them on,” I say, rubbing my hands together.

  “I can still show you a good time, you know. Even better since it can be a one time thing.” He moves away from the wall, and leans down to whisper in my ear. “It can be our little secret.”

  I push him away. “What’s with you? I don’t even know you. Do you always insinuate yourself to women like this and it works?”

  “Yes. Always.” “Well, it won’t work with me. I’m married and not interested. End of story. Now please, let me go back.”