by Nina Lane
I looked at it for a moment. Something pushed at the back of my mind. I sat on the sofa and turned the tablet on. The user-name and password screen popped up.
I knew Richard was good with strong passwords for our online financial and purchasing accounts, but he hated having to remember complicated passwords for less-sensitive material.
Hence the reason I first typed in his birthday, then Emma’s birthday, then Noah’s birthday as the password. Incorrect password.
Hmm. Our anniversary? No. My birthday?
Bingo. Richard had never forgotten my birthday, and I supposed this was partly the reason why. I looked through the contents of his desktop. Finance reports, spreadsheets, and stockholder information.
All boring. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but it occurred to me that I had very little idea of what Richard actually did on his tablet all the time. I opened the browser and scrolled through the bookmarks, then brought up his search history.
Disbelief flooded me. Dozens of porn websites appeared—explicit pictures and videos of couples and groups having sex in every position imaginable. The fact that my husband looked at porn wasn’t so shocking in and of itself, as I imagined many men did so at one point or another, but the content of Richard’s choices stopped my breath.
Rape. Gangbangs. Submission. Rough sex.
My hand shook as I clicked on a link. A video started of a naked woman lying on her side, her hands immobilized by handcuffs. A man thrust into her vagina and another pushed so hard into her mouth that she gagged. Another video showed a woman kneeling in the middle of a five-man circle jerk, fellating each man in turn while the others masturbated on her. A third showed a pregnant woman getting gangbanged by six men.
Horrified anger fired through my veins. I grabbed the tablet and hurried up the stairs. The sound of running water had stopped, but the bathroom door was closed. I yanked it open. Steam billowed out. Richard stood there naked, his arms raised as he toweled his hair dry.
“Madeline, what—”
“What the hell is this?” I snapped, hitting the play button on the gangbang video. “This is what gets you off? Is this why you haven’t been fucking me? Because you jerk off to sick porn videos now?”
Richard cursed, his expression hardening. He grabbed the tablet and stalked past me to close the bedroom door.
“Keep your voice down or you’ll wake the kids,” he hissed.
“You mean my children who have a pervert for a father?”
“What are you doing on my tablet anyway?”
“The question is what are you doing on your tablet,” I retorted. “Really, Richard, that’s what turns you on now? Your mind has gotten so warped by that kind of degrading porn that you can’t even get it up for your wife anymore?”
“Goddammit, Madeline, maybe if you weren’t such a fucking ice queen, we’d actually have a decent sex life,” Richard snapped.
I stared at him, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. “What?”
“Our sex life has always been lousy,” he continued, thrusting his hands through his damp hair. “Even when we were first married.”
“What… what are you talking about?” I gasped, a new alarm creeping into my blood. “We used to have a good sex life.”
“No, we didn’t! You just lie there, and don’t even do anything. Christ, it’s like fucking a corpse. Who the hell wants to do that?”
Cold shivers broke out all over my skin. “That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is! And whenever I suggested trying something different, you’d always say no, you didn’t want to.”
“When did I ever say that?”
“What, you want a list? When I wanted you to give me a blow job, you said it was dirty. When I wanted to titty fuck you, you said it was gross. When I wanted to go down on you—”
“Stop it!” I yelled, my heart pounding wildly. “I’ve asked you for sex, Richard. Just the other night, you pushed me away. And last month I planned that romantic evening in the hopes of kindling a spark again. And what did you do? You told me you were going home to watch a fucking ball game!”
“Yeah, because it was a better alternative to sex with you.”
I recoiled, the insult hitting me like a series of blows. “Are you kidding me?”
“I’m sorry.” He sighed. “It’s not worth it.”
Humiliation scorched me. “If sex with me has been so awful from the start, then why did you keep doing it for so long?”
“Because we wanted kids,” Richard said, “but afterward, what was the point? It wasn’t good for either one of us.”
“So you turned to porn?” I shouted, suddenly desperate to get back to the fact that he was the one at fault. “And horrible, degrading porn at that?”
“It’s just fantasies.”
“Oh, really? Is that what you think about when you jerk off? Me getting fucked by half a dozen men?”
To my horror, arousal whipped through me at the thought, like the strike of a lash. I grabbed the bedpost to steady myself, sharply aware of Richard’s nakedness, water still beading on his skin, his cock dangling between his thick, muscular legs.
“No,” he said, dragging a hand down his face.
I swung my gaze to his. “No… what?”
“I don’t think about you when I jerk off, Madeline,” Richard said heavily. “I don’t think about you sexually at all anymore.”
What the hell?
My chest tightened with pain. I crossed the room in three strides and slapped my hand across his face. The blow caught him off guard, but he didn’t move—only looked at me with that resigned expression, like everything he’d once believed about me was gone.
“How dare you?” I hissed, clenching my fists to stop myself from shaking. “How fucking dare you insult me and treat me like I’m nothing? Do you have any idea how few women look the way I do at age forty after having two kids? I’ve stood by you for almost twenty years without once complaining about your workload or your stupid golf trips or our sex life. If it weren’t for me, this household… you… would completely fall apart. I’m a fucking paragon, you asshole. I’m so goddamned perfect Martha Stewart wishes she were me.”
“That’s the problem, Madeline,” Richard said, his jaw rigid with tension. “You’re too perfect to be real.”
“Too perfect to fuck too, apparently,” I retorted, my mouth acrid with bitterness. “If this is how you felt, why haven’t you asked for a divorce?”
“I don’t want a divorce,” he said. “Sex aside, we have what every married couple wants. Two amazing kids, incredible house, plenty of money, vacations wherever we want. Our finances are rock solid. I was just made a partner in the firm. No one has anything bad to say about either one of us. In fact, people envy us. I’m not fucking up our position and reputation in this town just because of sex.”
“Well, I have news for you,” I said, a bubble of hysterical laughter rising in me as I realized what I could throw back at him. “People know that we have a sexless marriage.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Remember that argument you and I had outside the restaurant?” I put my hands on my hips and met his gaze. “One of the PTO mothers heard me yelling at you about our lack of a sex life. Needless to say, the rumor has spread.”
His expression darkened, but his tone remained even as he said, “I don’t give a shit about rumors. Let the PTO mothers say whatever they want. All the more reason to play them at their own game and prove we’re fine.”
Fine. Jesus God, when had it become okay for our marriage to be fine? The weather was fine. A salad for lunch was fine. A marriage was supposed to be… something else. Something so much more than fine.
A crack split open inside me, like the start of an earthquake. Buried knowledge, black and fetid, pushed its way to the surface. I dug my fingernails into my palms and forced out the question.
“How many?” I asked.
My husband had the grace not to act like he didn’t know what I was talking
about.
“Five or six,” he admitted, pulling on a pair of boxers. “More if you count business trips.”
I struggled to draw in a breath, the earthquake intensifying, jarring me to the bone. “Over how long?”
“Madeline…”
“How long, Richard?”
He sighed and pressed his hands to his eyes. “Maybe ten years.”
Right about the same time our sex life started declining, then. How stupid was I not to have thought of that?
No, not stupid. I just couldn’t imagine that my husband—that any man—would want to turn to another woman when he had me as his wife.
I wasn’t the perfect wife by accident, for God’s sake. I worked at it. Between my mother’s dictates and my own ability to hone my skills to knife-sharp levels, I knew very well that no woman could match my wifely expertise.
That was it right there, a little voice whispered. Richard didn’t want to fuck his wife. He wanted to fuck a whore. A slut. A woman who’d let him come on her tits and beg for more.
Son of a fucking bitch.
“I didn’t love any of them—” he started.
“Oh, shut up, Richard. Go jerk off to a fucking gangbang.”
I stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door, shaking so hard my teeth rattled. Tears burned my eyes.
Ice queen.
Fucking a corpse.
Ten years.
I blinked the hot tears away. I will not cry. That fucking asshole will not make me cry.
I took my phone out of my pocket, setting it on the counter. I stripped down to my lace-edged bra and pinched my nipples until they were visible against the satin cups.
I pointed the camera at the mirror and took a picture of my cleavage. Still trembling, I texted the photo to Mr. Hunter and wrote:
Tell me more about your beach house.
CHAPTER FOUR
‡
“It’s only for two days.”
Silently hoping my voice sounded casual, I sprinkled a few blueberries onto my bowl of muesli and brought it to the table. I’d made coconut-quinoa oatmeal and spinach smoothies for Noah and Emma, though both of them were picking at their food with disgusted expressions.
“Eat,” I told them. “You need a healthy breakfast before school.”
“Can’t I just have cereal?” Noah complained.
“That is cereal,” I replied, sitting down beside him.
“I want frosted flakes.”
“Absolutely not. We don’t eat junk food.”
Noah made a face at the bowl. Emma rubbed her spoon and tried hanging it from her nose.
I glanced at Richard, who was reading the news on his tablet and drinking black coffee. He and I had barely spoken since our fight two nights earlier—he’d been sleeping in the guest bedroom, and I went to bed by nine so we could avoid being alone together.
And since I knew we would both remain calm in front of the children, I’d made it a point to speak to him only when they were in the room. Which was cowardly of me, but… desperate times called for desperate measures.
“You didn’t tell me,” Richard said.
“I’m telling you now. I just made the arrangements.”
“San Francisco is where the Golden Gate Bridge is,” Emma remarked.
“Yes, darling, though I probably won’t see it this time,” I said, reaching out to take the spoon off her nose. “I’ll just be away for a couple of days.”
“What for?” Noah asked.
“It’s a conference on museum education,” I explained, realizing with a pang that I was not only lying to my husband—I was also lying to my children.
“Did the museum director ask you to go?” Richard asked.
“No, I volunteered.”
“So commute,” he said. “It’s an hour’s drive. You can easily make it back and forth each day.”
“It’s better if I stay at the hotel because the workshops start at eight, and there are several evening events.” I glanced at the clock. “I’ll leave on Friday afternoon and return on Sunday. Mrs. Harris agreed to come over and help with the children. She has the entire weekend schedule on a spreadsheet.”
Richard’s frown deepened. He didn’t like any disruption in his routine, no matter how easy I tried to make it. However, this morning I was having a hard time caring about his displeasure.
I picked up Emma’s spoon and rubbed it, then hung it on my nose.
“Hold it!” Noah shouted. “One, two, three, four…”
I made it to eight seconds before the spoon fell. Emma cheered.
“Good job, Mommy.”
“Thank you.” I took a bow. “Now it’s time to get going or you’ll miss the bus. Come upstairs and brush your teeth. Hustle, hustle.”
They both pushed the smoothies away with looks of relief and hurried up the stairs. I helped them finish getting ready and got them to the bus stop before starting my own morning routine.
I spent the next few days wavering between excitement and outright fear. I should cancel, I kept telling myself. There was no way I could do this. And yet I spent an inordinate amount of time packing and repacking a travel bag, wondering what and what not to bring.
Mr. Hunter and I exchanged medical information attesting to our good health and my tubal ligation three years ago—clinical messages that hammered home exactly what we were both expecting. He texted me to meet him at his apartment after school on Friday, and we’d make the three-hour drive to Crescent Bay together.
Aside from Richard, I’d never been away with a man before. And up until Friday morning, I doubted my ability to go through with it, even as I checked in to a salon for various beauty treatments, including waxing, exfoliation, and a facial. When I got home, I took off my wedding ring and hid it under a pile of scarves in my dresser.
I’d arranged for the babysitter to take care of Noah and Emma after school. After putting my travel bag in my car, I hugged Noah so hard he squirmed out of my grip.
“Have a good trip, Mommy,” Emma said, kissing my cheek before hurrying over to the TV to watch cartoons.
I gave the babysitter final instructions and drove to the address Mr. Hunter had given me. His apartment was in a downtown high-rise, and butterflies zinged around my stomach as I took the elevator to the tenth floor. It was a high-end building with carpeted corridors and marble-topped accent tables, which made me wonder how he could afford the rent. The Sweetwater school district paid its employees very well, but this building combined with Mr. Hunter’s beach house seemed pricey.
“Hi.” He opened the door with a smile, looking utterly gorgeous in jeans and a long-sleeved, untucked chambray shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the tanned V of his throat. His sun-streaked hair was rumpled, his blue eyes warm and bright.
“Come on in.” He took my travel bag from me and stepped aside so I could enter the apartment.
It was a typical bachelor pad with leather furniture, a huge-screen TV, a desk covered with computer equipment and a Nintendo, and papers strewn over the dining table. It was also untidy—a sweatshirt tossed on a chair, magazines cluttering the coffee table, throw pillows on the living room floor. Through an open door, I could see the bedroom dominated by a big, unmade bed, the navy comforter rumpled amidst discarded clothes.
The ordinary sloppiness of it all was oddly soothing, reminding me that Mr. Hunter—Ben—was more than the dominant man I knew from our first erotic encounter. He was also a young, messy single guy who read sports magazines, played video games, and didn’t make his bed. That knowledge made me like him even more.
“Sorry, haven’t had a chance to clean this week,” he said with an apologetic shrug.
“It’s okay.” Reflexively, I picked up the throw pillows and set them on the sofa. “Um, this is a nice apartment.”
“I’d like to get a house one day, but this is fine for now. I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared into the bedroom. I stacked the magazines neatly on the coffee table, hung up his swe
atshirt, and started arranging the sofa cushions.
“Maddie, stop.” Amused, Mr. Hunter shook his head at me as he emerged from the bedroom with a duffle bag. “I didn’t ask you here to clean my apartment.”
“Habit, I guess.” I ran my hands over my thighs. “How long have you lived in Sweetwater?”
“Just a few months.” He grabbed a set of keys from the table and picked up my travel bag. “I moved here after I got the principal job.”
“What did you do before that?”
“After I got my Master’s in education administration at UCLA, I worked as a teacher and then a vice-principal for a few years,” he said, guiding me back out to the elevator. “Then I applied for the Sweetwater position, and here I am.”
“Are you from California originally?”
He nodded. “Orange County. My father is the DA and my mother was the CEO of a food company. I inherited a sizeable trust fund when I turned twenty-five.”
Well, that explained some things. “You didn’t just want to coast, though.”
“No, I also inherited their work ethic.” He put our bags into the trunk of a black SUV and walked around to open the passenger door for me. “I’ve always liked education and working with kids and schools. Feels like I’m making a difference.”
“Based on parent and teacher feedback, you’re doing a great job,” I said, settling back against the leather passenger seat. “Everyone is raving about you.”
He flashed me a smile as he climbed into the driver’s seat. My whole body tingled right down to my toes.
“Even the PTO president?” he asked.
“Especially the PTO president,” I admitted, flushing when he winked at me.
He drove out of the parking garage and navigated onto the freeway heading north through San Francisco.
“And you?” he asked. “Parents, upbringing?”
“Not much to tell.” I looked out the window. “I grew up in Cupertino. My father left when I was five. My mother was a secretary who thought he left because she wasn’t a good enough wife. She never remarried, so it was just her and me. She passed away a few years ago.”