I don’t know if I am goading him or if this is truly what I want. What we have just shared was fantastic, but the rest of the stuff that surrounds us is like a giant shit storm. I don’t know that I am strong enough to be in the middle of it any longer.
“You want to fuck other guys?” He asks, looking completely shocked.
“I don’t know. I think I might want the option, though.”
“Fuck no,” he spits out, his face turning red with anger.
“I don’t think you really have a leg to stand on, Peter.” I pull the sheet up around my breasts but Pete doesn’t let it stay there for long before he rips it down and pins me to the bed with his big body. My heart starts to race and my mouth goes dry.
“Another man touches you in any way whatsoever, I’ll kill him, Libby. You’re my fucking wife and we’re going to build this marriage into what it should have been built into seven years ago before I screwed it up with my pride and my own bullshit. I am going to be the only man inside of you. I am going to be the only man that sees these fantastic tits. I am going to be the only man to make you come, and if you think about being stupid and going behind my back, remember that I’ll gut any man that comes near you. You’re mine. My goddamned fucking WIFE.” His last word ends on a roar and I can’t help the tear that escapes my eye. Pete must not see it because he grabs his boxers and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
I sit stock-still, staring at the door for a few minutes, willing my breath to even out. I gather my thoughts, which are still jumbled from the two mind blowing orgasms I had before Pete went crazy on me.
Men. Nothing but damn divas.
Once I calm down from the anxiety. I start to get angry—really angry.
That asshole.
I roll out of the bed slowly, still a little unstable on my shaky legs, and I grab Pete’s discarded t-shirt, throwing it over my body. It swims on my small frame and covers any shape I have beneath it. I take one deep, cleansing breath and I go in search of my husband.
The jackass.
“Go back to bed,” he calmly states, his eyes focused on the cityscape ahead of him as he stands in front of the windows in the suite’s living area.
“No. This is a discussion that needs to be finished.” I cross my arms over my chest and stand my ground, planting my feet into the warm soft rug.
“What’s there to discuss? I fucked up. I treated you like shit for years, and now you’re done with me, right when I want more from you,” he says, sounding resigned and so damn sad.
Pete shocks the shit out of me with his honest words. I find that I want to cave. I want to bend to his will, but what would that say for the future?
“What if… I don’t know… what if we date for a while?” I suggest.
Pete shakes his head and marches over to me, wrapping his arms around my waist as both of his hands slide down to my ass. He squeezes the cheeks in his firm grasp.
“I don’t want to date you. I want to fuck you every second of every day. I want your sweet looks and your soft smiles. I want your dirty mouth and your hilarious jokes. I want it all. You don’t want me anymore, I get it. I completely messed it all up and you put up with my shit for too long. I don’t blame you at all. I’m asking a fuck’ve a lot from you.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and touch the long hair at the middle of his nape.
“We sure made a mess of this life we share, didn’t we?” I ask. Pete just smiles sadly.
“Come to bed. We can still discuss the future, nothing is set in stone,” I offer.
Pete nods once before picking me up and carrying me to bed. Once we lie down on the soft sheets, he wraps his arms around me from behind and pulls my body into his chest, his lips lightly touching my neck.
“You look phenomenal in my shirt, sweetheart,” he whispers softly. I fall asleep next to my husband, with a smile on my lips, for the first time… ever.
I should have known things would change. That conversation should have been an eye opener. The things Pete was saying should have warned me that he wouldn’t be there the next morning. He wants all in and I, admittedly, am not ready to just give that to him. I should have given him whatever he wanted. Instead, I wake up to a note on my nightstand.
I crumple the piece of paper in my hand and throw it across the room.
“That fucking asshole,” I scream in frustration.
Pete is giving me exactly what I want, but after spending a night in his arms, and thinking about his words—I don’t want that anymore. I want him. The only way I can have him is to be solely with him. I close my eyes and think about what it would be like to really be alone. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth because finally, finally, I am getting what I’ve been wanting for seven years. I want everything he promised me. I want him. It’ll hurt like hell if it doesn’t work out, but it will hurt worse never knowing.
I refuse to break. I will not break. If that asshole wants to act like an asshole, that’s is on him. I am not that weak girl I was a few days ago, or at least I’m going to fake it until I make it, that I’m not.
I get up and get dressed before calling the moving company to move all of my clothes back home. I refuse to sit around while Pete runs away at the first sign of trouble. Fuck him. I put up with his shit for seven years and he can’t hack a few damn days? Where’s all that fighting he said he was going to do?
I file through my clothes, finding my favorite Valentino—a bright red, wool, sleeveless tailored sheath dress that hits right at my knees. It has a cute, thin length of material that I can tie into a bow at the shoulder. It’s a little bright for the daytime, but I need a shield and this will be mine for the day.
I spend thirty minutes applying my makeup to perfection, and another thirty minutes straightening my long black hair so that it is smooth. I slide my feet into my favorite Christian Louboutin patent leather and mesh alternating shoes, with leopard backs and four inch high heels. They are killer and I love them.
The movers arrive and I give them explicit instructions before calling my doorman to let them in when they deliver my most expensive possessions, my clothes. As my eyes wander over all of the expensive and exotic fabrics, I wonder why the hell I’m even keeping them. I don’t particularly like most of them. They are a persona, a shield—much like the dress I am wearing now. They make me look put together and perfect. I sneer at them before leaving The Plaza and checking out.
I am a woman on a mission, and that mission is to beat the shit out of my husband. Or fuck him, I’m not sure which way this little meeting will go—maybe I’ll do both.
I advise the concierge of my need for a cab, since I chose not to drive when I left a few days ago. I didn’t feel like it then and I surely don’t feel like it now. The driver is waiting for me as I venture outside and, with the help of the doorman, I slide softly into the leather seat of the luxury sedan.
“Where to, Mrs. McGrath?”
“Yankee Stadium, the Bronx.” I look up to the sky, noticing how bright it still is. A glance at the dashboard of the car alerts me to the fact that it is only noon. Pete will still be on the field for a few more hours.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. I cringe at the word, though I feel much older today than I did just months ago. Perhaps the title of ma’am is fitting.
I close my eyes for a moment and relax. Suddenly, my anxiety is taking over and I am scared, truly scared. What will Pete’s reaction be to my showing up, unannounced, at the ball field? I want to rip into him, but I don’t want to cause more shit between us.
My brain is jumbled and it’s all his fault. When I saw that photo of Pete and that girl, I decided I would get a divorce and start my love life over again. I would find somebody who wanted me and who would love only me. Then Pete found me at the hotel and started spewing sweet words and promises, making my heart and my belly flutter with each uttered word.
When we finally made love, he decimated what little hold I had on my heart and I willingly handed it over to
him just to be ripped to shreds again. I should be grateful that he left me so suddenly, but I can’t help this sick feeling I have every time I think of a life without him. I’m not going down without a fight, and that man is not going to run from me—not again.
The tall buildings pass in a blur and suddenly the Upper East Side is behind us and the Bronx in view. The luxury and gorgeousness of the part of the city I have called home is gone and the roughness of the Bronx surrounds me. It isn’t ugly or disgusting, per se, but it isn’t luxury. I have only known luxury in my life. I hate it.
I yearn to be normal, and when I met Pete, I had a taste of that normalcy that I crave. Our first date after our one night stand was burgers and a movie. It was the most normal thing I had ever done. Our normalcy started and ended right then and there. Suddenly, we were engaged, and a minute later we were married and miserable.
I watch out the window and yell at the driver to stop when I see a clubwear shop. I decide, for the first time, to throw caution to the wind. I ask the driver to wait and I march inside of the store. The girl behind the counter’s eyebrows raise as I step inside.
“You lost?” A beautiful dark skinned girl asks me. She has to be around twenty, her breasts and booty are stuffed into the tightest dress on earth and I can’t help but be mesmerized. I want to look like her. She’s beautiful and curvy and confident. I can see it in her stature.
“I need a sexy dress,” I blurt out. Her eyes go wide.
“How sexy?” A smile curves on her lips.
“I want to make a man beg for me, and it has to match my shoes.” I point my toe out and she laughs.
“Bitch, those shoes are fucking hot. I’m thinking coral.” I smile as my response and follow her to the coral colored section of the store.
I watch with fascination as she thumbs through some of the dresses and then pulls out what looks like a swimsuit and thrusts it at me.
“Don’t even look at it, just go try it on,” she says, smiling. I do as she orders and, once the dress is on, I gasp. The curtains fly open and her wide smile meets my wide eyes.
The dress is clingy, and I mean clingy. The skirt is so short that it cups just under my ass. I won’t be able to bend over without giving somebody a show of my panty-less pussy. There is a keyhole cut out of my lower back with a wide strap of material along my upper back exposing my shoulders, my lower back and my sides. The front of the dress comes up to the bottom of my breasts and is a wraparound halter that holds my breasts in place but exposes the center of my chest in a triangle.
“I’ll take it,” I state with a dry mouth.
“You better. He’ll be crawling for you. If he doesn’t, I would guess about a million other men will.”
I walk to the front counter and hand her my credit card as I stuff my demure Valentino dress inside of a shopping bag—which I know would make my Grammy and my mother cringe; or possibly even tear up at the sight of the wrinkled investment piece.
“Thank you. I’ll probably be back.”
“Go get your man, girl,” she yells, waving at me. I wave back before walking to the waiting car.
“Ma’am?” The driver questions, surely noticing my barely there attire.
“To the stadium, please.” I pull out my phone and text Victoria.
Me: Just bought my first clubwear dress. I think I’m going insane.
Victoria: Bitch, I bet that shit is hot. I need pics. Make Pete beg, girl.
Me: I will.
Victoria knows me. I feel like shit holding so much back from her all of these years, but the embarrassment and shame ate away at me. I decide right then and there, I am going to make Pete beg—if I have it in me to hold out for begging.
Fuck him and whatever high horse he decided to ride out on. He hasn’t had a problem treating me like shit and cheating on me for the past seven years, and now he’s grown some kind of conscious? All of a sudden, he wants to do what he thinks is the honorable and right thing to do?
I send the driver away as soon as I arrive at the stadium. Marcus, my favorite security guard, is standing at the entrance. I walk right up to him with a huge smile on my lips. He’ll let me get away with anything, so I know for sure I’ll be making it inside.
“Oh, shit. You’re here to stir up a shit ton of trouble, ain’t ya?” he asks. I nod, biting my bottom lip.
“Follow me. Fuckin’ women, swear to Christ,” he barks, making me giggle as I follow him toward the locker rooms.
“They just finished their practice. Don’t tell them I fuckin’ let you in here, though, or I’ll be a goddamned dead man.”
“Thank you, Marcus. Can you hold my bag?” I plant a soft kiss on his cheek and stomp into the locker room, plastering on my bravest resting bitch face while leaving Marcus standing outside with my clubwear bag stuffed with my dress.
I keep my head up and my eyes straight ahead, trying not to ogle all the hot bodies surrounding me. Some women would murder and maim just to be where I am now, surrounded by dozens of hot pro-ball players, but I have my sights set on just one of them.
Peter McGrath.
“Holy fuck. Hot piece of ass coming through, guys. Cover your tiny peckers.”
I smile and turn to see who said the comedic words, but I don’t recognize him. He sends me a grin and a wink as I keep walking.
“Holy-goddamned-holy-shit, you cannot be here,” a voice I recognize as Carlos’ says. His hand wraps around my elbow. I turn and raise a brow at him.
“Where is Pete?”
“He would lose his shit if he knew you were here when all the guys are, well… naked. Are you crazy?”
“Actually… yes, I am,” I admit with a shrug, pulling my arm out of his hand.
“Shit, he’s all the way in the back at the end. I’m going to pray to Jesus right now and hope that he shines his light on you because Pete’s gonna knock your ass into next week.”
I shake my head and start to walk in the direction Carlos instructs me.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Carlos yells as I start to walk past him, just realizing what I have on. I turn and smile widely at him.
“A dress.”
“He’s gonna fucking kill me for letting you walk through here like that,” he calls out.
Pete is going to lose his shit.
I have never dressed this skimpily in my life, but I’m done trying to be perfect. I am completely and totally over it. I am not perfect. Pretending to be, and doing everything I have been told, has made me nothing but miserable.
Call it a re-invention, a life crisis, whatever it is, I am just fucking over it. I am taking control of my life and I am starting by getting my husband back and on my terms.
I WISH I COULD WALK faster toward Pete’s locker, but the shortness of this dress, and the height of my shoes is making me move at a turtle’s pace. I don’t miss the looks and the cat calls as I walk toward my unsuspecting husband. When I finally arrive at his row of lockers, I see Jarrod and Jackson tying their tennis shoes on a bench. Pete’s back is to me, a towel wrapped around his delicious ass, and his light brown hair still wet from the shower.
“Oh, fuck,” Jarrod breathes when he sees me.
“We’ll, uh… catch you later, man,” Jackson calls out. Pete only mumbles a response.
“Hope you work it all out, honey,” Jarrod mutters, squeezing my hand in his supremely large one. He probably has a look of concern on his face, but I can’t tear my eyes away from my husband’s smooth back, muscular shoulders, and trim waist to check.
I watch in fascination as Pete presses his forehead to his open locker and braces his hands at either side of his head on the cool metal. Turned to the side, I can see his muscles straining as he flexes them, the color swirling over his side and arm. I am instantly wet at the sight of him, remembering how beautiful he looked while he was deep inside me just hours ago. Timidly, I begin to take a few steps toward him, stopping just a few feet away. He turns and his eyes open before widening as they drag over my entire body,
taking me in from head to toe.
“What the fuck?” He hisses. I shake my head.
“I’m so mad at you, Pete,” I grind out through gritted teeth. His brows furrow in confusion. If I could slap him, I would—I still might.
“Because I listened to you and I left? You don’t want me, Libby.” Pete runs his hands through the shaved sides of his head and I shake my own head at his words.
“I said I wanted to start out dating you. I didn’t know what I wanted last night and, honestly, I still don’t know right now. What I don’t want is for you to leave me, I don’t want to be without you, completely. You can’t start spouting off sweet words of love and lust, make me fall for you all over again, and just walk away from me. That’s coward bullshit and you know it,” I state.
Pete growls and grabs me roughly by the arms, pushing me against the lockers, the cold metal biting into the bare skin at my back.
“You come here with this scrap of material you call a dress, to what? Humiliate me in front of all the guys? Find a new ball player? What exactly are you trying to accomplish here by dressing like a whore, Libby?”
Without thought to my actions, I lift my arm and slap Pete across the face with all of my strength. As weak as I am, the slap still forces his head to the side. He then slowly turns toward me, his face a mask of fury.
“Answer me, goddamnit,” he screams in my face. I just I shake my head. He doesn’t deserve an answer to his questions.
“I am still your wife. I came here to talk to my husband, to try and figure out why he took the coward’s way out, leaving me with nothing but a note, like a pussy. I am not a whore. For you to even mention it, with your record of indiscretions, is insulting. Frankly, I should do more than just slap you.” My voice is rising, but I don’t care. A crowd could gather around us and I wouldn’t know it. His green eyes are all I can see, the beautiful moss colored eyes of my asshole husband.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for, Libby. I ain’t gonna date my own wife. You won’t be fucking anybody else. This body will be mine to do with as I please. Your pussy…” He cups his hand between my legs and I know he must feel the wetness gathering there, caused by our verbal sparring and his semi-naked state. “Your sweet fucking pussy will be only mine. I meant it last night when I said, if I found out another man ever touches you I’ll kill him. I’m not joking around about that.”
Forced Play for Libby (Men of Baseball #3) Page 9