Tryst

by S. L. Jennings

  Stunned, I silently chew the straw of my drink for a good fifteen seconds before responding. “Wow. I have to say, that girl is getting to you.”

  He laughs, the cocky tremor of his deep voice booming from the other side of the country. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “No. Yes. I’m worried you’re losing your edge. Just when I started liking your arrogant ass.”

  “Trust me. My ass is still very much arrogant. You just saw it a month ago.”

  “I know, it’s just . . . I’ve never heard you actually speak like that . . . with so much passion and conviction. I have to say, Justice, I’m impressed. You might not be as full of shit as I initially thought.”

  He laughs again, and this time I join him. “Look, Heidi. We both know that monogamy isn’t always successful for people like us.”

  “People like us?”

  “Sharks. Predators. We take what we want without apology, no matter who gets hurt. We’re selfish motherfuckers, but that doesn’t mean we don’t feel. And when we do happen to find that one person in this world who can tame us, who isn’t afraid of getting ripped to shreds and eaten alive, we have to do whatever it takes to keep them. Because being wild again just isn’t an option. Not anymore. So if this is what he needs, or what you need, just be sure you’re doing this to help your marriage, not harm it. And above all, realize what you’d be losing. What you could never, ever have again.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Your innocence.”

  I snort, and roll my eyes. “Innocence? You do realize that when a man and a woman love each other, they sometimes like to show it by taking off their clothes and getting into bed together. Sheesh, I thought you of all people would understand the birds and the bees.”

  “Not your sexual innocence, wise ass. The innocence and sanctity of your union. When you get married, you create a bond between you and your husband, and if you’re religious, God. You become untouchable to everything else. That person becomes as essential to your being as the air you breathe. But the moment you invite someone else to stand within that union, you find that you don’t need your spouse as much as you once thought you did. You can breathe without him. You can find gratification without him. You can live without him. And that’s a slippery slope for someone you have vowed to love for eternity.”

  “So you don’t think you can maintain the emotional bond of a marriage if the sexual aspect is unconventional? Kinda narrow-minded coming from someone who makes his living off staging fantasies.”

  “I didn’t say it doesn’t happen. I didn’t even say I disapprove. I’m just giving you my honest opinion. Experimentation is one thing, and it can be uniquely beneficial to a marriage, especially one that’s withstood the test of time. However, when does an experiment or a fantasy turn into a habit? And when does that habit turn into a full-blown affair?”

  I can almost imagine the smug grin on his face as he leaves me too stumped to answer eloquently. Tucker and I experimented, and it was great. Better than great. So much so, that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Haven’t stopped wanting it.

  My mistake wasn’t sleeping with Ransom. It was letting that fantasy blur into reality. What happened between the three of us should have stayed and died in that hotel suite. It should have been nothing more than a few risqué memories for Tucker and me to laugh about in bed between wet kisses and eager touches. Something to get us hot and bothered before expelling all that lustful energy into each other.

  “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Thanks, Justice,” I say, my words as sober as my heart and mind. “Hey, I have to make a call. Talk soon?”

  “Hopefully not too soon.” He hangs up before I get the chance to. I swear, I think we’ve made hanging up on each other a game.

  I scroll through my contacts and land on R. His number is the first name in that section. Even if it weren’t, it’d still be the only one I see.

  After five rings, I’m just about to hang up when he answers, obviously out of breath. Heat flames my face—guilt, suspicion, desire—and I stammer out a cold greeting. Initially I think he’s still busy with his last night’s booty call, but then I hear the sounds of drums and a guitar tuning up.

  “Heidi? You need something?”

  “Oh.” I clear my throat, trying to put the business back in my tone. “I wanted to see if we could discuss something. It’s important, and I’d like to get this over with at your earliest convenience.”

  “Well, I’m at sound check for SNL. I’ll see you later, right? And we can just talk then.”

  “Well, actually, I—” I hear the piercing sound of a microphone on the fritz, shrill enough to make my eardrums bleed.

  “Hey, we’ll talk later. I gotta go. Ok?”

  Fuck. Not ok. “Yeah. Ok.”

  I hang up, and set my head in my hands, feeling like a complete pansy. Shark, my ass. I can’t even quit a fucking job.

  Damn him. Damn us both.

  I can’t quit him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tucker gets home just minutes after I do, which is later than usual. I have to be honest; I was stalling for time, wandering the city in search of clarity. Or maybe just a small reprieve from my marital woes. And nothing soothes the soul better than a little retail therapy.

  “You went shopping,” he remarks, eyeing the bags strewn about the bed. There’re a lot of them—Saks, Bloomingdale’s, Barneys. Plus I had to replace the pajama set from La Perla that I ruined the night before.

  “Yeah.” I make busy work of arranging my new garments in our closet, which is almost as large as the little love nest we had years back. I smile at the memory. Ikea furniture, a bathroom the size of a coat closet, and a kitchen that was barely large enough for us both to fit in at the same time. But we were happy. Happy and in love.

  “I made us a reservation at Nobu for tonight. Thought you might like a change of pace,” he says from behind me, his voice tentative. He’s feeling me out, studying my movements, searching the tiny lines in my face that tense together when I’m agitated and smooth when I’m amenable. I turn my back fully to refuse him those little clues. I shut him out, shut him down, just as he did me last night. If he wants to make this right, he’s going to have to do it the old-fashioned way.

  “Bunny . . .” I turn to shoot him a terse look that says, Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare try to butter me up with that name. It will not work. He clears his throat and starts again. “Heidi, what I said last night . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you or make you feel defective or deviant. You know how much I adore you.”

  I turn back to my rack of clothing, refusing to let him see the flash of pain that goes along with the knot in my throat. “But you don’t take it back. You don’t regret saying it, you’re just remorseful that it hurt me.”

  “Of course, I regret saying that, baby.” He steps in closer to me, so close that I can smell his cologne and feel the heat of his body caress my back. “I don’t want to hurt you. That’s the last thing I want.”

  I shake my head, not to refute his claims, but to try to shake away the frustrated tears collecting in my eyes. I’m not upset at his words. I’m upset that no matter how much he may claim to love me, I’ll always feel like a charity case in his eyes. The little monster he tamed and domesticated. He walks on eggshells to avoid disturbing the wildness in me that simmers right at the surface.

  “Tuck . . . I don’t want to fight anymore. But I don’t want to have to lie about who I am and what I want.”

  He places a hand on my shoulder and I lean in to his touch, starved for affection . . . acceptance. “Then let’s not. Let me take you to dinner. Let’s just be Heidi and Tucker tonight. Let’s laugh and joke about my feeble attempt at using chopsticks and drink too much sake. And maybe . . . maybe we can try again. Just you and me.”

  I turn around, my breast brushing his chest. “Really?”

  “Yes. If that’s what you need me to be, then I can try. For you.”

 
I hug him tight to my body, so tight that every cell within me fuses to his. His embrace is warm and comforting, and he kisses me on the top of my head.

  “Let me grab a shower,” he says after a few moments, pulling away, taking that warmth with him. “Long day today.”

  “Everything ok?” I ask, flipping through the racks. I stop on something sexy and appealing. Perfect to start tonight’s mood off right.

  “Yeah. Patient in the hospital. Rough few days but I think we’re out of the woods now.” Translation: One of his patients has gone off the deep end and OD’d, either intentionally or accidentally, prescribed or street pharmaceuticals.

  “Will they be ok?” I’m genuinely concerned. Tucker takes on a lot of entertainers and society types, most of them young. Last year, one of his patients—a teenage, rising starlet—overdosed on Klonopin and washed it down with her dad’s collection of aged scotch. All of it. The doctors did what they could, but her mind had given up, soon after her body did. It killed Tucker, and he carried a bit of the blame with him for months afterward. He knew the girl was suffering inside, and he put his all into helping her fight her demons. In the end, they were just too strong to combat.

  Tucker sighs, and I turn around just as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. Now that I am just really seeing him for the first time in days, I find that he looks exhausted. His eyes are sunken in, his usually meticulous hair too long and a little disheveled, and he probably hasn’t eaten real food in days. God, have I really been that much of a selfish brat to see that my husband is suffering? That he just needed me to put my own bullshit aside for once and just be a wife?

  I hang my sexy outfit back on the rack, putting it on ice and step out of the closet, going straight to the bed. Without a word, I climb up behind him and begin to massage his shoulders, which feel as hard and unyielding as boulders.

  “Hey, you. Let’s skip Nobu tonight and just stay in and hang out,” I suggest.

  He lifts his head a fraction, but not enough to deter my kneading. “Are you sure? You love that place.”

  “I know, I know, but we can always go some other time. Besides, I’ve really been craving pizza. Angelo’s?”

  Even with his head turned, I know he’s smiling. “I’ll call it in.” He turns to face me, his eyes just a shade brighter. His smiling lips press against mine for just a split second before he’s on his feet, instantly reenergized by the word pizza. “Thanks, baby. I owe you one.”

  After calling in to place an order for a large pepperoni, sausage, and mushroom, Tucker takes a quick shower and dresses in a pair of comfy, flannel pants and nothing else. His body is magnificent, the muscles tight and toned without even a hint of aging. Even the ridges leading to the waistband of his pants form a perfect V before disappearing under the nuisance of fabric. I’m a lucky woman—the luckiest. A gorgeous man adores me, worships the very ground I walk on, and has for a decade. Never once has he made me feel less than beautiful or confident in my skin. And he’s never, ever made me feel guilty or ashamed for wanting a less than noble career, even though I know he hates it.

  We’ve had a good marriage—a solid marriage. Up until now, neither one of us has had to question our fidelity. And other than his desire for children—that mostly stems from his overbearing, southern belle mother—Tucker has always appeared to be happy with our life.

  Maybe that’s what all this is about. He gave me something, now it’s time for me to give him something. I mean, I’m not opposed to motherhood. I just don’t see the need for it. He’s aware of my circumstances; he knows I could never conceive on my own. And while IVF is definitely an option, it’s not 100 percent guaranteed. Hell, it’s not even 50 percent guaranteed. And I can’t say I’m comfortable with those odds.

  In any case, Tucker hasn’t brought it up within the last few weeks, so maybe his sudden interest in my sexual deviance hasn’t been sparked by his need for fatherhood. He’s getting older, and forty will be knocking at his door in a couple years. And we’re both incredibly busy with work. So maybe he feels that ship has sailed for us?

  “What?” he asks, breaking me from the reverie of my thoughts.

  I smile and shake my head. “Just looking at you. I honestly think you get more handsome every day, if that’s even possible.”

  “Oh, it is, baby,” he jibes, slinking over to the bed, where I’m perched. “Just wait a few more years. You won’t be able to keep your hands off me.”

  “I can barely keep my hands off you now.”

  He leans over onto the bed and I help him by pulling the waistband off his pants. Even fresh from a shower, I can smell the hypnotic scent of his most sensitive skin. His smell is so erotic, so incredibly masculine, that sucking him off is a feast for the senses. I feel myself get wet at just the remembrance of him pulsing down my throat.

  His mouth crushes against mine, and I part my lips immediately to welcome him inside. We’re all lips and tongue and teeth, absolutely starved for each other. I moan in the back of my throat, and Tucker uses the opportunity to kiss me even deeper. I need to feel him. Right now. I need to erase the ugliness of the night before. All the ugliness that has caused a rift between us.

  I’m pulling up my skirt with one hand and trying to yank down Tuck’s pants with the other when the intercom buzzes.

  “Shit,” he curses against my lips. He stands up and straightens himself, and makes his way to the buzzer. “Yeah?”

  “Dr. DuCane, it’s Norm from downstairs. I’ve got a pizza delivery guy here for you.”

  “Right, thanks, Norm. Send him up.”

  I huff out an aggravated breath and stalk to the closet to get out of my day clothes. Great. Now I’m even more sexually frustrated than I was before. That delivery guy better have a free order of garlic knots for me or I might lose my shit. Can you actually explode from being overly aroused?

  After snatching up Tuck’s worn dress shirt and sliding it on, sans bra, I might add, I make my way out to the kitchen where my husband is already divvying out slices and servings of salad. And dammit, there are no garlic-fucking-knots.

  “So what do you want to do tonight?” he asks, settling in beside me on the bistro table.

  “I don’t know. Just chill? Have a couple glasses of wine, maybe? I think Lucia picked up some Stella for you.”

  “That sounds amazing,” he says, jumping up to inspect the fridge. Sure enough, his beer of choice is fully stocked.

  “Hey, bring me one of those, will ya?” I say, ripping off a bit of crust and popping it in my mouth. Tucker looks surprised—I’m not a beer drinker—but complies, even pouring it in a glass for me.

  “This is great,” he remarks around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni. “Pizza, beer, and my favorite girl. I so needed this.”

  I smile and nod. “Yeah, me too. Busy week.” I take a sip of beer, which turns out to be crisp and refreshing on my tongue. It’s not bubbly, but it definitely hits the spot.

  We polish off the pizza and settle onto the couch with our second round of beers, which is pretty risky considering that our living room set is ivory. But I’m trying this new thing called being a supportive wife that just lives in the moment. And in this moment, Tuck needs to be comfortable in his own home. This is his refuge away from all the horror he must experience at work. I can provide that for him. I can be his refuge.

  He grabs the remote and starts to flip through the channels, bypassing E! News, VH1, MTV, and Bravo. Nothing that would pique my professional interest and take me away from him and our little slice of normalcy. We’re not even twenty minutes into some slapstick funny sitcom when his cell phone rings.

  “What? When did this happen?” He’s pacing the floor, his brow wrinkled in concern. “Dammit. I’m leaving now.”

  Tucker looks to me with a mixture of regret and fear. “Bunny, I have to get to the hospital. There’s been a turn for the worse.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  He shakes his head, heaves out a resigned sigh. I can already see
the rigid tension creeping back into his shoulders and his expression is bleak and ragged. “I don’t know. I hope so. I’m sorry, babe. I’ve got to get over there.”

  “Go, go,” I wave. “I’ll be fine, honey. Do whatever you need to do. I’ll be here when you get home.”

  I really wish that statement could be true.

  Sixty minutes after Tucker rushed to Mount Sinai, my own cell phone is chirping. I pick it up and look at the number, then immediately set it back down.

  Ransom.

  I know why he’s calling. Saturday Night Live begins in less than an hour. But I’ve already made a conscious decision not to attend. Granted, that decision was much easier to stick to when Tucker was here, but I’m committed to my word. I’m committed to my husband . . . to my marriage. Talking to Justice really put things into perspective for me. Letting Ransom into our proverbial marriage bed wasn’t the issue here—we both enjoyed that walk on the wild side. The problem was, and is, that he’s still in it, lingering in our unsaid words and unmet desires.

  The only way I can exonerate him from our lives is to cut him off cold turkey. I’ll draft a letter of resignation, and we’ll split amicably. I mean, I was his publicist for less than a week. I’ve had relationships with badly cut bangs longer than that.

  Still, I’m a glutton for punishment. And instead of changing the channel and picking up a book or magazine, I keep it on NBC. And soon I’m watching the show, anxiously awaiting Ransom’s musical performance.