by Emerson Rose
“Hey, handsome. I thought I heard the door.”
I glance back into the bedroom and see Amira standing there, sweat dripping down her face. She has a water bottle in her hand and she’s dabbing her neck with a towel. Dressed in a pair of tiny workout shorts and a sports bra with no makeup, she almost looks sweet . . . almost.
I am the only person she allows to see her without makeup. I’ve never understood why, because she’s drop dead gorgeous without cosmetics. But unless she’s going to be at home, she smears that shit all over her face the second she’s out of the shower, every day without fail. She told me her father began demanding she wear a full face of makeup when she was twelve ‘to make her prettier’. What an asshole.
“You were supposed to get me at the airport.”
I drop my pants and turn my back on her to step into the shower. The hot water pelts my skin from five different showerheads. I place my hands on the wall and lean forward, dropping my head between my arms, and moan with relief. The twenty-two-hour flight was grueling, and it’s left me stiff and feeling grungy.
“I’m sorry, baby. I could have sworn you said you were coming home tomorrow and—you know—I was working out to stay in shape for my man,” she says with a shrug.
My manager texted her three times yesterday, and we spoke on the phone last night, but it’s not worth arguing with her about it.
“Amira, one of these days, you’re gonna have to get it straight that we are not the happy, loving married couple that you’ve dreamed up in that whacked out little brain of yours.”
She opens the shower door, letting all the cool air from the room inside. I shiver, and she misinterprets my reaction. Foolishly, and despite my harsh words, she thinks she is the one causing the goosebumps on my flesh. She couldn’t be more wrong.
“Oh, baby, you don’t mean all that,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Do you want me to make it up to you now, or later? Or maybe now and later.”
Her unique voice is smooth and seductive. It would have any other man on his knees, but this woman has done me wrong from day one. Right now, I’m really fucking tired, and all I want to do is go to bed.
I straighten up, keeping my eyes closed, and ignore her sex-a-thon invitation and begin to wash my hair. When it’s obvious I’m not going to take her up on her offer, she steps into the shower and closes the door. I hear the click of the shower gel bottle behind me, and then I feel her hands sliding over the tight muscles of my back.
“You don’t have to be such a baby, Liam. I mixed up the days. It’s no big deal. You had your crew with you, and somebody obviously brought you home. Now that you’re here, let me take care of you like a good wife.”
Her soapy hands slide around to grasp my thick cock. Her fake breasts press against my back while she begins to pump her hand up and down. I’m hard as fuck in seconds, and it pisses me off. I don’t want to want this woman. She’s a self-centered, conniving brat, but my body betrays me as she does the thing she does best. I’m so exhausted that I relax and just go with the flow—the slippery, wet, pulsing flow. When she slides one hand down to cup my balls, it’s time for me to take control.
“Turn around,” I command. She stops stroking my cock.
“Now.”
I don’t have to say it twice. She turns at the same time I do, and I pull her hips back and press my hand on the center of her back to bend her over. She grasps the edge of the stone shower bench, and I slide the head of my cock along her slit, teasing her until she’s soaked and panting.
“Liam, God, what are you fucking waiting for? Just do it already,” she says in her whiney Nicki Minaj voice.
Potential hot shower sex is ruined in one short sentence. The sound of her annoying tone was bad enough, but ‘just do it already’? I’d rather do it myself. I let go of her wet, round ass and turn back into the shower spray.
“Li-um!” She shrieks and stomps her foot like a spoiled child.
“Get out, Amira. I’m done with you.”
“You didn’t even start with me! How can you be gone for so long and not want to fuck when you get home? Unless you’ve been sleeping with someone else . . .” She shoves my shoulder from behind, but it doesn’t even move me. She’s all of one hundred and ten pounds to my two hundred of solid muscle. She thinks she’s tough because she works out seven days a week and studies Krav Maga, but she’s no match for me.
“Amira, I’m warning you.”
“’Warning me? No way. You’re fucking someone else, aren’t you? Hell, I’ll bet you just fucked your way through Europe on your tour. You know if I tell my daddy about this, your career is over,” she says.
That’s it . . . I’ve had enough. She tricked me into marrying her and moved into my house unbeknownst to me when I was on tour. She treats me like a hired hand unless she wants sex and spends money like it’s water on shit she doesn’t need. And now she’s accusing me of cheating when I’ve been keeping my shit on lockdown for six straight months! Fuck this fake ass marriage. I want out, and I want out now, reputation and fortune be dammed. I can’t be legally bound to this woman for another minute.
I slowly turn until we are eye-to-eye. I’m fighting the rage burning inside my chest. When she sees my expression, she takes a step back . . . first smart move she’s made today.
“First of all, I shouldn’t have to be faithful to you, because we both know you tricked me into this fucking joke of a marriage. Second, you’d be screaming my name right now if you knew how to speak to me with respect. And third, I haven’t touched another woman for the past six months. I may not remember marrying you, but there are pictures of the ceremony on every Goddamn website all over the Internet that prove I did. I’ve been true to whatever vows I exchanged with you, but right now? I’m done. Your dad can’t ruin my reputation anymore. I’m a fucking international superstar in my business. And it’s worth giving you half of everything I’ve broken my back to earn just to get rid of you. I want a divorce.”
I had no intention of confronting Amira with this shit today, but she provoked me, so there it is, the raw, unabridged truth.
Amira gasps and reaches out to touch me but changes her mind. She closes her hand into a fist and pulls it back, cradling it against her body.
“You don’t mean that, Liam. You love me. I know you do. You’ve had a long flight, and you’re just tired.”
She opens the door of the shower and continues reassuring herself out loud, something I suspect she learned as a child to ease the pain of her father’s severe criticism.
“You just need dinner and a good night’s sleep. You will be good as new tomorrow.”
She pauses with the shower door open. Steam billows out into the bathroom, instantly fogging the mirror while she continues to delude herself out loud.
“You don’t want a divorce, handsome. Get cleaned up, and I’ll go order some dinner.”
She wraps a towel around her body, leaving me alone to finish my shower while shaking my head. She’s crazy, and at times like this, even a little pitiful. But now I’m angry as fuck, and I have a massive hard on to take care of by myself. Thanks, Amira. Thanks a lot.
Chapter 3
Liam
I don’t even have to pack a bag. My shit’s still by the door. I throw on some jeans and a Freedom t-shirt from an old tour, grab a brand new, all-white pair of Adidas from the stack of boxes in my closet, and slip out the front door.
Amira is still on the phone ordering dinner when I quietly close the front door. Damn woman refuses to learn how to cook. She orders out every meal unless she’s drinking one of the hundred-dollar energy drinks her personal trainer sells her. I’ve never met a woman with so much potential and such low self-esteem. It’s a constant battle for her to be more beautiful, more in shape and more popular, but her father has been crushing her spirit her entire life.
Three months ago, I had to make a short trip home during my tour, and I found Amira living in my house. She got a locksmith to let her in when
she told him she was my wife and she’d lost her keys.
After a long afternoon of arguing and screaming about the validity of our marriage, we sat down and talked. I saw through her nasty bad girl façade and learned that when she was growing up, her father had verbally abused her. He wanted a son to carry on his legacy, but there were complications when she was born and her mother had to have a hysterectomy. He blames Amira for something she has absolutely no control over, and he’s destroyed her self-image. As angry as I was for everything she had put me through, a tiny part of me felt bad for her, so I told her she could stay for a little while, even though she could have afforded to stay anywhere she wanted in LA. And I slept with her.
That was a colossal mistake.
She took my pity and sexual attraction for love, and that encouraged her delusions. Now, she was sure that we were a happily married couple. For such a smart guy, I can be a total fucktard sometimes.
Before I knew it, I was getting bills for things I hadn’t ordered and she was redecorating my house. I sent people by the house to kick her out—twice—but she just waved our marriage certificate around like a golden ticket. I gave up and decided to wait until my tour was finished to deal with her. And now that’s what I’m doing . . . sort of.
I’ve got my bike between my legs on the winding road, with the warm wind in my face, before Amira even hangs up the damn phone. I don’t know where I’m going, but wherever it is had better have a big ass bed, because I need to get some serious sleep.
Steve is my stage manager, but he’s also my best friend, so when I show up on his front step, he doesn’t ask questions. Without a word, he arches one eyebrow high, leans around to look at my bike parked in the driveway, and then down at my bag before swinging the door open wide. The stage crew has been taking bets on how long the marriage scam would last. I hope Steve was the one to choose six months, because this so-called marriage is over.
“So lemme guess: you got in a fight because she didn’t pick you up at the airport?”
“No, we got in a fight because she’s an ill-mannered, disrespectful, over-indulged brat and I’m through with her.”
“Wow. Ok. Well, it’s about fucking time, man.”
Steve leads me through the house and out back to his deck overlooking the ocean, where he fixes himself a drink and offers me a bottle of water, but I decline. I just want to go to bed, but I have manners, unlike my wife, so I sit and talk with him for a few minutes.
“Ya know, this is probably one of those moments in your life when it’s cool to have a drink, Liam.”
I developed a serious aversion to alcohol when I was five years old. I watched my father punch my mother in the face so hard it knocked her out cold.
“It’s all right. I knew this was coming. It’s not like this marriage is real. I can’t believe I let this shit go on for so long. I was just too busy with the tour to deal with her and her father and a divorce.”
“What about your PR chick? She’s gonna flip her shit when she finds out you did this without a warning. And what about Amira’s old man? He flat out threatened to ruin you if you divorced his little Nigerian princess. Dude, you’re screwed.”
“I’ll worry about it later. Do you mind if I just crash for a while? I can’t even think straight right now.”
“Sure, take one of the spare rooms. Felicia is out of town visiting her parents with the kids. She won’t be home for a couple of days.”
“Thanks. If I don’t wake up before she comes home, come get me.”
Steve chuckles and whacks me on the back before I scoot the chair away from the table and drag my ass through his beautiful beach house to bed.
I’m disappointed that Felicia and the kids are gone. Steve’s wife is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, and I love his kids. They’re awesome. I’ve never been much of a family man kind of guy, because of my lifestyle, but if I could have what Steve has, I’d take it in a heartbeat. I used to dream of having a big brood of kids. I especially wanted a son, so I could name him after my baby brother who died when I was five. But being a DJ came naturally. Things just fell into place with my career after a while, and I abandoned the idea of a wife and kids.
I choose the bedroom that faces the front of the house, where there is less sun and more shade. I need a room dark enough to sleep during the day, because I wasn’t kidding about sleeping until Felicia and the kids come home. I’m that fucking tired.
I power off my phone, throw my clothes on a chair in the corner, slide into the California king sized bed, and pull a pillow over my face. How the hell did I get here? How did my awesome, carefree life turn into such a damn nightmare?
Three words: Amira Oni-Wild.
PR chick and Mr. Oni be dammed. I’m getting out of this mess, no matter what the world or Amira’s father think of me. I’d like to see him try to destroy me now. I’ve had two albums go double platinum since he made that threat. I’ve become the worldwide phenomenon, DJ Freedom. I don’t think anything an oil tycoon could say or do would sway the dedicated fans and ravers all over the planet who love my music.
I’d pay good money to see my little glowworm from last night smearing glow in the dark body paint all over the stuffy dignitary, Mr. Oni’s, ebony skin during a meeting with the secretary of state. That would be abso-fucking-lutely priceless. I’d have a photographer take a picture of the moment so I could blow it up and hang it over my bed. I hate that man, I hate his threats, and I hate that he raised a daughter who is so fucked up that she would drug someone to trap them in a loveless marriage just for attention. It’s just like my mother used to always say: Bad attention is better than no attention, and Amira is a classic example of that notion.
Chapter 4
Liam
A little over twenty-four hours—and several bizarre dreams which include glowworms and African executives—later, I roll over, stretch my arms over my head, and yawn. When the nearly orgasmic feeling dissolves, I turn onto my side in bed and find Amira sitting with her legs folded under her in the chair where I threw my clothes the day before. She has her giant fucking iPad Pro propped on her legs, reading one of her trashy romance novels in the dark room while she files her nails.
“I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up, handsome,” she says like I never asked her for a divorce.
I moan and flop onto my back, scrubbing my face with the palms of my hands. She never quits.
“That’s no way to greet your wife.”
“How did you find me, Amira?” I ask from under my hands. She doesn’t pay attention to anything outside her own little bubble. I didn’t think she would even remember Steve’s name.
“I knew you wouldn’t go to a hotel because you don’t want any tabloid talk, and I asked around until somebody gave me David’s address.”
“Steve,” I correct her and throw my arms down to my sides.
“Huh?”
I sigh, “His name is Steve, not David, and he’s my best friend. Wives usually know little things like that.”
“David, Steve, whatever. It’s all the same,” she says, waving her nail file in the air.
“No, it’s not. They’re totally different names, and you’re missing the point. I’m not changing my mind, Amira. I want a divorce.”
She unfolds her legs and slips her file into a bag propped against the chair on the floor.
“I love you, Liam,” she says with eyes full of crocodile tears. This woman doesn’t cry. Sometimes, I swear she has a heart of stone.
I throw off the covers and sit on the edge of the bed, facing her with some serious morning wood. She eyes my cock, and her tears evaporate so fast that I wonder if I ever really saw them in the first place.
“Amira, you don’t know what love is. You’re spoiled. Nobody ever tells you no, and when they do, or if you even think they might, you manipulate the situation until you get what you want. Case in point—me. You knew I wasn’t available. You knew I liked my life playing the field. You did your homework and came
up with your psycho plan to get me to marry you.”
“Lia—”
“Don’t. Save it. We’re done.” I stand up and look around for my clothes.
“Amira, give me my jeans.”
“Not until you hear me out.” Her eyes dart back and forth between my face and my cock that is now pointing straight at her. I put my hands on my hips and watch her squirm.
“Hurry it up. I haven’t peed in twenty-four hours.”
“Okay, well I thought about what you said the other day, and I told my father we wanted to get a divorce. I tried to tell him that we just weren’t meant to be together, that our marriage was a mistake.”
This is the first time she’s ever come close to admitting she made this marriage happen all by herself. I wish I could record it and play it on every dance radio station in the world. This is also the first time she’s alluded to being unhappy in our marriage. It took six months, but she finally got the fucking hint: I don’t love her. I sense a ‘but’ coming though.
“So you told your father. And what did he have to say?”
She squirms in her seat and closes the app she’s been using to read her book.
“He says absolutely not.”
“Well it’s a good thing it’s not up to him then, isn’t it?”
Now she’s really fidgeting. Something about her unusual nervousness is making me uneasy too.
“He . . . he threatened to disown me and take me out of his will if I can’t make this marriage work. He says I’ll be a disgrace to the Nigerian people. I’ll embarrass our family if it gets out that I couldn’t even hold onto a husband who’s a DJ And he said he will destroy your reputation.”