Mind F*ck

by Dawn, Kimber S.

  Excitement.

  I’m damn near giddy as Lexy’s voice answer’s on the other end. The excitement seemingly catches fire and blazes with recognition. And then, once I’ve informed my wife today marks the one week mark since she last took a pregnancy test, and then I remind her where the test is she’s supposed to take today, I don’t feel the same irritated responsibility of constantly sounding and acting concerned, for fear of hurting her feelings.

  I simply don’t.

  You can’t give a fuck if you don’t have one to spare.

  And currently, Miss Summer Jackson, is the main recipient of all of my fucks.

  The lunch meeting couldn’t end fast enough—it resembled what one with perfect dental genetics could only imagine a root canal would be, I’m certain.

  And the drive home afterward, was even more unimaginable.

  As weightless as it does feel to finally decide I won’t be bothered by my wife or her feelings any longer, there is also a certain amount of common humanity expected from me…as she is my wife.

  And today, I know, won’t be easy on her. She’s her most fragile on these days. She doesn’t take well to failure. A constant strong and yet the seemingly only positive attribute she holds these days.

  After I ease the black CTS-V to a stop in the circular drive, I slide from the car and make my way towards the front door. I take the stairs two at a time and glance at my watch to note the time.

  One hour until my meeting with Summer.

  I walk into the grand foyer and make my way towards the sitting room. When I don’t immediately see Lexy, agitation sparks just beneath the surface. “Baby girl? I’m home for lunch.”

  I slide my suit jacket off before folding it over the chaise lounge. But my motions freeze as Lexy floats into the room carrying a serving tray and smiling. Smiling beautifully.

  She’s fucking radiating.

  “I just made chicken salad sandwiches and few other hors d-oeuvres. I know it’s late for lunch,” her small voice tells me.

  Hate is funny. It’s a funny, sneaky, little emotion that can be derived from almost anything…even love.

  Because I do love my wife. I do.

  It’s just…I fucking hate her, too.

  And as I witness her setting the delicate China plates out and pouring hot tea like a trained Geisha, it causes conflicting emotions to emerge inside me.

  These emotions aren’t timid or subtle. Nor are they slight or shy. They’re bold and almost blinding they’re so fucking intense.

  Hate.

  Love.

  Her green irises blinking lovingly up into mine cause my teeth to grit.

  I try to will my hardening cock to cease it’s filling as images filter into my mind. Images of a pale, strawberry blonde woman transforming into a tanned pale blonde woman with curves in place of my wife’s lean muscle and sharp bone.

  Summer.

  “I’m not hungry,” I spit the words out at her.

  As my agitation grows and swells, I’m uncertain if it’s because of her or me. I do know that none of this is going the way I thought it would.

  I expected to come home to a sad, depressed wife. I expected to spout some same riddled shit that indirectly points out the fact that the reason we haven’t been able to conceive yet is because of her, then coddle her, pat her head, and then carry on my own merry fucking way, heading back to Jackson’s. And when I got done parking, I’d ride the elevator, walk into Summer’s office, fuck the princess of Jackson’s Agency on some board meeting table on the 44th floor, finish out the work day, then meet with Travis at McClearn’s. After that, I’d have a few cocktails, hit a few party favors, and call it a day.

  Instead, I’m standing here in the main room of my home, squabbling to understand why the fucking hell my wife is so goddamn happy when it hits.

  “You’re pregnant.” My words cut across, acting exactly as intended as accusations.

  Her happiness falters, but she quickly covers it up with her own brand of excitement and that damned smile. “Liam, we’re pregnant.” She beams.

  I wait. After her words reluctantly fall hollow between us, I do wait, hoping for something. Hoping for something that feels a lot like hope.

  Instead, I feel nothing at all.

  “Very well. And have you made an appointment, or shall I?” I ask.

  I do feel a slight twinge of regret when I see her face crumble as she realizes whatever response she was hoping her information would cause isn’t coming. But it’s only slight, and it’s even more brief.

  “I-I wanted to ask you. I-I thought if you wanted to go, well, I wanted to check your schedule,” she finally stutters out.

  My hands resting on her shoulders squeeze as I nod and force myself to brush my lips across her forehead, “Right. Very well, I’ll make the appointment. If you’ll excuse me, this was just a brief lunch break. Spent to check on you, baby girl. I have a meeting to get to soon.” I make a show of looking down at my watch and sighing. “I’ll let you know when your appointment is. Of course, I’m going with you.” I appease her. Kissing her on the nose and swatting her on the ass before stalking towards the foyer.

  “I’ll see you after work, my love.” I smile at her waiting on the threshold of the large front doors at the top of the stairs before sliding back into the black CTS-V and pulling from the drive.

  I’d like to tell you as I drove back towards Jackson’s Agency that I reflected. That I went through the interactions I shared with my wife this afternoon and examined each one, before deciding I was wrong and seeing some path that would send me towards absolution, but I did not.

  No. I did not.

  Instead, I blamed Lexy for her timing. Her damn clumsy timing. The same timing that had her falling into my life and my school the first day I saw her. That same damn clumsy timing that finally blessed us with a child…right around the first and only time my attention has ever wavered away from her.

  Right around the time I decide to start showing my affections for someone other than my wife.

  As I ride the elevator to the 44th floor, thoughts of fatherhood and bouncing bundles of joy are also no where near my frontal cortex and I know…I know, I’m not going to be the man I always hoped I would be. I know from the bottom of soul, as true as I stand before you, I wouldn’t become the good man my mother prayed for me to grow into.

  No.

  I know it because as my hands steel and brace my arms against the heavy wooden doors before shoving them both open and walking into Summer Jackson’s office like I own it, the thought strikes me…damn it feels so much better being a bad man.

  And I’d always liked the thought of being the bad man.

  As my eyes pin to Summer Lynn Jackson’s, I know without a shadow of a doubt, whatever was left of the man my wife married, years ago, simply no longer exists.

  Whatever left good in me, died the moment I decided to walk into this woman’s office.

  And the only thing left is bad.

  “And that’s all he said?” Mary’s kind eyes look back and forth between mine, their concern growing as I retell the odd interaction between Liam and I yesterday.

  Even I thought I wasn’t pregnant, so imagine my surprise.

  And then. And then, of every possible reaction, the one I received was no where near what I expected. I’m utterly baffled.

  Had I read him wrong all those times? Had I really not seen the heart wrenching emotions flash in his eyes every damn time I told him that no, we weren’t pregnant?

  Had I really not felt his sadness for days after?

  “That’s all he said.” I sigh in exasperation. “I’d fallen asleep, again last night before he made it home, so…” I can’t even force myself to finish.

  My words are sulked in sadness, my heart is broken in a million pieces, and there isn’t a single thing I can do to fix it.

  “Do you think it’s his work?” she asks, smiling as kind and hopeful as I was just yesterday afternoon.

  Withou
t looking back up at her, I train my eyes on my cuticles, muttering, “Possibly. Hell, what am I saying? Probably, Mary, it can’t be anything else. I’ve wracked my brain, and I just can’t.” I shake my head, sputtering at a loss for words.

  And as my friend stands and heads in my direction, tears spill from my bottom lashes. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I cry.

  A moment later I feel Mary’s warm embrace. “Shh…it’s okay, don’t be sorry, sweetie. There’s no reason to be sorry. And hey…” Her hands squeeze my shoulders and I look back up at her through my tears. “…You’re going to have a baby! That’s the important thing. That’s your new focal point, Lexy. Ya know?” Her smile warms my heart, and I realize she’s right.

  “Thank you, you’re such a blessing, Mary. Thank you so much.”

  Mary has become quite the distraction artist with me in these last few months of living at the Dean Estate and it takes her no time at all to do just that, wholly distract.

  Be it house plans, decorating plans, or book of the week plans—which happens to be Bared to You this week—Mary has spent enough quality time with me to know when I need distraction and what to distract me with, and she’s turned it into an art. Obviously, because by the time we’re half way through brunch, I’m spilling the spoilers of the first Crossfire novel and thinking of unisex colors she and I could start painting the baby’s nursery.

  After three hours, we’ve settled on candles glow white for the walls, agreeing to pick out the accent colors when we know the sex, and lined up books for the next three book weeks. My personal fav being Sylvia Day’s new series. So, it’s putting it lightly when I say, I can’t wait till the week after next!

  And instead of Liam and his feelings or my uncertain future, I allow my thoughts to settle on other things. Small, indifferent things. Things we all use as distractions in our daily lives. I don’t do it because I’m meek or afraid of confrontation, I mean I am afraid of confrontation with Liam, and I like to avoid it as often as I can, but…what I’m trying to say is, I don’t allow myself to be distracted out of laziness, I do it for my own sanity.

  I do it today, so I can wake up tomorrow, again.

  I’ve been lying in bed listening to the sound of the clock on my bedside table tick off seconds since midnight, three hours ago. Waiting for a husband who isn’t…and hasn’t been home at a decent time after work since moving here.

  I hate myself as the tears fall. I hate myself as I shudder tighter into a ball. And I hate the terrible thoughts keeping me awake, but most of all, I hate the sound of that damn ticking clock.

  Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

  My lungs burn as more hot tears scald down my cheeks. I try counting, but don’t get very far when Liam’s face filters back into my mind. At that exact moment when I knew, he knew we were pregnant, and he wasn’t as happy as I was. And then the tears and loss of breath returns, full force. Anxiety claws its way back up through my veins, and my heart beats so funny it makes me cough.

  And I wonder, ‘What if I just simply can’t? What if I just simply cannot do this, any of this. Any more? What if I just ran?’

  But shame, like always, doesn’t wait long to raise it’s head, and I know I’m being irrational. I know I’m probably making a big deal out of nothing, or losing sight of the forest for the trees—I go back to counting.

  Counting along with the beat of the ticking clock.

  And I’m not sure what number I’ve counted to, but the mattress sagging stirs me awake at the same time I feel my husbands warm hand slide up my hip and the front of his thighs brush the back of mine. His warm breath scented with mint brushes my ear before he whispers, “Good night, baby girl.” And he kisses my cheek.

  Normally, I would try and calculate my next few actions, as I like to think things through with my husband, but tonight—Goddammit, tonight I just can’t. I’m emotional, I’m hormonal, I feel fat, and I just need to be loved, I need affection. I need to feel loved. So without thought or deliberation, I turn in my husband’s arms before wrapping mine around his neck, and bury my tear streaked face into the crook of his shoulder before whispering, “Liam, tell me this is okay. Tell me everything is going to be okay. Please. I’m…” Shit. I can’t say it. I won’t admit to fear. Not in front of him.

  And thankfully, Liam doesn’t leave room for my internal struggle.

  His strong arms wrap around me before squeezing, and he nudges the side of my face until he’s nuzzled into the crook of my neck. “Everything’s going to be okay. Breathe.” He peppers my shoulder with kisses. “Breathe. Breathe.” More kisses. “That’s a good girl. Why wouldn’t everything be okay? Hmm?”

  I’m trying. Oh my goodness, I’m trying so hard to breath. Even. And slow. I let his question circle my mind and count to ten before answering, “Liam, don’t pretend you didn’t act odd when I told you I was pregnant. You…hesitated,” I stutter.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Hesitated?

  I feel him chuckle and one split second later his lips smile against my shoulder before speaking, “Hesitated?” His deep voice resonates through me. “I hesitated, baby girl? No, I believe you meant I didn’t jump around the house like Mary freaking Poppins, tossing confetti. I was tired. No—“ His hands cup my face and a moment later I feel his lips press against mine, then he continues, “I was bloody exhausted. I fucking stay exhausted. I don’t think you understand the shift in power exchange, sweetheart, but where I was at the top in California, I am now not. So that means long hours. Increased stress. Baby girl, are we on the same page, now?”

  His words are all each spoken so kindly, but I learned to read in between the lines years ago, and I know a veiled threat when I hear one.

  His warning sends another dose of anxiety through my veins, but I grit my teeth and steel myself through it. Somehow shoving out the words, “I’m sorry, Liam. I hadn’t realized. It never even dawned on me.”

  I squeeze my eyes tight, wincing, probably from the pain. And he whispers against my ear, “Back to square one, almost. Late nights. Grumpy husband.”

  I try to breathe my way through the tears and emotions wracking their way through me, counting. Again. When he chuckles, “Hopefully, my hard work now will pay off sooner rather than later. I need to be home at a decent hour to help you get our little one in the bath and ready for bed. I want our baby raised with both parents at home for dinner. Every night. I think that is a crucial part of today’s problem. Children aren’t having conversations with their parents’ enough.”

  After I count to thirty, I hear him yawn. Then, after I count to three hundred and forty nine, he rolls over to the other side of our ostentatious king size mattress, and his breathing slows. Not many seconds after that, I hear his soft snore.

  I can’t tell you how long I lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Mainly because I’d stopped counting after Liam began snoring. I can tell you, that after I exhausted every possible outcome in thought process, I at some point, simply let go.

  Mary’s words at brunch today filter back into my mind and cause a calm that I so so needed. “You’re going to have a baby! That’s the important thing. That’s your new focal point, Lexy. Ya know?”

  I’m going to have a baby. My baby. And whether or not Liam is okay with it, or hell, god forbid, we don’t make it. This marriage doesn’t make it. The trials of raising a child is hard—but even if everything does go off the fucking rails, at the end of the day, I’m having this baby.

  And it’s mine.

  With or without Liam, this baby is mine.

  I’ve found a certain need…like a curse that’s the cure, it’s a hunger that’s never fed. It’s a kaleidoscope loop consisting of rails of coke, Summer Jackson and her delicious cunt, and Jackson’s Agency, pulling in the big whales. Sinking the big scores and making my motherfucking New York mark. And very, very little else.

  The string of lies and excuses I hand feed my wife suffice and have continued to do so, thankfully. And if that doesn’t, then the ‘tinkering’
I do to her warm milk at night, spaces her out enough to complete the job. The bottom line is, she’s not asking questions and her hurt feelings are taken care of.

  However, on the not so thankful side of things, it seems the more I fall head over heels for the new star of my affections, the more she pulls away and shuts down. Which, I must confess and say, I do appreciate—unless I’m driving around New York city like a mad man, high as fuck and circling Summer Jackson’s Manhattan apartment at three am. Making certain the reason she hasn’t responded to my texts or calls is because she truly is asleep.

  Alone. And asleep.

  And it’s on these nights, well after the guys from work have left the bar, and Travis and I finally call it a night and go our separate ways, when I can’t sleep. And I for damn sure, can’t go home. So, without Summer’s bed to accommodate me, and with the copious amounts of drugs still zinging through my veins, I usually find myself with one or more of Travis Jackson’s preferred list of escorts.

  Lindy is whom I’ve chosen to replace Summer with tonight. Same curvy, tanned body. Same long as fuck, blonde hair. Only Lindy’s not as tight, which sucks. But so does she…and very fucking well.

  My fingers knot in her stiff rats nest as the head of my cock slips past the ring of muscles in her throat. “Swallow.”

  I grunt the word out as my orgasm tears its way through me.

  And thank fuck, she swallows.

  Then purrs, her words are like molasses as she speaks in her southern drawl, “Baby, I’m fixin’ to take a shower.” she scales up my slick wet with sweat body, licking and nipping my naked flesh on the way. When her full pouty mouth makes it to mine, her teeth sink into my lip before she speaks, “I’ll leave some room, you’re more than welcome...”

  Before the drawn out ‘…come’ finishes leaving her lips, the palm of my hand is connecting with the smooth flesh covering her ass. “Seeing as how this is my penthouse, I’m fairly certain I’m more than welcome to anything, at any time.” My fingertips bite into her hips straddling mine just before I lift her completely from my lap. I toss a pillow at her before sulking towards the hallway to the master suite. “My wife’s hall is on the opposite side of this one, use her bathroom to shower. If you need any of her things, you may borrow them. I just ask that you return them, and if it’s her clothes, have them dry-cleaned beforehand.”