Sworn Enemies, Secret Lovers

by Eve Rabi

  “Okay,” I say, exhaling with relief. If we can talk things through, the divorce should be a breeze. “Shoot.”

  “Shoot? Now? You should never say that to a cop.” He laughs.

  When I don’t laugh, he clears his throat and gets serious. “I thought maybe we can talk over dinner. Saturday night?”

  “Sat …?” Because of the quiet, I know that Reed can hear every word Damien is saying.

  “Yeah, I thought La Luna. Remember?”

  “Yeeeeah ...”

  “What do you remember about it, Megan?” He ups the drawl and I feel a chuckle coming on.

  La Luna is a plush and impressive restaurant, to some. But to me, it was just a pretentious venue you took someone when you wanted to somehow legally extort money out of them.

  Or when you wanted to woo someone and get them to re-think the prenup they wanted you to sign. Cold, uncomfortable, and exorbitantly priced.

  “Saturday … mmm.” I wriggle my nose and cast a cursory glance at Reed, whose frown has deepened. “Damien, I don’t think Saturday’s gonna be good for me. Maybe … look, I’ll call you back tomorrow?”

  “What? No!”

  “Damien, I have to go now. But we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “You’d better not forget,” he says in a surly voice. “Or I’ll have to come see ya personally.” Another attempt at what he probably regards as a sexy drawl. Yuuuuck!

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, ‘night.” I end the call and look at Reed’s expectant face.

  “Damien wants to talk.”

  “‘Bout what?”

  “The divorce, I guess.”

  “On a Saturday night? That sounds more like a date than a meeting to talk about your divorce, Megan.”

  He’s calling me Megan, which means he’s mad. “I didn’t agree to Saturday, as you heard, Reed.”

  He strokes his chin. “Which restaurant did he say?”

  “La Luna.” I rub my hand up and down the sides of my jeans.

  “What kind of a restaurant is it?”

  “Okay … nice. Sort of …”

  “Okay, nice, sort of? Which one is it?

  “Hey! Stop giving me a hard time, will ya?”

  He backs down a bit. “I just want to know. Have you been there before with him?”

  “Yeah, Reed. Ages ago.”

  Both his eyebrows shoot up.

  “Relax. I’ll tell him Saturday night is out, okay?”

  He turns and walks out to the balcony.

  I follow him. “Why exactly are you upset, Reed?”

  “Because … what was he asking you to remember?”

  I look away. “The restaurant.”

  “When were you at the restaurant, Megan?”

  I sigh. “Our first date. Happy now?”

  “No! I am not happy!”

  “Reed, what the fuck do you want me to do? Tell me! Just remember, I want to divorce this asshole, so I need to end this. Quickly! Don’t you want that as well?”

  “Yes, but not in a romantic, significant restaurant on a Saturday night. This guy wants to date you again, Megan. I mean, you have a lawyer …”

  “Reed, I don’t want to date him. My memories of him are brutal and painful. Look, I’ll call him and tell him that Saturday night is not …”

  He slaps at the railing. “More romantic conversations on the phone.”

  I shake my head. “Okay, how about I meet him for coffee during the week? That should be brief and to the point. Mmm?”

  Looking like he sucked on a lemon, he walks back into the apartment. “I’m going to bed.”

  I exhale loudly, irritated at his jealously. Best to give him some space to cool down.

  When I get to bed, he pretends to be asleep. I snuggle close and lie in his arms. He does not react. I kiss his lips. “I love you, silly fella!” I whisper. “I would move halfway round the world to be in your arms. I need you to trust me now.”

  He opens one eye and squints at me.

  I smile at him, take his other arm, and place it around my waist. Then, I kiss him. When he does not respond, I grind my hips against his.

  “I will keep doing this until you stop being mad,” I threaten. “Failing which, I will do really bad things to you, some of which entails me using my mouth and … you’re not gonna like it.”

  With a chuckle, he climbs over me and rips off my panties.

  “Ahhh! My threats worked, I see. Running scared, are you?”

  “You’re mine,” he says as he nudges my thighs apart and slides between them.

  His lovemaking tonight is forceful, possessive, and even territorial. But I don’t mind. I understand his insecurities.

  Later, when we’re spent, we talk.

  “Okay, I’m jealous at the thought of you and him huddled together and … guess it brings back memories of Mahmood and how helpless I felt when he was courting you. I don’t even want to imagine you sitting with him having coffee. It drives me crazy. I know you love me – so that makes me an idiot. But, what does he want with my girl?”

  “You took his girl from him remember?”

  “You’re mine now. I paid for you. I had guns in my face and I killed for you. Did he do that? That’s how much I love you.”

  I cup his face and kiss his lips. “Okay, stupido!”

  “So, where are you going to meet him?”

  “Dunno. Maybe somewhere for a cup of coffee. Don’t want him coming here and seeing Wyatt, remember?”

  He nods and squeezes me to him. “I’d do anything for you, Megan. I’d even take a bullet for you.”

  So dramatic, so cheesy, so sweet. I smile lovingly at my soon-to-be-husband and place his hand on my breast. “You’re my heart, Reed. No one can ever come between you and me. Believe that!”

  We fall asleep, entwined in each other’s arms.

  Chapter Ten

  It’s 10 AM and Damien’s calling – can’t believe it.

  “Hi, Damien,” I say. “I was just about to call you.”

  “Well, hi, yourself, pretty woman.”

  Now, that I recognize. It’s the artificial, supposedly sexy voice usually reserved for wives of friends and colleagues and right now, it grates my fucking nerves. But, I need to stay calm and focused and maybe, just maybe, we can resolve this whole divorce in an amicable manner.

  “Damien, how ‘bout coffee at …?”

  “Coffee? You can’t be serious! What about a decent restaurant like La Luna? Come on, Megan!”

  “I can’t do Saturday, Damien. I have plans, sorry.”

  “Friday? Megan, I’m asking for one lousy Friday night after five years of marriage. That’s not a lot to ask. Surely you owe me that much, at least! Come on, just one Friday?”

  Shit! “Friday night then,” I hear myself saying, feeling cornered.

  “Pick you up at seven then?”

  “No! I’ll meet you there.”

  “Nonsense! I like the idea of picking you up and dropping you off. Call me old fashioned if you will but hey, that’s me! But, Megan, why the secrecy?”

  “No secrecy!” I quickly say. “Okay, Damien, tell you what – seven at my place, then! I’ll text you the address.”

  When he hears about this, Reed is going to blow a gasket for sure. I hang my head in my hands. I’m so fucked! Maybe, I’ll only tell Reed about it on Thursday. That way we get three days of peace. Brilliant idea.

  ***

  “What’s this?” I ask, sniffing the bunch of long-stemmed red roses Reed hands me.

  “For you. For being such a jerk last night.”

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  “So sweet!” I say, my face flaming with guilt.

  “I can live with you having coffee with him. Just not dinner.”

  “Well, eh …”

  He puts his arms around me. “I know you love me and I don’t want to be the jealous type.”

  “Apology accepted,” I say in a spritely voice, but feeling like Judas. “I only do what I have to, babe. My goal is to clear t
he way for us to be together. Please, always remember that.”

  “Sure.” He takes me in his arms and bear-hugs me. “You may need to remind me of that from time to time,” he whispers.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’ve been edgy all week because of my dinner plans with Damien. Been trying to compensate by being extra nice to Reed and bribing him with food and sex, both of which works, I tell you.

  But now, it’s time to tell Reed.

  Summoning all the courage I can possibly manage, I take a deep breath and blurt, “Reed, Damien wanted to meet me on Friday night. I refused and he accused me of being secretive. Under pressure, I agreed to meet him on Friday. Friday night.”

  There is only one way to say something like this, and that is to speak rapidly, with no breaks

  in-between. Then, brace yourself for the onslaught of crap coming your way. And I do.

  Reed looks at me, then looks at the floor. Finally, in a terse voice, he utters just two words. “I see.”

  “He ... eh, he is picking me up here.” There. It’s all out! I squeeze my eyes shut, then open one eye and look at him. I brace myself for his rants, which I expect to come in droves.

  To my astonishment, nothing. No yelling, no berating, no accusations – just an inscrutable look. Then, calmly, he turns and walks into the lounge, where he turns on the television. For the rest of the evening, he gives every bit of his attention to the news on TV and never looks at me.

  When he finally comes to bed, I’m asleep. In the morning when I awake, he’s already left for work. No coffee from him while I lie in bed, no smothering me with goodbye kisses, no bear hugs. My day is already miserable. Fucking Damien!

  That evening, when Reed arrives home, he politely greets me and turns his attention to little Wyatt. He isn’t rude, just distant. And that sucks. I’d rather have him argue and fight with me than this cold front.

  ***

  I develop a headache as I get ready to meet Damien. A stress headache, no doubt.

  When Reed sees my dress, his eyebrows shoot up. “Nice dress. Did you buy it for tonight?”

  I sigh. “I bought this ages ago, Reed.”

  “I like the way it accentuates your breasts. Really sexy, Megan.”

  I roll my eyes, walk back into the bedroom, strip off my dress, and slip on a pair of casual black pants and a simple white top. When I return to the lounge, his eyes slowly sweep over me before he turns away again.

  At five minutes to seven, I swallow two headache pills and race down to the entrance of the apartment building, silently cursing Damien for putting me in such a position. Just as I arrive, Damien pulls up in a shiny new red Corvette.

  He pouts with what looks like disappointment. “I’d hoped you’d invite me for some pre-dinner drinks.” To my amusement, he opens the car door for me.

  “House guests,” I mumble as I quickly pour myself into his car.

  He yaks away as he drives to the restaurant, during which time my head pounds with that stress headache. Already, I want this evening to end.

  La Luna is every bit as impressive as I remember it to be.

  La Luna is every bit as cold as I remember it to be.

  The waiter or waiters proffer drinks and menus almost immediately.

  Damien orders. “A glass of sparkling white and a Johnny Walker blue.”

  “Sure,” the waiter says and turns to leave.

  “Actually…!”

  The waiter stops and turns around. “Ma’am?”

  “I’ll have a dirty cosmo, rather than the sparkling white, please.”

  Damien raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Sure,” the waiter says, an amused look on his face. “Eh, how dirty, ma’am?”

  I run the tip of my tongue over my bottom lip as I think about it. “Very.” I manage a slight wriggle to my eyebrows, causing the waiter’s face to turn crimson. “Filthy.”

  Damien glowers at both me and the waiter.

  “Don’t be mean to him, Damien. He may jerk off in your food.”

  His lips thin.

  As our drinks arrive, my headache vanishes. Coincidence?

  “So, shoot,” I say over my cosmo. “What did you wanna talk to me about?”

  “Hey, not so fast! Let’s order first, shall we?”

  “Eh, okay,” I say, wondering when I can order another cosmo without totally pissing him off.

  A bottle of Cristal miraculously arrives. I look at Damien in surprise.

  “Thought we might celebrate,” he says.

  What does he want to celebrate? Aren’t we divorcing?

  The waiter pours the champagne and Damien raises his glass. “To us!”

  “Oh, okay,” I say as I raise my glass and clink his. Luckily, I’m a little tipsy already – helps me cope with the awkwardness.

  The waiter waits for our order.

  “She’ll have the seared snapper, lightly seasoned. Grilled, not fried. No butter or oil.”

  “Okay,” the waiter says. “Salad or baked –”

  “Salad,” Damien says.

  The waiter nods and takes Damien’s order. “Scotch fillet, medium-rare, with a Greek Salad.”

  “Got it, Mr. Saunders.”

  “Actually…!”

  The waiter stops and turns around. “Ma’am?”

  “I’d like to change my order, please. I will have … let’s see … I will have the fillet mignon, fried in the herb butter … medium …”

  Surprise registers on Damien’s face.

  “…baked potato and … some sour cream. Lots of sour cream. Please.” I flash the waiter my biggest smile and to Damien’s visible mortification, follow it up with a wink. “Pleeeease?”

  Okay, I’m rebelling. After all those years when he took away my voice and ordered for me and told me how to sit and how to stand and what to say and when to say it; fuck – he treated me badly! What a dingbat I was to put up with his crap.

  “What a healthy dose of self-confidence you’ve acquired, Megan. You high or something?” That statement sounds like a complaint.

  The headache pills! Shouldn’t be drinking when you’re taking drugs.

  I shrug and drink up. “I can’t remember – do they have a good dessert menu here?”

  His eyes widen.

  Chuckling like a hussy, I drink up. When our food arrives, I tuck into it, much to his disgust.

  “Okay,” I say with my mouth full, disgusting him further, “Shoot!” I jerk back into my seat. “I know, I know, you’re gonna say that I should never use those words on a police officer.”

  He rolls his eyes and then appears to be choosing his words carefully.

  “I may have been a trifle hasty – my behavior…” He dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin, then carefully places it on the table and grimaces a smile. “The way I reacted – just stress. I want us to start again, renew our wedding vows.”

  I almost choke on my fillet mignon.

  I expected him to talk about greedy divorce lawyers, and how he wants ninety percent of the monies now and in the future, and who gets custody of the George Forman Grill that has never been used before … not renewing our wedding vows! Christ! I almost died from choking.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say as I splutter and signal the waiter.

  The waiter hurries over and grins like a fool, irritating Damien further. “Yes, ma’am?”

  I signal for him to top up my champagne glass. I mean, who drinks Cristal and tops their own glass? They’re pretty slack here. It may affect their tip.

  The handsome young waiter, who appears to be somewhat smitten with me, quickly obliges. “Sorry, ma’am,” he says.

  Damien’s groan is audible. Adding more sour cream to my baked potato, I gesture him to go on.

  “I think you’re drunk,” he says in a voice as icy as the champagne.

  I jerk up to look at him and blink rapidly. “I think I am!”

  “I’ve never seen you drunk before,” he says.

  Lo
osely interpreted: You’re embarrassing me now by not being the perfect lady I want you to be and in fact, I’m re-thinking renewing my marriage vows with your drunk ass.

  But being drunk in front of Damien, ordering steak instead of letting him order me fish that tastes like polystyrene, and ordering dirty cosmos instead of one measly glass of sparkling white in a long-stemmed crystal glass is hugely liberating, and giggles abound.

  “Moving on, we need to put the past behind us. I want things to be different from now on. I want us to be more of a couple. Maybe in a couple of years, we’ll start a family.”

  “Couple of years? Why in a couple of years?”

  Damien sits back, his back arched like a butler. “Because … because, there is so much we … have to do first,” he says gesturing wildly.

  “Like what?”

  “Like … like your career, and all the … the opportunities waiting for us. We can make so much money from what’s coming our way. The book, movie offers – you know – stuff like that!” He sits forward and lowers his tone. “Megan, you’re young, not bad looking, and you’ve an interesting story to tell. A true-life story. Because of the … the package you present, you’re highly marketable in so many ways. You don’t have kids that would sometimes put a spoke in the wheel or something.”

  “Kids are not spokes in a wheel, Damien,” I say in a sad, small voice. “They’re beaut –”

  “Megan, if we get our shit together, you’ll be one of the most famous women in America and throughout the world. People are desperate for someone they can follow and look up to and sorta worship. I mean, Diana – after she died, who really filled her shoes? No one. I’m not saying you can fill her shoes, I’m saying you can come close. But, you gotta think big. Give them impact, give them drama, but give them something juicy. Then, milk it for all it’s worth! The first part is … looking good. Not good, but looking beautiful. That’s why you need a village to help you get where you’re going. Nobody gives a shit about ugly people crying. But beautiful people crying,” he points with two fingers, “now there’s something they’ll pay to watch.”

  He sits back and stares at me.

  As his words, his aspirations, deluge over me, I help myself to another dollop of sour cream, then another sip of champagne. That drama bit was the rape of course. And he means milking me for all I’m worth. I might be drunk, but I’m not stupid.