Marriage of Inconvenience

by Penny Reid

  “Do you mind if we stop by my place to change? Wally could use a quick walk and I was planning on changing too.”

  Hey! Maybe he’s planning to switch into a Speedo.

  I chloroformed that thought too and shrugged, nodding once. “Sounds good.”

  Dan’s gaze lingered on my garment bag, his features still inscrutable. He then turned, his shoulders rising and falling as though taking a deep breath, and strolled to the lobby doors.

  Perhaps he was no longer my dream man. But the simple truth was, not ogling Dan the Security Man was impossible.

  I walked a few feet behind him, possibly thinking about how nice his butt would look in a Speedo.

  Chapter Ten

  Marital Privilege (aka spousal privilege): There are two types of marital privilege recognized by US law:

  1. Testimonial Privilege: In criminal cases, one spouse may refuse to testify against his/her defendant spouse as a witness.

  2. Communications Privilege: In both criminal and civil cases, communications between spouses during the marriage are privileged. This applies to both words and acts intended to be a private communication.

  —Wex Legal Dictionary

  **Dan**

  Stan picked us up in one of the company cars. We were close enough to the East Randolph Street property that it made sense to change there, check on Wally, and then head to the Clerk’s office for the ceremony.

  I glanced at the back of Kat’s head. She was sitting in the back seat with me, but had herself pressed against the door on her side, keeping as much distance as possible between us.

  Her posture had me antsy. I felt like I needed to apologize. I ignored that feeling. Mild discomfort now would likely save me some seriously nasty discomfort later.

  But still, I was antsy.

  So I tried, “What are you doing tonight? Got any plans?”

  She stiffened, then held perfectly still. Eventually she responded, “I need to study.”

  “No class on Fridays?”

  “No. Monday and Thursday nights.” Her voice was quiet. Controlled. Distant.

  “Oh,” I said, rubbing my chest with the fingers of one hand, because that shitty feeling was back and it felt a lot like heartburn.

  Having nothing more to say to the back of her head, I turned my phone back on to check messages. I’d turned my phone off while waiting for her in the lobby. I’d wanted the next hour to myself. Really, I’d wanted Kat to myself.

  But now that she was giving me the silent treatment, there was no reason for me to dodge work. As soon as my phone connected to the cell network, all my notifications went off. One in particular caught my attention. It was from Alex.

  Alex: We took Wally for the night. You’re welcome.

  I lifted an eyebrow. Typical Alex. I’d given up trying to keep him out of my apartment. My dog liked the kid too much, and I wasn’t going to complain if it meant Wally got more exercise and company.

  But last week, Alex had changed Kat’s contact information in my phone to Wife. He hadn’t owned up to it, but I knew it had been him. Who else could it be? He knew everything, was like some sort of fucking mind reader. Or a genius. One or the other.

  Probably the latter . . . probably.

  Stan parked in front of the apartment building and opened Kat’s door while I climbed out my side.

  We entered the building, took the elevator to my floor, and walked down the hall and into my place, all the while I answered text messages.

  “So, Alex just messaged. He has Wally. We can get changed and go.”

  “Okay.”

  Holding my cell to my ear, I listened to Betty list off all the changes to my schedule next week, and I gestured toward the second bedroom. “You can use that room. I’ll be right back.”

  She tugged her backpack higher and clutched her garment bag to her chest. Still not looking at me, she disappeared into the bedroom.

  I put Betty on speaker while I changed in my room, pulling on my newest suit. Quinn and I used a guy in Chicago for our suits and shirts, all handmade, all custom-cut. Once you went custom-cut, you never went back. There was no comparison between a bespoke suit of clothes and something off the rack.

  It was the difference between watching a Sox game on TV versus Fenway Park. You knew something was lacking, but you couldn’t comprehend the disparity until you took your seat behind home base and “Sweet Caroline” played over the loudspeaker. No comparison.

  But enough about suits and baseball.

  I glanced at myself in the mirror, my attention snagging on the Celtic ink at the side of my neck. I frowned at the tattoos, or what was visible of them, and turned from the mirror to the bureau. Opening the top drawer, my attention settled on the velvet box in the front right corner. I’d bought it in London, from the same guy—or, I guess bloke—Quinn had used for Janie’s engagement ring.

  Maybe I was an idiot, but I wanted Kat to wear a ring I’d bought for her. Yeah, it was a fake marriage. Yeah, it didn’t mean anything. I knew it was all a ruse, we both did. So what was the harm?

  If she didn’t like it, then she didn’t have to wear it. No harm. No biggie.

  I stuffed the box in my front pocket and grabbed my keys and wallet.

  Taking Betty off speaker, I held my phone to my ear as I strolled out of the master bedroom, making a mental note to double-check the figures for our clients in the London financial district before next Monday.

  And then Betty’s voice faded away, and all thoughts of work and clients and next Monday completely fled my mind. Because I was staring. At Kat.

  She was . . . there were no words.

  But I could tell you she was standing next to the couch, reading something on her cell, and wearing a dress.

  It was long, almost to the floor. The material looked soft and thin, and would’ve been see-through except there were layers of it. It was the same color as her lips: rose pink. Her gorgeous shoulders and arms were bare. From the looks of it, so was her back, except the tie at her neck—hidden by her hair—trailed between her shoulder blades, along bare skin of her spine to her waist.

  The woman was a fucking vision.

  And I was so fucked.

  I hadn’t quite recovered when she looked up and caught me staring. And like the dumbfuck I was, I just kept staring, particularly when I realized there was no way she could show all that skin and wear a bra. Unless there was some bra made of witchcraft and the invisible wings of fairies that I didn’t know about.

  Miraculously, she didn’t seem to notice my staring. Her eyes were too busy moving over my suit.

  So, there we were. Me looking at her with lust in my heart, her looking at me with . . . I don’t know, maybe appreciation? Hard to tell. I couldn’t see past the lust.

  Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s cow, Daniel, came a stern voice in the back of my mind. It sounded a lot like Sister Mary Roseanne, my first grade teacher. I mentally made a rude gesture at the voice. First, because Kat wasn’t a cow. Second, because my neighbor was Steven, and everybody knew he liked dick.

  “Should we go?” Kat turned away from me, her hair falling forward over her shoulder and hiding her face. But it also revealed the tie at the base of her neck and the olive-toned expanse of her back. I suspected that one pull of the string would cause a wonderful cascade of events.

  Then I couldn’t stop thinking about those events.

  I didn’t answer, because the words I wanted to say were the wrong ones. Instead, I ripped my eyes from her and walked to the door, holding it open. She walked past, this time fiddling with bracelets at her wrist.

  The walk down the hall, the ride in the elevator, the stroll in the lobby—all of it was spent in tense silence. Tense and agitated. I was combatting a serious case of blood loss to my brain. No matter how I sat in the back of the SUV on the trip to the Clerk’s office, I couldn’t get comfortable.

  Neither of us said a word as we exited the car, and we both kept our own company when we reentered the building we�
�d visited last week. We walked through the security line and metal detector. Not bothering to give our name to the receptionist, I led the way to Luis’s cubicle and knocked on the counter to gain his attention.

  Much like before, my friend glanced up from his computer monitor and gave both Kat and me a smile. Luis hustled out from behind his station to greet us. In his hand was a bottle of champagne.

  “Your friend is already with Mr. Lee. You two clean up well.” His eyes were on Kat as he handed her the bottle.

  “Thank you. So much.” For the first time since we’d left the restaurant yesterday, I saw her face brighten and she grinned, moving forward to give Luis a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek. “This really wasn’t necessary.”

  I noticed he hadn’t let her go. His hand had settled on the bare skin of her upper back. And . . . I was jealous.

  Fuck.

  I’d never been jealous in my life.

  My sisters had dated jealous guys. I never wanted to be one of those guys. But here I was, one of those guys, and Kat and I weren’t even really together.

  So fucked, Daniel. You are so incredibly fucked.

  I suppressed the urge to break all the bones in Luis’s hand—because I was a motherfucking adult, thankyouverymuch—and instead cleared my throat. With meaning.

  Luis glanced to me, a happy smile on his happy face. But then his smile dropped and so did his hands.

  “Uh, Mr. Lee is expecting you. You’re the last ones he’s seeing today.” Luis took a step away from Kat, his eyes big and uneasy.

  If my expression was anything like my mood, I understood why he was wearing his please don’t murder me face. Even so, and not allowing myself to think too much about the impulse, I stepped next to Kat and wrapped an arm around her, my hand settling on her waist.

  “We’ll follow you.” I lifted my chin, indicating that Luis should lead the way, which he promptly did.

  Kat and I followed, her stiffly walking by my side, while I cursed myself for being such a fucking idiot.

  Over the course of our knowing each other, I figured we’d spent less than five hours total talking—including quick hellos and goodbyes—and maybe seventy-two hours in each other’s company, counting last week, yesterday, and today. Seventy-two hours. Mostly consisting of me watching her while she knitted and laughed with her friends. That’s it. Maybe less. Our conversation during lunch yesterday was the longest discussion we’d ever had, if you didn’t count what happened in Vegas.

  For the record, I didn’t count what happened in Vegas. She’d been drunk for most of it.

  How was it possible, then, that I’d be this worked up? That she’d been all I could think about over the last week? It didn’t make any sense. I needed to get this thing—this shitty feeling—under control, because not only was I making myself crazy, I was making her uncomfortable.

  And that was bullshit.

  Using a mental crowbar, I removed my hand from her back and scratched my neck, glancing at her profile as we walked and wracking my brain for something—anything—that might put her at ease.

  Retracing our conversation yesterday, I knew the trouble between us had started when I’d made my request at the end of lunch—that she remain relationship-free during our marriage.

  Maybe she thinks you’re judging her lifestyle?

  That was a definite possibility, and I could see why that would piss Kat off, make her go all stiff and distant. After my big speech over sandwiches about how I didn’t want to look at the list on her phone, she probably thought I was a hypocrite.

  We paused outside a set of double doors and Luis turned to us. “Just through here.”

  “Thank you for your help,” she said, holding the champagne bottle to her chest. “I really appreciate everything.”

  “No problem. Happy to do it. Oh, let me hold that for you, just until you’re finished.” Luis gave Kat one more quick grin, taking the bottle back.

  She entered the room ahead of me and I turned to Luis.

  “Thanks.” I gave him a conciliatory smile, reaching my hand out to shake his.

  He accepted. We stared at each other for a second or two, working through my stupid moment from earlier. When he released the shake, I knew we were cool again, and I followed Kat.

  The room wasn’t big. It wasn’t small. But medium didn’t seem to be the right word either. Whatever it was, the space resembled a small chapel, just without any religious affiliation.

  Steven—who was there as our witness—and Kat stood just inside the door, next to a little circle table with a vase of fake flowers. A stained-glass window of geometric shapes was behind an older man hovering next to a small podium at the far side of the room.

  The little old man, who I assumed was Mr. Lee, waved his hand, motioning us forward. “Come on in. I don’t bite.”

  I nodded to Steven and then looked at Kat. She looked at me. She was nervous. Wanting to give her comfort, I smiled and offered my hand. She took it—thank fuck—and I exhaled a quiet sigh of relief as we walked forward together.

  “Where do I stand?” Steven asked. I glanced over my shoulder and saw he was trailing behind us.

  “Anywhere is fine.” Mr. Lee motioned to the left of the podium. “How about here? Good spot for pictures.”

  Steven walked around us, taking the place Mr. Lee had indicated, and clasped his hands in front of him like he didn’t know where to put them. He also looked nervous.

  Why the fuck was he nervous? All he had to do was stand there.

  We hadn’t quite made it to the podium when Kat said, “You know . . .” and then stopped. She pressed her lips together, shaking her head.

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t—” Kat took a deep breath. She whispered very, very softly and in a hurry, “I wasn’t coming on to your friend.”

  I glanced at her, surprise slowing my steps. We were still a good ten feet from where Mr. Lee and Steven were waiting. Kat was blushing, her cheeks and neck were tinted pink, but her jaw was set, a stubborn light in her eyes.

  “Despite what you think, I wouldn’t do that,” she continued, still whispering, a frown between her eyebrows. “You don’t have to worry about me coming on to every random person.”

  Whoa.

  “Kat,”—I stepped closer to her, dipping my head toward hers and also whispering—“I didn’t—I don’t think you were—or are—or—”

  We’d made it to the podium. Frustrated, I reached into my breast pocket and yanked out the marriage certificate, handing it to Mr. Lee. Meanwhile, I knew she was pissed. At me. And I needed to fix it.

  So in the short time it took our officiant to look over our marriage certificate, I decided it was a good idea to inform her, “My aunt is polyamorous.”

  She blinked. Then she turned her face to mine and blinked some more, like what I’d said was a riddle. “Pardon?”

  “I mean, I get it.” My attention flickered to Steven—who was watching us with rapt interest—then back to her. “No judgment.”

  She gave her head a subtle shake. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Your lifestyle,” I said on a rushed whisper.

  “Lifestyle?”

  “Polyamory.”

  “Mr. O’Malley, Ms. Caravel-Tyson.” Mr. Lee nodded to us, one at a time. “Before we begin, do you have any questions?”

  “Did you just say polyamory?” This question was not whispered. Kat pulled her hand from mine and shot me an intensely confused glare.

  “Excuse me?” The old-timer inclined his head forward, as though he couldn’t hear us, or hoped he’d heard her wrong.

  “Just a minute.” I held a finger up to our officiant, and then faced Kat. “It’s cool. Consensual, ethical, and responsible non-monogamy. I dig it. I’m just not into it.”

  She glared at me for several seconds and I lifted my eyebrows, tilting my head meaningfully toward Mr. Lee.

  But Kat either didn’t catc
h the hint or didn’t care. “Dan, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Listen, we’ll talk about this later.”

  “No. We won’t. We’ll talk about this now.” Kat’s tone was demanding, and she didn’t seem to be bothered that our officiant was glancing between us like we were fruitcakes.

  “All right,” I ground out, then offered Mr. Lee a flat smile. “We need another minute. Be right back.”

  I looked to Steven and found him looking at us with engrossed, wide eyes, his mouth open. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d pulled out a bag of popcorn and started munching on it. Sparing a single glower for my coworker, I gently wrapped my hand around Kat’s elbow and guided her to the door at the other side of the room.

  Once there, I began with—I swear—the patience of Job. “You said, in Vegas, that you didn’t believe in monogamy.”

  Her eyes darted to the officiant, who—God love this guy—looked like he was taking our drama in stride. “I didn’t say that. I said, and I quote, ‘I’ve never been good at monogamy.’”

  “Exactly.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m polyamorous.” A wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows and she sounded equal parts confused and annoyed.

  My eyes narrowed, moving between hers. Now I was confused.

  “Then what the fuck does it mean?”

  “It means,”—she stepped closer and lowered her voice—“I was a kid who slept with a bunch of guys while I was drunk and strung out. I thought what I was doing was living life to the fullest before I lost the ability to do so.” Then, she muttered like she was arguing with herself, “And maybe I was. It was fun at the time. Or maybe it wasn’t. Because it wasn’t fun after. I don’t know. Does it matter? I just don’t want to feel like crap about this anymore.”

  I blinked at her. “Then why’d you say you weren’t monogamous?”

  “Uh, Ms. Caravel-Tyson—”

  “A minute.” I held up my finger again to Mr. Lee, never taking my eyes from Kat. “You were saying?”