I’m staying at a boutique hotel west of downtown. I don’t have any specific plans, really, but once I check in, I open my suitcase and realize with a thud that I hate everything I’ve packed.
None of it says night out in the city. I’m not even talking about fancy shit. It’s that none of it is fun. It’s all mom clothes, and that’s great for Ottawa. I’m a mom there.
I’m a mom now, too, but whatever. Whatever, indeed.
Okay, first step is shopping. I grab my purse and head downstairs.
The desk clerk calls out my name, and when I turn around, holds up an envelope. “This was dropped off for you, ma’am.”
Shudder. I hate being called ma’am. I take the unaddressed white envelope with a polite thank-you. Inside is a piece of paper bearing the letterhead of a concert hall around the corner, wrapped around a general admission ticket for tonight. I don’t recognize the band name.
I glance back at the desk clerk and hold out the ticket. “Have you heard of this band?”
She nods enthusiastically. “They’re awesome. Should be a good show. There’s a band from the nineties opening for them, too. Ever heard of The Replacements?”
I laugh. “Small world. They were my first real rock concert.”
“Oh, how cool is that?”
Very cool. I look at the ticket. No note, but I have a sneaking suspicion who’s responsible.
As I head into the sunshine, clear now in my goal to buy something to wear to a concert, I send Stew a quick text.
Adrienne: Thank you. You didn’t need to do that.
Stew: Do what?
Adrienne: The ticket to see The Replacements.
Stew: That sounds like something I’d like to take credit for.
Adrienne: Huh. Someone left it for me at the hotel. Maybe it was meant for someone else…
Stew: Your sister?
Adrienne: I’ll ask her. How’s work going?
Stew: You know the answer to that. Are you having fun?
Adrienne: I’m going shopping.
I can practically hear his laughter from Ottawa.
Stew: I’m sorry.
Adrienne: I’m going out on the town tonight. I need to not look like a mom.
Stew: You’re a hot mom.
Adrienne: Shut up.
Stew: I love you. Tight jeans and a tight t-shirt is always a good look on you.
Adrienne: Thank you. Get back to work.
Stew: Send me a picture.
I shake my head. Sigh. He’s a good man, just a bit clueless. There’s no way I’m wearing tight anything.
Except an hour later, after wandering in and out of a dozen shops, I find myself in a hole-in-the-wall t-shirt store just off Queen Street, and I fall in love with a v-neck tee with a wild skull painted on it. It’s the kind of thing I’d totally have worn twenty years ago, and I want it now, if only for tonight, when nobody will know who I am.
“Can I try that on in a medium?” I ask the sales girl.
She rifles through the stack, then shakes her head. “We’ve got a small and a large. But they fit kind of generously, so I think the large will be too big on you. Try the small.”
Nope. I haven’t bought size small clothes since before kid number one was born. I shake my head. “It won’t fit.”
She just smiles and pushes it into my hands. “Give it a go.”
I take the t-shirt, but I don’t move. I glance at the other designs on the table. “Which of these do you have in medium?”
She does a quick search up and down the stacks of fabric, with the kind of practiced eagle-eye hunting that only a retail pro has, and pulls out two options. I don’t like either of them as much as the skull shirt, but I take the red one—because I don’t want to come out of the change room feeling stupid because the small doesn’t fit. Easier to pretend I liked the red one better.
Except once I’m in the change room, and I’m tugging the skull shirt over my boobs…it kind of does fit.
Only kind of. The v-neck helps. Man, when was the last time I showed this much cleavage?
The shirt is snug down my entire torso, but long enough to end at my hips. Lots of overlap over my jeans so nobody will see my mummy-tummy if I get excited and throw my hands in the air at the concert tonight.
I take a quick selfie and send it to Stew.
Adrienne: Tight enough?
Stew: Holy shit. Yeah. Love that.
Holy shit. A warm thrill wobbles through me. Okay, if he likes it. Maybe I can wear it as a sleep shirt when I get home.
I don’t bother to try on the red t-shirt.
After a dinner at a noodle shop—where I read more of my book, uninterrupted, as I enjoyed hot food that didn’t require any kind of compromise with family members or threats about being polite to eat it—I head back to the hotel to shower and change and get ready for my throwback to my youth.
The Replacements.
I think Stew first told me he loved me at that concert. He was drunk out of his mind, so I hadn’t believed him, but then he said it again the next morning when I looked like something the cat had dragged in, so I believed him then. And I’d agreed to marry him a few months later.
I finish blowdrying my hair. Big, lots of hair spray. Then I do my makeup—more than usual, because my usual these days is lipgloss and mascara—and I send Stew another selfie.
This weekend was supposed to be just me-time, but I’m really liking this flirting from a distance thing, too.
Adrienne: Ready to head out and pretend I’m twenty again.
Stew: Damn, woman. Just remember you’re mine.
Adrienne: I never forget that.
Stew: When a stranger hits on you tonight, the first thing you need to tell him is that your husband’s a big guy who boxes with the prime minister.
Adrienne: LOL okay, baby
Stew: I’m serious
Adrienne: I love you so much
Stew: Good. Have fun.
There’s a short line outside the concert hall, and I get in the queue behind a couple holding hands. I think of Stew, then I shake it off. Adrienne Time.
I need a beer.
The bouncer barely looks at my ID, then I’m inside. There’s no line at the bar, so I pull a twenty out of my cross-body purse and order a bottle of Stella.
The crowd is a mix of ages. I’m definitely not the oldest person here, which makes me feel better. Lots of silver temples, just like Stew has, but nobody’s in a suit. Lots of tight jeans—hello, hot guys—and visible tattoos.
I scoot down the bar, so I’m out of the bartender’s way, but the show hasn’t started yet, and I don’t want to just randomly wander through the growing crowd when I don’t have anyone to talk to. The bar makes a good base for people-watching.
Across the room, a thirty-something hipster guy catches my eye.
I smile and feel a hot blush spread across my cheeks. I’ll have to tell Stew about that. He’ll tease me mercilessly, but it’ll turn him on a little to know his wife caught some young thing’s attention.
The beer goes down smoothly, and since I don’t have kids to worry about or a car to drive, I twist around and order another one.
When I turn back to the crowd, Hipster Guy is standing in front of me.
“Hey,” he says.
He’s taller than I thought from across the room. Almost as tall as Stew. Slimmer, with narrow hips and big feet.
Yes, I noticed his feet. And hands. I’m married, not dead.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
I lift my beer with a smile. “Just got one, but thank you.”
“Are you here alone?”
I nod. “I am.”
His gaze drops to where my left hand is wrapped around my beer. To my wedding rings. Oh God, I’m going to need to tell Stew how filthy this feels. When he drags his eyes back to my face, I’m still smiling.
He slowly steps past me and leans against the bar, waving at the bartender, who holds up his index finger. One minute. “I’m Fallon.”
<
br /> Is that even a real name? “Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand. “Adrienne.”
“And what do you do, Adrienne?”
“I’m a teacher.” And a mom, a chauffeur, a wife, lunch-maker, peacekeeper…
“My sister’s just finished teacher’s college.”
“Is she on the supply list yet?” I slip right into the professional stuff, and we talk about how hard the job market is until his beer arrives.
He holds his bottle up. “Nice to meet you, Adrienne.”
I clink my bottle against his. “You as well.”
“Maybe I’ll see you after the show.”
No, but it’s a nice thought. “Maybe.”
I watch him disappear into the crowd as activity starts on the stage. A roadie scurries across, setting a last guitar in place. Then the drummer comes out, the lights go down, and the crowd roars.
By the end of the second song, I’ve left the bar and pressed into the crowd myself. It’s hot and sticky, and I’m grateful for the cold beer. I press the bottle against my neck, and the guy beside me takes a quick glance at my cleavage.
This is fun.
And the songs are totally taking me back.
I pull out my phone to text Stew, but I’ve got zero signal. Crap. There is a text message from him, though. I just can’t respond to it.
Stew: Remember, I’m in Ottawa working.
What? That’s…weird. Why would he think I’d forget?
I’m tempted to draft a reply, remember, I’m wearing a tight t-shirt, but with my luck, it wouldn’t send until a random time much later and make zero sense.
Instead, I put my phone away. Okay, no more thinking about my husband in another city. Music and beer and fun.
From behind me, somebody bumps into me. Under the thump of the music, I hear a low apology, then a hand on my hip.
Whoa, hands off, buddy.
I spin around, and my breath catches in my throat. The hottest guy I’ve seen all night is standing in front of me. Dark jeans hug his thighs, and a black t-shirt with you only live once spelled across it hugs his broad chest and strains around his biceps. He’s tall and big and giving me a totally obvious once over.
My skin warms under his appraisal.
He’s holding a beer, and as I look up at him, he takes a long, slow sip. The way his mouth is a bit wet afterward makes my thighs tense up. The way his eyes are molten pools of heat makes the rest of me turn to goo.
I remember what I’m supposed to say. “My husband’s a big guy who boxes with the prime minister.”
He laughs and leans in so I can hear him. “Is that right? Why isn’t he here tonight?”
“He’s…in Ottawa working.”
“His loss.”
Oh, God. The heat radiating off his body slides under my skin and swirls around in my belly. “Really my loss,” I whisper.
He leans in even closer. “I didn’t catch that.”
I hesitate, then push up on my toes and press my hand against his chest. “Never mind,” I say, lifting my voice over the music.
3
Stew
God, she’s radiant.
How long has it been since we’ve gone to a concert together? Since she’s had a beer and listened to live music, my arms wrapped around her?
Not that we’ve gotten to that step yet. I’m still seducing her.
She likes this stranger, and my heart throbs a little at the reminder that we haven’t shared anything like this in far too long.
It shouldn’t have just occurred to me yesterday to do this. I should have more planned, but this was it. This was my entire plan. Fly down after work and find her at the concert.
Watching her get hit on was an unexpected bonus. I love the way she blushes. How she has no idea how fucking beautiful she is.
I brush her thick, dark hair off her shoulder, letting my fingertips graze along the bare skin of her neck. “Do you like this band?” I ask, knowing the answer already. I want to see her squirm.
“I do!” She hesitates. “Saw them a bunch of times when I was younger.”
Every single time with me. “Yeah?”
She nods. “They’re one of my favourites.”
“Mine, too.” I nod toward the stage. “I love this song.”
She twists around, and I ease in beside her, my arm loosely around her waist, my hand on her hip. She doesn’t move away from me.
What’s going through her mind? How far will she let me play like this? I take a long slug of beer.
Against my hand, her hip shifts. Up, down. I glance at her as she starts to move to the music. She takes a drink, then shifts closer to me, her thigh rubbing against mine now. I hook my finger through her belt loop and step my far foot a bit wider, bracing myself in case anyone bumps into me—protecting her from the crowd.
That’s how we watch the next two songs, her dancing on the spot beside me, wrapped in my arm at first, then she moves more in front of me. We finish our drinks, and the empty bottles get picked up by a passing employee. I put both hands on her waist now, rubbing the tight nip of her body, and lower onto the curve of her hips.
I throb for her. I’m ready to drag her back to the hotel now.
But I’m a stranger tonight. She wouldn’t invite this man back to her room, would she?
I move my hands to her arms, then her shoulders. I duck my head and brush my lips against her ear. “Want another drink?”
She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t.”
“Do you have to call your husband to say goodnight?”
She shudders in my arms. It takes her a beat to jerkily shake her head. No. “Not tonight.” She twists her head to the side, showing me her profile. “He’s working late.”
“Does he do that a lot?”
She nods.
“Dangerous, to ignore a beautiful wife.”
She bites her lip. Oh, she wants to defend him. I rub my thumb along her jaw. “It’s okay,” I murmur in her ear as the song quiets. “I’ll keep your secrets.”
Her chest rises and falls, and like the other men here, I can’t help myself but slide my gaze over her curves. But unlike those sad bastards, I know how soft and sweet the shadow between her breasts is. How her breath hitches when I circle her nipple with my fingertips, drawing her flesh into a tight, hard peak before tugging and twisting on it.
She gets so wet when I play with her nipples. Whiny and panting. She’ll beg me for my cock if I get her worked up enough.
She finally twists towards me, her lips parted, her eyes wide. “I miss him,” she whispers, and I almost miss it as the band amps up into the next song. “That’s my secret.”
I stroke my thumb back and forth as I nod. “Okay.” I sway with her, almost dancing. “Well, you’re not alone right now.”
“No,” she sighs.
I want to toss her over my shoulder and march her right out of here, but instead, I turn her back to the stage, and we watch the rest of the set, need humming hard in my bloodstream.
By the time The Replacements play their last song, we’re both thirsty again. I guide her to the bar, my hand in the small of her back. I let it drift over the curve of her ass as we make our way through the press of the crowd, but I don’t leave it there.
I don’t want a stranger groping my wife’s ass.
Not unless she wants him to.
We order two bottles of beer, then I turn toward her “Great shirt, by the way.”
She tips her head back and laughs. “Thank you.”
“Is that funny?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got all night.” I ease her against my body, showing her how hard I am. How much I want her. How much I want to be what she needs tonight. “Are you staying nearby?”
She smiles knowingly, a brilliant transformation of her beautiful face. “Very tempting,” she says, running her hand up and down my chest. “But I couldn’t cheat on my husband.”
I grin at her. “He’d never know.”
&nbs
p; “Oh, he’d know.” She licked her lips. “Even when he’s busy, he’s observant. And I’d never be able to keep a secret like this from him. I tell him everything.”
“No way.”
She nods. “Yes way. I’ll tell him about this.”
“And what will he say?”
She takes a sip of beer and shrugs. “That you have good taste in women.”
“He trusts you.” It’s a statement, not a question. I do, with my entire heart.
Another nod. “Of course he does.”
“And you trust him, even with all those late nights at work?”
Her eyes crinkle. “Oh no you don’t. Don’t try to trick me into doubting him. You don’t know my husband as well as I do.”
Ha. That’s probably true. Sometimes she sees me way better than I can see myself. “You figure?”
She takes a deep breath. “He’s got a chance to do something huge right now. With the government. It’s maybe a once-in-a-lifetime chance to literally change the world. It’s all he can think about, and…I can’t begrudge him that. I love him for that. Don’t you get it? I love him because—”
I set my beer down and take her face in my hands. My amazing wife. I fucking don’t deserve her. I lower my mouth to hers and pour everything into our first kiss of the night.
First, but definitely not the last. “Do you want to stay for the next band?” I ask her as she wiggles closer.
“Nope.”
“Good.”
As we tumble out the front doors, I almost run into two young girls. They’re probably adults, just barely, because it’s a nineteen-plus concert, but really…children. And I almost run into them because they’re standing in the middle of the path joking about the “retro” band that opened for their favourite act.
I skid to a halt.
Adrienne gets between me and the children and whispers something at me, probably about not making a scene.
“The Replacements aren’t retro,” I protest.
“Does it matter?”
“They’re wrong.”
“This isn’t like political ideology, baby. They’re allowed to think what they want without getting a lecture.”
Retrosexual (Frisky Beavers Book 0) Page 2