“My balls,” I yelped and jumped from the chair.
“You have got be kidding me, Brad,” she snorted.
“I’m not in the mood to be jerked off.”
“You think I wanna give you a hand job like some hooker plying her flesh on Congress Avenue?”
“I don’t need a blow job right now.”
“I want you to screw me. I am not going to suck you like a prostitute. Give your poopsi whoopsi a slice of heaven. You know phone sex makes me hornier for you. We have not been together since the night before you went to Philly. I’m on fire for you, stud man.”
She ground her hips against me, turning me on. I shoved her away and ran for the door. “There is an endoscopic procedure scheduled in a few minutes,” I lied.
She lifted her skirt and fingered her crotchless panties, grinning like a she-cat, knowing her nasty gesture was making me squirm.
“I, uh, have a problem, Barbie.”
She raised an eyebrow that said, this better be good or I am going to beat the crap out of you, Brad O’Boyle.
“I, uh, caught something in Philly.”
“What did you catch, Brad?”
“The clap.”
A stapler hit me on the forehead.
There is a sharp letter opener next to the stapler! I jerked open the office door and ran for my life to the men’s bathroom.
I locked the door and sat with my back to the wood, breathing heavily.
The building shook when Barbie slammed the door of the office.
I tiptoed back, ignoring daggers from Brandy’s eyes who sat at the receptionist desk shredding papers.
“Bring me some ice for my nose, Brandy.”
She stuck her tongue out.
A pea-shaped lump erupted on my forehead surrounded by a purplish bruise. Slowly, painfully, I removed a staple from my skin. Like most doctors, I was a baby when it came to even the most minor injury.
I tapped my fingers against the desk, playing imaginary drums like Ringo Starr. It was one of those afternoons when the moon was visible, a full moon. I lifted my throat like a wolf and warbled the lyrics to the song Act Naturally.
“All I have to do is act naturally. Well, I bet you I'm gonna be a big star, might win an Oscar you can never tell. The movie's gonna make me a big star, cause I can play the part so well.”
Too bad for the women in my current life, there were rules set up in Philly. I was not allowed to confide in Barbie and tell her this was all a game that she and Ronni were mixed up in. I especially did not want Vanessa in on my scheme. Vanessa, the other woman who believed she was my girlfriend, was often a jinx. She was a ditzy broad with a Hooters chest and owl eyes.
I should call my new best friend from the Philly conference to see how things were developing on his end. Nah, I’ll call him later.
Instead, I popped open a bottle of champagne and toasted myself, laughing hysterically.
The clap! Barbie believed it!
It was way too easy fooling the weaker-minded sex—kudos to me.
Chapter 15
WIFE
For the Fourth of July, Brad bought sparklers and fireworks for Traci. He lit a few black snakes on the sidewalk, and as the snakes began to unwind, there was no longer any resemblance between the snakes and Brad. I am having second thoughts about my husband and judged him too harshly, punishing him unfairly this week for his past sins. Maybe, just maybe the phone sex was a wrong number.
Brad is a changed man—he strolls into the house carrying a stack of pizzas and whistling some old Beatles song about acting naturally.
“Daddy brought pizza!” Traci squeals. She wraps her arms around his legs, and the new Brad does not kick Traci for clinging to him.
He is clueless about pizza giving me heartburn, and I eat two pieces because he went to so much trouble. It is as if Brad and I are getting to know each other, newlyweds just returned from our honeymoon. We actually spent our honeymoon opening wedding gifts.
It is too cute when your husband has no idea what kind of pizza you like so he splurges on every type of pie. A spicy pepperoni shoved down my throat and Brad pulling out a chair for me like a gentleman, melts me like mozzarella.
A couple of glasses of red wine while watching Brad clean up the kitchen fries me into hot wings.
The humane Brad gives me heartburn. I am falling for my husband and there is no antacid to stop this yearning for his bed again.
And the horse he is building for Traci! Who knew that Brad is so good with wood? There is nothing sexier than a man holding a saw and wearing a tool belt. A sharp pair of scissors and a heavy hammer is such a turn on. Sawdust does make me sneeze until my nose bleeds but then few marriages are perfect.
Brad tucks Traci into bed and leans against the doorjamb of my bedroom.
I smile softly at him, invitingly.
He whispers in my ear in a husky voice, “From the moment I came from Philly, I wanted you, Ronni. I fought against passion, lust, desire, and especially my conscience. I imagined what you would feel like, silk, satin, or so rough you peel my skin off.”
I gasp, unable to catch my breath. My skin has so many nerve endings, everywhere he touches, my skin cackles as though struck by lightning.
“What do you want?” he asks.
I shake my head, not knowing how to phrase it, but my body is compelled to bang against him. I want…I want what you gave me in the garage, the leather seat of the car sticking to my back, rough denim grinding against my panties, your bulge circling, pushing into me…causing me to…
Brad pushes my knees open and shoves his head—there.
“I wondered what you’d smell like, musk or roses. Roses, my sweet,” he says in a husky voice shaking with passion.
He rubs his mouth against me—there. There. There. I may die from the ecstasy of there and spread my legs wider.
His tongue flutters against silk and I clutch his head gyrating my hips against his mouth.
Don’t stop. Please, I beg you. Please.
I try to say the words aloud but I am so hot for him I cannot speak. My heart is between my collarbones, choking me. I can understand now how people confuse sex with love. When he screwed me with his jeans on, the feeling was so good I thought I would die from the sensation. But this. This.
This makes me float up to the ceiling, my eyes drowning in a cloud of lust.
Oh, God, he is peeling off my panties and I lift my rump to aid him.
His head…his head is…between my legs and he places his lips directly on me. I never knew this existed. My body takes on a life of its own and my hips rock wildly trying to reach new heights.
I scream with passion and his tongue moves wildly against me while his finger is inside me. My hips gyrate against his head and his finger, needing to be filled...with more. More. More.
“No. No,” I moan but mean yes, yes. Don’t stop. Please, for the love of God, do not stop!
My fear of losing myself, surrenders completely to the pleasure he is giving me. I may faint with pleasure, as wave after wave hits me.
I grab his hair and shove myself against his lips. More! I lunge against him and cry out as passion sweeps me away and shudders rack my body. The most beautiful feeling I have ever experienced engulfs my entire body until I just might die from such ecstasy.
I gasp, moan, scream, and grow weak, my bones turning to liquid.
Finally, I quit shuddering.
He smashes his lips against my lips, and the sensation of tasting myself on his lips is odd.
“Thank you,” I shyly whisper into his ear. “That was...magnificent. I never felt...”
He laughs and kisses my ear. “How polite you are. And do your manners extend to birth control?”
I answer, “No,” and with stinging eyes watch as he jerks a rubber from his pocket. His hands are shaking as he slides the rubber on, from fear of getting me pregnant. We are married for heaven’s sake!
“I expect payment in like kind.” He grins, not in tune to my
hurt feelings.
Brad is the last man I want another child with so just get over it! Enjoy the moment. Pleasure the man. Zip.
My touchiness turns to boldness, and I reach out and stroke Brad, causing him to groan. “I’ll pay you back with interest,” I purr.
And I do.
Brad must be happy with my performance because for the first time in our marriage, we spend the entire night together. Sleeping all night with a man is safer than a screwdriver under the pillow. It is a novelty waking up in the morning next to Brad. The sun is peeking through the blinds. I sit up and the blanket rolls off my body, which tingles with remembrance of last night.
Brad looks so young sleeping on his side with his hair mussed like a little boy. I will let him sleep a bit longer.
I tiptoe to the bathroom so as not to wake my sleeping prince.
His cell phone rings and I open the door slightly to eavesdrop.
Brad is garbling his words with choking and coughing.
I push and strain to finish my business.
The noise in the bedroom sounds as if Brad is gathering his clothes.
I quickly wipe.
There is a running on the stairs, a sliding across the carpet, and a slamming of a door.
The bedroom is empty. My husband has fled.
He could at least have said good morning.
I stretch and yawn, feeling warm all over and cozy because everything is right with the world. Brad did not snore last night and disturb my rest leaving me refreshed after great sex, like a new woman, a better marriage, and a happy future.
Mm. Maybe Brad scurried to cook breakfast. All these years married, and I never suspected that the man knows his way around an egg.
I shower, dress, and hurry to the kitchen. “Good morning, sweetheart,” I sing.
Traci is eating alone.
The black Mercedes has vanished from the garage, along with his black heart. Bastard couldn’t even say good morning, good-bye, or how about spending the day with me. Have a good day, Ronni, would have been nice.
Brad is soon forgiven, however, because four vases of roses are delivered a couple hours later with a dozen roses in each vase.
Red roses of the heart blooms from one vase.
White roses, like my bed, grow from the second vase.
Yellow roses are for sunshine.
The fourth vase is filled with black roses of the murky depths.
The note with the red roses reads, For taking advantage of me.
The note with the black roses reads, For giving me what I wanted.
The note with the yellow roses reads, You light up my life.
The note with the white roses reads, Because I am sorry.
None of the notes is signed Love Brad or Lust Brad or Your Brad, or Your Husband Brad, or just plain old Brad. The notes have no signature whatsoever and the name of the sender is blank, but of course, my husband sent the roses. Who else but my husband would take advantage of me or be sorry?
These are the first roses Brad has ever sent me, and I shove my nose into the murky depths of the black roses, inhaling the rosy scent. He said last night, “I wondered what you’d smell like, musk or roses? Roses, my sweet.” My eyes moisten like the dew of a rose. The sweet scent, my sweet scent according to Brad, is reminiscent of the Sleeping Beauty Sculpture Brad bought for Traci. A quote from the fairy tale states, And from this slumber shall you wake when true love's kiss, the spell shall break. My face grows warm at the memory of all the pleasurable things Brad did to me last night and all the bold things I did to Brad. A couple must be in love to share such intimacies.
I tenderly fill the vases with fresh water.
“Ouch!” The thorn of a black rose scratches my thumb and I suck on it, thinking of Brad. How odd that the flowers are from the Austin airport. Brad must have been in a hurry to get to the hospital for an emergency, and phoned a flower shop at the airport by mistake. Or perhaps he’s playing golf? I don’t recall a golf course near the airport.
Brad has not been in one of his nasty moods since Philly. He once threw the lounger from the patio into the pool when I suggested he might be bipolar. Seven weeks after Philly and a month of wedded bliss has changed everything, well nearly a month if you do not count the sex phone mix-up.
There should be trust in marriage. Brad must never think I am checking up on him.
I nervously bite my lip, giggling, wondering if I dare. Thanking Brad for the roses is a good excuse to hear his voice, and I cannot wait for him to come home. He is nicer than before. Perhaps he will not scream at me about bothering him at work unless it is a true emergency.
His phone rings twice. “Brad? Brad? Are you there?”
There is heavy breathing at his end.
His phone disconnects from my phone.
I ring again and this time the phone rings until it goes dead.
After one more attempt, I give up.
My husband is a very busy man.
Only…only, the heavy breathing sounded a bit high-pitched, like a woman.
Chapter 16
WIFE
I drink a bottle of wine sipping slowly, and holding dinner in the oven, waiting for Brad.
Around 8:30, he finally slams the front door and yells, “I’m home.”
I had planned to fling myself at him but I stand there like an idiot with hands hanging limp at my sides. There is something different about my husband or perhaps too familiar—his mocking look has returned and his eyes are menacing.
Traci hugs my legs and peeks out at her father.
“Trace acts like she’s frightened of a rabbit jumping from hole to hole,” he snorts.
Traci runs from behind my skirts, up the stairs, into her bedroom, and slams the door.
“Don’t call her Trace. Her name is Tra-ci,” I remind him through gritted teeth.
“I named the girl myself because she looks like a trace of a human being and not like some real person. Traci is a shadow, a faded stringy kid. She must look like your family, pathetic losers.” He yanks off his tie and stares at the material as if he might strangle me with it.
I swallow a lump in my throat. After Traci’s birth, Brad stared down at her bassinet. “It’s a girl,” he had snapped, as if he should shoot me between the legs for not giving him a son.
Brad now glares with cold eyes, and my heart beats like a deer sensing danger. Brad sometimes acts crazy, but then he is a man. After a month of hot sex, I have earned the right of a wife to know, “Where have you been?”
Brad throws back his head and laughs as if he just heard the funniest joke. He must be amused at my performance in bed last night. The sex was not as good for him. He wants a woman more experienced. I can do better.
Brad wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. “I was seeing about a once-in-a-lifetime deal today. How have you been the last seven weeks, Ronni?”
“Since you came back from Philadelphia? You know how I’ve been.”
Brad narrows his eyes.
“I’ve never been happier.” I smile and gulp at the same time.
Brad’s face darkens, like a man in shadows. He clenches his fists and says softly, “You think I’m a changed man?”
“Yes, for the better.”
“Well, the old Brad is back so you better get used to me!”
I am not appreciative enough. “Thanks for the roses, Brad.” I balance on my toes to kiss his cheek.
He yanks his head away and I nearly fall. He lifts an eyebrow. “So how many roses did you get?”
“Come, see for yourself.”
Roses surround the den, engulfing the room with an overwhelming scent of romance.
Brad grabs a handful of my hair and yanks.
“Ouch!”
“I don’t know if these roses are for you, Ronni.” He grins, smirking. “There is no name on the cards.”
Of course, he kids—who else would the flowers be for—Traci?
The note from the black roses had read, For giving me what I wanted.
I blush at the remembrance. Maybe later this evening we could... “Brad?”
“Now what do you want, Ronni?”
“Want to…Are you going to work on Traci’s horse tonight?”
“Nope. Traci is going to have to look forward to a lifetime of walking.”
“Oh, Brad, she is going to be so disappointed.”
“No more horsy for Traci.”
“Maybe we can at least buy her a rocking horse.”
He contorts his face into an ugly mask. “Are you deaf, bitch! I said no horse for your daughter!” He strolls up the stairs. “Quit being a pain in the ass, Ronni. Leave me alone! I am dog-tired. It’s been a hard day.”
Really? Tell me about your day. Where the hell have you been? No, wait. Poor man said he was tired. Brad has a stressful job as a doctor. Maybe he was at the hospital.
I resist the urge to follow Brad and slap him for calling me a bitch. I pull the steak out of the oven and conjure up magic for supper, a special meal as a prelude to a romantic evening. A bottle of sparkling wine is just the thing to put Brad in a good mood.
The table is set for a candlelit supper and I sit there dressed in a sexy short dress, my feet in high heel sandals, and my toenails painted red from a pedicure this morning. My toenails match my wet-looking lips. I, Ronni O’Boyle, had a makeover today.
Brad is in a better mood after showering and changing his clothes. He strolls down the stairs, two at a time, whistling.
He sits on the sofa and slides open his cell phone, punching in some numbers. His voice sounds like rays of sunshine. “Hi, Mom, it’s me.”
He speaks in a low voice, soothing his mother and reassuring her of his devotion.
“Really, Mom? You want me to? Now?” He blows a kiss into the phone and then hangs up.
“Since when did you make up with your mother?”
“None of your beeswax.” He opens the door to the garage, twirling his keys.
“Brad?”
His past hateful look is back on his face, cracking me in two. Even my voice shakes as if Brad shattered my tongue. “Dinner is ready. See.”
Dishonor Thy Wife Page 6