LOVERS

by Roxy Harte

  He shakes his head. “What is it you gain from this relationship?”

  I close my eyes and rub my temples.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be drilling you about your relationships with your boyfriends.”

  “No, you shouldn’t be,” I agree, angry and hurt, wondering seriously if I should actually be spending any time with this man, let alone going away with him. I look at him and don’t see anger or jealousy…all I see in his eyes is concern. Concern for me? Not likely, we just met. Then what?

  “I don’t want to mess up your life here, Bianca. I’ll be gone in a few days…and when I leave, I’ll be going home to my own wife. It isn’t any of my business who you date or, in my opinion, how badly they treat you.”

  My shoulders slump. This I don’t need.

  He takes my hands and pulls me toward the bathroom. “Shower…then we have a plane to catch.” He closes the door, leaving me alone.

  In the shower, I start to cry. I don’t understand it, I definitely don’t want to think about it, I just let it happen until I am gasping with harsh, aching sobs. I feel like someone has died. What is wrong with me?

  I get to enjoy the company of a wonderful man this weekend; I should be ecstatic, not crying. I refuse to overanalyze why a man I just met can make me feel bad about my choices.

  Some days, I just don’t need to think. Totally losing it in the shower, I realize there is no way to put into words what I need or what I get out of either of my relationships.

  Bishop knocks on the bathroom door. “Everything okay?”

  I turn off the shower. “Everything’s fine, just took a minute to shave my legs,” I lie, grabbing his razor from the sink’s vanity and doing a quick over, hoping I dull it significantly and praying he can’t tell the difference between waxed and shaved, because it’s only been days since I was at the spa for the works. “I’ll be right out.”

  His voice calls to me through the closed door, “Can I come in?”

  I shave faster and wrap in a towel before unlocking the door. He opens it and peeks cautiously around the edge. I push my wet, dripping hair out of my eyes and arch a brow at him. “Everything okay?

  He steps into the room and pulls me into his arms. His shirt gets wet with sprinkles of water from my hair. “I think I should be asking you that. You’re the one who has been crying.”

  I wipe my face self-consciously. “My eyes are red from the shampoo.”

  He laughs, but it is a serious sound. “You are a horrible liar. Want to try for at least one truth?”

  I shrug, not knowing what to say. “It will sound stupid.”

  “Try me.”

  “I think I’m really going to miss you when you go.” My face screws with emotion. “And that doesn’t make any sense, because I haven’t even known you twenty-four hours.”

  He pulls me into him, holding me tight. He kisses the top of my head and lets me cry on his shoulder.

  Chapter 10

  Jameson

  I drive in a daze, which probably isn’t safe because I have Emma and the boys in the car, but I know that I’m not paying attention, I’m driving on autopilot. I don’t remember leaving the subdivision, or for that matter the interstate at all. I stop at a red light and turn onto Hollywood Boulevard. I remember that it is Saturday, that we are going to a movie, and that I really need to know where Bianca is…if only to go there when I run away…because I suddenly want to.

  Emma is pregnant.

  The boys chatter excitedly. Tom has been reading the younger boys the Harry Potter series, and they wave imaginary magic wands through the air.

  Emma seems relaxed beside me, reminiscent of the days before the struggle over our poly lifestyle. I take a deep breath and try to process the last hour. I haven’t actually agreed to move back home, although I think she assumes I will, and I’m not willing to face the truth that her assumption would be right.

  Home.

  It would be good to be home. It just seems wrong that planning to move out of Bianca’s should be so easy.

  Yesterday I was so mad at Emma, and now, everything seems mixed up in my head and I don’t understand why. I already have three children, does it matter if we are together or remain separated when my fourth enters the world? Yesterday I would have said ‘no’ but today everything is different.

  I love Emma, I love my boys, and I’ve missed the moments such as now. I miss home. Shouldn’t I be able to say that living at Bianca’s was home? It isn’t, not even close. Home is, and always has been, where my wife and children are. I feel like such a fool that I haven’t recognized that before this moment.

  But even that doesn’t make the arguments go away.

  And one thing stands in our way of happiness. Emma would say that it is Bianca, but I know that the truth of it is the poly lifestyle. Am I being too selfish? I want more than Emma. I also want more than Bianca. And that is the entire truth.

  I’m glad that Bianca actually made plans to go out of town, although in her mind she may have been punishing me for this extra time spent with Emma. I probably won’t ever know for certain, because she will probably never speak to me again once she gets home and realizes I have moved out. Oh my God. I’m moving out. When did I decide that? I need time to process all of this without the war, without the drama.

  In my mind I am already going through the separation process, thinking of everything that will need to be done, dividing common goods, separating shared accounts…trying to explain this to her.

  “Turn here.” Emma draws my attention back to the road. I look over at her and she smiles, glowing. I guess what they say about pregnant women is true. I should have known yesterday, when I picked up the boys. She was glowing then too.

  Her hair is a wonderful shade of auburn she wears in short curls that seem to float around her face. Today, she has a brilliant turquoise scarf wrapped around her head, the tail of the scarf tied beneath the curls and trailing down her back. The bright fabric makes her eyes stand out…an even brighter blue. My wife is a beautiful woman, and I’m lucky to have her.

  Our sons look like her, having pale, lightly freckled skin and blue eyes, though their strawberry blond hair is a mix of her red and my sandy blond. They have her nose and her mouth. I wonder about the baby she carries now and speculate if there is any chance it will look like me. I didn’t ask her if it was mine, I assume it is.

  I won’t insult her by asking.

  “Don’t make plans for Monday morning,” Emma says as I park.

  “What?” I don’t tell her my only plans are to pack my things from Bianca’s house and then wait for her to return home, so I can get her thoughts on all of this.

  “I have an ultrasound at nine, and I want you to go with me.”

  “Yes, of course I’ll go with you,” I answer, still on automatic pilot. I unbuckle my belt and climb from the car. The boys are already piling out. “Stay together.”

  Suddenly, Emma is there beside me, looking up into my face, smiling. “Thanks for bringing us today.”

  She reaches out and takes my hand, my fingers close around hers. Do I look as stunned as I feel? Do I look like I might break down and sob any moment? God, what is wrong with me?

  “Boys,” she says sternly, “wait.”

  They are anxious to get into the theater, boys being boys, their energy high enough to provide the entire city current for a week. I hold her hand and lead the way to the theater, leaving the boys to trail behind. I’ve been married to Emma long enough to know that the boys just being boys…the spitting, the punching, the laughing, the wand-waving…drives her insane.

  The lines are long, but I don’t really notice. Autopilot? Maybe. Or maybe I am just the dry sponge soaking it all in. The boys laugh and joke, Emma joins in their conversation about Hogwarts because she would love to send them to such a magical boarding school. “I could use an eight month break from taking care of the three of you.”

  “You know you’d miss us,” Davey tells her.

  She
ruffles his hair before assuring, “You know I would.”

  I watch my three sons, and they are great kids. Rambunctious, but they wait politely while Emma hands them each a bag of popcorn and a drink. As we head down the hall to the theater, I can’t imagine anyplace else I’d rather be.

  Chapter 11

  Emma

  Jameson had fun today, especially after I got him away from Bianca’s house. If I believed in witches, I would accuse her of casting a spell over him, because as soon as we were away from her house, he started to relax, he started to enjoy the day with me and the boys.

  He’s home.

  I’m going to make sure he doesn’t regret his decision to be here.

  The boys are in bed, and I double check that they are asleep before I sneak into the bathroom where Jameson is taking a shower. His hair is sudsy with shampoo, and he holds a bar of soap in his hand. I think he is surprised when I pull back the plastic curtain and step into the shower with him. Casually, he rubs the soap over his chest, but his eyes widen appreciatively when I drop to my knees in front of him, and it takes no work at all to have him hard in my hand.

  I watch his face the entire time. When his cock slides between my lips he shudders and closes his eyes, dropping his head back into the shower spray. I lick the length before I pull him out and say, “Open your eyes. I want you to watch me suck you off.”

  I don’t want him thinking about Bianca. I want him to know it is me when I take him to the brink of pleasure. He opens his eyes and water droplets cling to his lashes. Our gazes catch, and I don’t even close my eyes when the shower spray hits me in the face.

  He steps to the side, blocking the spray. I smile around his cock, not missing a stroke, hoping he realizes that I appreciate the gesture.

  Water streams down his flat stomach and over his cock, and my tongue bathes in the warmth of it as it pools around my lips. Unavoidably, I end up swallowing soap flavored water. I cup his balls, rubbing him as I suck and bite.

  I slide my hand up his crack, finding his anus, and discovering no resistance, I push a finger inside of him. He used to like that if I remember correctly. I suck and bite as I pump his ass with my finger and before I would think possible, he is coming in my mouth. I smile around his dick. I guess he still does. I think he likes it a lot.

  Chapter 12

  Bishop

  There isn’t really any better way to get to know someone other than close confinement, and the eleven hours between LAX and LHR offers pure face-time.

  “So what do you do, Bianca Castillo, when you aren’t playing with men’s hearts?”

  I hadn’t meant to hit a nerve, I’d been joking, but her reaction was pure panic. She hides it well and laughs behind her hand, but for a moment there is a glimmer of something…shame? Fear? It makes me wonder again what she is hiding other than the fact that she loves neither of the men she is currently sleeping with.

  My mystery woman is so transparent, so needy. I doubt it would flatter her if she knew I saw her that way.

  “Men’s hearts don’t interest me,” she answers, looking pointedly at my crotch before arching a brow and meeting my gaze. “Not that men don’t have their finer points.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you? Twenty questions, is it?”

  “No,” she says. “I won’t play games with you. I own several stores…toy stores.” She smirks, expounding, “Adult toy stores.” She lifts a bottle of water to her lips and sips.

  “So your life revolves solely around sex in one form or another?”

  She laughs, swallowing hard and wiping a small dribble from her chin. “What more to life is there, Bishop Farrington? Isn’t sex enough?”

  Such a tough woman. Where is your softness? “Family?” I ask.

  “I don’t have any,” she answers, turning her head to look out the window. “I have lovers. No family, no friends.”

  She doesn’t look at me; she keeps her face toward the non-view, blue skies uninterrupted by clouds.

  “Aren’t your lovers your friends?”

  “No,” she whispers, “I don’t think they are.”

  I sigh, saddened by this woman who intrigues me so. I suddenly want to know everything about her. Who her parents were, what happened to them that they are no longer in her life? Who was she as a child, a teen, a young woman? Has she ever been married, and why she doesn’t consider her lovers her friends? She unbuckles and excuses herself to go to the lavatory.

  I unbuckle and stand, blocking her path, making her meet my gaze. “I want to be your friend, Bianca. I’ve never taken a lover on holiday, and I would be sorely disappointed to find at the end of our adventure we missed out on friendship.”

  A look crosses her face I wish she would explain.

  I see it as hope, but it could as easily be terror. I decide to believe that it is hope and give her a quick squeeze before allowing her to pass.

  During the seventeen minutes that go by before she returns, I grow anxious and I can’t explain why except this woman is different from any woman I have ever met, and there have been many one-night stands over the years, some have even been weekend flings. I’ve only known Bianca hours, and this doesn’t feel like a fling to me. I hope this doesn’t seem like a fling to her. Isn’t that ridiculous?

  “I’m sorry,” she says, sitting.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. I’m fine,” she answers twice, rolling her hands over each other. She looks at me, seeking my gaze. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  I’ll say.

  “Is that a good thing?” I ask, tilting my head, hoping my question came out as a flirtatious tease. I know that at times I don’t come across completely as I’d like. Maybe it’s because I was born and raised in Japan to English parents; American flirting is a language I missed lessons on.

  Bianca leaves me uncertain. She turns to look out the window again but her hands, clasped in her lap, have gone knuckle white and I take that to mean that she is as mystified by the chemistry brewing between us as I am. She finally nods. “It is a good thing. I’d like to be your friend, Bishop Farrington.”

  Chapter 13

  Jameson

  “Where are you going?” Emma asks as I climb out of the bed.

  “I need to call Bianca and let her know I’m staying here tonight. I don’t want her to worry.”

  “Where else would you be?” She sits up, pulling the sheet to cover her bare breasts. She says defensively, “This is your home. I’m sure she’ll figure it out.”

  I open the bedroom door, hoping that she will not start a fight if she thinks the boys might overhear.

  “You are not calling her.” She demands in a loud whisper, “Come back to bed.”

  “Don’t be a bitch, Emma. I’m here. I’m staying here tonight. I’m moving back in. And I’m calling Bianca because that’s what people in relationships do.”

  I close the door against her further arguments and walk to the kitchen, where my voice won’t wake the children.

  I don’t bother calling the house phone, I assume she is with her friend and it suddenly dawns on me that I have no idea where she is or who she is with. Damn it. I’m such an idiot. I call her cell, but it goes straight to her voicemail.

  For a second night in a row I end up talking to Adrian, but tonight I am the one frantically calling him for information. I skip the formality of saying hello and as soon as I hear his voice ask, “Have you talked to Bianca today?”

  “Sure,” he answers sleepily, and I think I must have wakened him. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing, can you just tell me where she is and who she’s with?”

  There is a long silence on the other end of the phone before he asks, “She didn’t tell you?”

  “Of course, she said she was spending the weekend with a friend. I just neglected to ask who she was with or where they were going. I was hoping you know since she isn’t answering her phone, and now I’m worried.”
>
  He sighs. “You had a fight.”

  “No,” I say, getting more upset that he just won’t give me the answers I need. “We didn’t have a fight.” I don’t tell him that we will probably be having a very big fight soon.

  “She’s fine, man. I heard from her an hour ago. Get some sleep. I’m sure she’ll call you tomorrow.” He hangs up and for the space of a breath and a curse I think I will call him back just to scream at him for being rude enough to hang up on me, but then it hits me like a ton of bricks. He knows where she is and who she is with. She called him so that he wouldn’t worry. I think in light of the way I treated her on the phone this morning, we are already fighting; I just was too dense to realize.

  I try her cell again and leave a message when her voicemail picks up. “I’m sorry about this morning.” My heart is heavy as I say, “Call me when you get this. I miss you, and I have no clue where you are or who you are with…and I know that part is my fault…I’m an ass for not asking.” And then I break her one rule, because at this point, it can’t make things much worse, “I love you.”

  Returning to the bedroom, I crawl into my old bed for the first time in more than six months. Our marriage bed. It seems strange. I’ve grown used to life at Bianca’s and even if it isn’t home, I’m comfortable there. I can be myself there.

  Living here, even though we went through the motions of having an open marriage, Emma always made me feel like I was cheating, that what we were doing was morally reprehensible. I’ve spent so much time in debate, trying to explain to her that our culture is one of the few that have such warped ideas about sexuality, that I don’t even bother anymore.

  I don’t have to explain what I think or believe to Bianca. She just gets it.

  With Bianca, I can be myself, no masks, no lies…

  God, that’s sweet.

  Yet, I am here with Emma, and I’m here because I love her. I tell Bianca the reason I stayed as long as I did before I moved out was because somewhere along the line, I accepted the weight of the guilt Emma dumps on me and if I do nothing else of great good in this life, I’ll be an honorable father to my children. That isn’t a complete truth. I stayed as long as I did because in the beginning it worked, and it was wonderful.