31 Flavors of Kink

by Leia Shaw

  “Can’t, hon. I have a meeting.” He throws me a curt, “See you later.”

  I’m stunned. The coffee mug I’m holding weighs on my hands, and I put it down before I drop it. Are we ever going to talk to each other again? I curl my hands up and dig what little fingernails I have into my palms.

  Maybe I should try harder? I get up and trail after him, sorting out sentences in my head. But he’s fast and already at the front door.

  At the last second, as he’s about to close the door behind him, he blows me a kiss between bites of his apple. All I can do is stand there incredulous, listening to the hurried tap of his footsteps dwindling away.

  I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath. It’s just work, I tell myself. Nothing more. Don’t be dramatic.

  Determined to settle this, I wait in bed that night with the light on, reading a novel. Yes, he got home really, really late again, but one of us has to be the adult. When he gets into bed and pops open the laptop, I read for a few minutes longer before quietly sliding across to him. Silly, but I’m nervous.

  “Nick.”

  “What?” He yawns and angles the laptop away.

  An uneasy feeling grows deep in my belly. The mysterious texts he’s been getting late at night surface in my mind. What is going on? What’s he hiding?

  “I just, well… We’ve been avoiding each other lately—since the argument, and I’m sorry. I know you’re busy.”

  “Yeah, I am.” As we talk, he shuts down the computer. “I’m sorry too.”

  I try to keep the hurt out of my voice when I ask, “Why don’t you want to do something special on Valentine’s Day?”

  He sighs. “It’s not that, honey. It’s just the stress from work. Don’t take it personally. It has nothing to do with you. I snapped because, with everything going on, Valentine’s Day just seemed so insignificant. I can’t handle much more on my plate right now.” He gives me a pleading look. “You understand that, don’t you? You know this is my worst month for work. I promise it’ll get better.”

  He’s right. In the past five years, when the busy season is over, things usually get back to normal. Even so, as the lights go out, I can’t stop a coldness that creeps across my chest and into my head.

  When he showers before breakfast, I turn on the laptop and search his Web history. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. I chew my lip and frown. If I find out he’s leaving me desperate and wanting and watching porn instead, I’m going to strangle him with his belt—after I beat him with it. But could it be something else? What about e-mails? They won’t show up in history.

  The comment from the online group comes back to haunt me. A friend who tried pushing her husband into being a Dom ended up divorced.

  Have I pushed him too far? Is he talking to someone else? I could hack into his account if I had more time. Am I really that person? Poking my way into Nick’s personal stuff because of a little suspicion? I sigh. I don’t know who I am anymore.

  * * * *

  It’s the eve before Valentine’s Day, and I’m drowning my woes in a grungy bar with Jessie. Is she even legal? I don’t care. I’m just happy to have someone there to make sure I don’t do something stupid. Like drunk text his boss, Misty, and tell her to get her hussy clutches out of my husband because she’s ruining my sex life.

  “What kind of name is Misty anyway?” I ask Jess. Am I slurring? Nooo. Couldn’t be. “Fifty bucks says she changed it.”

  Jess snorts. “She was probably born Melissa or something ordinary like that.”

  I grunt in agreement and down another shot.

  “Is she pretty?” she asks me.

  I shrug. I’ve never actually seen the woman. But in my head I picture a Salma Hayek look-alike, complete with double-D breasts.

  “And Nick is breast man,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “What?”

  Jess gives me a puzzled look, and I laugh too loud. She’s probably drunk already. Lightweight.

  “But really,” I say, waving my hand, amazed at how far away it seems. “What else could be happening so late at night in the office when they are, um, by themselves?”

  Where did that idea come from? Then I admit the suspicion has been there, teasing me at the outer limits of my consciousness for days. Is she the mysterious thing on the laptop? The source of the late-night texts?

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” she tells me. “Nick wouldn’t cheat on you. He loves you too much.”

  “But I’m high maintenance in bed.” Did I just say that out loud? She laughs, so I try to explain. “I have…needs. Needs you’re too young to know about. Bartender!”

  Jess grabs my hand. Yep, that’s my hand, even if the world is swirling a bit beyond it.

  “Uh, that’s enough,” she tells the hottie behind the counter.

  “I should flirt with him,” I say, giving him a wink. My contact almost pops out. “Shit!” I rub my lid to adjust it.

  “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  I think she’s laughing at me. “Bitch.”

  She cackles loudly in my ear.

  Bitch.

  “You’re a funny drunk.”

  “I’m not—” My phone rings, and I dig it out of my purse. It’s Nick. “You!” I yell into my phone.

  “Sidney? Where are you?”

  “None of your business, cheater!”

  Jess’s eyes widen, and she lunges for my phone. I push her away.

  “Are you drunk?” he asks.

  How does he know? I spin around the bar, looking for his face. “Are you spying on me?”

  He sighs, and it vibrates my eardrum. “Who are you with?”

  I give him my best evil grin. “With a really hot bartender. We’re flirting.”

  Jess grabs the phone from my hand and walks away with it. The bartender stops me from following her.

  “Drink this,” he says, pushing a mug toward me.

  I smell it. Coffee? I shake my head.

  He smiles at me, and a dimple shows. “Please?”

  My eyes are glued to his smile. I lean toward him. “I just wanna pinch your little cheeks.”

  “Uh-huh.” While swirling a dishcloth over the bar top, he motions to the coffee.

  I roll my eyes. “Oh fine, pushy!”

  Jess, the traitor, comes back. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”

  I shake my head and almost spill my coffee.

  “Yes,” she insists.

  When did everyone get so pushy?

  “If I don’t have you home in fifteen minutes, Nick is coming here to get you.”

  “Good. Let him come!” Damn, my voice hurts my ears. “He can watch me flirt with Mr. Dimples and see how it feels to—”

  Something pulls my sleeve, and I stumble sideways. Next thing I know, I’ve been dragged to Jess’s car.

  “You’re too drunk to drive,” I tell her when we’re on the road. Yes, definitely too drunk. The world is spinning around me. “You’re gonna get us killed driving like this!”

  “Just be quiet,” she snaps. She really does make a poor drunkard, and a mean one. “And for Christ’s sake, don’t accuse Nick of cheating again!”

  “Bossy,” I mumble. She doesn’t understand what it’s like. She doesn’t have droopy breasts and gray hair. Sure Nick has some grays too, but he has them in a George Clooney way, not a Paula Deen way.

  My stomach lurches when she comes to a stop, but I’m happy to be alive after that crazy ride.

  Nick opens my door and pulls me out. I fall into his arms, and it feels like home. “Bastard.”

  He pulls back, gripping my shoulders, and I’m glad for his muscles because face-planting the sidewalk right now doesn’t look like fun. He looks me over. “Yup. She’s drunk all right.”

  Am not! Something stirs in my belly. I groan, then hold up thumb and forefinger a smidge apart. “Maybish, maybe just a teensy bit drunk. Hey, I don’t feel so good.”

  “Let’s get you inside.” He sounds tired.

  Tire
d of me again. The burden. Broken. Damaged. High maintenance.

  “Thanks, Jessie.” He half drags me, half carries me inside, and then I’m lying on my side in our bed, covers to my ears, so, so sleepy.

  “I’m sorry.” I have to tell him. Get the guilt off my chest. Tears leak out and run from the outer corner of my eye down into my hair. “I’m sorry I’m too broken for you.”

  The house is whirling, even in the dark, but I let it carry me down, deeper and deeper, into the black.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I wake with a headache and hazy memories. A loud groan escapes me, and I wince at the sound of my own voice. I crack my lids open, then immediately shut them. It’s so freakin’ bright in here.

  “Turn off the lights,” I say to no one in particular.

  Nick’s voice comes from beside me. “They are off. That’s the sun. It’s morning.”

  Shit. I have to work today. With a lot of effort, I open my eyes again. Nick is sitting next to me on the bed, holding a glass of water and two pills.

  “Take this,” he says, and I take one tablet and swig it down, screwing up my face at the blah taste in my mouth. Someone poured glue in there while I slept.

  He’s dressed in khakis and a button-down dress shirt. I look down at myself. I’m in a tank top and underwear. I remember nothing past the car ride home. And my recollection of what happened before that is foggy at best. God, I hope I didn’t do anything too embarrassing. This is why I rarely drink.

  When I down the water and last aspirin, Nick gazes at me, but I can’t read his expression. Disappointment? Anger?

  “I can’t believe you accused me of cheating. Do you really think I’d do that?”

  Anger it is. I groan. Did I really do that? “You want to talk about this now?”

  “When better, Sid? It’s Valentine’s Day. Might as well air everything out. Do you think I’m cheating?”

  I look at the clock. Thirty minutes to get to work. I sigh and roll off the bed. We can fight while I get ready. “I don’t know what I think. You haven’t exactly denied it yet.” I rustle through my drawers and grab a navy polo shirt and khakis—my work uniform.

  “Of course I’m not cheating! God, I can’t believe I have to say it.”

  “Look. It was just a drunken suspicion, okay?”

  He rises from the bed and squares his body to face me. “You don’t sound very confident about that. How much of your suspicion was there before you were drunk?”

  I pull on my clothing, apply deodorant and body spray to hide the lingering alcohol smell. “I don’t know.”

  Do I look miserable? I sure feel it. The dog dragged me in, then chewed on me a while and spat me out.

  His voice softens, like something’s lodged in his throat. “I thought we were better than this. I thought we trusted each other.”

  I did too. I’m so confused…and hungover. My head can’t handle this now. I put a palm to my temple to hold in the thumping pulse. “I don’t have time for this. Don’t you have to work too?” I head toward the door to the hallway.

  “I took half a day off. For Valentine’s Day.”

  This stops me in my tracks. For Valentine’s Day? “I thought you didn’t want to celebrate?”

  He shrugs.

  Did he make plans? Guilt floods me. Fuck! The day before Valentine’s Day I accused him of cheating. Do I really think he’s that guy? Did I just make a huge mistake?

  I look at his face. He’s still mad—I can see it in the tension in his shoulders—but his forehead crinkles, and his gaze remains on the floor. He’s also heartbroken.

  I sigh wearily. “What am I supposed to think, Nick? You ignore me all the time. We haven’t had sex in a month. You get texts from your boss named Misty all hours of the night. This doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

  He stares at me for a full minute, and I don’t know what more to say. Finally he exhales a long breath. “You’re right,” he says somberly.

  I blink. Panic scrambles through my brain. No. Oh no. It can’t be true.

  “Not about the cheating. I would never, ever do that to you. But about ignoring you.” He looks at me, and I see sincerity in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  The rush of relief wobbles me for a second. I want so badly to forgive him, to kiss and hug and feel his arms around me. But I have ten minutes to get to work.

  We stare awkwardly at each other for a long moment. Then Nick says, “You have to go to work. We’ll talk later.”

  I nod. No hug. No kiss. But at least the yelling is done with. For now. I leave him standing in the middle of the room, looking heartbroken and forlorn.

  All the way to work I can’t figure out who is most at fault or if it even matters, but I still feel guilty. And little attacks of misery grip me every time I think of what I’ve said and done. I want us together and happy. I want a lot of things that just seem so out of reach right now. Most of all I want to hug Nick and have him hug me back, to kiss me and say we’re right again.

  * * * *

  Work is especially cruel today. Though I could hug Jessie for bringing me coffee just about every hour. She doesn’t ask about last night. And, the good friend she is, she didn’t gloat about her Valentine’s Day plans. Knowing her, she’s going to some sexy club to flirt and mingle with multiple hot guys and maybe take one or two home to play. Meanwhile, I’ve got a lot of shit to sort out at home.

  The certainty that I’ve mucked everything up and jumped to a million wrong conclusions is set like concrete by the time I clock off. And my fingernails are hurting from being gnawed on constantly. If I hadn’t had books to ring up and customers to chat to, I would have eaten my fingernails all the way down to my elbows.

  I stave off the worst of my self-condemnation by reminding myself how Nick was the one who avoided me, even if it was because of work. Even if I was a complete asshole when drunk, he is not innocent.

  I pull into our driveway and unlock the front door. It doesn’t feel like Valentine’s Day. Maybe I should’ve at least picked up a card. Or a book—like the Idiot’s Guide to Making Amends After Accusing Your Partner of Cheating in a Drunken Stupor. I have something small to give him, but it doesn’t seem enough. With a sigh, I walk into the house. And freeze. My mouth drops open.

  Balloons—hundreds of multicolored balloons—cover the hallway floor. What the hell? I kick them away as I walk to the living room. They continue in there as well. And on top of every flat surface in the room are flowers and novelties of every kind. A giant Hershey’s chocolate heart sits on the bookshelf. A singing turtle decorates the coffee table, surrounded by roses in every color. More candy litters the desk along with a stuffed bear and a helium balloon that says “I love you.”

  A grin stretches across my face as I turn around the room. It looks like Hallmark and cupid had a child and it exploded in here. Sammy greets me as if nothing has changed. Poor baby, his bed is covered in balloons.

  “I see you’ve been on the couch, naughty dog,” I tell him, patting his head.

  I kick up balloons everywhere I walk. I search the house for Nick, half expecting to find him passed out buried beneath balloons.

  My text alert beeps on my phone. I take it out and read the text from Nick.

  You should be home by now. I’ve been an ass the last month. Do you forgive me?

  I smile and text him back. Didn’t I tell you I’m allergic to latex? I’m blowing up like a balloon right now. Ironically.

  I wait for his response.

  Very funny. Don’t make me come over there and spank you. Say you forgive me.

  I chuckle at his threat, then answer. I forgive you.

  His next text is immediate. Good. Get dressed up. I’ll pick you up at 6.

  My grin is so big my cheeks are starting to hurt. I look at the clock. Oh shit. Two hours to get ready and I have no idea what to wear.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’ve been staring blankly at my closet for at least ten minutes now. I think if I stare long eno
ugh, something appropriate will magically appear. I sigh when my only two choices continue to stare back at me.

  “Where’s a pack of talented mice and a fairy godmother when you need one?” I mumble to Sammy.

  Nick provided the beginnings of my outfit. A pair of red lacy underwear with a black bow. What is his obsession with underwear?

  I sigh and glare harder at my closet. Lime-green bridesmaid’s gown or slinky black dress I haven’t worn in three years? Sammy whines when I pull out the lime dress with a bow stuck smack in the middle of the right boob. Who knew the dog had good taste?

  “You’re right,” I tell him. “Black it is.”

  I stuff my curvy body into the black dress and give myself a pep talk before looking in the mirror. Breathe in, breathe out. I close my eyes. Embrace the curves. Own it. You can do this. I open my eyes and look in the mirror. I’m no teenage size four anymore. No. I’m all woman now; there’s no denying it.

  “Spanx are definitely in order.”

  They’re not in the least bit sexy, but I’ll just pull them off quickly right when we get home, and my pretty underwear will be underneath. Nick will never know. Of course, I can’t drink a drop of liquid as peeing will be difficult. But as I’ve told myself countless times, beauty is pain.

  I wrestle with the Spanx and finally get them up and over my hourglass figure. I turn from slightly lumpy into smooth and sexy in an instant. I think of the name of these things and giggle. Yeah, spanks. I could do with some of those.

  Focus!

  Now for hair and makeup. Last time I did my makeup to impress Nick, he said I looked like a Christmas ornament. This time I go for less sparkly pop star and more smoky seductress. I text a picture of my face and updo to Jessie.

  Perfect, she says.

  I smile at her encouragement; then another text comes.

  You have fuck-me shoes, right?

  Fuck-me shoes? What the fuck are those? I text her that I don’t know.

  Her answering text is immediate. She must be done at work. Shit. You need fuck-me shoes. What size are you?

  I text her back that I’m a size 9.