by K T Morrison
The morning had been spent scrubbing the bedroom of Chelsea’s existence. Bedsheets were changed, the old ones in the laundry gone through a wash cycle and now in the dryer. He even got down on his hands and knees on the bedroom floor looking for a strand of hair. Even if he found one, the argument could be made that it was Libby’s. Libby was blonder, silkier, but a single strand of hair...? The detective work kept him busy, kept his mind on a task.
No word at all from Finn, Chelsea, or Libby since last night. But, if Libby and Finn were up until two in the morning, fucking for who knows how long, and after a long day at the concert, too...? They could still be in bed.
And even that image brought as much pain as thinking of Libby with Finn between her legs, his ass going up and down like his cock was drilling for oil in Libby’s tight shaft. Just the simple image of sunlight coming in sideways through the hotel window, the bedsheets tossed around, Finn on his back, sleeping, one hand behind his head, the other around Libby’s shoulder; Libby snuggled right up to him. Both of them naked, Libby’s precious cheek planted on Finn’s hard chest. Only, Libby was awake. Listening to her lover’s heartbeat but thinking of her husband at home. Thinking of the bad she’d done and wondering how it had come to this. That’s what’d got him in the bathroom, frantically pounding his own meat.
It surprised him. Sitting on the toilet stroking a sudden midday erection and he wasn’t thinking about how he fucked the hottest girl in his high school last night. About all the dirty things he did, about how slender her throat felt under his grip as he gently squeezed off her air supply as he plowed into her. He didn’t think of Chelsea at all. What got him off sitting on the toilet were images of his wife and Finn together. What was it like for Lib? Did Finn really make her scream? Did she come? How many times did they do it? What was it like taking another man? And was Finn’s penis really as big as Chelsea said? You couldn’t believe anything Chelsea told you, but he had heard it from his own wife’s mouth: that can’t be your penis... Why?... It’s too big...
He had two showers today. One when he woke up and before he began his crime scene cleanup. Then again after he’d masturbated. All traces of whiskey and all traces of Chelsea hopefully washed away. And his sin not scrubbed clean but somehow made equal. Something un-washable you could make appear whole again by dirtying it the same amount. That’s right, they were both dirty now.
32
At last, at one-thirty, message finally came.
Finn: leaving Barrie now
Ben texted in return, fishing for some info. No reply came. It was a good chance it was Finn who’d sent the message. Probably with his ass already on the bike, Libby clung to his back, her hands at liberty now to stroke all over his body. They were lovers. And poor Lib’s pussy. Getting hammered all the way home, having to sit squashed up against Chelsea’s husband while the buzz of the bike vibrated against her happy but injured sex. Shit, here it came again. He was gripping a new erection through his shorts.
The idea had come to him many times to text Chelsea. Call her. Ask her what Finn had said. But it was useless. He’d snubbed her last night and as good as it felt in the moment, he knew he would pay for it somehow. Chelsea held a grudge. Anything he asked her today would bring a dubious answer. She would find joy in telling him all the awful things Finn and Libby had done last night. Elaborate wild schemes involving Libby being suspended by leather straps from the ceiling while Finn and the entire Dorchester band took their turns with her tied open legs. Oh, and Ben, how Libby loved it! She might tell him Finn and Lib weren’t coming home. They’re going to stay another night. They’re going to try to fuck their way right through a hotel bed. Have to call down to the lobby and tell them to send up a new bed, they fucked that one to pieces.
Or she could tell him nothing happened. He wouldn’t believe that either. That would just be Chelsea’s way of making his imagination work overtime. Let him feel pretend-happy for a few hours, marinating in worry, let him rest in the cushion of peace, and when Lib gets home, ka-pow. What! You fucked Finn!? Chelsea would rub her hands together and cackle. It was a waste of time to ask her anything. And he wouldn’t text Finn now. What was the point? He was on the bike. He hadn’t answered the other one, he wouldn’t answer now. So he stewed.
Barrie was maybe an hour and a half away. With traffic it might be two hours before his wife got dropped off home. He sat in the front room watching out at the street and waiting. The lack of action got his mind wandering again. Every time he thought of Chelsea he grumbled. Every time he thought of Libby and Finn together he grew aroused. He had to plant a cushion over his lap to keep his mind off touching it. What was so damn arousing about this?
Three hours had passed, and he groaned with worry. All the thoughts of Finn and Libby writhing around in ecstasy in a Barrie hotel bed were extinguished. Now he was making fists then forcing his hands to relax, pacing around the first floor of the house thinking of flashing lights, the highway blocked off... Tragic Accident, Tattooed Man Loses Control Of Bike the headlines would read. Police would call him, he’d have to go down to the hospital to ID her…
Then a sorry sight appeared, peering through the sheer curtains in the front room looking out on their street. He’d expected a motorcycle to pull up out front, Libby clutched to Finn’s back, gently easing herself off the bike (favoring her sore little pussy), taking the backpack off, hugging Finn but trying not to let her husband in on the big secret. But he’d been in on the big secret for a long time. In many ways, he was the big secret...
Then Lib would limp up to the front stoop, smiling and waving at him with manufactured innocence. Behind Libby’s back Finn would give Ben a good old thumbs up. It’s done, Ben, make you happy? I don’t even know, man, I don’t even know…
But here, strolling down their street, was a tired-looking little figure. His beautiful Libby who he’d known for fifteen years and been in love with for such a long time. She looked worn out; shoulders stooped, gait slow. She wore her short shorts, the black ones she’d left in. She wore a new T-shirt. A black one, and from here he could read Dorchester across it. Her bare little legs worked at walking along the street in the shade of the maple trees. In one hand she held a canvas shopping bag, a green one, Our Compliments on the side. Her dirty laundry, he imagined. Her cum-stained underwear…
He was out the door fast, beating down the driveway with bare feet, the scorching asphalt stinging him. He stepped off onto the grass, met her eyes as she was crossing the street. “Libby,” he shouted.
Her chin tilted up, and she gave him a squinting smile, her blonde hair hanging limp astride her angel face. He trotted to the curb and held his hand out to her, she stepped up and he pulled. They combined themselves at the edge of their property, his arms around her shoulders, hers around his waist, shopping bag tapping his calves.
He asked, “What are you doing?”
Still held in his embrace, she said, “What do you mean?”
“Finn didn’t drop you off?”
She rocked with him, said, “No, I had all those things on my back, I had to get my stuff out of the bag, then he’d have to drive over a street with the extra helmet…”
“Didn’t he want to bring you home?”
“I told him not to,” she said.
He set her back from him, his hands on her warm shoulders. “I missed you so much,” he said.
“I missed you too, Ben, I missed you...” Her voice trailed off to quiet, and her chin dimpled, sadness passed over her eyes and he hated to see her like that. He hugged her again, harder this time.
“God,” he sighed, “I didn’t know it would be so hard to be without you...”
The point of her chin nodded against his chest. He held her away again to look at her. There was so much going on behind those eyes. There was a tangible wall between them. She’d fucked Finn, and she didn’t know how to tell him. She would have to tell him sometime, that was the whole point. They could share, repair. He didn’t want her to suffer, he was
eager to let her know that it was okay. But he dreaded having to face his own truth. But it would be Libby first…
He said, “Come on inside, tell me all about the concert...”
“I think I need a nap,” she said as he took her hand and squeezed his fingers between hers. Her little hand was hot and damp and weak. Her enervation frightened him for a moment. What if was more than her infidelity weakening her? She’d just come from Finn and Chelsea’s house. What if Chelsea told her the truth? Chelsea would love that. Absolutely love it. Couldn’t wait to cause chaos...
He said, “You just came from Finn’s?”
“Yeah,” she said, looking the tired version of puzzled.
“Was Chelsea there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. Just asked me how the concert was.”
He pondered as they ascended the short drive toward the house. He said, “It’s so weird that you had to walk.”
“It’s one street over, Ben.”
“But you’re so tired.”
“I’ve been on a bike for like two hours, it’s nice to stretch my legs.”
“But now you want to nap?”
“I’m so-oo tired.”
Door held open for her, he took the bag out of her hand and watched as she waddled into the house. A brief flash of anger swiped across his vision like a passing shadow. It was the sight of the backs of her bare legs, her beautiful perky butt in the shorts she’d bought to wear for another man’s eye. It was a vulnerable part of her. A ticklish part, too. And, the backside, where she couldn’t see it coming. He could picture Finn looking at that part of her, his poor Libby glancing over her shoulder to see what the man with the big dick would do. Did Finn take her like that? Did they do it like spoons? God, did they do it from behind on their knees like dogs? Libby had never done that with her husband...
He had to keep the rage in check to stop from slamming the door closed behind them. Libby put a foot onto the staircase, and he stopped her. “Wait, don’t go upstairs, stay with me.”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know, don’t go up there.”
“Let me just get changed,” she said.
Brighter, with hope, he said, “Then you’ll come down? You can nap on the couch. We can try to watch Game of Thrones. You can tell me about Dorchester and I’ll let you fall asleep if you want to. I’ll rub your feet…”
Half her mouth turned up in a smile, and it warmed his heart. “Okay,” she said.
“You want some tea?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’ll be nice.”
She went up another step. He said, “Lib…?”
She stopped and looked down at him.
“Would you like a little aspirin?”
She held his gaze for a second, thinking about it. “Okay. I could do with an aspirin.”
A ball of ice bumped inside his stomach. He actually leaned forward, putting both his hands on the curved edge of the newel post to keep himself from collapsing to his knees. It was done. She had sex with another guy. Another guy with a big dick. He struggled for something cute to say, but all that was happening behind his bewildered eyes was a tangled mesh of wrestling snakes. Lust, anger, jealousy, rage, passion, regret, and somehow some mutated form of joy. It wasn’t just from the relief of the guilt. What was it? Was it possible he wanted more?
“I’m going to go,” she said after patiently waiting for him to say something. She still stared at him, waiting, him standing there with that stunned look on his face, his mouth open. “Okay, a pot of tea and an aspirin coming right up…”
33
With Libby upstairs getting changed, he took her shopping bag of things into the laundry room. Piece by piece he removed them and examined each one carefully. Each shirt, each bra, her shorts shorter than the ones she wore right now... He checked them all for semen stains but found none. The white shirt he’d seen her wearing last night while she was cozying up to Dorchester had three red plops, faded to pink. Like she’d been drinking some sort of sweet strawberry drink that splashed on her. For some reason that made him smile. He could picture the accident happening, Libby happy, maybe tipsy, some fruity drink sloshing onto her shirt, and that pouty face she would make, an exasperated sound... He wished he’d been there with her.
He’d saved the best for last, however. Two pair of panties. He held them up to the light, checking each one. There were no signs of semen. Maybe in the pair she wore home?...
Now he found a stiff T-shirt rolled in a tube. He unfurled it: a Dorchester concert shirt like the one she wore, this one in large for him. It was a kind Libby thing that warmed his heart. He took off his shirt and donned the one his wife had bought for him.
He bundled all Libby’s dirties together, enjoined a wash load with some things from the hamper and got it started. At the bottom of the bag there were some scraps. Things maybe she’d kept for posterity. There was the torn ticket. A cut wristband in bright pink. A backstage pass. Some pieces of gum, some drink tickets. He took those out and put them aside for her so she could file them away if she wanted to remember the night their relationship changed.
We’ll still be together, I promise, Lib. But last night, things changed. It hurts me so bad, but I deserve it. We’re going to be better. We’re going to be new…
The shower was running upstairs while he was in the kitchen boiling a kettle. He bet she had one this morning in the hotel, too, before getting on the bike with Finn. If the hotel had one of those shower wands, he was sure she had it spritzed between her legs full blast, ridding any evidence Chelsea’s husband might’ve left there. She’d probably scrubbed herself down just like he had this morning, washing Chelsea off him. They were both bad people. But he loved her more than anything, and this would make them whole.
On a whim, he cooked up some popcorn, put lots of butter and her favorite dill pickle seasoning on it. He brought to the family room the teapot, the popcorn and a glass of water with two baby aspirin in the little dish where she could put the used tea bags. He fired up Game Of Thrones, paused it, and waited. It’s okay, Libby, take your time. You can scrub it all off if it makes you feel better. I don’t want you to hurt, I just want us to be equal.
In fifteen minutes she was back downstairs wearing short pajama pants and a big baggy T-shirt. When she saw him sitting there, she smiled. “Like your shirt?”
He plucked at it and looked at the logo upside down. “It is for me, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” she said, and sat carefully down on the couch next to him.
He said, “Your butt sore?”
She slid her heel under her backside. “A little,” she said.
His heart drilled in his chest like a jackhammer. His voice was tight, but he said in an amused sort of tone: “How was the motorcycle?”
“Not a lot of suspension,” she said and turned up her nose a little.
That sweet and innocent lie from her had his heart swelling in his chest, and for some reason he took her in his arms again and pulled her into him. “I love you so much,” he said, his voice shaky.
“I love you too, Ben,” she said and stroked at his sides.
When they pulled apart, he said, “Hey, weren’t you going to tell me about the concert?”
Libby poured herself a cup of tea, took some long sips, knocked back both the baby aspirins with the glass of water. She gave him a rough outline of the events of the two days. How it was thrilling to be on the motorcycle, how, no, Finn didn’t go too fast. How they checked in and all the stuff they did on Friday. She said they had breakfast together on Saturday, and she hung around with him. She lurked in the background while people did the sound checks, but Finn didn’t have to meddle too much. She got to see some famous people.
“Like who?”
“I met Alice Cooper.”
“Did you really?”
She nodded, smiling. “Yeah, and Kid Rock, too.”
“Really, what was that like?”
/> “I didn’t really talk to them. Finn was... but when Finn was talking to Alice Cooper, he locked eyes with me over Finn’s shoulder. It was pretty cool.”
“That is cool.”
“And he smiled at me, too.”
“What else?”
“Then the concert started, so I mostly was out at these awesome seats out front. And I had like an open tab...”
“Did you drink too much?”
She shook her head no. “No, I paced myself. But I could get whatever I wanted. And I had like these awesome VIP seats right up front.”
“Finn was there?”
“Not all the time. He was in and out.”
In and out, huh? “You weren’t lonely?”
“A little…”
“I wish I could go.”
“You’re such a jerk. You should’ve come straight from Niagara...”
“There wasn’t time, Lib.”
She pursed her lips and side-eyed him. “I’m a little mad.”
“Don’t be mad at me.”
She went on to tell him more. She told him every song Dorchester did. She built up to the most exciting part: she met Dorchester. But he already knew that, and he reminded her he’d been sent pictures.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Oh, that’s awesome, I have them. I have to put them on Facebook...”
“You looked really good in them.”
“Did I?” She practically squealed.
“Did you wash your cheek when you were in the shower?”
“Yeah, why?” She touched her cheek and frowned at him, not getting it.
“You were cheek to cheek with Van Waters, Lib, most girls wouldn’t wash their cheek ever again.”
She giggled, said, “Poop, I already scrubbed my cheek...”
“Ah, well, you’re not fifteen anymore, anyway, you have to be sensible with your skin care. So what were Dorchester like?”
She scrunched her face. “Old.”
“You know they’re the same age as us.”