“Why not?” He dabbed the corner of his mouth with the white linen napkin before setting it back on his lap. “You won’t discuss sex at home.”
“You never ask about it at home.”
“You never talk to me at home.”
I pursed my lips, instantly on the defensive. So what if I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a civil conversation? I also couldn’t pinpoint exactly when we’d started leading separate lives, only that I liked it.
No. That wasn’t quite right. I’d grown used to it. I told myself that it was well past time I put my childish ideas about love and marriage behind me and came to terms with the fact that married couples ignored each other, slept on their side of the bed careful not to touch, and bickered when someone failed to replace the toilet paper roll.
“What if I let you?”
I paused with a forkful of salad halfway to my mouth. The mini tomato I’d speared fell off and rolled on to the floor. My heartbeat kicked up a notch. “What if you let me do what?”
Richard leaned forward, elbows on the table, dark eyes spearing mine. “Don’t play coy with me, Dana. I’m smarter than you think.”
“I-”
“Save it. I saw the way you eyed the waiter when he walked over here. You stared at his crotch like he’d hidden an icecream cone down his pants. It’s shameful, really. He must be half your age.”
“Asshole,” I said pleasantly, reaching for my glass of champagne. “If you’re considering a mid-life crisis, leave me out of your kinky fantasies. I give you my blessing to buy a fast car and look up your secretary’s skirt.”
My voice hitched on that last bit, and Richard scowled. Just like that, I’d turned back the clock six years. Only it hadn’t been his secretary then; it had been his personal trainer. And he didn’t just look up her skirt. He’d burned a few extra calories fucking her on the fitness circuit after hours.
He stared at me, eyes black and hollow. “That was a long time ago. And you’re not going to believe a word I tell you anyway, so I don’t know why I bother.”
I shrugged, saying nothing.
Richard hesitated, cleared his throat. “Look, Dana … I don’t want to look up Amy’s skirt. I want to look up yours.” He reached across the table for my hand, and the touch of his warm fingers on my wrist made me jump. “Only you won’t let me.”
For a tenuous moment, my breath caught in my throat and I had no reply. I’d grown so used to avoiding Richard’s advances that I’d become an expert at it. Four years ago, I bought my first set of flannel pyjamas. I now owned twelve in different colours, all sporting playful kitten designs. They were the kind with thick elastic bands, and I wore granny panties beneath them. I stuck curlers in my hair and smeared green goo on my face before heading to bed. I’d done everything except tattoo “No Entry” on my crotch.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like sex. I thought of it constantly, wished for it incessantly. Nor was Richard’s appearance the problem. I’d thought him irresistible once. His thick hair had been black then and hung down to his shoulders; now he wore it cut short, and grey showed at his temples. His suit jacket hugged broad shoulders, and although he didn’t spend all his time at the gym like he once had, he still rose early to swim laps around the pool.
I waited for the urge to pull back my hand. For so long, the only reaction I had to my husband’s touch was stark, pulsing anger. Sometimes, the spark of fury ignited my imagination and I’d picture him fucking his whore. That’s when the slow burn of maddening rage would combine with sullen waves of revulsion to form the kind of temper that landed people in jail.
None of those turbulent responses came this time. Instead, the sultry warmth Richard’s fingers had kindled in my wrist shot up my arm. My nipples tightened, fuelled by the intensity in his gaze.
Left momentarily speechless, I licked my lips. He focused on them, parted his as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
When he finally spoke, his tone took on a sharp edge. “How long will you hold my mistake against me?” His grip tightened on my wrist. Pain flowered in a savage burst that chased the lingering flash of awareness from my skin. “Another year? Two? Twenty? I need to know.” He sucked in a breath. “I need to know, because if you won’t put the past behind us, I’ll-”
“You’ll what?” I yanked my hand away and slammed my open palm on to the table. The silverware clattered. A few heads turned in our direction and I could hear curious murmurs from the diners around us. “Leave me? Fine, then. Leave me.”
He furrowed his brows and slanted a glance at our neighbours. “Why not?” His voice was a low, violent whisper that hit me with the force of a slap. “You left me long ago.”
Abruptly, Richard leaned back in his chair and signalled the waiter. “You want to punish me, Dana? You’ll do it tonight. You’re going to get it out of your system, teach me a lesson, show me the error of my ways. And in the morning, you’ll let me prove to you that I’ve spent the last six years regretting what I’ve done.”
The waiter hurried over, and I had to bite my tongue while he cleared our plates. Knowing Richard watched me, I looked the boy over again. He was young, maybe twenty-three, maybe slightly older. Dark stubble cast a shadow over his lean cheeks and square jaw. He’d slicked back his hair, allowing a light brown strand to escape and curl over his forehead for that 1950s movie star allure. He probably thought it made him look cool. I thought it only made him look younger.
I homed in on his behind as he walked away, admiring the smooth flex of the cheeks beneath the bulky fabric of his uniform pants. A sigh flew from my lips as I contemplated the myriad wicked things I could do to that ass if I only had a dollop of that whipped cream I’d been craving.
He disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors, and I turned back. The Saturday night crowd was surprisingly loud for such a posh place, only Richard and I sat in silence, the weight of our stillness a marked contrast to the laughter and buzzing energy around us. I waited for him to say something first, to chastise my lecherous behaviour or let me in on his plan, but he simply watched me. The impulse to squirm in my seat made every muscle in my body coil with tension, but I didn’t move an inch.
Whatever happened, I was suddenly glad I hadn’t stayed home tonight. This evening would decide the fate of our marriage once and for all, and I was relieved to know the end was near. We couldn’t go on like this.
I couldn’t go on like this.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
I glanced up, startled. I hadn’t noticed the waiter approach.
“Yes. Hold up a minute.” Richard pulled out his wallet and opened it to reveal a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills.
I watched the waiter’s eyes widen. “I’ll bring your check.”
Richard smiled. It was a nasty, predatory smile that sent a shiver crawling down my spine and a rush of wanton anxiety pooling between my legs.
“This isn’t for the restaurant. It’s for you.”
The waiter’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. His gaze flicked from Richard to me.
I shrugged. I wanted to tell him that this was all for my benefit, that he was no more than a pawn in a game that would end badly for all of us. I didn’t, though. I took another sip of champagne and let the bubbles take the edge off my nerves.
He turned back to my husband. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s your name, son?” Richard asked, pocketing his wallet.
“Brent.”
Richard crooked his finger, beckoning Brent closer. The boy dropped to a crouch and leaned forwards, eyebrows raised in interest.
“Do you like women, Brent?”
The waiter’s smile faltered a little. Suspicion replaced the delight that had lit his eyes just moments earlier. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll get right to the point, then. How much do you make working here? Eight bucks an hour?”
“Nine fifty, sir.”