He leans over onto the bed and I help him by pulling the waistband off his pants. Even fresh from a shower, I can smell the hypnotic scent of his most sensitive skin. His smell is so erotic, so incredibly masculine, that sucking him off is a feast for the senses. I feel myself get wet at just the remembrance of him pulsing down my throat.
His mouth crushes against mine, and I part my lips immediately to welcome him inside. We’re all lips and tongue and teeth, absolutely starved for each other. I moan in the back of my throat, and Tucker uses the opportunity to kiss me even deeper. I need to feel him. Right now. I need to erase the ugliness of the night before. All the ugliness that has caused a rift between us.
I’m pulling up my skirt with one hand and trying to yank down Tuck’s pants with the other when the intercom buzzes.
“Shit,” he curses against my lips. He stands up and straightens himself, and makes his way to the buzzer. “Yeah?”
“Dr. DuCane, it’s Norm from downstairs. I’ve got a pizza delivery guy here for you.”
“Right, thanks, Norm. Send him up.”
I huff out an aggravated breath and stalk to the closet to get out of my day clothes. Great. Now I’m even more sexually frustrated than I was before. That delivery guy better have a free order of garlic knots for me or I might lose my shit. Can you actually explode from being overly aroused?
After snatching up Tuck’s worn dress shirt and sliding it on, sans bra, I might add, I make my way out to the kitchen where my husband is already divvying out slices and servings of salad. And dammit, there are no garlic-fucking-knots.
“So what do you want to do tonight?” he asks, settling in beside me on the bistro table.
“I don’t know. Just chill? Have a couple glasses of wine, maybe? I think Lucia picked up some Stella for you.”
“That sounds amazing,” he says, jumping up to inspect the fridge. Sure enough, his beer of choice is fully stocked.
“Hey, bring me one of those, will ya?” I say, ripping off a bit of crust and popping it in my mouth. Tucker looks surprised—I’m not a beer drinker—but complies, even pouring it in a glass for me.
“This is great,” he remarks around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni. “Pizza, beer, and my favorite girl. I so needed this.”
I smile and nod. “Yeah, me too. Busy week.” I take a sip of beer, which turns out to be crisp and refreshing on my tongue. It’s not bubbly, but it definitely hits the spot.
We polish off the pizza and settle onto the couch with our second round of beers, which is pretty risky considering that our living room set is ivory. But I’m trying this new thing called being a supportive wife that just lives in the moment. And in this moment, Tuck needs to be comfortable in his own home. This is his refuge away from all the horror he must experience at work. I can provide that for him. I can be his refuge.
He grabs the remote and starts to flip through the channels, bypassing E! News, VH1, MTV, and Bravo. Nothing that would pique my professional interest and take me away from him and our little slice of normalcy. We’re not even twenty minutes into some slapstick funny sitcom when his cell phone rings.
“What? When did this happen?” He’s pacing the floor, his brow wrinkled in concern. “Dammit. I’m leaving now.”
Tucker looks to me with a mixture of regret and fear. “Bunny, I have to get to the hospital. There’s been a turn for the worse.”
“Is everything all right?”
He shakes his head, heaves out a resigned sigh. I can already see the rigid tension creeping back into his shoulders and his expression is bleak and ragged. “I don’t know. I hope so. I’m sorry, babe. I’ve got to get over there.”
“Go, go,” I wave. “I’ll be fine, honey. Do whatever you need to do. I’ll be here when you get home.”
I really wish that statement could be true.
Sixty minutes after Tucker rushed to Mount Sinai, my own cell phone is chirping. I pick it up and look at the number, then immediately set it back down.
Ransom.
I know why he’s calling. Saturday Night Live begins in less than an hour. But I’ve already made a conscious decision not to attend. Granted, that decision was much easier to stick to when Tucker was here, but I’m committed to my word. I’m committed to my husband . . . to my marriage. Talking to Justice really put things into perspective for me. Letting Ransom into our proverbial marriage bed wasn’t the issue here—we both enjoyed that walk on the wild side. The problem was, and is, that he’s still in it, lingering in our unsaid words and unmet desires.
The only way I can exonerate him from our lives is to cut him off cold turkey. I’ll draft a letter of resignation, and we’ll split amicably. I mean, I was his publicist for less than a week. I’ve had relationships with badly cut bangs longer than that.
Still, I’m a glutton for punishment. And instead of changing the channel and picking up a book or magazine, I keep it on NBC. And soon I’m watching the show, anxiously awaiting Ransom’s musical performance.
As soon as Rebel Wilson introduces them, I’m on the edge of my seat, struggling to breathe through my undefined angst. The lights go up, revealing the band, and their singer positioned front and center, his head down. The music begins, and he lifts his chin slowly, dramatically pulling the audience in to his world. God, he looks good. Black jeans that fit him like a glove, charcoal gray tee, and a black leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The silver hoop in his nose matches the rings on his fingers and the crucifix hanging from his neck. He briefly spoke of the faith he was raised in, and how it affected his family ties. Maybe religion is his last link to his parents. Or maybe it’s merely a fashion statement.
The music curls around the first lyrics of the song, and I audibly gasp when I realize what song they’re performing. It’s the song—the song—he sang to me that night. The song that fell from his trembling lips as he surged inside me, filling my body and soul with his lustful submission.
I never thought I’d be able to hear that song again.
Yet, here I am, glued to the screen, watching him sing it with so much zeal and conviction that I swear I hear the rasp of his voice quiver with emotion. Not sadness or distress. Maybe longing . . . desire. As if he’s remembering the last time he sang it too. I’ve never heard it like this before. I’ve never listened with ears that have felt the brush of his soft lips and the tingle of whispered words. And now that I do, I’m right back to where I started. Drowning in denial, falling in the farce that I could somehow be over him.
The crowd erupts into wild cheers at the end of the song, and the show cuts to commercial. I force myself to turn off the TV. If I watch any more, I may find myself hailing a cab to Rockefeller Center.
I take a hot shower, and slip on my new pajamas, and resign to call it a night. It’s late, yet Tucker still isn’t home. I don’t expect him to be. The way he ran out of here, wearing that solemn look that spoke of death and despair, I doubt I’ll see much of him for the rest of the weekend.
Sleep comes easier than I expect, and I’m caught within the deepest, warmest parts of my mind when something startles me awake. I blink rapidly, wondering if it was a dream, when I hear the piercing ring of my phone.
“Hello?” I answer, my voice choked with sleep.
“You need to get down here.”
I clear my throat and push myself up on tired limbs. “What? Who is this?”
“Caleb. Now get your ass out of bed and get to the Monkey Bar, pronto.”
I look over at the red-lit numbers on my bedside clock. “Caleb, it’s 3 A.M. What the hell is this about?”
“Our client, that’s what this is about. And right now, he is pissy fucking drunk, high out of his fucking mind, and asking for you. I was able to get the bar cleared out, but the rest is on you. You wanted the job . . . now it’s time to work.”