Chapter 08
May
This month, my name is Amy, and I’ve come in from out of town to be my college roommate’s maid of honor. The unwritten code of weddings says either the bridesmaid’s dress or the best man will be ugly enough to make you wish you were blind. Bonnie’s promised me something cute to wear and cuter to stand beside in the photos. I’ve been in enough weddings by now to doubt that will happen, but when I see the best man I’m prepared to forgive her for the dress.
He’s an attorney. His teeth are straight and white and he wears his tux as easily as if it were a sweat suit. He’s just that cool.
“What did I tell you?” Bonnie whispers from the back of the church where we’re waiting for the wedding rehearsal to begin.
“He’s cute.” I crane my neck a little to catch a better glimpse of him. “What’s his name?”
“Joe Wilder.” The name suits him.
The rehearsal is a disaster, but Father Peck assures us that bodes well for tomorrow. The whole crowd of us head over to Angelina’s Riverside, where Brian’s parents have paid for a pretty extravagant rehearsal dinner. I manage to sit next to Joe.
He apologizes for bumping me. “I’m a lefty. Sorry.”
We switch seats. Now he’s on the end, and I don’t have to share him with the other bridesmaid who’d been sitting on his other side. She’s not happy about that, but I don’t really care, since I am the maid of honor, not her. Let her glom onto her own groomsman. The best man is mine.
“Nervous about tomorrow?”
“Oh, no. This is my fifth wedding this year.”
When I tell this to Joe, he laughs and sips water from his glass. I like the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “This is my first one.”
“Oh, a wedding virgin.” I lean a bit closer.
“Be gentle with me.” He leans closer, too. “Since it’s my first time and all.”
We laugh. We eat. And later, after dinner is over, we go to the bar and drink. A bit after that, we dance.
He’s an excellent dancer and holds me just close enough to lead me without making it seem like he’s coming on to me. I think he is coming on to me, but I appreciate his subtlety.
The wedding code says all hook ups need to wait at least until the reception. It’s only common courtesy to the bride and groom. I was at a wedding once where the best man and maid of honor hooked up at the rehearsal dinner, then with different members of the wedding party at the reception. They ended up throwing cake in each other’s faces and ruining the wedding pictures.
So I’m just about to regretfully tell him I have to get back to my hotel when he beats me to the punch and says he’s got to get going. He’s meeting the other groomsmen to take Brian out for some drinks. He’s already late.
“At a strip club, maybe?”
Joe’s got the grin of a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Maybe.”
“But Brian told Bonnie he wasn’t going to do that.”
Joe acts like he let the cat out of the bag. “Oops. Are you going to tell her?”
Bonnie swore there was no way she was going out drinking and carousing the night before she got married—not when she’d have a hundred people taking her picture the next day. We’d had our bachelorette shindig a month ago. We had, in fact, gone to see a male dance revue. I didn’t personally see what the big deal was about Brian going out to see a little bit of tit and ass before he got married. I mean, if you can’t trust your man, you shouldn’t be marrying him.
“I guess not.”
“Want to come along?” His grin got broader, as if we were sharing a dirty secret.
“Oh, right. The guys would so like that.”
“I’ll tell them you’re there to make sure I keep Brian in line.”
“Then they’ll really hate me!” I shake my head, but laughing. “Brian won’t want me there, Joe. I’ll ruin the fun.”
“Bet you won’t. You don’t look like that sort of girl. Besides, you know Brian, right?”
“Since college.”
“So, don’t you want to send him off to be married in grand style?”
This was a slippery slope, but it was either go back to my empty hotel room or go with Joe, and suddenly, all the wedding rules didn’t seem to matter.
“Do you really want me to come?”
He nodded and pulled me close for a dip. When he pulled me up, his breath gusted along my ear and made me shiver.
“Yes. I do want you to come.”
Fuck the rules. A nun wouldn’t have been able to resist him. I sure as hell couldn’t.
In the parking lot of the Sahara, which looked like any other bar from the outside except for the big sign in the window that said alcohol prohibited, Joe’s cell phone rang.
“Wilder.”
I giggled at the way he answered his phone. Joe smiled at me. I leaned forward to look through the front window at the building while he talked.
“What? No way. Really? Damn. You’re sure?”
That didn’t sound good. I looked over at him. He held up a finger, mouthing “one minute.”
I waited. Men talk so differently than women. Short, sharp sentences without the frills and furbelows we add to every conversation, no matter what it’s about. Joe listened, he spoke, once in a while he nodded. Finally, he closed his phone and looked at me.
“Bonnie found out about Brian’s plans so now he’s not coming.”
“Oh…too bad.” I hadn’t realized how excited I’d been by the thought of going to see the strippers until just now. “Well, he’s got to keep her happy, I guess.”
Joe made a flicking gesture with his hand. “He’s whipped.”
I felt bound to defend my friend, though I didn’t disagree. “They’re getting married.”
Joe’s smile is like a sliver of sunshine. “Yeah. Lucky bastard.”
“You think so?” I’m at the age where most of my friends have been steadily taking the leap into the marital abyss. “I’m not so sure I’m ready to get married.”
“Everyone says that,” Joe answers. “Until they meet the right person.”
My heart skips a little, but I remind myself he’s not talking about me. We just met. Even though weddings can make people all starry-eyed, it’s not necessarily a good indication that it will last.
“So, what do we do now?” I ask.
Joe looks toward the Sahara. The door opens and music and light spill out, along with a crowd of pretty rowdy guys who head for a truck a few spaces over. They look like they’re drinking something out of a paper bag. They all look pretty drunk, already.
“Why don’t they serve alcohol?” I point to the sign.
“Pennsylvania law.” I hadn’t forgotten Joe’s a lawyer. “Any place that serves alcohol can’t have full nudity.”
I blink. “You mean…the girls in there are totally naked?”
He smiles. “Yep.”
I blink again. “Wow. I thought they’d have a G-string on or something.”
“No. Not a stitch. Want to go in?”
Somehow, being part of a big group of carousing boys watching girls in pasties and thongs dance seemed way different than Joe and I going in to see totally bare-assed women shake their stuff.
“Yeah, sure.” I sound more confident than I feel.
Joe reaches for my hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
I laugh at that, feeling silly. “All right, c’mon.”
My stomach’s jumping nervously when we go inside. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but it’s not this. The inside of the Sahara looks something like a cross between a cheap hotel lobby and a frat house basement. Several small stages, complete with poles, scatter the area. Worn couches provide seating. There’s art on the wall, of the cheesy pin-up variety. I see girls dressed in typical stripper outfits circulating with money sticking out of their garters. Some of them stop to talk to the men sitting all around, and every so often, one of them will get up and go toward a back room with one.
Joe has to pay a cover charge for himself, but not for me. The man behind the counter doesn’t even seem surprised to see me. Maybe they get more girls in there than I’d thought.
At any rate, I’m a lot less nervous as Joe takes my hand and leads me toward a love seat near the front of the room. It’s right in front of the main stage, the one with three poles and a set of gymnasts’ rings.
“Hi, hon,” says the first girl to come up to us. Closer inspection reveals she’s not a girl. She’s got to be older than me. She’s thin but has stretch marks on her thighs, and I’m pretty sure she’s wearing a wig. Suddenly, I feel a lot better about myself.
“Hi,” Joe says. “How’re you?”
“Oh, can’t complain, hon, can’t complain. Either of you want a lap dance?”
She looks at me when she asks, and I freeze, unable to answer. Do I want a lap dance? And if I do, do I want one from a stripper who looks as though she’d be making a grocery list in her head while she does it?
“Maybe later,” Joe says easily. “We just got here.”
“Fair enough, hon.” She winks, and her smile shows several prominent gaps. “We got three girls starting in about two minutes, so you just enjoy, okay?”
She wanders to the next table where I hear her asking the same questions. Joe turns to me.
“I’m sorry, I should have asked you if you wanted one. Did you?”
“Uh…no…no thanks.”
He laughs and leans in to whisper in my ear. “Later, maybe.”
I think it’ll be a cold day in hell before I pay for a lap dance from a woman, but it would be rude to say so. The next moment, I jump at the blast of loud music that blares from the speakers. Joe takes my hand again, his thumb passing back and forth over the back of it and making me shiver.
Okay, so watching Showgirls has in no way prepared me for what’s going on in the Sahara. Some raunchy hip-hop tune that’s all about oral sex has these three girls writhing and wriggling. They don’t seem to have any sort of real routine or anything, they just twirl around on the poles and strip out of their already scanty outfits. And, yeah, they get down to bare skin, all the way.
I watch as one girl gets on her back, crotch pointed toward the edge of the stage, and does a trick with her vagina that makes it look like some sort of underwater creature. I’m repulsed and fascinated. I look around at the men in the room, who are all staring at this woman’s cunt like it holds the secrets of the universe, until I turn to look at Joe and see he’s staring at me.
“Wow,” is all I manage to mutter.
He smiles and turns his gaze to the stage, where the girls are finishing up and heading into the audience to collect their dollars.
A few more take their place on stage and the routines begin all over again. I spot two of the girls heading our way and I’m determined not to look like an asshole, even though they’re both naked and their tits are about to poke me in the eye.
“Thanks, hon,” says one to Joe when he slips a bill into the garter on her thigh. “You let me know if you want a lap dance, okay?”
After about fifteen minutes, I’ve become numb to the sight of undulating cunts and flopping tits. Joe and I are getting a lot of attention. I’m not sure if it’s because he is, hands down, the hottest guy in the room, or because he’s with me and therefore seems less creepy than the guys who are there alone. At any rate, I’m warming up enough that I’m able to put a few dollars into garters myself, and to laugh a little at the women who flirt like it’s a job, not a pleasure.
They all ask if we want lap dances. Joe’s so good at declining, he makes it sound like he’d like to have a lap dance from each and every one of them. After an hour, I notice they’re talking about him. I know this because I know women, I know the way we gather and lean our heads together for discussion. The strippers are plotting something.
A new girl comes out on stage. She’s about my age. My height. Hell, she’s even got the same color hair, though hers looks like it came from a bottle. She’s wearing a skintight sheath dress that makes it impossible for her to use the pole until she takes it off, and she’s dancing to a slow, silky bump’n’grind instead of some loud song with dirty lyrics. It would be incorrect to say she’s subtle, but compared to the other dancers, she was.
She’s prettier than some there, but not the prettiest. She doesn’t have the best body, either. Still, something about her catches my attention.
Joe’s, too.
Together, we watch this girl shimmy out of her clothes. Then, it strikes me. This girl dances as if she’s enjoying herself. She smiles and makes eye contact with the men in the audience. She dances like she’s seducing each and every one of us with her eyes, which are a bright, liquid blue.
When she’s done and goes throughout the audience collecting her cash, I hold my breath, waiting for her to disappear into the back room with one of those ogling men. Surely, she will. Certainly, someone will want to pay for her to dance privately.
“Thanks, sugar,” she says to Joe when he tucks some money into her garter. She turns to me. “How about a lap dance?”
“Yes,” I hear myself say. I feel Joe’s eyes on me, but I’m too busy looking into the girl’s to pay attention to him.
“Well,” she says, her voice like smooth, hot caramel. “Let’s go, then.”
She takes me by the hand and motions to Joe. “C’mon, darlin’, you, too.”
Laughing, he gets up, too, and takes her hand. She leads us to the back room, which is painted like midnight and lit by black lights that turns our smiles and the whites of our eyes fluorescent.
“Three songs,” she says. “What do you like to listen to, sweetie?”
She’s asking me, her attention focused on me, her hand still holding mine. I’ve never held a woman’s hand before. Not like this, fingers linked, palm to palm. I hope suddenly my hand isn’t sweating.
“Whatever you like.” I feel like I’m speaking through a mouthful of cotton. Heat sweeps up and down my body in waves that make me shiver. She nods and lets go of my hand to move toward a small window set into the wall I hadn’t noticed earlier.
I look at Joe. He smiles and holds out his hand to me. I take it. He pulls me close enough to whisper in my ear.
“Good choice.”
I shiver again at the feeling of his breath in my ear. I don’t even have the benefit of alcohol to blame this on. What the hell am I doing? But I have no time to back out now, because she’s sauntering back to us.
“My name’s Cherry,” she says.
“I bet it is.” Joe’s grin is a crescent of white in the darkness.
She laughs. “As far as you’re concerned it is.”
“Fair enough.”
“Have a seat,” she tells us and points to the twin chairs set out in the middle of the floor. We do, facing each other. There’s just enough room between us for her to walk without bumping our knees.
Cherry smiles. “You two a couple?”
“No.” Joe shakes his head.
“First date?”
I laugh, nervous. “Sort of. We’re in a wedding together, tomorrow.”
Cherry has a slow, smooth giggle that’s like bubbles in champagne. “Nice.”
Then the music comes on. “No Ordinary Love” by Sade, a song I’ve always liked. It’s slow and sexy, and she begins to dance just the way she did on stage. As if she’s seducing us both.
Joe, I think, is probably used to women coming on to him, but I’m not. I sit stiffly in my chair as Cherry moves her body over and around us. She sits on Joe’s lap, facing me, and slides her body up and down him while her eyes hold mine. Turning, she makes the same move on me.
A lapful of warm, slightly sweaty woman is such a shock to me I make a small sound. Her hair, which smells of strawberries, is tickling my face and tumbling every which way over her shoulders, and I have time to wish mine would do that when she turns around and rubs herself all along my front.
I’m reminded of the way a cat will butt its head against your palm to make you pet it. Cherry is turning, rubbing, writhing, moving back and forth from me to Joe and back again. I don’t know where to put my hands. If anyone else was touching me this way, I’d be touching back…but somehow I get the idea we’re not supposed to touch her.
Cherry parts my thighs and slides between them to press her body along mine. The chair has a high, straight back, and I’ve no place to retreat. Her mouth ends up by my ear and she blows into it, lightly. I quiver. She laughs and pulls away, looking into my eyes again, before turning around to do the same to Joe.
When she’s working on him, I can clearly understand the term “heart-shaped ass,” because she’s got one. She’s got one knee on Joe’s thigh, her hands on his shoulders. She’s tipped forward and up, so I can see the fluff of her pubic hair and catch a glimpse of her pussy. Unlike the blatant display out front, this is tantalizing, just a peek as she rocks her pelvis.
Cherry knows what most men seem to ignore. That sometimes, mystery is sexier. Then again, maybe having a vagina has made me immune to the allure of close-up views.
Three songs is about ten minutes, but after the first one is over I couldn’t tell you what comes next. Each is slow and smooth. It’s the longest ten minutes of my life.
And the most expensive, as when the last song is over, Cherry stands up straight, flicks her hair over her shoulders, and says sweetly, “A hundred even, sweetie, though I won’t say no to more.”
I can’t move off my chair yet, still glued there by the experience. I hope this place takes credit cards, and I can kiss lunch out goodbye for a month or two, but it’s totally been worth it. I don’t have to worry, as it turns out. Joe stands and hands Cherry a few bills from his wallet, then a few more.
“Hey, thanks! You come see me any time, you hear?” She’s got a pretty smile. She winks. “See you out there.”
It is, I realize, watching her walk away, just a job. She’s very, very good at it, but it’s just a job for her the way a job is to everyone else. I’m not sure if that disappoints or relieves me, since I’m still reeling from the realization that I’m hornier than I’ve ever been in my life.
“You ready to get out of here?”
Joe’s hand cradles my elbow and he helps me up. I want to look down and see if he’s got a hard-on, but I don’t dare. My nipples are hard, and I can feel slick wetness between my legs.
“Yes.” My voice is hoarse and I have to clear my throat to say again, “Yes, I’m ready.”
I expect to regain control by the time we get to Joe’s car, but I don’t. My hands are definitely sweating. He opens the door for me, but before I get in, I turn to him.
We fall on each other like we’re starving. His tongue moves over my jaw and his hands cover my breasts, rubbing my nipples just lightly enough to make me moan. He does have an erection. I can feel it against me. The car door jams against my back and without saying anything we both turn and twist so he can get inside on the passenger seat. A second later I’m on his lap and the door slams shut. I’ve got one hand braced on the dashboard while the other pulls down my panties and lifts my skirt. I hear the clash of metal as he undoes his zipper. I lift up, waiting. He’s taking longer than I expect and I look over my shoulder to see him fumbling out a small silver packet from the car console.
I would take the time to think about what sort of guy keeps condoms so handy, but I’m just glad he does. The moment after that he pulls on my hips, positioning himself under me. Then he fills me with a grunt and I let out a low cry.
We’re parked in shadows but that doesn’t mean we can’t be seen. I don’t care. Joe pumps into me, hard and fast, and his hand reaches around my front to stroke my clit. I’m surprised by this consideration, but as grateful for it as I am for his caution. It doesn’t take much to get me off. His fingertip rolls my clit in time to his thrusts, and I come with a cry I bite back.
My fingers grip the dash so hard I dimple the padding. Joe pushes into me a couple more times and comes with a grunt. The whole act’s taken maybe three minutes.
He relaxes back against the seat, his hands on my hips pulling me back a little. He’s still pretty hard inside me, and I relax for a moment, too, trying not to think too much about what has just happened.
He moves beneath me after a bit and hands me a box of tissues, which I use as I disengage from his penis. It’s close quarters now, and we bump a lot, but he makes it all very matter of fact and easy, so I don’t feel too embarrassed.
He must do this a lot, I think. That does embarrass me, but not as much as I thought it might. I mean…it was pretty spectacular sex, and it’s not like I wasn’t hoping to hook up with him anyway.
Somehow we manage to get ourselves covered up and in our right seats. The car reeks of sex, but I can’t roll down the window until he starts the engine. Joe sits behind the wheel for a few seconds, as if he’s gathering strength or something. He turns to me and grins.
“Did you have fun?”
I don’t know if he means inside or out here, but the answer is the same, anyway.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I sure did.”
“Good,” says Joe as he starts the car. “I’m glad.”
That was the first time I heard what Joe does for a living, and his last name. I found these two details more intimate than the description of the car sex or the way it felt to have a stripper writhing on his lap.
“So what happened at the wedding?” It was the only thing I could think of to ask. I was still trying to process what I thought about this latest story, and how Joe always manages to find the women who will do things such as fuck in cars on the first date. Or who will get lap dances from strippers, for that matter.
“It was fine. Every time I looked at her, she started to giggle. We held it in pretty much during the ceremony but at the reception she got toasted and couldn’t stop laughing.”
“So…did you go home with her that night, too?”
“Nah.”
“No? Why not?”
Joe smiled and shrugged. “Been there, done that?”
This answer annoyed me. “You know, for someone who claims he’s not a slut, you sure don’t prove it.”
“Sadie,” Joe said patiently. “She lives in another state. It was a wedding hook up, that’s all. Happens all the time.”
“To you,” I said, grouchy. “Not everyone in weddings hooks up.”
“What, I should’ve gotten her e-mail address? Promised to keep in touch? She didn’t even pretend that’s what she wanted.”
He sounded smug about it, so I glared. “You could’ve resisted the urge to fuck her in your car.”
“But why?” He seemed honestly curious. “Sadie, she wanted to do it. Nobody got hurt. I was careful. I’m always careful. What’s the big deal?”
The big deal was jealousy, and I wasn’t sure if it was envy at his constant ability to seek pleasure and find it, or the more insidious jealousy that dozens of women were getting to feel Joe’s cock inside them, and I never would.
“You say you want to settle down. Find someone. But you just keep fucking your way through woman after woman. That’s the big deal. I think you’re full of shit.”
We’d gone more than a year without an argument and now we were having the same one twice. What that meant about our relationship did not hide its face from me, that fighting can be as intimate an act as fucking.
“And I think you’re being a judgmental bitch,” said Joe.
My jaw dropped before I could gain enough control to close my mouth with an audible snap. He leaned against the back of the bench, arms outstretched along it, and gave me a smug smirk. I twitched away from him, though he hadn’t touched me. We stared at each other, and I wasn’t stupid enough not to notice the tension between us wasn’t entirely borne of anger.
“I don’t hurt any of them, Sadie.”
I sniffed. “So you say. All I ever hear is your side of it.”
“Would it be better if I pretended I intended something I don’t? If I took them out on lots and lots of dates, got their hopes up? Would that make me a better person?” Joe’s pose seemed affected, as if he was trying too hard to look casual.
“How do you ever expect to find someone if you never give them more than one night? If you ‘been there, done that’ to everyone?”
He ran a hand through his hair and squinted at me. “Maybe I’m looking for something special.”
“Well,” I said stiffly. “How do you think you’re going to find it if you keep hopping in and out of beds all over Harrisburg?”
“It was in a car,” he pointed out, but I was less than amused.
“The point is, Joe, you say you want something but you show no intentions of making lifestyle changes to support it.”
I don’t even use a tone that prim and stuck-up with my patients. I’ve certainly never used it with Joe. It was too late to call it back.
He sat up straight. “You make it sound like I fuck every woman I meet.”
“Don’t you?” I know he doesn’t. That would be impossible, really, to have sex with every woman. I was being facetious.
Joe didn’t fall for it. He just leaned forward a bit more, his eyes dark and his mouth curved downward. “No, Sadie. I don’t.”
He meant me. I knew it. He knew I did. But we said nothing more about it, just turned back to our sandwiches and drinks and finished our lunch as though the entire conversation hadn’t even occurred.
I’m usually undeniably refreshed when I come home from work on the first Friday of every month. This Friday was an exception. I’d stopped to pick up some take-out. The argument with Joe had me craving something I could enjoy.
“Hello, handsome,” I purred as I pushed open the door with my hip.
Adam was already in bed, watching TV. He barely looked at me as I came in. I looked to see what had him so enthralled.
“Baywatch? Should I be worried about you?” I teased as I set up the table with our dinner.
Adam didn’t laugh. “Why? Because I enjoy looking at jiggle television?”
Okay. Tonight was not a night for teasing. I moved to the bed to kiss his forehead, and he made a disgruntled noise and tried to pull away.
“I’m watching this.”
“Fine. I brought take-out from Passage to India. I thought we’d eat and then watch a movie?”
“Since when do you like Indian food?”
Joe had introduced me to it, bringing with him to lunch the delicious curries and breads I’d discovered I adored. I kept that information to myself as I opened containers and ladled food onto plates. “Since…a long time?”
“I thought you didn’t like spicy food.”
“You do,” I pointed out. “And tastes change. C’mon, I got your favorite. Stop with the third degree and let’s eat.”
He looked over at the table and his expression softened. “Aw, thanks, baby. That was nice.”
I kissed his cheek and this time, he didn’t protest. “I thought it would be a nice date.”
Adam snorted. “Some date.”
“Hey,” I said softly, making sure he was looking into my eyes. “It’s the best kind. We don’t have to dress up for it or anything.”
“You’re dressed up.”
I looked down at my clothes. “Not really. Just for work.”
He shook his head, faintly. “You’re wearing your silk shirt. Which means you’ve got on your Victoria’s Secret bra, which means the matching panties. And the garter-belt. Am I right?”
I looked down at my clothes again, then up to his eyes. “You’re good.”
His smile curved on only one side. “And you’re wearing perfume.”
He turned his face to sniff my neck, where I had, indeed layered my skin with perfume that morning. I couldn’t even smell it any longer.
“The expensive stuff,” he murmured. “Your special occasion scent.”
Heat flushed me, burning in my cheeks and the tips of my ears. I laughed lightly and pulled away, turning to the table so I didn’t have to show my guilty face.
“What’s the special occasion, Sadie?”
“Do you want chicken or lamb?” I fiddled with the containers while I got my expression under control and turned back to him with a smile.
“Sadie?”
The hardest lies to detect are the ones surrounded by truth. In school, we’d been paired up and prompted to lie to random answers to a set list of questions. It became a challenge to see if we could fool each other. What was most interesting was not what some of us chose to lie about, but about what some of us chose to tell the truth.
“I felt like dressing up. That’s all.”
I felt his eyes on me as I pulled the wheeled table over to his bed and began cutting up his food.
“Well, you look beautiful.”
I put down the knife and fork and looked into his face. Love rushed up inside me so strong I thought I might cry from it. I cupped his cheek, one of the few places I could touch him and have him feel it.
“Thank you, honey.”
“You always do, Sadie.” He smiled and kissed my palm. “But always especially on the first Friday of the month.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. The food was getting cold, but I didn’t care. I kept my eyes on his, and this time, there was no need to lie.
“I love you, Adam. Only you.”
After another long moment, he nodded. “I know you do.”
I leaned in to kiss him. “I heard Dennis leaving. We don’t even have to lock the door.”
I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively, hoping to make him laugh. He smiled, but it was a faint shadow of his usual grin.
“I’m starving. And pretty tired.”
Concerned, I pressed my hand to his forehead. “Do you feel all right?”
He gave an irritated sigh and jerked his head away. “I feel fine. I’m hungry and tired, I said. I thought we were going to eat and watch a movie.”
“Yes, but—” But I thought maybe we could fool around didn’t seem quite the thing to say. In our past, Adam had sometimes worn me out with his constant desire, with his need for me. Back then the food would have been left to get cold while we satisfied our other hunger first.
But this was now, not then, and my ego wasn’t so solid that his rejection wouldn’t wound me.
“Right,” I amended. “Food. And then a movie.”
“Why don’t you go change, first,” Adam said, his voice cold. “Maybe take a shower, too. Your perfume’s giving me a headache. I’ll finish watching Baywatch.”
I wished he’d come out and accuse me. I could defend myself against accusations but could do nothing against his silent conviction of my infidelity. If he’d asked me, I could have told him the truth, all of it.
He didn’t ask, and so I didn’t tell.