Brett

 

I couldn’t explain the heavy beating of my heart. I couldn’t explain the surreal sense of pride I felt for Grace right then. Couldn’t explain the strange heat in my balls as Thomas Heath took a step forward.

“No,” I said, quite fucking simply.

“No?” He cocked his head at me.

The words stung my throat even as I coughed them up and out at him.

“Fifty grand. Fifty grand and I watch your every fucking move.”

My wife’s eyes were saucers, mouth open wide. For a horror-filled moment I wondered if my complicity to this fucked-up proposition was a stab in a very wrong direction, but her clutch on my arm stayed tight. I was staring right at her when the asshole’s reply came.

“You want fifty grand for one single night with your pretty wife?” His face was bursting with the kind of amusement I could quite happily pound off with my fist. “That’s quite an advertisement to how much you think I’ll enjoy it. Unless you’re trying to cheat me out of good money, that is.”

Grace’s fingers dug in so tight I felt her nails pinch through my shirt.

“You’ll enjoy it,” I grunted. “Fifty grand or go fuck yourself.”

I could feel Grace’s shallow breaths tickling above my collar, cool against my burning skin. I was barely breathing myself, eyes locked on the sonofabitch who’d slammed into our anniversary like a typhoon on the rocks, raining gold and shit in equal measure.

He had money, of that I was sure. Who the fuck knew from where, seeing as he looked younger than me by a couple of years. Inheritance from some crazy London trust fund, maybe. A rich lover somewhere, laying back on some plush chaise longue while he played obscene games for a seedy thrill.

Who really cared? Fifty grand was fifty grand, and in the scheme of things one night was one night. We’d pick up the pieces after, buy all the therapy a couple could need and then some.

I wish my gut didn’t twist quite so bad at the thought.

His eyes were as sharp as his tongue as they checked me out, trying my already stretched patience. He was weighing me up along with Grace, and his scrutiny panged deep.

I wondered what he thought of me, man to man, offering up my beautiful wife for his sordid thrill. I wondered if he’d already long assigned me a loser status on hearing the heap of shit we’d found ourselves in.

Maybe it was only me who’d assigned myself the loser status. Maybe he was just an opportunist looking to get his dick wet inside someone who clearly didn’t belong to him.

Grace would never belong to him.

“Fifty grand it is,” he said finally, and I wasn’t sure whether it was regret or relief or pure fucking terror that pulsed up my spine. “The scenario on offer will need some amendments, of course,” he added.

“Go on,” Grace said, before I had the chance.

He took a step forward, so cocksure with his swagger that my fists clenched on instinct.

“I’ll have to extend my stay,” he began. “Fifty grand demands more than an impromptu post-midnight fuck on a Saturday evening. I’ll need to make preparations, enjoy the ambience of the place a little more fully before I… indulge.”

“Preparations?” I challenged.

“Higher investment means a more adventurous experience, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

I was about to say fuck off all over again, but Grace jumped right in.

“Adventure is fine,” she told him. “Fifty grand gets you whatever you want.” She paused as she caught the disgust on my face. “Within reason,” she added too late.

Hell only knew what filthy shit was whirring through her head.

“Within reason,” he repeated. “Here’s how it’s going to roll. I’ll extend my stay until mid-week. You’ll close the bar early on Tuesday and our evening will begin at nine p.m. sharp. You will be mine until sunrise. Fifty percent cash transferred up front, fifty percent on completion.”

“And if we call time out?” I interrupted. “Besides smashing your fucking skull in if things turn sour, I mean.”

He cracked a smile, but I didn’t. “If you call time out before I’ve reached my first climax, the agreement is null and void. Past that point the fifty percent rule applies until sunrise. I can draw up a written contract if you’d prefer?”

I didn’t need to answer that. Like fuck an agreement like this one would ever stand up in court, and like fuck we’d ever face the flames of public humiliation by taking it that far.

It was Grace who nodded her head to seal the deal. A simple gesture. Quiet but firm.

Honest.

It seared my fucking gut, the whole sorry fucking lot of it.

“Fifty grand,” she confirmed, and I wondered if she was really buying into this crazy shit. “Bar closes at ten on a Tuesday, breakfast starts at seven. That’s your full night, take it or leave it.”

Nine hours.

With any luck he’d last nine fucking minutes and call off the rest himself.

Even nine minutes fucking my beautiful wife would be fuel enough for me to rip his spine out and not feel a scrap of remorse.

But the cash.

So much fucking cash.

Everyone has a price. Everyone. Ours was fifty fucking grand and a life without fearing the postman every bastard morning.

He knew it. Of course he knew it.

The smirk on his perfectly smug mouth told me he was no stranger to this kind of bartering.

“Done,” the piece of shit said. “We’ll need to iron out more of the detail, but I think a clear head will be considerably better for the fine print. No need to shake on it, I’ll see you at breakfast.” A pause. “Sleep well now. Sweet dreams, I hope.”

He could laugh at us all he wanted. We’d be the ones fucking laughing when the prick was long gone and we had fifty grand in our bank account.

If.

If we had fifty grand in our account.

But somehow I knew the sonofabitch was telling the truth. Somehow I knew he’d walk this path as far as we’d follow.

Somehow I knew he was asshole enough to push through with whatever shitty offer he slapped on the table.

And we’d take it.

Desperate.

Pathetic.

Broke and broken.

I didn’t watch him turn and head upstairs, but Grace did. She watched him all the way, fingers still so tight on my arm they’d likely leave bruises. I waited for her to speak, even as her eyes stared into the blank space he’d left behind.

“He’s bluffing, right?” she asked when she was sure he was gone. “I mean it’s fifty grand… that kind of money is crazy… it’s…”

Her words may have stuttered, but her tone was flat and solid. She didn’t believe he was bluffing any more than I did.

“And if he’s not?” I said, not missing the sharp breath she drew as the thought slammed in hard.

“And if he’s not, I guess we…” Her grip dropped away and she turned back to the bar. “I need another wine.”

So did I.

I needed a whole fucking cellar full.

* * *

Grace

 

Fifty thousand pounds.

Enough to pay every single creditor in our backlog and give us a few months’ breathing space. And with enough left over to add some additional hotel features, just to set us apart a little from the bargain basement opening down the road.

A hot tub. A better bar maybe. Complimentary bathrobes and slippers.

Just about anything to add to our online listings would be a plus.

Brett poured a fresh round of drinks with a face like death. I’d seen plenty of foul expressions on his face these past few months. A grimace every morning at the mailbox, a gritted jaw as he totted up the takings of a lacklustre Saturday night. The way he stared at the ceiling in the darkness and I’d pretend I didn’t notice.

I always noticed.

“We don’t have to…” I began, but he shook his head.

“You don’t have to, Grace. It’s your call. You tell me you don’t want to go near that seedy prick and I’ll have him out of this place before morning, money be fucked.”

I couldn’t hold back the grit of my own jaw as I reached for my wine. This was it. Exactly this. One of the real damn problems between us these days.

It wasn’t that his intentions weren’t good and well meaning, or that he was taking even a single liberty and trying to push me into some shitty thing I didn’t want to do.

It was the opposite. Always the opposite.

My call. Always my call. Hands off while I stewed over the decisions, and then the mistakes that followed.

Egyptian cotton bedding? Heavyweight curtains with blackout backing? Hand carved dining furniture?

Always my call.

This venue? Definitely this one? We’re really cut out to up-end from our jobs and move out here into the back of beyond?

Your call, Grace. Whatever you want.

I knew he resented me for it, late at night with a churning gut, just like mine. I knew he blamed me for overspending and dashing us headlong into this whole new start, swirling him along in the whirlpool of my enthusiasm.

And that was the worry right then and there, right at the heart of it. Not that I’d fuck some posh asshole from London and maybe he’d get a little rough and dirty. Not that I’d be nervous as all living shit and terrified of taking another man while the one I’d pledged my life to stood and watched every seedy second of it. Not even that the guy would fuck us over and leave us up shit creek, one dirty fuck cheaper and without any more of a financial cushion than the bones of our ass we were currently sitting on.

The real worry squirmed in my gut like maggots on roadkill.

My call.

My fuck-up.

My mistake to hold against me for all time to come.

My choice to whore myself out to a random hotel guest who flashed the cash.

“What are you thinking?” he asked me, and I realised I’d been swirling my drink by the stem, my teeth still gritted tight.

Maybe I should’ve told him the truth. Slapped my fears right out there on the bar top and granted them life. But I didn’t.

As per usual, I buried them for the sake of keeping the peace and making it through this crap without clawing at open wounds.

“I don’t know,” I lied. “I guess I’m wondering if he’ll keep to his word.”

Brett shrugged and took a long swig of red. “If he doesn’t, he doesn’t. We’re in the same boat we were an hour ago.”

“And if he does…”

Another shrug and I wanted to shake him. Shake him for a reaction, for an outburst, for his inner caveman to come out grunting and flailing and demanding that no other man would ever lay a filthy hand on me, hotel and money and our future be damned.

What I got instead was the gaze of a man who’d always wanted to do the best for me. A man who’d been there for me since I was still a slip of a girl with arms open wide.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said again.

“And if I do?”

His eyes didn’t falter, not for a second. “And if you do, I’ll be right there. We’ll work it out, together. Work through it, together.”

“And afterwards? Nine hours is one thing, we’ve got a whole lifetime to cope with any jealousy shit.”

He raised his lip in a smirk. “You think I can’t cope with jealousy shit? Like I’m some kind of caveman warrior who’ll never recover from one shitty meaningless night?”

Part of me wished he really was a man that could shrug this off as nothing. The other part worried he’d surprise himself in the aftermath when the horse had long bolted.

My heart was pounding and my throat was dry, even after another gulp of wine. My head was reeling and spinning and trying to work out how this insanity was going to pan out for the pair of us.

My voice came out much softer than I wanted it to, quaking a little around the edges. “We need this, Brett. The money.”

Dreams I’d been terrified were withering away before our eyes jolted and gasped with a hint of life again. The beautiful building we’d longed to raise a family in. The promise of sunset on the waves. Everything.

I felt it all.

And I knew then I’d do anything to keep our dreams breathing, even for just a little bit longer.

Even if that anything was a tall, posh stranger as my husband looked on.

“Do you…” Brett began, and I had to hold his gaze to prompt him onward. “Do you… you know… like him?”

“Like him?”

His smile was nothing but thin bravado. “I mean, he’s a good-looking guy, right? It could be worse.”

My response was instant. “And I’m a married woman. There are plenty of good-looking guys out there. I don’t like any of them. I like you.”

Finally, my husband reached across the gulf of bar space and took my hand in his. I felt the strength in it. The solidarity in our shit pile as his fingers squeezed mine.

“Well, Mrs Foster, it’s fair to say I like you too.”

For the first time in months I saw the man I fell in love with. The warmth in his rich brown eyes, the roguish shadow on his jaw. The breadth of his shoulders, strong enough to carry a thousand fears.

And past those things to the beautiful imperfections I knew by heart.

The tiny ridge on his nose from a college football collision. The faint scar above his left brow from a biking accident after school.

The way one of his lower teeth stuck out just a fraction from the others, making him a little rough around the edges.

He was perfect.

Gorgeous.

Mine.

“It’s just one night,” I whispered. “What harm can one stupid little night do, hey?”

“And I’ll be right there,” he replied. “No matter what. All the way.”

And he would be. Quite literally.

I dismissed the tiny little quiver between my legs as down to the wine.