CHAPTER 15
Jennifer
The ride back to Bradley’s place was steeped in cold silence. Bradley was in one of his moods. His hands were tight on the wheel of his Prius, and his lips were pressed tight in a thin, tense line. Whenever he got into one of these bad moods, which lately was often, he preferred to listen to talk radio than to talk to me.
Nearing his Sherman Oaks condo, we made one stop on Ventura Boulevard at one of his favorite takeout restaurants. Vegan Delight. I waited in the car, with the engine running and radio still on, while Bradley plodded into the small storefront, located in one of the city’s many ugly strip malls. He didn’t even bother to ask what I wanted to eat. Which was okay by me because I didn’t have much of an appetite.
The program playing was one of those call-in shows. My ears perked up at the newest caller. Her name was Rose from Cerritos, and she was having fantasies about her boss. What should she do?
The host listened attentively as she ranted on about her wildest fantasies. Tearing off his clothes. Sucking his dick. Fucking his brains out. Her voice grew tearful as she revealed how much she secretly loved him, having no clue if the feeling was reciprocal, especially since he was married. Poor Rose. She was sobbing. I so felt for her. My stomach twisted painfully as the image of my own boss, Blake Burns, flashed in and out of my head. That gorgeous face! That hard, sculpted body! That magnificent cock! I craved them all. Stop it, Jennifer. But no matter how much I mentally slapped myself, I couldn’t stop thinking about him and imagining . . .
Just as the host was about to give advice to Rose, the car door swung open. Bradley scooted inside with a bagful of takeout. He turned the radio off and backed up the car. The pungent smell of curry and garlic filled the air, and I began to feel nauseated. As Bradley took off, I lowered my window and inhaled some fresh air to clear my passageways. And to clear my mind of the fantasies dancing inside it. When we pulled up to Bradley’s condo, Blake Burns had just ripped off my dress in my fantasy world. I had totally lost track of place and time.
In a haze, I followed Bradley into his condo. He flipped on the light, illuminating a roomful of monotone brown furniture that looked like it came out of a furniture-for-rent catalog. Actually, it did.
Bradley set the food down on a Formica counter that divided the kitchen and the living room.
“I’m going to put my pajamas on,” he mumbled, already heading to the bedroom down the hallway. “Help yourself to some food.”
Listlessly, I ambled over to the counter and removed the three containers of food from the brown paper bag. I tore open the lids. Upon eying the vomiticious (yes, that made-up word again) concoctions of strange looking vegetables disguised in assorted brown sauces and inhaling their unpleasant, incongruous aromas, I decided to pass on dinner and plunked down on the massive brown corduroy couch. It faced the built-in plasma TV—the one thing in the condo Bradley had splurged on. Bradley loved to watch TV—especially reruns of the nineties shows he’d grown up with. Home Improvement was his very favorite. He’d seen every episode dozens of times, yet each time he watched one, he bellied over in laughter as if he’d never seen it. Our mutual love for television—especially the shows from our childhoods—had been one of the things that had brought us together and bonded us, but his obsession with them was now a door that shut me out of his life.
In a flash, Bradley was back—in his crisp blue and white striped Brooks Brothers pajamas (last year’s splurgy Christmas present) and with a carefully arranged plateful of Vegan Delight. He plopped down next to me, with the plate on his lap and his legs stretched out on the oak coffee table facing us. With one hand, he shoveled forkfuls of the saucy mush into his mouth, while the other, with the bandaged fingers, deftly channel-surfed until he landed on Teen Nick. His eyes lit up and a wide grin spread across his face.
“Yabba! My favorite episode of Kenan and Kel is on.” He noisily masticated his hodgepodge of food.
Big whoop. I inwardly sighed. Kicking off my heels, I bent up my knees and curled my arms around them. Yet another romantic Saturday night with Bradley. My mind wandered. What were Libby and Chaz doing? Were they still at the art gallery? And what was Blake doing? The thought of him hanging with that blond buxom predatory beast sent a shiver to the base of my spine. Why should I care? He was my boss. He was entitled. I was engaged. Period. I glanced down at my engagement ring, the luster lost in Bradley’s dimly lit shades-of-brown living room.
Halfway though the episode, Bradley’s landline rang. The phone was located on the counter where he’d set the bag of food. Setting his now empty plate on the coffee table, he jumped up to get the phone. Eager for a distraction, I studied Bradley as he took the call. The expression on his face and tone of voice alternated between extreme pleasure and extreme distress. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, ending the call, oblivious to my eavesdropping. After filing to the kitchen to get a glass of water, he returned to the couch.
“A patient?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yep. She’s in desperate need of a filling but can only come into the office tomorrow morning due to her job. Hope you don’t mind.”
A Sunday? I half-smiled. “Sure, no problem. A patient’s needs come first.”
And lately they had. Broken promises. Broken dates. He’d even missed my engagement party. I mentally pinched myself, reminding myself that Brad was consumed with building his dental practice. Building our future. We were just going through a challenging phase. That’s all. I lovingly gave his hand a squeeze. To my surprise, it was cold and clammy.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Bradley didn’t answer. I turned to look at him. He was green and shaking like a leaf.
“I think I have food poisoning,” he muttered, leaping to his feet.
I trailed behind him as he raced to the bathroom.
Crouching to his knees, Bradley began to retch into the toilet. The stench sent my own wave of nausea to my chest.
“Are you okay, sweetie?” I rubbed his back.
“Don’t touch me,” he hissed.
Taken aback, I abruptly withdrew my hand and stepped back. I was just trying to help. Put his needs before mine. Isn’t that what lovers did? Be there for one another. Like my parents did time and time again.
Another loud belch sounded. He was puking his guts out.
“What can I do to help?” Desperation filled my voice.
“Nothing,” he choked. “This is all your fault.” Belch.
“My fault?”
“If we hadn’t gone to that goddamn art gallery opening, none of this would have happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“We could have stayed in and ordered from Mr. Vegan.”
I was wordless. We’d had takeout food from Vegan Delight countless times before, and neither of us had ever gotten food poisoning. This was just a fluke thing. And maybe it wasn’t food poisoning. Instead, a stomach virus. It was going around. Several co-workers at my office had, in fact, come down with it.
Another loud heave hurled me back to the moment. My fiancé, Bradley Wick, was puking his guts out, and there was nothing I could do. Because he didn’t want my help or my love. I felt helpless, hapless, and hurt.
Finally, after five long, wretched minutes, Bradley staggered to his feet. His thinning hair was matted to his head, and his chalky face was spattered with sweat. He flushed the toilet, and then stumbled over to the sink where he rinsed his mouth with one of the dozen mouthwash products he had neatly lined up along the tiled counter. And then he vigorously brushed his teeth. After brushing, he splattered some cold water onto his face with his good hand.
“You need to sleep on the couch tonight.” His voice was hoarse.
“Okay.” As hurt as I felt, I was relieved.
We exited the bathroom and parted ways.
“Wake me up, if you need me.”
Without responding, Bradley shuffled down the hallway to the bedroom we’d shared every Saturday for the past few years. But not tonight.
In the darkness, I found my way back to the couch and turned off the TV. The peaceful quiet and stillness of the night enveloped me. I was still in my little black dress. Starting at my shoulders, I traced my fingers over the silhouette. I moved them slowly down to the rise of my breasts, where they lingered making wide circles. My nipples hardened and heat soared in my core. My hands continued to slide down my torso until they splayed on my bare thighs. They slid up and down my smooth limbs, and I felt myself succumbing to my arousal. My breathing shallow, I lowered the side zipper of my strapless dress and let if fall to the floor. Stepping out of it, I was naked except for a black lace thong that Libby had given to me for my last birthday.
Spreading my legs apart, I dipped my right hand under the band of lace. My fingers latched on to my wet folds, caressing the hills and valleys. And then they found their way to my aching clit. My breathing grew heavy, my body feverishly hot. My left hand joined my right, and I shoved two fingers into my hole. Thrusting them up and down the slick, heated walls. Fast and hard as I rubbed my clit in tandem.
My eyes squeezed shut, I arched my head and bit down on my lips to suppress moans that might awaken Bradley. I was on the verge of an orgasm.
A heart-stopping second later, I came with powerful waves of pleasure. The image of Blake Burns’s beautiful face filled my mind and the image of his beautiful cock filled my core.
Still trembling, I collapsed onto the couch and pulled the chenille blanket over my head. Sweet dreams knocked at my doorway to pleasure. With Blake Burns’s magnificence embedded deep inside me, I fell blissfully asleep.
When I awoke Sunday morning, I was blissfully still wet. And didn’t give a damn when I heard Bradley sneak out the back door.