Chapter 23

Liam

3:14 PM THURSDAY

The breeze is ruffling my hair as I maneuver out of the car park and along the main road to the Royale. The soft top of my new toy, a red Tesla Roadster, is down. The state-of-the-art, brand-spanking-new technology of this beast means the leather seat molds to my body like it was made for me.

Pity I don’t have a long stretch of highway ahead of me so I can find out what this baby is really made of. Instead, I keep things legal and enjoy the smoothness of my ride while the radio pulses out classic rock―Def Leppard wailing for someone to pour some sugar on them.

I’m feeling good. I just gave my wife a lap dance, and I think the next time she sees me, she might even remember who I am.

All things considered, yeah, right now, life is pretty fucking good.

The morning might have started on a sour note, but it’s improved considerably over the last few hours.

Actually, nicely is a bit of a fucking understatement at this point.

Becky Brooks. Becky Black. Her red fucking hair and her hot little mouth.

I hadn’t expected a visit from Becky so soon, not that I minded. My wife is a clever woman. She’s figuring things out faster than I expected—which suits me just fine.

Seeing her again was fucking fantastic. According to my calculations, she wasn’t due to contact me for a few more hours, at least.

You’re a clever girl, Becky Black. One of the many, many reasons I married you.

As is my style, I grabbed the opportunity the second it presented itself. There I was, trying to work out how to get in touch with her, when she arrived hand-delivered on a silver fucking platter.

Of course, no follow up date has been arranged yet. I think I’ll wait it out and see what other hands fate deals.

But I’ll give it time. All good things come to those who wait.

I speak from experience. Being married to Becky is a lot like counting cards in this regard. Sometimes you know exactly what’s coming next. Sometimes you just have a good feeling about it.

And I can feel it in my bones it won’t be long before I get to see my wife again.

For a while, I roll the word wife around my mouth, as if tasting it for the first time. It feels strange, exciting, and fucking fantastic.

Wife. I’d never fancied myself the marrying type before I met her, but in hindsight, it seemed inevitable. There I was, feeling sorry for whatever poor girl Dan the Man had manipulated into marrying him…

And there Becky was, swearing like a sailor and threatening Dan the Man with a fire poker.

Ah, Christ. Makes me wistful, that. From the first moment I laid eyes on her, I knew she was the one.

Sailor talk, fire poker and all.

My phone rings, drawing me out of my daydreams and memories.

“Liam Black,” I answer smoothly. I don’t recognize the number, and my business requires a certain amount of suave. “How can I help you?”

Clients should always be treated with respect. I don’t have to like my customers, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t treat them nicely or like they’re not important. Let’s face it―we all like to be treated as if we’re important.

And of course, often, you get a lot further in life if you treat people well. I mean, the other day one of the women who came to the Post Office had steam coming out of her ears, that’s how fucking mad she was. I think she was demanding to fuck my bartender or something, I don’t know.

All I know is I kept my fucking cool. Empathy. I showed her fucking empathy and instantly doused her flames of anger.

Not for one second did I think she was right had a point or any substance to her complaint, but I knew there was no fucking point in saying this to her.

Once I empathized with her, she was putty in my hand.

What can I say? Women love me. It’s just part of my natural charm.

“You lying, cheating son of a bitch,” a woman’s voice yells at me from the phone.

Ah. I’d recognize her voice anywhere.

No woman loves me quite in the same way as my wife does.

“Good afternoon to you too, love,” I chuckle back. “How was your lap dance? Enjoy it?”

“How fucking dare you do this to me! You had no fucking right…”

Lucky I’m not on FaceTime because I’m grinning from ear to fucking ear. I have a feeling that would only piss her off more.

Come to think, it’s a shame we’re not video calling. Becky’s a real beauty when she’s angry. I’d fall in love with her all over again.

“Fuck you, Liam. You know what you did, you sack of shit.”

Her words are music to my soul. She cares enough about me to have found me again. If she didn’t, she would never have fucking called me now.

Even if she does sound…well. A tad bit miffed.

She catches her breath, and I’m about to ask her another question—but before I can, she gets her second wind.

“You are such a low life, Liam! Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?! You were there this morning—you could have at least—”

“Tried? Tried to tell you who I was and what your pert little arse got up to last night?” I chuckle again. God, hearing Becky furious like this gets me going. She’s a beauty when she’s enraged. “Believe you me, love—I did. Unfortunately, you were very convincing when you kicked me out earlier. I was obviously deeply hurt.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” Becky snarls at me through the phone. “But when I get my hands on you…”

I can tell she’s fucking wound up. It will probably take her a while to get rid of all that steam burning up inside of her.

“Mmm,” I purr back. “Go on then—tell me what you’ll do. I have so many fond memories of your hands on me, darling. I’d love to add to the collection.”

“Fuck you, Liam.”

I chuckle again. She’s incredible.

“I’m game if you are, kitten,” I finally say calmly into the phone and am pleased when she does not return another volley of insults. “How are you after our glorious wedding?”

No point beating around the bush. I’m sure by now she fucking knows we’re married. From what I hear, she’s been doing a bit of detective work all day.

“We are not married,” she starts but stops again.

“I think you’ll find that we are, in fact. Aren’t the photos amazing? You look simply stunning. We’ll need to have a talk, though, about which of the pictures we’re getting framed. There’s one in particular I know is going on my desk in the office.”

Now all I can hear is heavy breathing. This could be another good sign. Either she was coming to terms with what has happened or she has simply run out of energy. I put money on my first guess.

“Now darling…I think we really should meet and have a proper date, what do you think?”

“Grmbf.”

I’m not quite sure if I understood her correctly. Either we just experienced static in the line or she’s reluctant to keep the conversation going on a civil basis.

“Come on, love. You must want to meet and talk about this?” I try again and the response is about as unclear as the first one. “Have you eaten today?”

“Wha—well, no,” she says, and I think I’m making progress. “But—”

“Ah, of course you haven’t. You’re so temperamental when you’re hungry, love. Why don’t you join me for dinner tonight? At the Royale. My treat. Consider it the beginning of our honeymoon.”

I can hear the hesitation in her breathing. My job means I’m fucking brilliant at reading people. Hardly anyone realizes what an open fucking book they are.

Not only are the eyes the window to the soul—there are also hand gestures, body movements, even changes in breath that all speak volumes about a person’s personality and demeanor.

Bruce, my head barman, is another expert in this area, and he’s taught me a lot on the subject.

He can tell a mile off if a woman in the strip club is married and looking to fuck a bloke for revenge, or if we have a virgin attending, ready to do it for the first time so she doesn’t have to confess to her boyfriend she’s never done it before, or if the woman is really gay and just giving it a go to see if she might be mistaken about her own sexual identity.

The breathing I can hear from Becky confirms there’s inner turmoil. At least she hasn’t hung up on me. I think I might be onto a winner.

“Come on,” I coax. “You’ve got to eat dinner anyway.”

She’s relaxing a little.

“It’ll be worth it, I promise. A feast shall await you. After all, no wife of mine shall go hungry.”

“I’m not your fucking wife,” Becky hisses into the phone, and now I do laugh.

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

“Well, I think you better check your marriage certificate, love. You’ll find that we’re quite married, ergo…”

Now she’s angry, and I may just have hooked her into an agreement.

“Okay,” I hear her say, and I punch the air like a tennis player does when he gets the winning shot. “I’ll meet you for dinner.”

I name the time, and we’re golden.

I’m rather looking forward to this, honestly.

Who wouldn’t?

It’s my first proper dinner with my wife…the first of many, I think, if I play my cards right.