Chapter Two
“Turner?” I ask softly. “Is something wrong?”
His brows furrow as his eyes bore heavily into mine, mystified. I quickly climb off of him, instantly feeling the loss of his connection. That must be what finally snaps him out of his stupor.
“Fuck! Baby. I am so damn sorry.”
I watch my loving and caring husband put his face in his hands and his shoulders sag. I sit down next to him on the bench and place my hand on his shoulder.
“Talk to me,” I say tenderly. He lifts his head slightly.
“It seems like all I have ever done since you picked me up is say sorry. But I am sorry. I didn’t mean to take you so roughly.”
His eyes plead with mine as he looks at me.
“Turner.” I place my hand on his chin to hold his gaze to mine. “Did you hear me complaining? I loved it, honey. Rough, smooth, slow, fast. It doesn’t matter to me. That just showed me exactly how much you missed me.” I nudge his shoulder slightly. “Don’t ever apologize for wanting to take me like that ever again.”
We sit in silence for several minutes before he stands up and retrieves my shorts and panties out of the car and hands them to me along with my flip-flops. Then he picks his jeans and boxers up off of the garage floor and pulls them on, leaving the top button of his jeans open. With a smirk on his face, he takes a few steps toward me.
“So you liked it rough like that?” He reaches out and pulls me close to him. I place my hands on his strong, sturdy chest.
“I did,” I whisper.
“I did, too. Thank you for forgiving me for my little space out a few minutes ago. It’s just . . . God. If I ever did anything to hurt you, I would never be able to forgive myself.”
“I am not some fragile flower who is going to wilt and die if you hold and squeeze it too hard, so quit beating yourself up. I actually loved welcoming you home in that way.”
I lay my head on his chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart, but the tone of his voice when he said he would never be able to forgive himself makes me think that Turner is trying to convince himself of that fact more than he is trying to convince me.
************
“So tell me about this conference? Was it boring?” I question Turner as we are eating dinner.
“Fuck, yes, it was boring. I hate those damn things and you know it. The state has made a few changes but not anything we can’t go over at work tomorrow,” he says as he knocks back another beer.
I’ve lost count. He drank three in less than an hour while I was making dinner. Turner usually has a beer or two a few times a week; maybe more if we go out on a date or with our friends, but nothing like this. And he’s hardly eaten any of his dinner. It’s his mom’s fried chicken recipe, his favorite. He usually devours everything on his plate and most times goes back for more.
I’m not paying attention to a word he is saying as I sit there listening to him drone on and on about the conference he went to. I use the time to study him covertly. It’s not big things, but subtle changes in his mannerisms that for some reason have put me on edge, like how he gestures certain ways with his hands. And, not one time since we have sat down has he looked at me when he speaks.
Panic starts to set in and I try not to let it show. Is he hiding something from me, or am I just paranoid because we have been away from each other for the first time?
I don’t know what to make of his strange behavior. Is he having an affair? Oh, God. No, please don’t let that be it. I watch him get up and put his half-eaten plate into the sink and pull another beer out from the fridge. He slams the door shut with his foot and I jump from the sound.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, love,” he says as he walks up behind me and cups one of my breasts in his hand. I feel his warm, beer-scented breath against my neck. “You ready for round two?”
He pinches my nipple between his fingers and it stings. What is up with that? It’s not that the pinching hurts so much; it actually feels good mixing a little pain with the pleasure. It’s just, that’s not what he does. Turner loves to bring my breasts to his mouth and suck until he has them nice and hard, and then he likes to run his hands over the top of the hard peaks.
My mind just isn’t focused on sex right now, I guess. I have never turned my husband down when he wants it, but I’ll be damned if I am going to have sex with him right now. He just doesn’t seem like himself.
All these dark and gloomy thoughts run through my head. Night and day. Black and white. I sneak a peek at him through my lashes. Yup, I’m pretty sure this is the same man I dropped off at the airport a week ago, I joke darkly to myself. So why is he acting so strangely? I turn my head away from him and pick up my plate to take it to the sink.
“I need to clean up the kitchen. Why don’t you go relax in the living room and find a movie to put on? I’ll be in shortly and we can watch before we go to bed.”
“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Let me just grab another beer and I’ll get out of your way.”
He walks past me and I watch him like a motherfucking hawk. My husband is hiding something from me, and I am going to dig around until I find out exactly what it is.
Fifteen minutes. Just fifteen damn minutes is all I spend in the kitchen, and by the time I walk into the living room, Turner is lounging on the couch watching a ball game, all thoughts of our movie night apparently erased from his memory.
I watch him covertly from behind the sofa as he lies on his back staring at the screen. Am I being paranoid? I have no clue what has happened to my husband, but the thought of him being with another woman has my gut twisted and my heart breaking.
I have given my all to this man. Is he cheating on me? And why? We’re together all the time. Turner dotes on me. He’s romantic; he’s kind. I have so many questions. I can’t just come out and ask him. I love him so much that I know I wouldn’t be able to survive a blow like that. It would destroy me.
“Oh, Turner . . . my world, my love. What in the hell is going on?” I whisper.
I continue to stare at the man who owns my heart and think back to the sex we had in the garage. The feeling of pure, raw, primal fucking is what has me shuddering and aching between my legs.
Turner has never been like that with me before. Not one time has he talked to me the way he did today. I am not going to lie by saying I didn’t enjoy the dirty talk, but shit! When he said cunt, I have to admit I was a little shocked . . . no, I was more like stunned, at his language.
Turner is not boring by any means. I quiver at the memory of the things he can do with his tongue. Today, he dove right in, as usual. One thing I can say about my husband is that he has a huge appetite for sex, always has. What I don’t understand is why it was so rough. Not that I didn’t like it, because I did.
It was the best sex we have ever had, hands down. So intense, like neither one of us could get enough of the other. I have never seen Turner come apart like that. The wild side of me that I never even knew I had wants more of that kind of sex. I would love for Turner to take me any way he wants me, to pound into me over and over again until I am so sore that I can barely walk the next day.
A single tear slowly falls down my face as I envision another woman touching, kissing, and making love to my husband. The pain is too much to bear.
I need to stop thinking this way; there is absolutely no way that Turner would destroy everything we have and the future we’ve planned. Children, grandchildren . . . I refuse to believe it. He would never cheat on me. Turner Calloway is an honest man. Why have these thoughts even popped into my head in the first place?
I tilt my head to the side as I run my hand through my hair and then place it over my heart. It’s beating so damn fast. I’ve never had a panic attack before, but this sure as hell feels like one. I am overwhelmed by the fear-inducing unknown as my heart races, pounding relentlessly in my chest. I start to hyperventilate, feeling as if I could throw up at any moment.
I scurry backwards out of the room as fast as I can before Turner even realizes I was there. Upon entering the kitchen I bend over the sink, trying to regain my composure. I breathe in and out several times to calm myself down and my heart rate gradually returns to normal.
The quicker I get these ludicrous ideas out of my head, the quicker I can get back to the happy woman I was when I left here to pick him up. I know this, so why do I have the nagging sensation deep in the pit of my stomach that I should investigate a little further?
I push away from the sink and on silent feet go to grab Turner’s carry-on bag from where he left it by the front door.
I rush down the hall to the laundry room with it and set it on the small table I use to fold laundry. My husband is in the habit of leaving loose change and receipts in his pockets, so I carefully check each one. As I am pulling out a pair of jeans, a card falls to the floor.
“The Cigar Bar,” it reads.
What in the hell would he have this for? He hates the smell of cigars with a passion. Just when I thought I’d pushed my insecurities to the back of my mind, I find this. I don’t understand at all what’s happening here. My brain is short-circuiting and I need someone to hit the reset button. I grab the edge of the washing machine to steady myself, but I feel like all I am doing is stumbling over a cliff. The card slips through my fingers and falls to the floor as I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
My legs give out and I slide down to the floor, shaking my head back and forth as pain rips through my chest. Am I reading too much into this? Maybe Turner was tired from his trip and just needed to unwind and relax. Damn it all to hell, my head is spinning and I feel like I am about to lose control.
“It’s only a couple of strange things. Why are you letting this get to you?” I say out loud.
I think for a moment about those words, but you know what? I know my husband. There is no fucking way he would go to a cigar bar, and there is no fucking way he would sit around and drink the way he did tonight . . . unless there was something very, very, wrong.
Fuck me, I am going to find out. But how? There’s no one I can share this with; they would all laugh in my face and think I am being ridiculous. Most of my friends are jealous of the way Turner treats me. Even after all of these years, he still opens my car door for me, and kisses me goodnight and good morning.
So many times I have seen this man looking at me with simple adoration. Every single time I catch him at it, we have a routine. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ I’ll ask him. And his answer is invariably, ‘I’m admiring the most beautiful woman in the world. Is that all right with you?’ ‘It’s always all right with me,’ I smile.
But not today. Every time he looked at me today, all I saw was a man who looked like he had never seen me before.
Damn. What is wrong with me and my crazy thoughts? I rub my temples and try to think. Knowing the truth would be so much better than this torture, so I pick up the phone and send a text to the one person who I know will listen to me. My brother, Zack.
I text him, telling him I really need to talk to him. I sit my phone on the floor next to me and wait on his reply. After a few moments, he texts back.
Are you all right?
Yeah, fine. I just need to talk to you about something is all.
All right. Call me tomorrow. Night, and love you, sis.
Love you, too. Give my little nephew a big kiss from me.
:)
A chuckle escapes my lips at his smiley face, but all too soon my thoughts drift back to Turner. Straightening up, I tell myself that even though his behavior is a little strange, there are not sufficient signs of an affair, though the evidence certainly seems to point to one.
I scoop the card up off of the floor and slip it back into his bag, and try and put his clothes back inside exactly the way they were. I set it back where he left it. Fuck it; he can clean the damn thing out himself.
My mind is jumping all over the place like a damn flea. I need to calm down and pull myself together before I face Turner again.
I am going to push all of this into the back of my mind until I have proof of my suspicions. The best way to find out the truth is to throw him off guard by acting as if his actions haven’t affected me at all.
I should just go upstairs to our room without saying anything and let him come to bed whenever he wants. Yeah, right. He would definitely know something is wrong, then. Our relationship doesn’t work that way. We never go to bed mad at each other, and we never go to sleep without telling each other good night, so I have to pretend everything is fine and not like every part of my body is shattered and broken. I take a deep breath. Even though I want to cry and break down right here on my living room floor, I can’t, and I won’t. I keep telling myself over and over to be strong.
“Turner.”
I tenderly touch his arm. He blinks a few times but his eyes stay riveted on the game.
“Hey. What time is it?” he asks tiredly.
“It’s ten-thirty and I thought our bed would be more comfortable than the couch. We can finish watching the game in bed, if you would like?”
His next words take me by surprise, casting a shadow of a doubt over the possible affair.
“Yes, Mrs. Calloway. Our bed is much more comfortable than this couch. I missed waking up and having you cradled in my arms. Every time I look at you, I can’t believe that you’re mine.”
He then reaches up and caresses my check with his hand and of course I lean into it. I have missed his sweet, gentle touch.
“I missed you so much.”
I reach my hand out for him to take and we head upstairs hand in hand to get ready for bed.
Hearing the sounds of his heavy breathing as I drift to sleep brings images of him doing this exact same thing with someone else. I will be damned if another woman takes what is mine. One thing is for certain. If he is having an affair, I will fucking kill both of them.
************
There is nothing like the feeling of caffeine coursing through my veins after a bad night’s sleep. My mind went off on a tangent last night when we climbed into bed. After Turner said those sweet things to me, he took care of his business in the bathroom and fell right to sleep the minute his head hit the pillow. He never does that, and I mean, EVER. He has never gone to bed without kissing me goodnight or pulling me close to him. Sure, we have slept without spooning or cuddling, but never like this.
All these tormenting thoughts I had throughout the night had me getting up and taking this damn cigar card back out of his suitcase. As I sit here twirling it between my fingers, I keep wondering to myself if I am just reading something into all this that’s not there. One minute I am thinking there is no fucking way he would do this to me, and the next minute, BAM! I am second-guessing myself.
I hear the shower turn off indicating that Turner is done, so I stuff the card into the pocket of my black silk robe and go pour my husband a cup of coffee. He strolls into the kitchen with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His body is lightly toned and his strong, square jaw has a few days of dark scruff. I could eat him for breakfast, but as I watch him make his way into the kitchen, I banish those thoughts as quickly as they come. The thought of another woman having her hands all over what has only ever been mine makes me tremble.
“Good morning.” Graciously he puts his arms around me and kisses me softly on my lips. “You okay, sweetheart? You’re shaking.”
A look of concern crosses his face and he furrows his brows. Snapping out of my funk, I muster a smile and lean forward and kiss him back.
“I’m fine, lover boy. I missed seeing you wandering around in just a towel in the morning, so I was admiring my view.”
My words must have an effect on him. I feel him growing hard and thick under the towel as he presses himself into me. Not today, buddy, I think to myself. He glances at the clock on the stove and then back to me.
“Shit. As much as I would love to take you back to bed and make slow, sweet, torturous love to you, we have to get our asses to the office so you can catch me up on what I missed.”
I remove my hands from his chest as he steps away from me and starts to leave the kitchen. He pauses on the threshold and turns back around. I think he is going to say something to me, but instead he eyes his carryon bag which is sitting right by the door where he left it. Oh fuck. My eyes go wide as he walks over and picks it up.
“Hurry your sexy ass up so we can beat this fucking morning traffic.”
My mouth gapes wide open as I eyeball him walking past me and right up the stairs as if everything were normal.
“Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” I mutter under my breath.
My mouth is still hanging open as we make the thirty minute drive to work and Turner acts as if nothing is wrong. I’m angrier than a swarm of bees. I cannot wait to get away from him this morning.
I close the door to my office and wait for the opportunity to call the only person who I trust enough to confide in. My brother.