46. Derek
I decide to make my first stop my bank to get cards for Chloe. I’ve already called my lawyer in Cleveland and told him of my marital status change and requested my will be set up for Chloe to inherit everything. My next stop is the drug store where I’ve had my pharmacist connection do some custom work, providing me with two birth control pill packages that consist of just the sugar pills. She’s got two packs in her bathroom bag, and I’d sent a photo text to show the package.
After this, I show my face at both clubs and get some shit done, talk to the managers, and when I’m ready to head out to pay a visit to Jeannie Gilligan, I see Alannah Fisher walking out of her office entrance in the Downtown nightclub building.
Alannah isn’t paying attention; she’s fishing through her handbag as she walks toward the street, and before she sees me, I’ve shackled her wrist with my hand, and her eyes widen as I back her up about half a dozen paces to the brick wall.
“Hello, Alannah,” I greet.
“What are you doing?” she hisses bitchily, but she’s afraid. It’s all over her body language.
“You really should pay attention when you’re out in public. Anyone could grab you, throw you in a van,” I gesture toward a white sprinter van that just so happens to be parked out on the street, “and you might never be seen again.”
Her eyes boing to almost comical levels.
“By the way, don’t attempt to fuck with me again,” I warn, making sure there’s no mistaking my seriousness. “Your little game yesterday cost a lot of unnecessary headaches.”
“If you think you’re above the law, you’re wrong. I’m not finished fighting for Chloe.”
“I know. I’ve seen your phone records, your internet activities, and I’ve got access to a whole lot more information about you than you want me to have. Cancel your coffee date with Sabrina Steele on Thursday. The only way you get to meet my sister-in-law in person is if it’s because you get to be part of our extended family and she becomes friendly with my wife.”
She glares at me.
“Your quest to keep digging for dirt about us is stupid, Alannah. If you keep it up you’ll have more than me from my family to deal with and believe me, you don’t want that. And I happen to have a file in my possession with a good chunk of Fisher family dirt, particularly yours.”
Her eyes narrow.
I continue. “I’m playing as nice as I am because Chloe loves you. Don’t push me any further. Cease and desist, Breastie, or you’ll be out of Chloe’s life. You’ve already missed her wedding and I’m sure that later on, you’ll both look back at that with regret. Do you want to be cut out of her life entirely? Do you want new problems in your personal and professional life? Or do you want to be part of her new and improved happier life?”
She continues to stare at me defiantly, but her lip trembles.
“Fuck around and find out,” I warn through gritted teeth and then let go of her wrist.
Alannah storms to her car and peels out.
I get into my car, check my phone for the message from Kenny with the address for Jeannie Gilligan, then punch it into my navigation system.
I already know Craig Jenkins spent time with Jeannie yesterday. Kenny followed him to her house. He was there over an hour, and he clocked being tailed on the way home. Kenny’s good. Jenkins must be good, too. Would be nice to have him in our pocket, but if he keeps his end of our bargain and doesn’t cause me further hassles, I’ll grant my wife’s wish and let him continue to wear his white hat.
I had Kenny do a quick background check, nothing too deep, but seems like there’s not much to tell of her life. Jeannie Gilligan moved here after high school, and reconnected with Hallman the freshman year of college. Enrolled in his school, likely to rekindle their thing. She grew up on the same street as Adam Hallman (formerly Dalton), dated him long distance for a year in high school, they split, and she’s been carrying a torch ever since. She has a 9-5 clerical job at the courthouse, has very few friends, is trying to make money with a side hustle as an online influencer, and has a steady routine.
On Tuesday nights at seven o’clock, she goes to a thirty-minute hot yoga class six blocks from her apartment. I kill time in the bookstore, buying a couple of books for Chloe, then five minutes before class is set to finish, I park near the yoga studio and watch the door.
Yeah, I’ve got people that can do this for me, but in a situation this personal, a situation that involves slandering Chloe’s name? It’ll be more impactful coming directly from me.
She steps outside the yoga studio with another woman, and they stand outside talking for a good ten minutes. I’m ready for this to be done. I want to get home to my wife. I also haven’t eaten since breakfast at my parents’.
Finally, they go separate ways.
She walks about a hundred feet and then cuts right down a side street. I jog until I get to the turn and then slow down, keeping thirty or forty feet behind her.
She hasn’t looked back for a good block and a half, so I squat, nab a small rock, and pitch it. It pings off the side of her head and bounces off her shoulder.
She startles, grabs the side of her head, and looks over her shoulder. It takes a solid three seconds before her body language tells me recognition has hit. I pick up my pace. Anger burns hot in my system. This bitch.
She rushes forward, holding her head, but power-walking away from me, digging through her bag, likely going for her phone and maybe some pepper spray. She breaks into a jog, still rifling through the bag, and so I rush her. She stumbles, falling to her hands and knees on the sidewalk.
She squeaks out a sound of pain and looks up at me with giant eyes.
She’s generically attractive. Dainty. Probably used to getting her own way. Just has that look about her.
After a quick scan of my perimeter, I lift my foot and put my boot to her shoulder. I’m putting next to no weight on it, but she immediately loses her balance and now her cheek is pressed to the pavement. And the urge is there to kick her in the face, to stomp on her head.
How fucking dare she go after Chloe.
I resist the urge.
“Chloe Steele, formerly Turner, does not exist.”
She whimpers.
“At all. Understand? You don’t speak her name. You don’t type it. You don’t discuss her whatsoever. Not with anyone.”
I pause for a few beats, then add, “Yeah?”
She whimpers and nods. She’s crying. There’s snot coming out of her nose.
I back off just two paces and spit. The spit lands on her face.
I walk into the house at nearly eight thirty and the aroma of food lingers. I’m fucking starved.
The sight of Chloe’s bare feet on this kitchen floor in the house I bought for her? I’m hard. I take in her skintight blue yoga pants, her little white crop top showing me her belly button. The look on her face? I can’t be sure, but she might be looking at me differently.
I’m harder.
She’s got her hair tucked behind her ears, her teeth are chewing her bottom lip, and she’s drying a frying pan with a look in her eyes I don’t recognize. Almost like she might be happy to see me.
I set the bookstore bag on the counter, taking an exaggerated whiff of the air as I wrap both arms around her waist and take her lips with mine. She tastes like wine. The whites of her eyes are so bright white. Her eyelashes are so full. The shape of her mouth is fascinating. I never grow tired of watching it move as she talks.
I caress her face, thinking about the fact that she’s mostly quiet around me. I want her lips moving, want her telling me things, want to hear her wants. I want to know that she’s happy. I want to know that she loves that I give that to her.
“Guess I missed Taco Tuesday.”
“I… um…”
“It’s okay. Were they good? Did they make you happy?”
She tilts her head, regarding me.
“I bought you some books. The next two in that series you’re reading.”
Her eyes bounce to the bag on the island and her lips part. She looks surprised in a good way, instead of being panicked like usual with my surprises.
“Um… I made you some. Err, I mean, there are still tacos.” She pulls free of my embrace to open the fridge door. She gestures to a covered dish with half a dozen compartments. I move up and get a better look. There are compartments with taco fixings in them. I look at her face. She gestures with her chin to the counter behind me.
“There’s a plate with shells in the microwave. You just have to zap them for just ten or twenty seconds and then pull the two meat compartments out of that tray there and nuke those too, for maybe forty-five seconds to a minute. Then your other toppings in the platter are cold, so –” She shrugs. “ready to eat.”
“You made dinner for me?” I ask.
She looks away shyly. “I made dinner. There was some left.”
“You made dinner for us,” I repeat and advance, backing her up until she’s against the wall at the edge of the kitchen. My hands sift into her hair, and it feels fucking great woven through my fingers. Our mouths collide again and fuck me, but she’s not recoiling. Not pushing at my chest. Not trying to turn her head away.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say. “I would’ve loved to eat with you.”
If she wasn’t thinking of me, she wouldn’t have set those taco shells into the microwave on a plate. She wouldn’t take the time to explain the set-up which was done in a way to make it easy for me to eat when I got home.
Fucking love this.
Her here, waiting for me, having cooked for me? It makes this place feel like something I haven’t had for a long time. An actual home. I’ve spent most of my life moving around. Between boarding schools and my parents’ many homes. College was in the same place for four years, but it was just a crash pad. After that, jumping between cities staying at my two condos or a furnished rental apartment for the occasions I’m in Cincinnati. But this place? This is already starting to feel like a home. Like a place I’ll look forward to after a busy day. Like a retreat.
She’s now clutching my shirt with both hands. I hike her up by her hips and grasp her ass as her legs wrap around me. I walk her to the nearest soft piece of furniture, the couch in front of the island that faces the fireplace. After putting her on her back, I run both hands up her ribs until they cup her tits, then nibble my way down her jaw to her throat and suck.
She arches into me.
“Gonna mark you,” I tell her, my voice coming out gruff as I latch onto her neck.
She arches further. It’s like she’s welcoming it. Fuck yeah.
My hand dives into her waistband, straight to her bare skin and then glide through that wet silk of her. Now fingers hook inside my wife, and I press against her G-spot.
She licks my tongue with hers, letting out a sexy, needy little moan.
“Too many clothes,” I tell her, hauling her yoga pants down before immediately whipping the white crop top sweatshirt over her head.
“Go for mine,” I direct, dropping her shirt.
She freezes.
Fuck. I’ve pulled her out of the moment.
“Nuh uh, I’m not losing you.” I point at my eyes. “Right here, Chloe.”
She swallows, looking unsure.
“Thank you for making me dinner, baby,” I say, getting my own jeans down enough and quickly filling her. She arches, eyelids lowering, moaning, pressing her tits to me. It’s like she’s been waiting all day for this. Like she couldn’t wait for me to get here. But her eyes are closed now, so I move in and press a kiss to one eyelid, then the other.
“My good girl,” I praise her. “Milk my cock with your sweet pussy. I fuckin’ love being inside you.”
My wife buries her face in my neck, but she complies, so I flex my hips and then jerk back almost all the way out before slamming home again. I see just a slight discoloration on her neck. I acted like a horny teenager, trying to mark her multiple times now. But I’ve never wanted to mark someone before. I want her to mark me, too. How long before she’s willing to do that?
I stay rooted.
Her nails dig into my back.
“More?” I ask.
She clutches me tighter.
“Shit. There’s not enough room on this couch; we need a bigger one for this room.”
I lift her and put her on her back on the rug, but immediately change my mind about the position and turn her to her belly.
“Knees, Chloe. Lift that sweet ass in the air for your husband.”
She does it and her breathing has quickened. On my knees now, I grab her hip with one hand and guide my way inside with the other. She’s even wetter now. For me. As soon as I hit the end of her, I grab her tits and raise her to the same position as me, kissing the side of her neck.
She whimpers as my right hand slides down and cups between her legs. I work her bundle of nerves, fucking into her from behind, now tonguing the ridge of her ear as her head rolls back onto my shoulder.
I catch sight of her wedding rings on her finger and feel fierce affection in my chest. Love. Love for her.
I have marked her with those. Those rings on her finger, my name attached to hers? She’s mine. This is what I want. Making her come. Making her want me. Making her want to look after me, though I’m going to look after her first.
“I love you, Chloe,” I tell her, kissing her neck, then wrapping my hand around it while continuing to slam into her over and over. “And I want you. I want to do this to you every single day until I can’t.”
She falls forward, crying out while trembling through her climax.
I knee-walk us forward enough to prop her torso on the couch cushion while I increase my pace and intensity, chasing my own climax, fucking her until sensation trills from my spine to my nuts, my vision blurring as I spill my load inside her, tightening my grip on her throat just a little.
She’s whimpering non-stop for a good ninety seconds when she finally goes slack.
Not long until she’s on the sugar pills instead of birth control. I run my hand up her flat stomach.
I put my mouth to her ear. “I can barely wait to breed my sexy, smart, irresistible wife. Want you round, and tied to me forever.” I kiss her neck. “How many babies you want me to put inside you?”
She’s panting. Breathless. Sated. Boneless. Quiet.
“Maybe one of these days, my wife will answer the question. I look forward to it.”
I pull out and turn her into my arms, lifting her up and putting her on the couch. Her eyes are closed. She’s hiding from me again.
I pull the soft blanket from the basket on the floor beside it and drape it over her, lean down, kiss her, haul my underwear and jeans back into place, then go down the hall to use the john.
When I’m back, she’s still curled up on the couch, eyes open now and pointed at the fireplace. I grab the fireplace remote and start it up, so she’s got something to stare at. She now wears a face full of regret.
And I feel an unpleasant twinge in my chest.
“I’ll get you there,” I say. “I promise.”
And I mean that. I’ll get her to a place where eye contact will mean I get her smiles, her promises, sweet words.
I turn the microwave on and when it beeps, pull out the warm taco shells. I heat up the meat, and carry the whole platter to the coffee table in front of the couch she’s on. She’s filled the compartments with salsa, cheese, sour cream, and one with shredded lettuce and diced tomato. I fetch a bottle of beer and join her at the couch, setting my plate on the table. She bends her legs to make room for me.
“There’s taco sauce in the fridge. And squeezable guac,” she says.
“Mm, good. Want anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
I go get them and ask, “Mind if I catch the news?”
She shakes her head again.
I flick the television on and dig in, putting away four tacos. She’s asleep after my third. Looking angelic.
When I’m done with my food, I wash and put away my plate and the platter. I sit down again, take her ankles, and put them in my lap so her legs are stretched out. She doesn’t stir.
A while later, I’m lifting her up and her eyes pop open. She looks disoriented.
“Fell asleep on the couch, baby. Gonna tuck you in.”
“I can walk,” she says.
“But you don’t have to, do you?” I ascend the stairs with her.
When I put her on the bed, I kiss her on the temple. “Be with you in a minute. Grabbin’ a shower and have to make a couple calls.”
She doesn’t answer, so I flick the lamp off and go shower.
When I join her in bed a while later, she’s now under the covers and seems like she’s out again. I pull her into my arms. She snuggles into me and lets out a sweet little sigh. She’s sound asleep so it’s not a sound she’s aware she’s making. But it’s mine. Like her.
It’s a happy sound even though I know she’s not happy. I know she’s holding my actions against me, still, but I’m also sure that she’s gonna get where she needs to be.
I can’t seem to fall asleep for hours. Because I can’t wait to see if her eyes are gentler in the morning. But I’m also afraid they won’t be. She didn’t fight me tonight. She made me dinner. She wasn’t entirely open, but she was more open than she has been. The most she’s been since the first night I spent with her. The idea that it could be like that again? Like that all the time? I can’t wait to see if this is a turning point. But if it isn’t, I know I’m closer than I was yesterday. Maybe today alone was good for her. Maybe I should give her some space tomorrow, too.
I’m finally able to drift off thinking I’m looking forward to tomorrow night, to seeing if she’s happy to see me, if she’s made food again.