Chapter 9
Princess bought several more items from the store.
I picked up a leather wallet from behind the glass, which made the attendant happy since she’d made the items behind the glass.
On my way out, I text Bishop to come and check out the handmade leather items the woman is selling.
They caught my eye. Surely, we can make a deal with her and buy in bulk.
I carry the bags out and am heading for the car when my wife turns right.
“Princess, where’re you going?”
“To the food court.”
“We ate an hour ago.”
“Yeah, I’m not hungry.”
“Help me understand, then.”
“People come to the mall to shop or just walk around, then eat something in the food court. Going to the food court is a requirement for a day at the mall. Unless we’re making a quick stop, which we aren’t. We’re having a day at the mall.
“I’m never going to the mall again,” slips past my filter.
Princess’s face drops.
Fuck. “No, no, that’s not how I meant it.”
“How did you mean it?”
I evade. “The food court it is. Come on.” I move in her direction, even though I’ve no idea where the food court is. The mall curves, and a massive food court appears kind of like the Cinderella’s Castle at Disneyland. It just appears as if out of nowhere.
Princess squeals with excitement. I laugh because she’s so easy to please.
God knows I’ve dated women. I am in my late thirties, after all.
I’ve had my fill of the high-end places, the fake conversations, the meaningless sex, the uncomfortable moments when they realize I don’t give a flying fuck about them after we fuck.
I’m not anyone’s daddy or brother or boyfriend.
Why should I care? They’re all big girls, after all.
But this one is mine. My wife. And I care. I care that she’s happy and excited, and frankly, her happiness is infectious and puts me in a better mood.
I spot an ice cream place. A German ice cream place whose name I can barely pronounce.
“You want to get ice cream?” Princess asks.
I snap my gaze to her. She’s perceptive and wants to please me, so I have to be sure she’s not always pleasing me but also doing things that please her. “What did you come here for?” I counter.
“Nothing in particular.”
“Pizza?”
“I’m not hungry.”
People going places for no reason is a strange concept for me to grasp. I always have a purpose. A goal. A reason. And if I don’t at the start, I’ll find one quickly. Like finding ice cream. “Do you like ice-cream?” I ask.
“Hell, yes.”
We each get three scoops in huge sugar cones dipped in chocolate.
She tops her flavors with chocolate and nuts.
I stick with plain lemon, coffee, and something pink the kid at the counter recommended.
Licking my pink ice cream, I keep strolling around the food court, hoping one of the toddlers doesn’t run into my leg and bust his nose.
Everything is fine until I see a man stand up from one of the tables all the way on the other side of the court. “Benny!” he calls.
My wife turns and searches the tables, and I watch her reaction like a hawk. She smiles widely, seeming thrilled to see the man, but her eyes give her away. I can’t quite understand, but I will soon enough. “That’s my cousin. Come on.”
Benny rushes to his table while the boy (boy for me, since he’s maybe twenty years old) glares at me.
The glare lasts a second or two before he schools his face for my wife, but I caught it.
She hugs the man, and I stand back, watching how his hands squeeze her, how his eyes flutter and close at the feel of her body pressed against him.
I’m getting all kinds of wrong vibes from this guy.
I am a jealous and possessive husband.
But I’m also protective, and this dude is raising that side of me, so something’s not quite right.
I extend a hand and introduce myself. “Hudson. Benny’s husband.”
He shakes it. “Brando.”
Ding. Ding. Ding. The enforcer who restructured my security team in my absence, then disappeared from the premises when I returned.
I measure him from tip to toe. He’s about six feet tall, wearing black jeans, a plain black T-shirt (not a crisp polo with a nice collar), and a black leather jacket. With white stitches. He’s got green eyes and dark-brown hair, and he’s a handsome boy.
Sitting down with them at the table, I watch his body language.
He’s leaning into her, touching her hands whenever an opportunity presents itself without looking like it was deliberate on his part.
I don’t know how Benny doesn’t see it, but this man likes her far more than a cousin should.
Not only is that creepy, it’s dangerous.
Right then and there, mentally, I draw a target on his forehead. A little circular red mark. This man needs to stay away or die. He’ll choose which when I can get him alone.
“Do you need help with bags?” he asks me.
“No, thank you.”
“You sure? Princess loves to shop. She’s just getting started.”
“Princess?” I repeat in a confrontational tone.
“Yeah,” he says as if it’s normal he’s calling her princess. “She’s the family princess. You get that, right?”
Benny smiles and reaches for my hand under the table. I interlace our fingers and lean in toward him. “Not anymore. She’s my princess now. You got that, boy?”
“Hudson,” Benny says. “Let’s go.”
The boy glares and stands. Benny wants to give him a parting hug, but if he touches her again, I’m gonna pound his brains into the tile with the heel of my boot.
I’m marching across the mall, people getting out of my way, and feeling grateful that my wife suggested I not bring my gun. I might have pulled it on that kid. Jesus.
At the exit, I turn and see that my wife’s a long way away, carrying her heels in her hand and walking barefoot so she can catch up to me. As she approaches, I open my mouth to apologize when she barks, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
She snorts. “There’s something. Why are you being an asshole to Brando?”
“I don’t like him.”
“He’s my cousin.”
“So?”
“So he’s family.”
“I’m not obligated to be polite just because someone is my family.” Especially not when he and I both know he overstepped while I was away on the business trip. He threatened my staff.
“Can’t you be nice for me?”
“No.”
Her eyes widen. “Sure you can. You just don’t want to.”
“There’s something wrong with the way that kid’s looking at and touching you. It’s not right.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “What are you talking about?” Something flickers in her eyes.
Mine narrow. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“Not really.”
“I think you do. It’s palpable and yet not explainable.
You feel it, but you can’t explain it, and it sounds completely crazy and irrational.
The difference between me and you is that I’ve learned to trust that instinct and you haven’t, so instead of leaning into how you feel and keeping your distance when he makes you uncomfortable, you’ve chosen to ignore it, and worse yet, you chose to think you’re crazy and making crazy shit up. ”
Benny throws her heels into a bag. “The only crazy one here is you.” She stomps past me, and I look around at the people who have actively stopped to listen. They’re all giving me dirty looks because when a guy is arguing with a girl, it’s almost always his fault. It’s a universal law.
A man walks up to me and pats my shoulder. “I was like that with my oldest when she turned eighteen. You’ll get used to it.”
“Thanks, man,” I say.
“Sure, no problem.”
I throw the bags in the trunk and sit inside the car, where my wife gives me the silent treatment all the way home. And three hours later once we are home. Guess who slept apart yet another night?