5. Astrid
My husband was gone for a couple days on assignment. He didn’t give me the details of his whereabouts because I’d rather not know. Whenever he left, it meant he was about to kill someone and hide the body so well that no one would ever find it.
My husband was a killer.
Even if he only killed bad men, it made me sick sometimes.
He came home just before dinner, wearing the same outfit as when he’d left, his jeans, boots, and his olive-green coat. He hung it up on the coatrack then stepped into the kitchen. “Something smells good.” He greeted me with a warm smile and a twinkle in his eyes, like he was happy to see me.
I moved around the kitchen island and greeted him with a hug and a kiss. “It smells good because it’s your favorite.”
“Thank you, Astrid.”
We opened some wine and ate at the table together.
“What’d you do the last couple of days?”
I immediately thought of Theo, that sexy man with dark eyes who was moved by the most disturbing artwork I’d ever seen. The man who’d changed my tire in the rain. The man I never thought I’d see again…but seemed to see everywhere. “I got a new client at the gallery. Needs artwork for his study, so he came by to see what we have to offer.”
“Did he buy anything?”
“He bought five paintings—expensive ones.”
“That’s a nice commission for you.”
“Yeah.” I hadn’t delivered his paintings yet. Been purposely dragging my feet on it. “He didn’t like anything in the main galleries, so I took him to the basement to see all the artwork that…that doesn’t really belong anywhere. Those were the ones he liked.”
“You’re talking about the demented ones?” he asked before he took a bite.
“Yeah.”
“Sounds like a weird guy.”
He didn’t seem weird to me. Just…a little lost. I almost mentioned the ring he wore, but I kept it to myself—for a second time. I thought I knew exactly who Theo was, but I didn’t want my husband to know that. The criminal underworld was a small place, but I’d somehow crossed paths with a man who was talked about like a myth rather than a person. “How was your trip?”
“It was fine.” He didn’t tell me where he’d been. Hadn’t texted me while he was gone. I didn’t know whether he’d left the country or if he’d been right down the street. “I’ll be home for a while. My contract list is empty at the moment.”
“That’s good.” It was rare for him to be around for an extended period of time. He would work in his office during the day and meet with other members of the Brotherhood at their headquarters underneath one of the oldest restaurants in the city. He took me there sometimes, but I was always bored sitting there listening to stories with people I didn’t know, so he didn’t really take me anymore.
He finished his plate then took another drink of his white wine. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Alright.” His tone didn’t sound foreboding, so it didn’t seem like bad news. Maybe he wanted to discuss giving the villa a new coat of paint or plan our next vacation.
He stared at me for a while, his elbows on the table. “I want you to keep an open mind to this. Don’t react emotionally.”
Maybe he didn’t want to talk about paint colors or vacation spots. “Okay…”
He took another drink of his wine and finished it off. “I want to suggest an open marriage.” He held my gaze as he said it, like he was asking me to take a few weeks off work so we could swim in the Aegean Sea, not asking me to welcome other people into our bed.
“I’m sorry…what?”
“I told you not to react emotionally?—”
“I’m not reacting emotionally. I just don’t understand what you said.”
He gave a quiet sigh.
“An open marriage? As in, you want to fuck other people.”
“That’s not how I would put it.”
“Then how would you put it, Bolton?” I snapped. “Because it sounds like my husband wants to fuck someone else besides me.”
“That’s also not how I would put it.”
“Then how would you put it?”
He stilled at my wrath and gave another sigh. “I think monogamy is a bit outdated. I’m on the road a lot, and I’m not home?—”
“But that’s your choice. We have enough money for you to retire. You’re the one choosing to do these things. You could stay home and fuck me every night if that’s what you wanted to do—but you clearly don’t.”
He raised his hand slightly to calm me. “We’re just apart a great deal, and I don’t see the problem in us seeking a physical connection with someone else during these lonely times.”
“Then take me with you.”
“Astrid, you know I can’t do that.”
“We’ve only been married two years, and you want to sleep with other people?”
He closed his eyes briefly like my reaction was annoying. “Forget I said anything.”
“You’re just going to fuck someone anyway.”
“Astrid, I wouldn’t have even brought this up to you if that were my intention. I would just be cheating on you every time I was gone. I haven’t done that. I only thought having our own private lives would be beneficial for us both.”
“I’m not sure what hurts more.” I kept my voice steady, but deep inside, there was a dam of tears ready to explode. “The fact that you want to fuck other people…or the fact that you don’t care about another man fucking me.”
“It’s not that I don’t care?—”
“If you’re encouraging me to do it, then you don’t care.”
“I’d rather not think about it, to be honest. And I’m sure you don’t want to think about it either.”
“I admit our sex life isn’t what it used to be, but I’m happy to try new things, go to therapy, work on our relationship, do whatever is necessary for the sake of this marriage. I don’t think inviting other people into it is the solution. I don’t understand where this is coming from because last time we spoke, you said you wanted to start a family. Who says they want to start a family, then a week later asks to fuck other people?”
“Why does it have to be mutually exclusive?” he asked calmly. “Just because I fuck some other woman doesn’t mean you aren’t the woman I love with my whole heart. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be the mother of my children. Everything I feel for you is still true.”
I shook my head because I was appalled by his reasoning. “I’m not going to raise your kids while you’re off fucking some woman you met in a bar. If you have that much free time, then you don’t need to be gone so long.”
He sank into the chair, looking defeated. “Astrid, forget I said anything.”
“This is not something I can forget, Bolton. It’s not something I can forgive either.” I shoved my chair back until it knocked over, and I stormed from the table. I walked to the entryway and slipped on the flats I’d left there. It had started to rain, so I grabbed my coat and prepared to yank the door so hard it flew off its hinges.
Bolton placed his body in front of it. “You need to calm down.”
“Get out of my way, or I’ll move you.”
His blue eyes watched me with a look of hurt. “If you need some space, I’ll leave.”
“So you can pick up some pretty girl in a bar?” I asked viciously.
He leaned against the door with his weight, so there was no way I’d get past him. “Astrid, forget what I said. It was just a suggestion, and it’s fine if you don’t like it. The last thing I want is to lose you.” He said it with such sincerity, such depth with his blue eyes. “It’s the very last thing I want.”
I was still angry, so fucking angry, but his words sheathed some of that anger.
He continued to watch me as the air left my balloon of rage, his eyes shifting back and forth.
I turned away from the door, kicked off my flats, and headed upstairs.
He didn’t follow me.
Days passed. Even though he was home, we didn’t spend time together.
I was too angry.
He gave me my space. We didn’t share meals together. We didn’t sit on the couch together. I slept in the primary suite, and he took a guest room. Time went by, and slowly, the boiling anger turned to a simmer.
I wasn’t sure what to do, but I knew we had to talk about it.
He sat in his study working on his laptop, the hearth warm with a fire that lit up the dark room. For a hit man, he did a lot of paperwork, and I didn’t understand what he did on that computer.
I walked inside, and it took him a moment to notice me.
He lifted his gaze and stared at me.
I stared back.
When I didn’t yell at him, he slowly closed the lid of his laptop to give me his full attention.
I sat in one of the armchairs.
He continued to stare at me as he waited for me to say something.
I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say.
He came around the desk and sat in the other armchair, his chin propped on his closed knuckles, his elbow on the armrest. He stared at the side of my face, his skin illuminated by the flames.
“Let’s try it.”
His eyebrows slowly rose up his face in surprise. “You made it very clear how opposed you are to this.”
“I know.” I was still opposed to it. It still hurt. “But I love you.” I couldn’t look at him as I said it. Our relationship wasn’t what I wanted it to be, but I knew I loved him. I’d loved him the moment we met. We fell hard and fast, a whirlwind that didn’t stop until we’d tied the knot. I was afraid if I denied his request, he would just cheat on me and that would hurt a lot more. “If this is what you want.”
“It’s not what I want unless you’re okay with it.”
I stared at the floor.
“Are you okay with it, Astrid?”
I nodded.
“I’m going to need more than that.”
I raised my chin and finally looked at him, and it hurt to see that face, to imagine another woman’s lips on that mouth I’d kissed so many times. It was hard to imagine him naked and inside someone else, fucking someone else while I slept alone. It hurt like hell, but I was afraid if I didn’t accept it, I would lose him. “I’m okay with it, Bolton.”
Despite their unpopularity, the paintings that Theo had selected were expensive. Some of them were hundreds of years old. Pieces of history that only a few people had ever witnessed. They were carefully wrapped and the corners secured with padded edges before they were transferred.
I informed George before my arrival, and the transport team arrived outside the gates and began the process of unloading the paintings from the truck and bringing them into the palace where Theo lived alone.
The second we walked inside, I felt the heat across my flesh, feeling that man’s presence even though he was nowhere in the room. His essence was in every inch of the hardwood floor, the luxurious rugs, the portraits that hung on the walls.
The paintings were carried upstairs to the study and leaned against the pieces of furniture so they wouldn’t scuff the walls. Unpacking each piece would take time, so I worked on that while the guys left. I still had to take my measurements and then ask Theo where he wanted each one. Knowing him, he probably didn’t care, but I would never be that presumptuous.
I unwrapped each painting and made a pile of trash to take back with me, rolls of plastic and tape and padding. His walls were twelve feet high, so the paintings were substantial and grand enough to fill the space appropriately.
I was on my knees, loosening the tape from one corner, and I couldn’t explain it, I just knew Theo was there, standing behind me. Raindrops started to hit the window at that very moment, like he brought it with him.
Footsteps sounded, and then he appeared beside me, down on one knee to help me, even though it wasn’t his job.
He was shirtless. And barefoot. Just in gray sweatpants like it was a Sunday morning rather than a Tuesday afternoon.
I tried to focus on the painting and not look at him beside me. “You don’t have to help me.”
He didn’t address what I said. Instead, he lifted the painting and turned it on to an alternative set of corners so he could pull the tape off another section.
I was still on my knees when I looked up at him, seeing the muscles of his body segmented by distinct shadows, the cuts of muscle up and down his arms, the tightness of his strong stomach, the defined lines over his narrow hips.
It was a cold winter day, but it felt like summertime in Death Valley.
He finished pulling off the tape and tossed it into the pile I already made.
“Thanks.” I forced myself to stare at the painting instead of him.
He turned his head to look at me, his stare on the side of my face.
I avoided his look as long as I could. While I desired his attention, I didn’t want him to know that, how tense he made all the muscles inside my body, the way he unnerved me whenever we breathed the same air. But I turned to look at him anyway, to regard him with as much emptiness as I could fake.
His eyes continued to burn in my face. “What is it?”
“What is what?” I asked.
“You’re upset.”
“I-I didn’t say anything.” How did he know? How could he possibly know every bone in my body was broken?
His eyes shifted back and forth slightly before he stepped away, turning his muscular back on me. “I can tell.” He moved to one of the paintings that leaned against his couch, the fireplace behind it. He regarded it for a while before he looked at the empty space above the fireplace, as if he wondered if that’s where he should hang it. “Some men are blessed with great intelligence, others wisdom, and men like me…intuition.” He turned back to me. “Don’t worry, I won’t pry. I can tell you don’t want to talk about it.”
My eyes were locked on his face with no desire to move. I was fascinated by his appearance and his presence, and not just because he was drop-dead gorgeous, but for another reason I couldn’t describe. I tried to counter the invisible spell he cast with a change of subject. “You look like you just woke up.”
“Because I did.”
And he looked that sexy when he rolled out of bed? “It’s three in the afternoon.”
“Long night.” He moved past me to examine another painting.
My eyes glanced down at his skull ring.
He caught the look. “You forgot your wedding ring again.”
I didn’t forget it this time. “Where would you like these to be hung? I’ll get to work on that.”
“There’s no way you can hang these.”
Because some of them probably weighed a hundred pounds. “No, but I want to make sure the contractors do everything correctly. Time is money to these guys, so they cut corners and shit. And I don’t put up with that. So, which one should go where? I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”
He looked around at the paintings and crossed his arms over his muscular chest…his very muscular chest. He reminded me of a mighty oak tree, hundreds of years old and rich in wisdom, with thick and powerful roots that reached deep into the soul of the earth. After a few seconds of silence, he made his selections.
I wrote down his directions. “I’ll get that taken care of with George.”
He moved to one of the armchairs in the study and took a seat, his stomach still flat like a board even when seated. He was that tight, that ripped, that muscular. His elbow propped on the armrest, his fingers resting across his shadowed jawline. His stare was as striking as the paintings he selected. Then he just stared.
It was tense, like he’d asked me a question and I missed it, like we were in the middle of a conversation that had fallen into silence. He had a threatening presence to him, but it wasn’t hostility directed at me, just in general.
There was nothing left for me to do but leave, but I continued to stand there.
He didn’t look impatient for me to leave. He seemed content letting the seconds tick by on the old clock that sat on his mantel. Like a stone gargoyle that was mounted to stand the test of time and guard a Gothic cathedral, he remained still and solid.
I should say goodbye and leave, but my feet were rooted to the thick rug.
He slowly rose to his feet and turned his back on me as he approached his desk.
I stared at that muscular back, seeing concrete that was bulletproof. The muscles that hugged his spine were so tight as they carried all his weight.
He grabbed a decanter and filled two glasses with scotch before he returned to the armchair and placed them on the coffee table. “Sit.” He nodded to the couch near him, his elbow returning to the armrest so his fingers could rest against his hard face.
I took a seat in the corner closest to him, feeling the tension increase tenfold. I stared at the glass sitting there waiting for me, but I didn’t take it since it was only three in the afternoon.
He grabbed his, took a drink, and then set it on the table next to his armchair.
“Scotch for breakfast?”
“I prefer it to coffee. Much smoother.”
I looked at the glass for a moment before I grabbed it and downed it in one go.
One eyebrow lifted slightly in gentle surprise, but the rest of his face retained its hardness. “You drink scotch.”
“Sometimes.” I returned the glass to the coffee table.
He didn’t interrogate me like he said he would. Just let me feel the pressure of his presence.
There was a tightness in my chest, a mixture of excitement and guilt and sorrow. When Bolton said he wanted an open marriage, I hadn’t thought of Theo and grown anxious for that prospect, but now that I was with him…I entertained the idea. “So…how about that dinner?”
When I arrived at the restaurant, he was already there.
He sat at a table by the window, covered in a white tablecloth, a single candle burning low in the center. It was a nicer place, but he wore a long-sleeved black shirt and dark jeans like he didn’t care.
I liked that he didn’t care.
I stared at him before he noticed me, seeing the way his massive body took up the chair, the way he looked out the window and stared at the people outside, his eyes dark like the night.
I hadn’t been nervous like this in a long time. Bolton had left for a mission, so he was out of the house and elsewhere…and I didn’t know where he would sleep that night. I had no problem being alone and sleeping in our bed by myself while he was gone, but now it hit different.
I approached the table, and he turned to look at me, his eyes slowly dropping down my body to study the way my curves filled out the dress. He didn’t rise to pull out the chair for me like a gentleman.
I liked that too.
I set my clutch on the end of the table and felt my heart try to jump out of my chest.
He stared at me with his hard silence, perfectly comfortable breathing the tense air around us even though it was like a cloud of black smoke.
“I’ve never tried this place before,” I said. “It’s good?”
“I hope so.” He grabbed the wine list. “Would you like to share a bottle of wine?”
“I’m not really in a wine mood tonight.” Wine was calm and relaxing, heightening the experience of the food you consumed. But every muscle in my body was so tense, they were all about to lock up.
“Scotch it is.” He got the attention of a waitress the second he looked across the room. When she came over, he immediately ordered two glasses of scotch on the rocks, and she disappeared. A moment later, she returned and placed the drinks in front of us. “Never met a woman who likes scotch.”
“I only drink it occasionally.” After Bolton and I had a huge fight. On the nights when I felt so alone it seemed like I was the only person in the whole world. Right before bed when I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t remember my dreams.
“People drink scotch for a reason,” he said. “And I think I know what your reason is.”
I deflected the observation by taking a drink and letting the liquor hit my tongue. It was smooth on the way down but then burned when it reached the bottom. It was like liquid fire, but I’d felt that kick enough times not to react to it. “You don’t seem like the kind of man interested in art.”
“The blood of a dictator pumps in my veins, and my heart was born in the birthplace of the Renaissance. I don’t possess an ounce of artistic ability, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a deep reverence for it.”
Floored by what he said, I repeated his words in my mind just so I could hear it again.
“You must appreciate art if you work in a gallery. You don’t need the money.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The car you drive.”
It was a Porsche SUV, one of the high-end models. The downpour hadn’t hidden the details from him.
“The clothes and jewelry you wear,” he said. “The way you carry yourself. It’s all there.”
My fingers rested on the top of my glass, but I didn’t take a drink, knowing if I drank it too fast on an empty stomach, I would get smashed and make an idiot out of myself in front of the sexiest man who ever lived.
“Answer the question.” He never asked for what he wanted, just demanded it in a gentle manner.
“I appreciate art. And I’ve always wanted to be an artist myself.”
“Then be an artist,” he said simply.
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“I disagree,” he said. “It’s either something you are or you aren’t. So, which is it?”
“I paint sometimes, but…”
He gave me a moment to finish, and when I didn’t, he pressed me. “But what?”
“It’s just not good enough.” My own inadequacy stared me right in the face every time I looked at the canvas. When I set out to create something, it turned into something completely different…and not in a good way.
“Says who?” He grabbed his glass and took a drink. “Art is subjective. Those paintings I bought. How long did they sit in your basement before I came along?”
“I-I don’t know.” They had all come at different times, sold to us by different dealers, sometimes donated as part of an estate. “A couple years, I guess.”
“Every piece of art is meant for a different buyer. You just have to find yours.” He took another drink.
I noticed the waitress never came to take our order. She attended the tables around us but didn’t disturb us, like she was waiting for him to specifically call her over. “You haven’t seen my artwork?—”
“Then show me.”
The only person I showed my work to was Bolton, and he didn’t seem that interested in it. He wasn’t the kind of man who cared about art or décor or design. He just cared about money, so I tried not to take his lack of interest personally. “It doesn’t look anything like the paintings you bought.”
“Then what do they look like?”
“Hard to describe,” I said. “I guess they’re moments…”
He cocked his head slightly.
“Like when you take a candid photo of someone or see a group of friends talking across the bar or when you see a couple talking intensely at a restaurant, and you wonder what all those moments mean. Are they good moments? Are they bad moments? Or are they the last moment those two will ever share?”
He didn’t blink as he listened to me.
“It’s hard to explain.”
“You explained it perfectly. I’d love to see one of your paintings if you’re ever brave enough to show me.”
Heat moved down my throat and mimicked the scotch I’d stopped drinking. My eyes moved to the menu even though I didn’t have much of an appetite. There were a lot of good things on there, though. “What do you get?”
“Bistecca alla fiorentina. But I doubt that’s something you’d order.”
“I drink scotch. Maybe I like steak too.”
A subtle smile moved over his lips. “Do you?”
“I do, but I’m just not that hungry right now,” I said. “Maybe I’ll get a salad.”
His grin widened before he took a drink.
“What?”
He gave a slight shake of his head. “Nothing.”
“What?” I repeated.
“I was right,” he said. “That’s what.” He made a slight gesture, and the waitress immediately came over. He asked for another drink because he’d already finished.
When she was gone, it was just the two of us again, the war of eye contact ensuing.
He kept his word and didn’t ask me about the one thing I didn’t want to talk about. His eyes tried to pierce my exterior, but he never used different methods to pry.
“Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
I didn’t want to interrogate him since he was nice enough not to interrogate me. “Whatever you want to share.”
He considered my words in silence, relaxed in the chair, his thick arms pulling hard on the fabric of his shirt. “I like cigars. Collect them.”
“Collect them?” I asked. “Like wine?”
“Yes. I have a humidor to keep them at the right temperature and humidity.”
“How long do they last?”
“About thirty years, if you intend to smoke them. But I have a collection that dates back the last hundred years. I can’t smoke them, but I can still smell them…and you taste the history in the smell.”
“That’s interesting.”
The waitress brought his second drink and took away the empty glass. He took a drink before he caught a drop with his thumb. “I have some that belonged to my great-grandfather. That’s the only piece of him that I have.”
“Do you revere him?”
“No. I just think we’re a lot alike.”
“You identify as a dictator?”
He stared at me for a long time like he might not say anything, but then he spoke. “Sometimes.”
My eyes glanced down to the skull ring that he always wore. It was huge, and I could tell it was heavy just by looking at it. I wanted to ask about it, but I wanted to respect his privacy the way he respected mine.
He reached for his hand and twisted the ring off his thick knuckle. Then he placed it on the table in front of me, the diamond casting a spectrum of colors against the window. It glittered in the light of the candle.
I reached my fingers toward it. “May I?”
He nodded.
I took the ring and stilled when I felt how warm it was. I’d expected it to be cold like a stone sitting in the winter fog, but it was hot like fire, because his skin burned like the sun. I’d never touched him, but now I knew how my palm would feel against his chest, how warm my fingers would feel if I touched his arm. If I were tucked into his bed with him beside me, I would sweat from the heat. I wouldn’t need a heater or a fire because he was more than enough. The ring was heavy as I’d assumed, its concentrated mass making it like a paper weight. After I examined it for several seconds, I returned it to the center of the table. “That’s an interesting ring…”
He twisted it back onto his knuckle and took a drink. “I have two more.”
I’d heard Bolton and others mention Theo by a different name—The Skull King. He was the leader of an underground group of men who moved drugs across the country. They monopolized other illegal sources of income. I didn’t know much more than that, other than the fact that he was lethal.
His eyes hardened on my face, reading my expression like words on a page. “You know who I am.”
The lights from his eyes hit me like a spotlight, and I had nowhere to run. Once I was under that piercing stare, my armor was knocked to the ground. I’d heard he was dangerous and vicious, but it was hard to be afraid of a man who changed my tire in the rain and appreciated art.
“You aren’t scared, sweetheart?” He looked down into his glass before he looked at me again, confidence in his eyes, a hint of arrogance in his stature.
“Should I be scared?” A broken heart made me careless. It made me do things I wouldn’t normally do. But I felt like I had nothing to lose.
“No.” He swirled his glass before he brought it to his lips for a drink. “I don’t hurt women—not unless they ask me to.” He casually got the attention of the waitress and ordered our dinner, getting himself a steak and me a salad.
I felt a flush in my cheeks when I heard the echo of his words, when I pictured his big palm leaving a mark on my ass from smacking me so hard. When I pictured his long fingers gripping me by the throat, just to the point where I struggled to breathe. I didn’t usually think about fucking other men besides Bolton, but I’d thought about it a lot since I met Theo.
“That means your husband is in the game.”
The mention of him made the guilt burn in my stomach. I was free to be here, free to go back to his place and ask him to hurt me, but I still felt a shadow of betrayal move across me like a rain cloud.
“And that also means he’d be irate if he knew you were here with me.”
I didn’t know how he would feel about it. He probably assumed I would hook up with someone at work or maybe with someone I met in a bar when I went out with my friends. He probably didn’t imagine I would bump into the Skull King on the side of the road.
He swirled his glass again, and a slight smirk moved on to his lips. “Good.”
We returned to his villa after dinner, and instead of entering his study, we went upstairs to the third floor, the walls covered in textured black wallpaper with dark sculptures and mirrors. He wanted every inch of his place to be marked by his presence, for any visitor to know he lived there alone—and he liked it.
His bedroom was like a fancy suite at an expensive hotel, a room that had its own living room with a large TV on the wall. Double doors led to his four-poster king-sized bed in the next room, sitting on a thick rug, the wood of the furniture dark, the duvet cover storm-gray.
The second we entered, my heart was in my throat, the pulse making the skin of my neck vibrate from the rush of blood. Bolton provided a luxurious life for me that gave me everything I could ever want. But the moment I was in Theo’s bedroom, I understood there was an even greater level of wealth.
Even greater level of power.
He made his way to the bar area and poured two glasses before he set them on the coffee table. “Help yourself.” He walked into his bedroom, and once he crossed the threshold, he yanked his shirt over his head then stepped out of view.
I caught sight of his skin for just a brief second.
I was so nervous, more nervous than I could remember ever being. The combination of excitement and dread and self-loathing made a cocktail of anxiety. When he asked if I wanted to come over, I said yes, and I felt like shit for that answer. But I wondered where Bolton was sleeping that night, and I didn’t want to be alone.
When Theo returned, he was just in his sweatpants, these ones black, and they were dangerously low on those narrow hips. His chest was thick like concrete, and the details of all the different muscles of his core were pronounced as if they’d been made with a paintbrush.
I let myself look, but I didn’t let myself stare.
He came close to me then grabbed a glass from the table.
His smell hit me—soap, shaving cream, pine trees.
Bolton had a completely different smell, and I wished I didn’t notice.
When he took a drink, his throat shifted to swallow. He licked his lips when he was finished with his drink then sat in the armchair, just as he had in his study downstairs. He didn’t rush me with an aggressive kiss on the mouth while his hand snaked into my hair. In fact, he was distant, as if I was a friend rather than a lover who’d come to fuck him. He hadn’t even tried to touch me, place his hand on my thigh on the drive, brush a loose strand from my face.
I wanted him to, but I also didn’t.
I sat on the couch and left the drink on the table because I’d already had too much. “Thank you for dinner.”
He stared at me, his cheek against his closed knuckles, his eyes on me.
It’d been so long since I’d done this. Gone on a date with someone then fucked them afterward. But I was glued to my chair, more unsure of myself than I’d ever been. I couldn’t even meet his stare.
“I know we aren’t going to fuck, sweetheart. Relax.”
My eyes immediately flicked to his.
“When the time is right.”
I didn’t want to relax in front of him, but I felt an invisible weight lift off my shoulders. I’d asked him to dinner so he probably assumed sex was on the table, but he didn’t make me feel pressured or obligated. “My situation is…complicated.”
His dark eyes stared at me, his knees spread apart as he lounged in the armchair.
“I’m married, but it’s an open marriage.” My eyes dropped down to the glass on the table, the one I wouldn’t drink.
“But not by choice.”
My eyes flicked back to his. “I think you’re sexy…like crazy, insane sexy…but I just can’t.” I didn’t even kiss him. Didn’t try to initiate or give him an invitation. The chains of matrimony were still locked around my wrists even though I had the key.
He didn’t grin at the compliment. Seemed more focused on my despair than the flattery. “I hope your husband is as loyal to you as you are to him.”
My eyes flicked away again because I knew the answer to that.
“Tell him what you want, sweetheart.”
“I did, but…it’s complicated.”
“It’s not complicated. He wants to fuck other people, and you don’t. If he doesn’t accept that, then leave him.”
“He’d do it if I asked.”
“Then I don’t understand the problem.”
“I-I want him to want it too.” I kept my emotions bottled inside because I refused to let them burst free in front of Theo. I hardly knew him, and I wouldn’t treat him like my therapist or priest. “And if he doesn’t, then maybe I can learn to get used to it.”
He continued to stare at me.
“You’re judging me.”
“I’m not the judgmental type,” he said. “Marriage means different things to different people. To some, it’s a business arrangement. To others, it’s just about procreation. And to some, it’s about love. It doesn’t matter which one it is—as long as both parties agree.”
Bolton talked about starting a family in the same week he mentioned an open marriage. It was so sudden and abrupt, so polarizing, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. But when I thought about what Theo said, it made me realize Bolton wanted to change our marriage into a business relationship. It wasn’t about love anymore. It was about our wealth and our future kin. It was about pursuing other interests.
“I don’t judge you for being in an open marriage—if that’s what you both want.” His eyes remained on me, slightly flicking right and left as he watched me with his observant stare, saw right through me.
I wanted the attention off me, wanted his pity to disappear. “What does marriage mean to you?”
He dropped his closed knuckles from his cheek and rested them on the armrest.
“Is it a business arrangement?” I expected him to say marriage was off the table altogether, that he desired a life of solitude until his past caught up with him in a dark alley and claimed his life.
But to my surprise, he had a different answer. “I’d marry for love.”
For a brief moment, my pain disappeared as I looked at him, seeing this hard man in a softer light.
“I already have business arrangements. I don’t need another. I’m not the judgmental type, but I’m possessive and jealous and territorial. A man looks at my wife, he’s going to lose his eyes. He tries to touch my wife, he’s going to lose his hand. If she left the house without her ring, I’d bring it to her—and then I’d make sure she never forgot it again.” He said it with a tone of anger, like he didn’t realize how romantic he was.
“You’ve been in love before…”
His eyes remained locked on mine. He didn’t confirm or deny the statement.
“Have you been married?”
His hard stare indicated I would never get my answer. “Why do you stay with him?”
I knew I’d hit one of his buttons when he fired back like that. “I-I don’t want our marriage to end. And I guess I’m afraid if I don’t do this, then it is going to end. But maybe if we do it his way, he’ll realize it’s not right and come back to me. They say after a man cheats he becomes the most committed husband there ever was because he finally appreciates what he has. I guess I hope that’s how it’ll be for us.”
His stare didn’t change.
“They say half of men cheat, and I bet the real number is higher than that. At least he was honest with me.”
“An odd thing to be grateful for.”
“I thought you said you weren’t judgmental?”
“I’m not judgmental of the way people choose to live their lives. This isn’t a choice for you, sweetheart. But I won’t say any more about it.” He reached for his glass and took a drink. The ice cubes slid down and tapped his lips when he finished the contents. He returned the glass to the table. “I have stuff to take care of. My driver will take you home.”
Bolton came home the next day.
My stomach was tight and tense—and not in the way when I got butterflies. This was just painful.
I was in the kitchen and had just finished making a roast chicken covered in lemon slices. I didn’t care to cook, but when I made big meals like this, they lasted for days and made the effort worth it. Bolton said he liked my cooking, so I mainly did it for him, because when I was home alone cooking for myself, it made me sad.
He came in with his bag over his shoulder. He dropped it in the entryway and shed his coat before he joined me in the dining room. “Nothing better than coming home to your beautiful wife after she’s made you dinner.” His arm moved around my waist, and he dipped his head to kiss me.
I kissed him back, feeling the same love for him that I always felt.
He stepped away and grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses.
He was in a good mood. A better mood than he’d been in in a long time. I hoped that meant our separation had made him reconsider what he’d asked, that it had given him second thoughts about changing the parameters of our relationship. “I’m glad you’re hungry.”
“Baby, I’m always hungry for your cooking.” He turned back to me and placed the bottle on the kitchen island before he began the process of uncorking the wine. His left hand bore no ring, like he hadn’t taken it with him or had forgotten to put it back on. And then just above the collar of his shirt, I saw a distinct mark …the color of pink lipstick.
He didn’t notice my stare as he poured the glasses of wine.
I was sick. Too sick to eat. Too sick to pretend.
He carried the glasses to the dining table and gave me a moment to myself.
I stared down at the chicken I’d made, the dinner I’d made because I knew he liked it. I’d slept alone in our bed last night after Theo’s driver had dropped me off at home. I’d decided to tell Bolton that I’d changed my mind about everything and hoped he hadn’t already fucked someone.
But he jumped the first chance he got.
“Baby?”
“Hmm?” I looked up when I heard his voice.
“You alright? I said your name a couple times.”
No, I wasn’t alright. I’d thought I was already broken after our conversation, but now I realized my broken bones had been ground into dust. And the worst part of it? He was happy, the happiest he’d been in a long time. “Just realized I forgot the rice.”
“It’s fine.” He carried the dish to the dining table. “We don’t need it.”