Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Terry
The gym is packed with spandex-clad competitors. Muscles pop in all directions, and most of them look as if they’re wearing outfits a size too small. The air still tastes like hairspray and fake tan.
Amy skips off in the direction of the changing rooms, and I disappear to the same seating area I hid in last year.
This year I’ve only brought water, snacks, and five beers, not wanting a repeat of last year’s escapades.
I crack the first can and tell myself five is restraint as the music starts.
I settle back in my chair for three hours of hell.
Since the IVF failed, Amy has buried herself in training. This is the sixth competition we’ve attended since September, each one further proof she’s found something outside of me.
With every event, her confidence increases, along with her results. Last week, she stood second in the strongest class yet. The smile on her face said it all―she was exactly where she wanted to be.
Me? I thumb the same TV remote grooves each night and pry fryer oil from under my nails every morning. The days blur, each one no different to the last. The shine’s gone. I’m existing.
The announcer’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Next up, we have Amy,” he calls. “Doesn’t she look incredible in her silver bikini? Not much left to the imagination.” He grins at the audience, who laugh in reply.
The hilarity grates. They only see skin and shine. Not Amy. Not my wife. They don’t know us.
She parades around the stage with a spring in her step.
She finishes at the front, directly opposite the judges, and holds her final pose.
Her quads look carved, each muscle sharp like cut glass.
Confidence oozes from every pore, and her bright eyes sparkle as she takes in her audience.
Then she turns and struts off stage. The crowd goes wild.
“Can you believe it?” Amy squeals as she runs toward me, holding her huge trophy. It’s about a meter tall, with garish silver columns and a woman wearing barely anything posing on top. “My first win!”
She holds it above her head and jumps up and down on the spot. I smile at her as genuinely as I can and lean in to place a kiss on her cheek. She throws her arms around my neck, and the trophy hits me squarely on the back. “Shall we go home and celebrate?” she whispers in my ear. “In bed?”
“I’m proud of you, Amz,” I reply and drop a kiss on her nose.
“Let’s get some food first, then you can plan all the naughty things you want to do to me.
” My tone is warm, but the words hollow.
In her excitement, she doesn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm.
She releases me and starts helping me clear the remaining beer cans and chip packets surrounding my seat.
After throwing the final piece in the trash, she grabs my hand and leads me from the auditorium.
“Amy Trodden,” a booming voice calls from behind us.
We turn in unison. A broad man dressed in a fitted navy suit is marching toward us.
“Congratulations,” he says, flashing my wife a smile before turning to me and holding out his hand.
“Ivan Harley.” The name rings bells in my head.
I’m sure he’s someone important. Pretty sure he owns one of the big gyms.
“Terry,” I reply, taking his hand and shaking it. His iron grip makes my bones flex beneath his fingers. “Amy’s husband.” He nods, then turns back to focus on Amy.
“Congratulations,” he repeats. “You’ve come a long way in a year. That little gym of yours must be good for you.”
My jaw ticks as the beer in my stomach goes warm.
“The difference in your physique is incredible. You won that class by a mile. Are you coming to my event in a few weeks?”
Amy glances to me and shakes her head. “No, Terry and I have plans for New Year’s Eve. He’s been very patient these past weeks, attending every competition available.”
“Oh, but you must,” he insists and places his hands on her shoulders.
I step forward, and he removes them but doesn’t move out of her space. “It’s the biggest event of the season. And there’s a fantastic party afterward.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “I’m sure your other half won’t mind changing the plans to allow you to compete.”
“Husband,” I correct. He shrugs. I blink at the arrogant asshole standing in front of me. Did he really just try to rebook our New Year and flirt at the same time? “As my wife said,” I emphasize the word wife, “we have plans for the new year. Perhaps next time.”
He narrows his eyes, then his gaze roams to my feet and back to my face, hesitating on my stomach. Thick lips twist in a sneer.
No, I’m not a fucking bodybuilder, just a regular guy. The kind ignored in this world of carb counting and yoga mats.
“Shame,” he says. “You’d walk it, Amy. You really are on point.” My blood heats. His words are laden with sexual innuendo. He knows exactly where to press.
“Thank you, Ivan,” Amy mumbles, her cheeks the color of beetroot. She looks up at him from underneath her lashes. If I concentrate, I’m sure I can hear her heartbeat. “Perhaps next year.” He smiles, takes her hand, then kisses her knuckles before turning to me and shaking my hand again.
“Nice to meet you, Jerry,” he says before walking off.
“It’s Terry,” I hiss at his retreating form. Amy touches my elbow, and I turn. Wide, nervous eyes stare back. “Let’s go,” I snap and stride off toward the exit. My belly wobbles uncomfortably over my belt. That’s changed since last year―it’s bigger, I admit to myself.
Amy throws her gym bag in the trunk of the car before carefully laying her trophy beside it.
I sit in the driver’s seat and watch her in the rearview mirror.
She reaches up and stands on her tiptoes to grab onto the trunk lid.
The blue cropped t-shirt she’s wearing lifts, exposing the bottom of her breasts.
She’s taken her bra off―she always does as soon as she can, hating the restriction.
We spent a small fortune a few years back on her breast augmentation, and she walks taller because of it.
“What do you want for dinner?” she asks as she climbs into the passenger seat.
“Actually, I’ll drive. You’ve been drinking.
” I roll my eyes but don’t argue with her.
We clamber back out of the car to swap places.
As we pass each other, her hand swipes across the front of my jeans and quickly squeezes my cock.
“Behave,” I warn her, raising my eyebrows.
“Make me,” she mouths, and I harden. “Let’s try something different tonight,” she says as we readjust ourselves in our seats.
“Food first, then you can tell me what you’re thinking,” I say. “Judging by the look in your eye, I’m going to need all my energy to keep up with you.” She giggles but doesn’t confirm or deny. With a turn of the key, our car splutters to life, then we head off in search of sustenance.
Winning the competition undoubtedly heightens Amy’s libido. On our return home, she drags me to our bedroom and blindfolds me. I stand in the center of our room listening to her every move.
The sound of drawers sliding open and items being placed on hard surfaces intensifies my excitement. “Are you ready?” she purrs, and I nod enthusiastically. I feel her circle me, then her hands lift to the back of my head, and she unties the scarf covering my eyes. It falls to the floor silently.
“Keep looking ahead,” she orders. “Don’t move until I tell you to.” She strolls over to our bed and sits on the edge; I watch her in awe.
Her blonde hair is plaited, then wound up on top of her head.
She’s wearing a fitted black corset with silver buttons decorating the front.
Her panties are red lace and barely visible, but when she opens her legs wide, I get a full view of the crotchless panel of her underwear.
I blink at her, gobsmacked by her confidence.
Once, that confidence would’ve turned me on without a thought. Now it stings my ego. Every step forward she makes is a reminder she doesn’t need me to prop her up anymore. Each day, she becomes the one more in control, and I’m paddling to keep up, watching the gap between us stretch.
“Like what you see?” she says, smiling sexily. “Thought I would give you a bit of a show. Come closer and kneel in front of me.” I do as I’m told, walking over to her and dropping to my knees. “Don’t touch,” she warns, “until I say you can.”
She picks up a bottle of lube sitting next to her, cherry flavor, and squirts some on her finger, then places the tip on her clit.
Slowly and gently, she massages the sweet spot.
Her breathing immediately quickens as her chest rises and falls.
My cock strains against my jeans, desperate for attention, and my hand immediately moves to release it.
“No,” she barks. “Watch until I say otherwise.” I drop my hands to my sides and watch my wife pleasure herself. She shudders before me, her lips shimmering with her juices. “Now,” she whispers, “fuck me now.”
It is carnal, desperate, and blinding. Ripping the clothes from my body, I push her back on the bed and climb on top of her before thrusting inside in one smooth motion. She squeals. I circle my hips to stretch her out.
My cock thrums inside her slick walls. “All in tonight, baby,” I mumble. “No foreplay, no softness. I’m going to hold your legs in the air and pound you until you convulse.” The rest we already know by heart. Raw, hungry need for one another.
She whimpers then, and I get to work with long, powerful thrusts that find her G-spot every time. She teases me, but I’m in control for now. I am taking my wife.
The next morning, she appears next to me with a towel wrapped around her, fresh from the shower.
“What are you thinking about?” Amy says, snapping me from my thoughts.
“Oh, just what a hot woman my wife is,” I reply.
She snorts. “Last night was incredible.” She sits beside me on the bed and looks down at me with curious eyes.
I’m still lying down, not having moved yet this morning. “I love you, Amz.”
“I know,” she says, but there is melancholy in her voice. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the family you wanted.”
It’s not the first time she’s said that, but it never sounds like the apology it does today.
We stopped talking about the failed IVF cycle days after it happened.
Neither of us were willing to touch the bruise, terrified it would open a wound.
Since then, Amy focuses on her inches, and I pretend I’m fine.
It seems to suit us both—not dealing with it.
My chest tightens as I take in her downcast expression. She looks devastated. For a second, I wonder if she misses the hope of being a parent too. The dream of what our life could be like. Perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps she’s having second thoughts.
I push myself up on my hands, so I’m at eye level with her. “We could always try again?” I say, hopeful.
“Maybe,” she mumbles, then rises and leaves the room.
Her words hang there like smoke from a burned-out flame. Soft but suffocating. I want to believe her, but I know what goodbye sounds like.
***
Fucking New Year’s Eve, and I’m scheduled to work until 11 p.m. Perfect timing. Amy is home alone, waiting for me with champagne on ice and a full spread of food. At least I’ll be away before all the drunks start coming in after midnight, demanding pizza we don’t sell.
The shop is on a back street in inner-city London, but it does good trade from regulars.
The walls are a tired shade of gray with posters that have seen better days of food choices long gone.
The kitchen equipment works, but looks to be out of the seventies.
We offer a short menu of various burgers and fries.
Anything else tends to be unavailable as the owner never orders supplies.
“Hey, Terry,” Leanne shouts as she pushes open the front door. “Ready for the hell that is New Year?”
“What do you think?”
She giggles, removing her coat and hanging it on a hook by the front door. Leanne is my colleague and fun to be around. At the age of twenty-eight, she seems to have life figured out with a husband and a few shifts a week here to pay the bills.
Her black hair is tied up high in a ponytail, and her face is clear of makeup. She’s a short woman with curves, and her stature suits her gregarious personality. My shifts always go fast when we work together. She doesn’t stop talking from the moment she arrives until she leaves.
“I’ve got some news,” she sings as she places the dried plates back in the cupboard.
“You got another job?” I ask, and she slaps my shoulder as if that is the craziest thing I could have said.
“No,” she snorts. “I’m pregnant.” Her eyes widen as she leans in toward me with a huge smile across her face. I blink at her, shocked. We stand there for a few moments as my brain processes the information.
“Pregnant?” I repeat back to her. “Like there is a baby in there?” I prod at her stomach with my finger.
“Yes, pregnant. Am I speaking Swahili?” she snaps. “You know, the pitter-patter of little feet. I slept with my husband and got knocked up. I’ve got a bun in the oven. Do you understand?”
“Of course, I understand,” I mutter. “Congratulations.” It tastes like vinegar on my tongue.
My friend looks at me, hurt evident on her face. I curse myself for being an ass. “Sorry, Lee. It’s been a long day.” I wrap my arms around her and whisper, “Congratulations,” as my heart cracks wide open.