13. Zoe
13
ZOE
Sammy grabs her platypus by the neck and swings it around.
I stare vacantly at the toy, and then Sammy. She seems entertained.
Felix ended up picking Sammy up from ballet last night, and had to cut his meeting short as a result. He was pissed when he questioned where I had been. “Tied up with the pap,” was my response, and that seemed convincing enough.
Until this morning when he told me to stay indoors, just as I was about to head out for Pilates. “I know what you did yesterday,” he said, and before I could question and deny, he walked out of the kitchen to begin work.
So here I am, sipping lemon tea in the living room while Sammy plays with her platypus.
I never drink lemon tea, but the taste time-travels me back to Wrangler’s house. Something about that decaying, wooden house made me forget about Felix. It made me forget why I was pissed off at the bikers too. They’re human and contain more layers than I initially thought—or Wrangler does, anyway.
They thought revealing their true identities would complicate matters.
They thought right.
Because they’re not just three random individuals I met a few days ago.
They’re the same three men who altered my perception of the male species.
The same men who were kind enough to hold up my legs during sex so I didn’t need to do it myself.
Men who actually know the definition of foreplay.
Their mouths were so attentive. They took their time between my legs, and each wrapped their lips around my pussy like they were kissing my lips. The perfect amount of suction was applied, and even though I wanted all of them to bury their dicks deep inside and fuck me senseless, no leather pants—or Wrangler jeans—were removed.
It thickens the plot. I thought before that the only reason I was drawn to them was because they were bikers, and because they reminded me of the masquerade encounter.
But they are the masquerade encounter!
It’s been almost four years, but I never once forgot about them. I’ve run my vibrator dead fantasizing about them. Recounting the experience was the closest I could ever get to sex, and now I’m even closer.
Not just to sex.
But to my grave.
Sammy shoves the platypus in my face and giggles. “What’s wrong, Mommy?”
“Mommy’s thinking.”
Her stark blue eyes sting my soul.
My stomach lurches.
I slept with Mr. Reeves.
And his ocean-blue eyes indicate that he could be Sammy’s biological father.
Footsteps crescendo in the hall as all of my organs compress.
“Zoe.”
I turn my head and meet Felix’s brown eyes.
A lump forms in my throat. “Yeah?” I sound more mouse than human.
“A word.”
Sammy jumps to her feet and shows Felix the platypus. “Look at?—”
“Daddy is busy,” he says firmly.
I uncross my legs and drag myself up from the floor. “Won’t be long, sweetness,” I lie, patting Sammy on the head, because, to be honest, this conversation with Felix could be my last.
As I follow behind him, a spark of hope ignites in my chest. If he knows what I’ve done, I could be off the hook. No man wants a cheating wife. Maybe he’ll take back his ring and banish me from this place.
We cross the bridge that leads to the business side of the house. It’s the first time I’ve been over here. Large, floor-to-ceiling windows allow in plenty of light, accentuating Felix’s features even more. He’s a similar age to the bikers, maybe a couple years older, but has ratty hair with zero volume, probably because he shampoos it…never. The only time it looks semi-presentable is when the glam team have gelled it away from his face for an event.
The hair thing is strange, because everything else about him is very particular and neat. Even in crisp lighting, not one prick of stubble can be seen on his face, and that’s because he shaves twice a day. Beards, he says, are messy and look unprofessional. He hires somebody to get rid of his facial hair as soon as it sprouts—there’s zero. You could say he’s baby-faced, but the collection of wrinkles that have formed around his forehead and eyes suggest anything but youth.
Something about his face doesn’t sit right with me. He has one of those complicated faces, so it’s hard to look at him. Facial asymmetry is totally normal, and the glam team often like to remind me that I have it myself, but Felix takes the phrase to a whole new level. He doesn’t look like a stroke patient, but his eyes are shaped differently—one is more round and the other more square. Cameramen always seem to capture him from the left—the rounded eye—as if to show his good side and paint him in a good light. Features on the right side of his face come off a little too sharp. The nostril is too flared, and the chin pokes out slightly, like he grew an extra bone there.
This wing of the house has an empty feel to it. Despite the hanging chandelier and the grand staircase leading up to conference rooms one through seven—signposted on the plain white wall—there’s nothing. I wear flats, but the soles still clack against the marble floor, ringing loud through the lobby as if to remind me where I’m heading—hell.
We enter his office and the heavy mahogany door bangs shut behind us, leaving an echoey ring that vibrates to the very core of my being. Instructed to sit, I locate the chair positioned behind Felix’s desk. It’s no surprise that the office has no personality either. Arched floor-to-ceiling windows draw in lots of light, whitening the already bleached-white walls. Bookshelves cover two of the walls, but few books have been placed there. It’d be interesting to have a browse and see the kind of thing he takes inspiration from. Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler, probably.
Felix takes a seat opposite me and nets his hands together.
Two things to know about my husband.
One: He never slouches.
Two: He’s never wrong.
“I know,” he says.
My lungs fail.
Putting all the media training to practice, I straighten in my seat and frown. “About?”
“ Them .”
I neutralize my features and continue breathing steadily, even though there’s a panic attack calling my name. “Oh? You’re referring to those showmen bikers I was photographed speaking to yesterday at Paul’s casino?”
“ Paul’s casino?” Felix frowns, engraving wrinkles into his face even more. “How do you know Paul? You’ve never met the guy.”
“I did yesterday when I went in to visit Father.”
Felix’s holds his poker face. It’s the only face he has, to be honest. He knows how to smile, but only when cameras lift in his direction. I remember overhearing a conversation once when the pap team paid us a visit. “No, sir, you’re just baring your teeth. You wanna lift the ends of your mouth and lighten your eyes.”
I’ll be the one needing a smiling lesson soon.
They whitened his teeth the same bleached shade as his office walls to make him look more impressionable on camera, I think.
Not like it works.
“Are you fucking them?”
Jesus Christ, where’ve the formalities gone? It’s not like Felix to be uncouth.
He re-nets his hands, awaiting my response as silence stretches between us. Faintly, I hear melodies of birdsong outside, and it both eases and worsens my nerves to know that there’s life outside of this room. But that life might be shut off from me forever after this meeting.
“No.” I keep my voice light. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”
Felix smooths his tongue over his teeth and continues staring at me. His eyes appear more black, even in this lighting.
I sit on the edge of my seat, anxiously anticipating his response, but his mouth remains closed. He scents the room with something. Rosemary, I think. A diffuser sits on the windowsill behind him, sprouting wooden sticks that release the fragrance into the air. Before setting it down, he probably measured the dimensions with a ruler to ensure it was directly in the middle, and not a centimeter over. The stationary on his desk is the same. A notebook rests perpendicular to three pens that have been placed vertically, each the same width apart. Felix only writes with Parker pens, black. The company sponsors him, and all over his social media pages you’ll find closeups of him holding the pens as he works.
Felix parts his lips, and I feel the whole world silence as he gets ready to speak.
But he doesn’t.
Just exhales.
I relax my shoulders when he takes his eyes off me. Interrogation over.
Dipping his chin, he locates something in one of the desk drawers and pulls it out, hooked around one of his fingers—red lace panties. He makes a point of gently placing them in front of me, ironing out the creases.
A lump forms in my throat, and my heart rattles.
Maybe the ground will swallow me up and eat me before he does.
“You’re a whore.”
I always knew my high sex drive would land me in shit one day. My mind just always pictured something different, like an STI or heartbreak. Not this.
Maybe I am a whore.
Shame heats my cheeks. I failed. Couldn’t resist temptation.
But maybe this is the turning point in our marriage. Maybe this is the moment he divorces me.
“You have made me look a fool.”
I’m unsure which part he’s referring to here. The photograph, or the bathroom? Some of those comments were lethal. They made him a laughingstock. I see the way he grinds his jaw and turns away, like his mind is flashing back to the childhood he fought hard to escape.
What haunts me most is how he found out about the bathroom.
Did he spy on us?
Watch the whole thing?
The thought alone sends shivers up my spine. He’s Big Brother. Nothing skips his notice. It’s violating. Like I’m naked on the strip with nowhere to hide.
“I always knew you were a little slut.”
My hands shake, and they won’t stop. Now what? I deny it and embarrass myself further? He knows the truth. There’s no talking myself out of this one.
“How did you find out?”
“You forget how powerful I am, Zoe.” His cruel eyes stare at me. “Nothing gets past me. Look at you,” he cackles, shaking his head like it’s some sort of joke. “Look at the state of you.” He surveys me. “You haven’t even done your hair.”
Steadying my voice, I say, “You didn’t permit me to leave the house.”
“You disrespected me.”
“And you continue to do that to me every day.” I lose control of my mouth. Anxiety doesn’t lace my voice anymore and block the words from gushing out. “You stole my life. You’re forgetting something. You have yours. You work. You do as you please. What about me?”
“I give you everything.”
“You give me designer clothes and manicures. Wake up, Felix. That’s not everything .”
“No, Zoe. You need to wake up. This isn’t high school anymore. Stop being delusional, it doesn’t suit you. This is real life, and in the real world, dreams are only there to keep people hopeful. I see the way you lose yourself in books, like the narratives are actually real. Authors write false promises and create fake dreams to keep people hopeful. Hope makes money. It sells dreams that don’t exist. Do you understand?”
Now I’m the one grinding my jaw. “You had a dream,” I monotone.
“I worked hard through college, that’s all.”
I narrow my eyes. It seems too simple. All college kids work hard. That’s the point. Tuition fees cost more than MacDonald Highlands properties these days. Students don’t wrap themselves up in all of that debt to slob around, half-ass their assignments and attend only fifty percent of their lectures.
Everybody works hard.
But somehow Felix worked harder.
If this guy sells a dream, it’s the rags to riches story. How can a person go from nothing to everything in twenty-something years? Something tells me there’s more to it than good grades.
“I’m so disappointed in you,” Felix continues. “Look at you. Where you’ve ended up. That’s the issue with books and movies. They inject false hope into your veins. They want you derailed, Zoe. These bikers don’t care about you. All they care about is bikes and sex, and bedding the best women.”
As much as I hate to admit it, Felix is a smart guy. He could have a point here.
But my body feels drawn to the bikers in a way it never has with Felix.
“They’re dangerous. You need to stay away,” he says.
“What’s the big deal?” I slump back in my chair and fold my arms. Time to talk business with the guy who has a knack for making deals. “There’s no love in this marriage.”
Felix searches my expression like I’m onto something. “Continue.”
“You said it yourself—” Even though it was in a backward, slut-shaming way. “I have needs, and we never have sex, and that’s totally fine, it’s something we never do…but I can’t help my attraction. Sexual desire is biological. Natural. It can’t be contained.” I’m not sure where I’m going with this—don’t want to offend Mr. Asexual. “Look, can’t we just let this one slide? Let me see them. Nothing will take place in a public setting again, I promise. I’ll be careful, and nothing will get back to the press. For once, just try to understand.”
Felix’s mismatched eyes remain on mine. He squints. Takes a deep inhale. “Hm,” he says, and I genuinely think he’s debating it until the inevitable, stomach-sinking “no,” shuts down my idea.
I sink into my seat.
“Careful isn’t something you know how to be. Fans already think you’re sleeping around. There’s one thing worse than rumors, and that’s the rumors being true. Look at yourself.” His judgmental eyes scan my body too much for my liking. “You’re married to me, but right now you look like a full-time carpenter.”
Carpenters make good money these days.
I survey my outfit—loose jeans and a tank top with no bra underneath. Dressing head-to-toe in finery every day is exhausting, so I gotta treat my body to loose clothes when it craves them.
Felix deepens his stare. “Sammy isn’t mine.”
“What? Of course she?—”
“Enough with the bullshit, Zoe. It’s tiring and I’ve had enough of you.”
“I didn’t do anything. I swear.”
Felix narrows his eyes.
I sigh, and admit, “It was the night before Father signed the contract to marry me off. There was a party, and they were there.”
A cackle escapes Felix’s mouth. He finds it funny. Really funny, in fact. His posture never slackens, but the belly laughter practically folds him in half. “Of course.”
I wince, waiting it out.
“It all makes sense now. I always thought those porno searches were too specific.”
“Don’t you have a sex drive?” I ask.
“Excuse me?”
I square my shoulders. “OK, you don’t find me attractive, but maybe another woman has caught your attention before?”
“Sexual attraction distracts.”
“From what?”
“Work.”
Boring guy.
“Try to understand where I’m coming?—”
He cuts me off. “Enough. We’re not going over this again.”
“It’s not gonna work out, is it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This.” I flick my finger in the space between us both. “Our marriage.”
Another cackle exits his lips. “Do you think this is funny?”
“No, but clearly you do.”
SLAP!
Right across the cheek.
I don’t even have time to inhale my next breath.
Wincing, I raise a careful hand to my cheek and pat the area. It stings, and pain sizzles through me so much it feels like a burn. A tear forms in the corner of my eye, so I dip my head and pad it away before it falls.
Never show weakness. Not in the presence of the most powerful man in Nevada.
“People are already asking questions about the photo. Close your mouth for a moment and think how detrimental a divorce would be for my career. Are you that selfish? You want to embarrass me even more? Is that what you’re trying to do?”
“What? No, I’m?—”
“A divorce would just confirm rumors that are already circling—that you’ve fallen in love elsewhere. That doesn’t paint me in a very good light, does it?”
And that pretty much sums up Felix Fernando. All he cares about is being the best. He wears the best clothes, drives the best cars and, to the general public’s knowledge, beds the best girl.
Finally, I understand what it’s like to be him. Beneath the hard exterior is a scared little boy worried about scoring last again. He prides himself on success, that’s it. He’s nothing without it.
And he’s relying on me.
Which means I can use this to my advantage.
Feeling more confident, I look into his eyes and feel a smile heat up my cheeks. Shame doesn’t redden them anymore.
“You will tell nobody that Sammy is theirs,” Felix says. He straightens his spine and nets his fingers like he’s preparing to conclude this meeting.
Thank god. I’m spitting feathers here.
“This is your final warning. If I hear that you have been slutting around with those bikers again or anyone else, you’ll be setting flowers on your baby sister’s grave.”