18. Sliding Downhill
THIS NIGHT ISN’T going the way I expected.
Not the part where the men are all seated around the small hotel ballroom, while women scramble to bring them piles of food and drink from the plentiful buffet. That part I’m not shocked by.
What is surprising me, is Tate’s reaction to it. I”m not sure if it’s some sort of a PTSD response or what, but his posture is stiff, and I swear if he clenches his jaw any tighter his teeth are going to turn to dust.
I have to do something to calm him down before we go inside. If Tate walks into this room the way he looks now, people are going to be confused at the very least. Suspicious, at the very worst.
Glancing around to make sure no one is watching too closely, I reach out and catch him by the back of his shirt. I jump back a little when he spins my way, expression filled with concern. ”Are you okay? We don”t have to do this if you don”t want to.”
I lift my brows at his overreaction. ”I”m fine.” I give the hallway we’re standing in another scan before stepping closer, keeping my voice low. ”But you”re not, and everyone is going to notice it.” I give him a smile because he”s so clearly struggling and I feel terrible for him. ”You’re really tense and jumpy. I”d offer to take you back to our room and do my wifely duty and give you a nice relaxing massage, but we don”t have time for that.”
Tate’s expression changes in an instant, his stiff, ready to snap posture turning to something entirely different as his gaze fixes on me. “You won’t be the one doing the touching if we go back to that room, Sugar.” There”s no missing the heat in his eyes as they drag down my body. ”And I fucking hate your outfit.”
I snort out a laugh because he sounds disgusted and it amuses me. That”s why I lower my voice a little more as I lean into his ear, hoping to make him a little less offended for me. ”If it makes you feel any better, I”m wearing the tiniest thong I own as an unseen act of rebellion.” I”m just trying to make him feel better about all of this. Definitely not trying to see what his reaction might be to discovering what”s underneath the bulky jean skirt Myra picked out for me.
Tate’s nostrils flare and his gaze darkens. ”You’re tempting me to skip this whole thing altogether, wife.” He leans down, lips ghosting against my ear. ”At the very least making me want to get out of there as fast as fucking possible so I can have you to myself.”
I”m not stupid. Delusional? Maybe. But not stupid. I knew the chances of Tate and I keeping our hands to ourselves while sharing a hotel room would be slim to none.
Especially since it”s only got one bed.
I did, however, expect there to be a slight attempt at self-control from one of us. Him. Not me. Sitting up three nights in a row watching him hang drywall last weekend—willing to forgo sleep to indulge in only the sight of him—proved I have none.
A month ago this realization would have put me into a panic. Sent me spiraling. Convinced me I was no better than my mother. But with Tate staring at me, his gaze full of heat and need and want, I don’t feel anything but calm.
”Sounds good to me.” I lift one finger, trying to look stern. ”But only if you keep your shit together through this dinner.”
”Deal.” He doesn”t hesitate, and it”s almost like Tate morphs into a different person in front of my eyes. He straightens the collar on his shirt and looks down his nose at me. ”I’m going to go find a seat. Bring me my dinner, wife.” Then he turns and walks away, leaving me gaping after him.
Why did that sharp demand turn me on a little? I don”t like being told what to do. At all. In fact, I go out of my way to cause bodily harm to any man who believes he has the right to tell me what to do.
But harm is not what I want to do to Tate’s body. It”s weird. Almost as weird as watching a whole room full of women swarming around tables as they bring second helpings to the men even though they haven’t taken the first bite of their own dinners.
I take a deep breath, shaking my head as I step into the room, letting all the air out on a whispered, ”Such bullshit.”
Keeping my eyes on Tate, I maneuver my way to where all the food is lined against one wall. He manages to find elevator guy, Rick, and shakes hands with everyone at the table. They offer him a seat and he takes it, which means I’ve got to suffer through Rick’s sneakily aggressive temperament again.
‘We’ll see you there?’ The way he said it gave me the ick. It wasn’t really a question. It was said like a sleazy salesman and equated to, ‘You don’t want to burn in hell, do you?’ He knew Tate wouldn’t—couldn’t—say no. I’ve crossed paths with men like him before. Men who think they’re smarter than everyone else. That no one will notice their fake charm and manipulative tactics.
I’ve pepper sprayed a few of them. Kicked a few more in their tiny, shriveled little nuts. Lucky for him, I’m under strict orders not to kick anyone in the nuts. Because I already see this heading that direction.
I reach the buffet line and take a plate then collect silverware and a napkin before working my way down the array of foods. The spread is impressive. They must be really desperate to recruit new members, because what I’m seeing has to have cost a pretty penny. There’s everything from prime rib to garlic shrimp. The side dishes are plentiful, and my mouth starts to water in anticipation for my own dinner.
Maybe this won’t be so bad after all if I get to eat this kind of shit.
I attempt to smile at a couple of the women also filling plates, but they ignore me just as much as their husbands ignore them, so I finally give up and go back to my task.
I”ve worked at Tate’s shop for about a month now and, thanks to the number of potlucks that happen there, I”ve gotten to see what he gravitates toward, so it”s not difficult to pick out what I think he’ll like. Chicken isn’t his favorite, so I go for the beef, choosing a thick slice of juicy prime rib before surrounding it with mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and corn. I line three dinner rolls along the edge, because the man loves his carbs, and stack on six foil-wrapped pats of butter because the only thing Tate loves more than carbs is butter.
Once his plate is filled to capacity, I go to the beverage station and again, the selection is easy. Tate carries a bottle of Dr Pepper zero around with him all day at work, so I choose a can of that, along with an ice-filled glass, and begin working my way through the room.
It”s like being in the twilight zone after working at a bar. Not a single man glances my way. No one tries to grab me or get my attention. It”s almost like I don”t exist.
Or more likely, don”t matter.
It makes me wonder why any of the women around me are here. Especially the ones who aren”t currently a part of the IGL. I know you don”t have to be part of the IGL to be married to a misogynistic asshole, but damn. A part of me still can’t believe there”s not an uprising being organized over by the buffet.
Then again, there kinda is. And I’m part of it.
When I reach Tate’s side, I do as Myra instructed. Keeping my eyes away from everyone, I carefully set his food in front of him, doing my best to be unobtrusive so I don”t interrupt the important male conversation going on. My delicate female ears couldn”t possibly understand the discussion they’re having about the fucking weather.
I have to lean close to Tate to put his drink in place. I start to set the can down, but then figure I should probably open it and fill the glass, so that”s what I do. I”m surprised these guys don”t want their wives hand feeding them too. The mental image of these grown men with bibs across their chests as a spoon airplanes into their open mouths has me choking down the need to laugh. Thankfully I manage to keep a straight face. I doubt something like that would go unnoticed.
Luckily, the slow glide of Tate”s hand sneaking along my ankle does go unnoticed by the rest of the table. It drags higher as I fill his glass, his rough palm smoothing over my calf before coming to a rest on my knee. His thumb strokes my skin even though he doesn”t outwardly acknowledge my existence. I’d say he was trying to soothe me, but since I’m not the one struggling, I have to believe the touch is almost an apology. Because he hates me having to do this more than I do.
Honestly, it”s turning out to be way easier than I expected. All I have to do is the exact opposite of whatever I would normally do, and I’m the perfect submissive wife.
I finish filling his glass, keeping the can in my hand since a good wife wouldn”t expect her husband to throw away his own trash. Tate’s hand slowly drags away from my skin, almost like he hates to stop touching me. Once it’s back in his lap, I step away without looking back, leaving him on his own. Hopefully he can handle it.
I scan the room, looking for where the rest of the wives have gone, only to discover a glimpse of them through a single-wide open door.
Holy shit. These motherfuckers won”t even eat in the same room as their wives.
Again, I”m forced to smother a laugh. At least I”m amused at this point instead of incensed. I”ve not been known to show the best behavior when I”m angry, so I thank the universe as I move into where the rest of the women are, only to find a second buffet. This one is nothing like the one for the men. There is no prime rib. There”s no shrimp. It”s fucking chicken and steamed vegetables. We don”t even get rolls.
But I’m starving, so I get myself a hunk of bland chicken, a scoop of broccoli, and a Diet Coke then go find an empty seat. The difference between the two rooms is almost eerie, and I try to take it all in as I sit down and pick at my less than appealing meal.
The volume in here is much lower, with every woman barely speaking above a whisper. The conversations going on around me are limited to children, cooking, and housekeeping. I zone out since I have less than nothing to add. I do try to occasionally nod along when everyone else is nodding, and smile when everyone else is smiling, but this shit is almost as boring as the food on my plate.
I”m just about to give up on the tasteless entrée, when I notice a familiar woman watching me across the room with a steady gaze. I look behind me to make sure she”s not focused on someone else, but when I turn back to face her, she tips her head the tiniest bit toward the hall.
My stomach flips. I know she’s the wife of one of the men we met at the elevator, but I think she might also be one of the women I’m looking for.
I collect my silverware and plate, giving the women at my table what I think might be a sweet smile, before getting up and walking away. After tossing my trash into the bin, I attempt to casually walk out into the hallway, my heart racing with excitement.
It”s fucking empty.
I glance back into the room, but the woman I saw earlier is gone, so I slowly creep along, looking for any sign of where she”s gone. As I pass an unmarked door, it cracks open. A hand flies out, gripping my arm and hauling me through a wider opening before closing us into the darkened space.
”Do you have a good recipe for boysenberry pie?” The words tumble out of the woman”s mouth, rushed and breathy.
I feel along the wall, scrambling around for a second before finally finding the light switch and flicking it on. Turning to face her, I take in her terrified expression. I reach out and take her hands in mine, holding them tight. ”I do. Would you like it?”
All the air rushes from her body at my answer, and she sags forward. I”m a little worried she”s gonna collapse, so I grab her in a hug as she lets out a sob.
I squeeze her tighter, tipping my head toward the ceiling as tears burn my own eyes. My throat is tight as I try to soothe her. ”Everything”s going to be okay. We’re going to get you out of here.” I take a deep breath, swallowing down my own surprising reaction because I need to be strong. For her. For the rest of the women who need me.
For Tate.
I lean back, meeting her eyes with mine. “My name’s Piper. Who are you?” I know all the names of the women who are planning to come with us, as well as their ages and basic descriptions, but that’s not nearly enough to make an identification.
That’s why I have the best boysenberry pie recipe in the world. No one will bat an eye at hearing one of these women ask me about cooking, and the filling choice is too unusual to be inadvertently brought up.
The woman takes a shuddering breath, her eyes shimmering in the low light of the utility closet we’re hiding in. “I’m Lucy.”
I smile. “Hi, Lucy. Myra is going to be so excited I found her best friend right out of the gate.” I’ve heard more about Lucy than the others. She’s our main contact point, and the one who’s put herself in the most danger. I want to squeeze her and tell her how proud I am of her for being so fucking brave. That not all women are as strong as she is. But we don’t have time.
“We need to get back out there before someone notices.” I reach up to grab a stack of napkins from the shelf so I can use them to explain my reasons for being in the supply closet. “If anyone’s out there I’ll get them back into the room so you can sneak out, okay?”
Lucy nods, the movement jerky.
I smile wide, because I’m starting to discover I don’t have to resort to violence to fuck shit up. I can do it without anyone even noticing I’m there. Maybe this experience will have me turning over a new leaf. Broadening my horizons.
I reach behind me to swipe one hand across my lower back as I move toward the door, just to be sure the flathead screwdriver I swiped from the toolbox in the back of Tate’s SUV is still twisted in the crackstrap of my thong.
Once again I almost snort out a laugh at this whole situation.
And at the likelihood of me turning over a new leaf.