16. Dante
Dante
I can almost taste the anxiety radiating off of Melody, and it's starting to put me off my sushi. I have no doubt that she'll be radiant—I meant what I said—but perhaps I can sweeten the pot a little for her.
"Are you almost finished? We have a few more stops on the docket today." I stretch my arms behind my head, hoping to exude a casual nature. She catches on immediately, as I'm starting to figure out.
"Dante, I just had my vagina poked by an old man. I am in no fucking mood. Can't you just take me back to the house and fuck off to whatever evil bidding you normally do?" Melody air quotes at me. Fuck, she's cute.
"Oh, trust me, love. You'll deeply enjoy my evil bidding today." I smirk and gesture for the waiter to bring out our check.
A few moments—and about a hundred dollars—later, Melody angrily follows me back to the car. Angling my phone away from her view, I tap out a message to Roman.
Out of office for the day. Taking the wife out.
Yes, sir.
His response is immediate, as it always is. I'm sure The Marbas and Cherie won't be pleased, but I don't really care. I'm taking my wife out on the town, whether she likes it or not.
As I maneuver to the interstate, I sneak peeks at her.
She stares out the window, unblinking, almost perfectly still.
It's eerie, just like the night I watched her all those weeks ago.
This must be some form of stress response.
Completely immobilizing her until she passes out.
It's not a very good stress response, but where I'm taking her will most definitely relax her.
"Pick the music," I say and gently tap her on the shoulder. She doesn't move. I poke a little harder, harder, until she snaps her gaze over to me.
"What? Where are we?" she gasps.
"Just outside the city, and we've got about an hour and a half to go. Pick the music," I repeat and gesture to the sound system.
Melody grumbles and hooks her phone up to the radio, fiddling with the volume knobs until the sultry sounds of…
90s hip-hop fills the air. Alright, not my choice for a spa day.
But to be entirely fair, I didn't tell her we're going to the spa.
She bobs her head to the beat and half-heartedly raps along.
I'm in deep shit. I think I like my wife.
After receiving the full Melody Music Tour, we pull up outside the Cocoa Spa.
My family has held partial ownership of the spa and attached hotel for years, and the staff know me very well .
Not fifteen minutes after arriving, we're ushered to a private room together, handed fluffy bath robes and branded slippers, then espresso martinis.
"Can't have these when you're pregnant, either," I say as I lift my glass to hers.
"Yup," she mumbles as she takes a long slurp. Smacking her lips in satisfaction, she turns to me. "Why are we here?"
"Isn't it obvious?" I sweep my arms wide, nearly sloshing out the drink. "I'm pampering you. Or did you get all of that out of your system this week? To the tune of a couple thousand dollars?"
"Happy wife, happy life." She plops herself down onto an Adirondack-style chair and fluffs out her waves. I lower myself down next to her. The room they've assigned to us is exquisite, but I wouldn't expect anything less.
Matching massage tables stand proudly in the center of the room, and a two-person alcove is built into one of the walls.
The sauna, of course. Our day clothes have been hung with care on a rack above the towel warmer.
There isn't a speck of dust to be found, though the place doesn't smell of the industrial cleaner I know they use.
In fact, the whole place seems to have the scent of chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven.
The longer we sit quietly together, the more relaxed Melody looks. She flinches a tiny bit when the door swings open and two massage therapists file in serenely but quickly composes herself.
"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Lyons. Have you selected your preferred packages for today?" Kathy, a middle-aged woman with an air of professionalism about her, asks.
"Indeed, we have. The King and Queen treatments, respectively. And please." I smile at Melody. "Keep the martinis coming."
"It'll be our pleasure."
Kathy extends her hand to Melody, who gratefully takes it and allows herself to be led to the massage table. The other woman, Eleanor, looks a bit nervous and tentatively holds her hand out to me. I wave her off and lie down on the table next to Melody, angling my head to watch her.
With every stroke of Kathy's firm hands, Melody melts into the table. Something like pride warms in my chest. My wife is happy . And I don't hate it.
Eleanor gently angles my head into the circular cushion, obscuring my view of Melody.
As the woman works on my trapezius muscles, I feel a soft hand gently graze my fingers.
I lift my head just enough to see that my wife is reaching for me, and I clamp my fingers down on hers.
Her sigh of contentment is audible, and that pride-like feeling in my chest heats again.
I hold her hand until the massage therapists gently pry us apart, before asking us to turn over onto our backs.
Fine by me, I can see my wife. She lazily smiles at me before closing her eyes again.
I follow suit and lose myself in the deep pressure.
Eleanor is amazing, and I know Kathy is the best of the best. Every ounce of tension drains away to the sound of new-age flutes.
Two hours fly by in pure bliss. My wife is glowing . Her hair is a little ruffled from the finishing head massage, but she looks so satisfied. I'm not sure how many espresso martinis she's had, but a pink flush stains her chest and cheeks. She grins at me and swirls the drink in her hand.
"How'd you drink those while getting massaged?" I ask, chuckling.
"There's this really cool new invention called a straw," she laughs back. "You should try it sometime."
I like this. I like that she feels comfortable enough to joke with me.
It's a far cry from where we started—which reminds me, like a punch to the gut.
I have to talk to Roman. The plan is off.
If, after producing an heir for me, she wants to leave?
She can. I'll send her on her merry way, with the vast majority of my fortune.
I'll follow her to the ends of the earth, of course, but she could leave.
"What's up?" Melody tilts her head as she takes another sip of her martini—through a straw— and I want to squirm in my seat.
"Nothing. Just thinking about what else you can't do when you're pregnant." I force a smile. "Ready for the hot tub?"
I lead my wife to the hotel elevators as she giggles to herself and stumbles in her steps. Do I regret instructing the spa staff to keep her supplied with martinis at all times? Logically, yes. But she looks so happy . I've never seen her smile, genuinely smile, as much in one day as I did today.
The receptionist looks up from her computer at the front desk, concern written across her face.
I smile and wave, while allowing Melody to press the "up button," as she insists upon calling it.
If it were a hotel I didn't own, I would be worried for tomorrow morning.
But I know the staff pride themselves on their professionalism—they wouldn't work here, otherwise—and I know that the receptionist will already have hangover remedies set to arrive before we wake up.
Melody, it seems, is a mischievous drunk. Stepping into the elevator, she presses the button for every single floor and sings out the numbers.
"Yes, love, there are twenty floors. Excellent work.
We're going to the top," I murmur and pull her into my side.
She slumps in with a sigh and another intoxicating giggle.
I'm content to hold her, just like this, as the elevator ascends and stops at every single floor.
Finally, we reach the twentieth floor, and I shuffle her out to our home for the night.
The Lyons Suite, narcissistically named, is expansive and books for well over three grand per night.
Melody gasps as I open the door and flick on the light, revealing a tastefully decorated sitting room.
Plush velvet sofas and accent chairs are arranged in a semicircle, facing the fireplace.
A fully stocked kitchen with white marble countertops flanks us to the left, and the bedrooms are tucked away to the right.
Floor-to-ceiling windows are the crowning piece, providing panoramic views of the rolling hills and old-growth trees.
"Wow," Melody breathes as I deposit her into an emerald green club chair.
"Not quite roughing it, huh?" I say as I kneel before her and remove the spa slippers.
She refused to get dressed after our treatments and proudly walked out into the hotel lobby, barely contained by the fluffy white robe.
I snickered to Kathy when we left, and she assured me Melody's clothes would find their way to our door.
Now, though, I'm not quite sure I want them to.
She cloaks herself in clothing. The uniform of her shitty diner job, the designer clothes she's had with me.
She morphs into her own expectations, based on her appearance.
But in this white monogrammed robe with matching slippers—several martinis deep—I feel like I can finally see her .
And god, do I like what I see.
She shifts herself to sit sideways on the chair, throwing her hair back over the arm. Her pedicured toes—blood red polish—wiggle in delight as I grab her foot and massage the sole.
"Why me?" Melody whispers with a sigh. I almost didn't hear it, but the question nearly stops my heart.
Stalling for time, I clear my throat. "What do you mean, love?"
"Why me? All this money, power, influence. Why did you do… everything?" Her eyes are glassy, half-drunk and half-tearful. The sight grips my heart. Shit, I guess I have one of those after all.
It's a valid question. Truth be told, she was a whim. A curiosity. A spitfire who called me an asshole and a dickhead, then tried to stab me in the face.
A challenge.
"Because you're perfect," I replied, watching her closely. "Because you don't defer to me. Because you fight me. You're brutal and ruthless—Frank can attest to that. You run. You don't just give in. And, above all else, you're mine. I knew you were mine the instant you tried to kill me."
"I did?" She furrows her brow. "I don't remember that."
"You did. You picked me up off the side of the road somewhere in the Pine Barrens. You blew off my instructions and stabbed at me, but you hit the headrest." I smile at the memory. My little psycho. My murderous wife.
"Sounds like me," she giggles, then turns somber. "But is that really what you want? Is that really the kind of kid you want to have? What if it—what if it turns out like me?"
I'm a fucking idiot. Of course, that's why she's been anxious. In an attempt to console her, I run my hands up her calves and dig my fingers into the thick muscle, releasing the tension. "That's exactly the legacy I want."
A single tear runs down her beautiful face. She's silent, perfectly still, barely breathing. I slide my hands back down to her foot and press my thumbs into the arch. After a few moments, she nods.
"Let's get you to bed, hmm?" I say and pat the top of her foot.
She rubs her eyes and yawns loudly. Reluctantly, she pulls herself up and follows me to the expansive bedroom of our suite.
I draw the blinds and silence both of our phones.
When I turn back to the bed, she's already snuggled in under the covers.
Her chest rises and falls slowly. I can't help but admire her dark eyelashes as her lids flutter closed.
She mumbles something under her breath as I crawl into bed and pull her close.
My dangerous little spoon. She wriggles and shifts herself, getting comfortable, and then places her hand over mine on her hip.
"Mexico," she slurs in her half-sleep.
"Hmm?" I'm falling fast behind her, lulling myself into slumber around the gentle heat of her body.
"I've always wanted to go to Mexico." She inhales deeply and lets out a long breath. "Will you take me there?"
"I promise."