6. Tatum
Chapter 6
Tatum
I slouch down further in my car seat as the three men built like linebackers who entered my house earlier, now exit it. My fingers grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles turning white. The woman—the one with legs for days and perfect beach waves—isn't with them. Of course she isn't.
I watch them climb into their black SUV, leaving my dear husband alone with his...esteemed guest.
The dashboard clock reads 10:15 PM. What kind of "diplomats" conduct business this late, then leave one member behind? The answer is obvious now—the kind that aren't diplomats at all.
I drum my fingers against the console, my mind racing with questions about the men who are just sitting in front of my house. Their expensive suits couldn't hide the menace radiating off them. The way they carried themselves—like wolves in designer clothing. Not politicians. Not businessmen. Something else entirely.
Ten minutes tick by on the dashboard clock. Right on schedule, the front door opens. The woman emerges, tugging at the hem of her dress. Her hair's a mess—guess Thomas got handsy.
"Ten minutes seems about right," I mutter, watching her totter down our front walk in those ridiculous heels. "I've had longer dental cleanings."
I laugh to myself. "I hope she has her vibrator in her clutch."
Not that I care about the fact that my husband just fucked this woman. What I do care about is the small device she just pulled from her purse, examining it before tucking it away.
She opens the door and slides into the passenger seat of the SUV, and I readjust myself, grateful for the tinted windows in my car. Through the windshield, I watch as she pulls out her phone, the blue light illuminating her face in the darkness.
The minutes crawl by. I check my own phone—no messages from Thomas asking where I am. Of course not. He's probably straightening his tie, or whatever else needs straightening after his little rendezvous.
"Come on, come on," I whisper, willing them to leave so I can process what I've witnessed.
The light in Thomas's office finally clicks off. A shadow moves past the window—his silhouette unmistakable even from this distance. The SUV's engine suddenly rumbles to life, headlights cutting through the darkness as they pull away from the curb.
I start my engine, keeping my headlights off as I pull away from the curb. Their taillights glow like demon eyes in the distance. Three cars separate us—perfect trailing distance.
"What the hell am I doing?" I mutter, gripping the wheel tighter. "Following potential criminals? Real smart, Tatum."
My pink sundress isn't exactly stealth wear, but neither is their vehicle—it stands out like a shark in a goldfish pond in this neighborhood.
The SUV winds through the streets, taking turns that lead us deeper into the industrial district. My hands are sweaty on the steering wheel as I maintain a safe distance between us. They finally pull into a garage attached to what looks like an abandoned warehouse on Mercer Street.
"Shit." I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it between the seats. My brother answers on the second ring.
"This better be good, Tate. I'm in the middle of?—"
"James, I need you to run a plate for me." I rattle off the number I memorized, along with a description of the vehicle. "Black Escalade, probably 2023. Heavily tinted windows, chrome trim."
"Hold up." Keys clack in the background. "Since when are you playing Nancy Drew? And why do you need?—"
"Remember when you said you owed me for covering for you at Christmas? Time to pay up, little brother."
He sighs. "Fine. Give me a minute." More typing. "Okay, the vehicle's registered to a shell company. Mercer Holdings LLC. But dig this—they own that warehouse at 1542 Mercer Street."
My stomach drops. "The one they just pulled into."
"They? Who's they? Tatum, what the hell are you mixed up in?"
"The less you know, the better." I watch as the garage door slowly closes. "But I might need another favor soon."
"Jesus Christ. You're gonna get me fired from the IT department."
"Love you too, baby bro." I end the call before he can protest further.
The warehouse looms in front of me, its windows dark except for one faint light on the second floor. Whatever Thomas is involved in, it's big enough to need fake companies and secret meetings. I snap a few pictures of the building before putting my car in drive.
Time to head home and play the dutiful wife. For now.
.
I pull into our driveway, my headlights sweeping across the too green lawn. The garage door lifts with its usual mechanical whir, and I park my car next to Thomas's precious BMW.
The kitchen door slams open before I can even grab my purse.
"Where the hell have you been?" His voice cuts through the garage. His collar is askew, and his hair's slightly mussed—not his usual perfectly coiffed look.
I take my time collecting my things. "Apparently a lot of people like to get their suits dry cleaned after 9pm. And you told me to take the long way."
"Three hours?" He blocks the doorway, arms crossed.
"Well, If anything, I'm thorough."
He doesn't move. "You're fucking lying."
"Why would I lie?" I step closer, squinting at his collar. "How was your meeting with those diplomats?"
His hand shoots up, grabbing my wrist. "What's your play here?"
"Nothing at all." I twist free of his grip.
The muscle in his jaw twitches. "You're walking a dangerous line… Just... Go the hell upstairs." He runs a hand through his hair. "I have work to do."
"Don't work too hard." I head for the stairs, patting his cheek as I pass. "Wouldn't want you getting worn out."
Thomas's hand shoots out, grabbing my arm and yanking me back before I can reach the stairs. His fingers dig into my skin, and I wince at the pressure.
"You think you're so clever with your little comments?" He shoves me against the wall, his other hand slamming beside my head. "You don't know anything."
I lift my chin, refusing to show fear. "You're right, I don't."
"Smart girl." His breath hits my face, smelling of scotch and mint—probably to cover up whatever else he's been doing with his mouth. "You know what I allow you to know. That's it."
"Let go of my arm."
He tightens his grip instead. "You're my wife. My property. Your job is to smile pretty for the cameras and keep your mouth shut. Nothing more."
"Property?" I laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. "Is that what you tell all your diplomats?"
His free hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there. A warning. "What I do, who I meet with is none of your business. You're here to play your part. Nothing more."
I swallow hard, forcing down the urge to knee him right where it would hurt most. His hand on my throat reminds me of just how much bigger he is, how much damage he could do if provoked. The smart play is to back down—for now.
"Okay." The words taste like acid.
His grip loosens slightly, surprise flickering across his face. "What was that?"
"I said okay." Each word carefully measured, steady. "I overstepped. It won't happen again."
He studies my face, searching for any hint of defiance. I keep my expression neutral, channeling years of practice at playing the perfect political wife. His hand drops from my throat.
"See? Was that so hard?" He straightens his tie, already dismissing me. "Now go upstairs and get ready for bed. I have some calls to make."
I nod demurely, rubbing my neck where his hand had been. The urge to strike back, to hurt him like he hurts me, burns in my chest. But I've learned something valuable tonight. Something worth more than the momentary satisfaction of violence.
"Yes, dear." I start up the stairs, my sundress swishing against my legs. Each step takes me further from the monster below, closer to my sanctuary.
"And Tatum?" His voice follows me up. "Don't ever make me remind you of your place again."
I pause, one hand on the banister. "Of course not, Thomas."
The sound of the study door closing echoes through the house. I continue up the stairs, my mind already racing with plans. Let him think he's won. Let him believe I'm cowed.