Chapter 11 – Misplayed Pas
Ice Ain't Always Smoothe r
December
Jaxson
Twisting off the shower knob, steam curls around me as I grab a towel.
My hands shake, whether from lingering shame or the booze still in my system, I don't know.
I scrub my mouth with my toothbrush, working to erase the bitter taste of last night.
The mint stings, and I wince. Clean mouth. Conscience not so much.
Wrapping a robe around myself, I step into the bedroom.
The walk-in closet is just beyond the bed.
Mandy is still sprawled across the sheets as if she belongs there.
She smiles slow and lazily, her gaze roaming up my bod y.
Tension coils in me as she reaches out, fingers lightly brushing my arm as I pass.
I stiffen. Guilt, regret, and a bit of leftover desire I shouldn't feel wash over me.
I know she shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be doing this with her, but the familiar pull is still there.
She's warm, tempting, and easy. I'm hungover, not drunk, so I dodge her touch.
She wants me to smile, relax, and play along. I don't.
"Jaxson," she purrs, "Do you feel better after your shower?"
Gritting my teeth, I mutter, "Yeah. I just need to get dressed." I nod toward the closet.
Stepping inside, I lock the door, hearing her on the other side.
"Do you need something for a headache, honey?" she coos.
"I'm fine," I snap through the door, pulling clothes from hangers and drawers. Every instinct yells to put distance between us.
Once dressed, I whip out of the closet and grab my phone and wallet.
Mandy leans against the wall, blocking my path. She reaches out and wraps her arms around my neck.
"Are you okay, baby?" she whispers, her face close to mine that I feel her breath on my cheek .
I don't answer. I barely have time to think before she lunges, her mouth finding mine in a rush of heat and impulse, and I instantly respond.
The kiss turns messy and urgent, tongues colliding as she nips and sucks, breath hitching as I jerk her closer so there's no mistaking what I want from her.
I feel the pull, even knowing what it costs. Our mouths meet hard and hungry.
It's reckless and wrong, full of everything we shouldn't be doing, and I can't stop.
I tell myself it doesn't mean anything. This is just a physical attraction.
Wanting her doesn't mean I don't love Melly.
The guilt presses in, but I shove it aside, like I always do, drowning it with distraction.
It's easier that way, with another drink.
I don't want to think. I want the rush, need the voice in my head to leave me alone about Melly.
Then Melly's face appears in my head. Soft, warm, loving Melly. Looking up at me with trusting eyes, and I push Mandy away.
"I told you I'm fine," I repeat, firmer. My eyes flick past her to my escape route.
Her smile falters, knowing she's near to crossing the line. She drops her arms and steps aside.
"Where are you going?"
"Out. "
"I'll go with you," she says, dropping onto the bed to put on her shoes.
"Alone."
"But… "
"I said alone." My voice rises as I lose my patience. I don't wait another minute. I turn and move past her into the hall.
At the elevator, I punch the call button. The doors open, and I step inside, selecting the ground floor. Sagging against the wall, I lean my head back and close my eyes, sighing.
Finally, I can breathe.
My head clears as the doors slide open, and I turn towards the hotel bar. It's only noon, but I need a drink.
I pull myself onto the barstool and rest my head on my hands.
"What can I get you, kid?" a voice asks.
I look up. The bartender stands in front of me with a bar towel draped over his shoulder.
He's tall and built like a linebacker, probably early forties, with steel-grey eyes and brown hair clipped close on the sides, leaving tight curls at the top, gathered into a man bun.
"You want something to eat?" he asks, sliding a one-page menu in front of me.
"No," I clip. "Macallan Twelve. Double. Neat. "
"It's five o'clock somewhere," the bartender shrugs, pouring a slow ribbon of amber into a heavy glass. I tip my head back and drain it. The burn is immediate. I hold the rim to my lips a second longer, savoring the edge with a grimace, then set the glass down and tap the bar.
"Again."
The bartender raises an eyebrow but continues to pour. He leans on the bar, bottle still in hand, and asks, "You're one of those hockey players from the game last night?"
"Guilty." I shoot back the next drink, this one going a little slower. I set the glass down and take a breath.
"Troubles?" he asks, as typical bartenders are wont to do.
"Yeah," I reply, swallowing hard and letting it spill.
"I opened my marriage. My wife didn't want to, and we haven't spoken in months.
I feel… guilty, ashamed. And now there's this clingy other woman.
She won't leave me alone. She's the temptation that made me want to do this.
I thought I needed it… you know, living a little, with hookups and one-night stands.
But it hasn't turned out like I thought it would.
Women… they want material things, drin ks, dinner.
It's always more, more, more, and it's exhausting.
"Ahhh," the bartender nods, refilling my glass when I tap the bar top.
"Sounds like you got a bad flare-up of the grass-isn't-greener syndrome—or, in your case, kid, maybe the ice didn't turn out better .
" He laughs at his lame joke. "And trust me, I've seen a few lawns in my day… and even more ice rinks."
"What do you mean?" I blink, taking a sip of my drink.
He sets the bottle down. "I was married once.
The divorce was finalized a couple of months ago.
Beautiful woman, a little older than me.
We were together twenty years, and she looked just as stunning the day the divorce was signed as she did the day we said our vows.
She was my person, and we still loved each other. "
"I don't understand. What happened?"
"Giselle became afflicted with the same condition as you.
The grass looked greener elsewhere." He leans in, voice low, confiding.
"She got breast cancer a few years ago and fought hard, lost a breast, but came out on the other side stronger than ever.
Still beautiful. Had reconstruction surgery.
Developed a new lease on life and wanted to see the world.
I own this bar, and she works hard as an executive.
We could afford it, so we went traveling. Laughed, loved, life was good.
"Then one day she came to me. Said she felt like she was missing out on something. Admitted she'd had a crush on a co-worker for years and never acted on it. But he was leaving the company, and she wanted my permission to sleep with him for one night."
I stare at him, stunned at what he's confiding to me.
"I refused," he continues. "She told me that my saying no was just proof of my toxic masculinity and controlling traits.
Her sister blew up my phone the next day, yelling that I didn't understand what my wife had gone through.
According to her, Giselle needed to explore her sexuality to rebuild herself. "
I swallow hard, staring at my empty glass. A part of me wonders if the bartender is being this blunt and open because he commiserates with Melly.
"Later that same day, my wife came back and apologized for asking permission. Said it put too much pressure on me. That it was her body and her choice, so she told me she was going to sleep with him anyway. The day after, she'd come home to me and our everyday life and put it all behind us .
He sighs, shaking his head. "I told her it was a hard no." His eyes glisten with pain.
My mind drifts for a moment to Melly. Realization hits me. All those months, I pushed her for an open marriage. It had to happen because I was already cheating with Mandy. If I had permission, it wouldn’t matter that I'd already started.
Right?
His next words catch my attention.
"There are some things you just can't forgive, you know?" he says, turning his back to me and scrubbing at his eyes. "It's not about pride when you love someone, it's about respect."
He faces me again, red-rimmed eyes gleam with accusation.
"We teach people how to treat us by our reactions.
Giselle ignored my boundaries, dismissed my feelings, and made her priorities about her desires crystal clear through her actions.
Sure, she asked first, but when I said no, that should've been the end of it.
It wasn't. She thought she could call my bluff.
If our relationship was so one-sided that she felt she had the power to do that, what would she do next? I had to make it clear she couldn't treat me that way and get away with it. My next relationship? She'll know my hard l ines. I love hard, but I demand respect even harder."
"What did she do?"
"She refused to talk about it anymore. At that point, I was beaten down. I just kept asking her not to do it. What else could I do? Chain her to the bed?"
He fidgets with the towel, wiping the already clean bar top.
Pausing, he locks eyes with me and continues.
"The entire office was meeting after work at a nearby bar.
I waited outside in my car, across the street.
I had to get a look at this man who was so special she'd risk her marriage for the chance to be with him. "
"Did you confront him?"
"No," he shakes his head. "I'm no coward," he says, "but who was I to stop the demise of our marriage if she wasn't even willing to respect our vows.
I waited outside the bar. Finally, the group came out, all gathered around this one man, patting him on the back and shaking his hand.
It was apparent that it was him. But what shocked me was his appearance.
The comparison was brutal. About the same height and age as me, yet he had a large pot belly and a receding hairline with a bald spot on top.
I'm 43, and I've always worked out and stayed fit.
So, if a woman's going to choose, I thought it'd be me.
But she chose him that night. I couldn't understand the appeal. "
I glance down at his arms, visible beneath his rolled-up cuffs.
Massive and muscular, they matched the build of his chest and shoulders.
Tattoos spiral from his wrists up his arms, disappearing under the sleeves, then re-emerging across his chest and neck, exposed by the unbuttoned collar of his shirt.
The bartender's eyes darken, remembering. "They left the bar hand in hand and walked next door to the hotel, laughing. I just watched from my car and cried. Hard."
Slumping against the bar, he continues. "I went home, packed her bags, and sent them to her sister's house. Paid the driver extra to put it on her sister's porch. Changed the locks the next morning before she even left the hotel."
He laughs bitterly. "You know what the most tragic thing was? When she finally cornered me here at the bar, she wanted to know what was going on. She said we'd discussed this, that it was time to go back to normal, that nothing had changed. She insisted we sit down and talk it out if I needed to."
He peers at me, haunted.
"Everything had changed. I tried to talk before she destro yed us, and she shut me down. Now I was done. I had nothing left to say."
He exhales sharply and starts drying a glass. "I filed for divorce soon after. It was cut and dried, no adult kids, simple division of assets."
He sets the glass on the shelf and starts on another, giving me the side-eye. "And that's the thing about grass, kid, sometimes it looks greener. Maybe even smells sweeter. But it's not worth what you already have."
I grip my glass tight, feeling the edges dig into my hand.
"She comes in here from time to time, begging me to take her back, but there's no going back for me. And, there's no going back for Giselle. Not from the moment she gave what was mine to someone else."
He turns his back to me, humming to the Christmas music coming through the overhead speakers. I rub my hand through my hair and wish life had been simpler, hoping I'd not been greedy. I have to admit to myself that I forced this on her. I pull out my cellphone and begin typing a message to Melly.
What do I say? Hi, sorry it's been months.
No, this is something to do in person. Maybe I can talk to her after I get rid of Mandy for good. I can't do any thing with Mandy hanging around. I back out the text and put my phone in my pocket.
"Gray?" A woman's voice comes from the door of the bar. She's late forties, femininity in every step despite her tear-stained eyes and the clothes that hang off her like she's lost weight.
She stops at the bar, her eyes locking on the bartender's back. "Grayson, won't you talk to me, please?"
Grayson shakes his head, towel in hand, voice gentle but firm. "Nothing left to talk about, Giselle."
She breaks down in tears, trying to go behind the bar. "Yes, there is, Grayson,' she sobs, voice breaking. "I love you. You still love me, I know you do."
"Giselle, sweetheart," he replies almost sadly, "there are some things that love can't overcome. If you really loved me, we'd still be married. The last man to touch you would've been me."
He gently tugs her toward the door, pulling her arms from around him. "Honey, you need to leave now. We have nothing to talk about. Leave before security sees you."
The entire time he's gently coaxing her toward the door, she's holding him and begging him. "If you'll just l isten and talk to me, Gray, we can get past this. Please, love… don't shut me out."
A moment later, two security guards arrive, and Gray hands her over. They carefully guide her toward the exit, talking softly to her as she cries.
Grayson sits on the end barstool, wiping his eyes yet again. "Yeah… I still love her," he mutters, almost to himself. "It's going to take a while to get over this. But without trust… love doesn't mean anything!"
I grip the edge of the bar, shaking. This moment hits me hard. Reality is crashing in.
Was I Giselle? Did I think I could have it both ways? Have I lost the love of my life?