Page 27 of Dirty Ink

When had my hand come to rest against her knee? When had she moved in so close that her sweet whiskey-stained breath blew around my neck? When had her lips become so swollen, so wet, so alluring as she looked up at me with wide eyes?

“Why now what?” she shouted (there was no need to shout).

I knew I should scoot over. Should take my hand from her knee. Look at anything, anything other than her lips.

But there was my shoulder leaning against hers. My hand shifting up her thigh. My gaze fixed, absolutely fixed on Rachel’s mouth in the low light.

“Why a divorce now?” I asked. “If you’ve known that we were married all these years like you say, then why all of a sudden do you need a divorce? Want a divorce?”

Why not when we first woke up the next morning, whatever morning it was of that whirlwind week? Why not before she left forever? Why not any time at all if she knew where to find me? There was a stab of pain in my chest upon that realisation: she knew where to find me. All this time she knew. And she hadn’t come looking. Not like I had.

So why was I still moving closer to her? Why was my body doing what my heart knew it shouldn’t?

“I don’t know,” Rachel said, for a moment averting her eyes, scratching at the condensation-soaked label, bouncing her leg, the one against mine. “I didn’t need one until now.”

“What does that mean?”

Rachel licked her lips and looked back at me.

“I have a new role I’m up for,” she said. “A kind of big new role.”

“So?”

Rachel looked a little indignant. She roused herself slightly. Sat a little taller against the old leather cushions of the couch. Separated herself from me. Something that I wasn’t able to do.

“So,” she said, “it’s not like I could go on being a showgirl in Vegas, you know? I always wanted more. I always had bigger dreams than that.”

Bigger dreams than me. Was that what she was trying to say and unable to?

“And the girl who is hitched to some guy in Ireland, the result of a crazy, drunken weekend on the strip, is perfectly fine for the role of a burlesque dancer. But for this new role, this bigger role, this really fucking important role, well, he— they expect more.”

I was feeling a little indignant myself. Or maybe I was just feeling defensive. Maybe I was too drunk to tell the difference.

“So, what? You’re going to completely change for this role of yours? Erase all of who you are for it?” I said, scooting away myself this time. Crossing my arms. Getting angrier than I would have thought possible with this much alcohol in my veins. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

Rachel laughed.

“Doesn’t sound like me?” she echoed, voice leaping an octave or two and drawing more than couple of gazes who were eager for some entertainment. “You don’t know me.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Before I could realise how stupid they were. How ridiculous they were. How dangerous they were.

“I know you,” I growled, “I fucking know you.”

Rachel stared in shock at me. I cleared my throat and turned away, scratching at the back of my neck in embarrassment.

I heard Rachel shout at everyone who was watching, “Mind your own fucking business, you fucking loser shitheads!”

Then she said to me, smoothing her hands down her legs, “I’m different now. Quieter. Softer. Gentler… Sweeter.”

I raised an eyebrow at her, because surely she couldn’t fail to see the irony given what she’d just hollered out at strangers.

Rachel rolled her eyes and huffed. “It’s you.”

I raised my eyebrows. Seriously? I was the bad influence?

“I mean, it’s the alcohol.” Her eyes darted toward mine. “I—I’m not used to whiskey anymore.”

“So I don’t fit into this squeaky clean little image you need for this—for this big new role of yours.”

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