Page 30 of Dirty Ink

I smiled down at her. Drummed my fingertips against my legs. “Five weeks.”

“Three.”

“A month.”

Rachel hesitated. “A month?”

I nodded. “Thirty days.”

Rachel bit her lip. “And then you sign the papers?”

“And then you land your big new role.”

Rachel considered my offer for a moment. Then stuck out her hand. I pulled a key from my back pocket before slipping my hand into hers. We shook, but instead of letting her go I drew her in closer.

“There’s a room at my place, second floor of Dublin Ink,” I whispered. “It’s the first door on the left.”

Rachel’s chest was heaving. Her breath was coming in short little pants.

“It’s got the biggest bed in the place.”

She tried to pull away, but I held her tight. Tighter.

“The springs are mostly gone,” I continued in her ear, “The thing’s noisy as hell. And good lord how it bangs against the wall.”

Rachel’s voice was tense. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” I said, making sure she kept hold of the key as I slipped my hand from hers.

Rachel’s eyes were dilated as she finally looked back up at me. I almost felt a little bad. A part of me could almost believe that she wanted me. Wanted me like she once had.

“Because I need you to know which bedroom not to go in.”

I patted her cheek and brushed past her shoulder. Walked away. Found the first woman at the bar.

And said hello to Miss Last Night.

Rachel

Mason walked up to the woman at the bar so easily. I sat alone on the couch. Had it been that easy with me? In Vegas in that casino on that bar stool all those years ago. Had he walked up to me like he just walked up to her? Had the conversation come easily with me the way it was coming easily with her? Had my smiles been quick like hers? My laughter fast flowing like hers? Had I fallen for him without any protest at all the way I was watching her fall?

Had it been that easy for him? When it was me?

I was out of beer and Mason’s hand was at the small of the woman’s back. I wasn’t sure which was worse. At least the beer situation I could fix. I could get up and stalk over to the bar. I could slam my fist down. Rattle glasses. Knock over bottles. I could shout out, “Give me a goddamn beer. Right now!” But what in God’s name was I supposed to do about Mason’s hand there at the small of the woman’s back?

I couldn’t get up and stalk over there. I couldn’t push the woman away and take her place on the bar stool. I couldn’t slip onto the seat and face Mason’s amused eyes, his eyebrow arched to show he was intrigued. I couldn’t tell him that I didn’t want him to leave with anyone else but me. That I didn’t want anyone else in his bed but me.

That I was his wife and I wanted to be his wife and I wanted him to fuck me like I was exactly that: his wife. His lover. His everything.

I couldn’t do that.

I couldn’t do the opposite either.

I’d had all night to fess up. I’d had more than enough liquid courage to tell the truth. More than enough “fuck it” juice. My lips should have been plenty slippery enough to slip up at one point or another.

But I hadn’t.

And I couldn’t.

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