Page 33 of Dirty Ink

What would it be like to go over to her and gently kiss her awake? To whisper something stupid and ridiculous and impossible like, “Hey, baby, here’s an Advil. I’m making pancakes.” I didn’t know how to make fucking pancakes.

The fact that I didn’t know how to make pancakes made me angry. The fact that I couldn’t make pancakes for Rachel made me irrationally fucking angry. And the fact that I knew my anger had nothing at all to do with pancakes made it all the fucking worse.

I was probably still a little hammered. That was it. That was why I was swaying there in the doorway like a fecking eejit. Making up little fantasies like a little schoolgirl. Dreaming about what might have been when what might have been didn’t exist. Couldn’t exist. Wouldn’t exist.

Rachel didn’t just leave me for a girls’ night. She left me for life. Apparently for a better life. A richer life. A life with more opportunities for big roles. A life where she didn’t wear sequins at the corners of her eyes. Where she didn’t dance with pasties on her nipples. Where she didn’t need me. Didn’t want me. A life she wanted more. Maybe always wanted more.

It wasn’t the first time I hadn’t been enough for someone. Hadn’t been enough to stick around for.

I tripped over Rachel’s purse as I stepped inside the room. The divorce papers went skidding out across the rug. I stepped on them—ah alright, maybe I ground them down with my heel—on my way to the side of the bed.

Now, how exactly does one wake one’s wife? A soft, gentle hand on the shoulder. A slow rubbing of the lower back, starting with a feathery touch. A whisper in the ear. Something lovely. Something sweet.

Maybe I messed it up because I wasn’t all that used to being someone’s hubby. I’d apparently been one for years, but I sort of missed out on the experience part. The trial runs. The adjustment period. The real-life bollocks after the honeymoon phase, as they call it. I was rusty. Maybe that’s why I startled Rachel awake, oops, rather than slowly rousing her from her drunken slumber.

Or maybe I was just a teeny, tiny bit petty. And a whole hell of a lot butt-hurt.

“Wifey!” I hissed as I shook Rachel’s whole body. Palms on her back like an overeager puppy ready for his breakfast. “Wifey, hey, wifey!”

Seeing her wide, startled, searching eyes, I almost felt bad. I mean, she probably didn’t know which continent she was in, let alone which country. And here was this big tattooed Irishman yelling in her face. I’d been there, too. The confusion first. The realisation second. The impending hangover third. All worse than the one before. All sucky. All unavoidable.

“Well, aren’t you looking a stunner this morning?” I said as Rachel wiped a long line of drool from her mouth. A line of spit stretched from her lips to her finger and I added with a grimace, “Just absolutely stunning.”

“Fuck you,” Rachel grumbled. She flopped her head back down onto the pillow and tried to shove me away with all the strength of a newly birthed kitten.

“Eh, eh, eh,” I said, patting her cheek as she groaned. “A good wife is never negligent in her duties.”

“Make your own goddamn bacon,” she muttered, eyes falling shut again.

Despite the smears of makeup and the foul alcohol, most-likely-no-teeth-brushing breath, Rachel looked like an angel with her eyes closed, hands tucked up beneath her cheek. I almost gave up and left.

Then I remembered that she’d already done that: given up and left.

I didn’t feel at all bad about climbing over her and rolling her over till she fell out the bed.

“Mason, goddammit!” Rachel shouted as she glared up at me from the floor.

I grinned down at her, chin against the edge of the mattress. She let out a groan and buried her eyes into the crook of her elbow.

“It’s not exactly breakfast that I’m looking for, babe,” I told her, finding myself having way more fun than I should have. “I need you to serve up something a little different.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

I plucked Rachel on the nose. She smacked my hand away.

“Our little deal,” I reminded her. “I need you to serve matrimonial ire. Righteous indignation. Familial rage.”

Rachel peered up at me from underneath her arm still flung over her face. I smiled down at her.

With a groan, Rachel sat up. With another groan, she fell back atop me in bed.

And then there we were, the two of us. In bed together. Husband and wife. Wife beginning to snore. Husband beginning to get a boner.

I climbed out of bed before anything could get too noticeable. The plan was to keep Rachel around so I could figure out what the hell I wanted. Or didn’t want. The plan was not to show my hand (rod-hard cock) right off the bat.

“Wifey, darling,” I said, sweetly leaning over to whisper in Rachel’s ear. “You need to go get rid of my Miss Last Night. Otherwise you’re not getting rid of me. Please and thank you.”

Rachel’s head almost collided with my nose. She blinked one eye open.

---