Page 76 of Dirty Ink

It took a second or two for them to realise that I was there. Standing at the top of the stairs like a wild-haired ghost. White pyjamas blowing in the breeze from the open window at the end of the hallway. Face haunted like I’d been wronged during my living years. And now I was out for vengeance.

They had fallen halfway up the staircase. The girl was on top of Mason. His hands were on her ass. Beneath the waistband of her jeans. Her high-pitched giggle caught in her throat when she saw me.

Mason had to twist his head around to see what Miss Last Night was looking at, the reason why she was squirming away from him. At first he looked just as surprised as she had. Then his face changed as I began walking slowly down the stairs toward the two of them. I’m not sure what it was. Intrigue. Excitement. Relief even. A bit of frustration. Always that undercurrent of anger and hurt. The lifeblood of our relationship. His face seemed to say: what the fuck took you so long, goddammit?

“Um, what the hell?” Miss Last Night said as she tugged up her shirt to cover her breasts. Breasts that had been pressed against my man. Dirty tits that had been longing for the mouth of my husband.

Calm as the grave, I said, fingers light on the handrail, “What the fuck indeed?”

“Look, um…who is this bitch?”

I smirked. Miss Last Night didn’t even know Mason’s name. How was she supposed to know how to swirl her tongue around his cockhead to get his hips to buck? How was she supposed to know when to pinch his nipples, that he liked it right before he was about to come? How was she supposed to know that he fell asleep almost instantly when you cuddled him from behind, like he counted your steady breaths on his back like sheep jumping over a fence? How was she supposed to know what only his wife could know?

What only I could know?

“Rachel,” Mason said.

But it wasn’t in answer to Miss Last Night’s question. His eyes were fixed on mine. Not hers. His attention was on me. She, for all he knew, had already left. Disappeared. Never fucking existed. He said my name to me, not her. Said it as a question. The question? What are you doing, Rachel? What do you want, Rachel? Rachel, your move.

My fingers suddenly tightened on the handrail. Before my touch had been as light as a feather. Now I was going to splinter the wood. Break it. Split it in two. My smile was cruel, vindictive, assured as I turned my head slowly toward Miss Last Night. She was looking desperately at Mason. She didn’t know that he couldn’t help her. Wouldn’t help. Didn’t want to fucking help her.

“This bitch,” I said slowly, savouring every word like honey drops, “is his wife.”

Miss Last Night laughed.

“You’re not fucking married,” she said to Mason. When she found his eyes still on me, still fixed on me, she said, a little less surely, “You didn’t say you were fucking married.”

Mason’s lips curled at the corners. His eyes flashed darkly.

His voice was thick, lustful as he said to me, not to her, not to fucking her, “I wasn’t sure whether I still was.”

Electricity sparked between us. I was surprised the neon light on the wall reading “Dublin Ink” didn’t spark. Didn’t shatter. Didn’t cascade down on us drops of glowing pink rain.

In his eyes I could see the darkness I used to stare into from my bed as Mason fucked his Miss Last Nights. I could see the way the chandelier rattled, feel the ceiling dust on my tear-stained cheeks. I could feel my desire, my lust, my panic, my fear, my anger as I remained there, frozen, as I imagined what he was doing, choreographed by their cries.

But I could also see that tonight would be different.

I would not remain down the hall staring into the darkness, fingers trembling over my wet panties. Mason would be there to brush away the dust from my cheeks. The bed would be empty of any desire, any lust, panic, fear, anger.

Because tonight I was going to be Miss Last Night.

“I think you should leave,” I said, not bothering to look over at the girl.

She tugged at Mason’s arm. Whispered, “Come on, let’s go.”

The poor thing didn’t realise I was talking to her. Didn’t know the decision had already been made. That she was already an unwelcome guest. That Mason and I, that my husband and I had already moved on. That she wasn’t even there anymore despite her tugging on his shirt like a pathetic little kid.

“I think you should leave before things get ugly,” I said, eyes still fixed on Mason.

He licked his lips, pupils widening. She should leave before she saw my naked body, saw how my husband salivated over it. Saw how he would never react to her naked body the way he did to mine. I spared her the details that things getting ugly meant rough, violent sex. Meant holes in the wall. Meant sweating bodies moving against one another in a way that only two as close as my husband and I together could know. Primal. Instinctual. Loud. The girl should leave before she witnessed a kind of passion that she would realise with crushing certainty that she would never experience, never know.

“Now, bitch,” I hissed, taking all the hate I felt for Mason and directing it at her.

It wasn’t fair. But fuck, when the hell was life ever fair? If it was fair Mason wouldn’t have left. If it was fair, I wouldn’t ever be in a position where I was unbuttoning my pyjama shirt in front of some random chick who thought she was going to get her brains fucked out by my husband.

When the final button was undone, I turned on the stairs. My hand trembled as I released the handrail. My knuckles were white. My fingers red. I turned and without another word, I climbed the stairs. I slipped the shirt from my shoulders. Let it fall behind me. At the top of the staircase I leaned over and pulled down my underwear. Slowly I stepped from them. One foot. The other. With a toe I pushed them off the top step. I could hear my panties, like the little flutter of a dove’s wing, falling to the stair below.

Naked there in the soft pink glow at the top of the stairs, I hesitated for just long enough to say, “Are you coming?”

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