Page 3 of Hotwife

“Do you not even notice my tits up to my chin, Cedric?” I crossed my arms and pushed my bowl forward, no longer hungry.

His eyes glanced up and then back down to the page. “You look nice, Dot, you always look nice.”

An exhale filled the space while my husband poured through his most current case to obsess over. I stood, clearing the dishes and heading to the sink without any further acknowledgement. He wasn’t even fun to fight with anymore. I’d bait him and he’d be nice. I’d throw some sort of dramatic fit and he’d smile and call me Dot, only he called me that, and I’d wonder how I could even be mad at him.

He’d given me everything. I had a huge, model home that had been featured in Seattle Homes Magazine. A pink Porsche that people took selfies with in parking lots. Any material thing I wanted was mine. Most of all, though, he was so freaking kind. Cedric made me a latte and breakfast in bed every morning he was home. My car always had gas, so I didn’t have to stop. He sent goodnight texts every night he wasn’t home, which was most of them. My husband cared for me and I cared for him too, deeply.

That was the problem. Our problem wasn’t a lack of love, or friendship, or even attraction in my case. The problem was that even though I had everything any woman could ever want. A handsome, successful man, money, fine things, and genuine love … I wanted more. I wanted sex. No, I wanted him to fuck me. Fuck me hard.

But he wouldn’t give me that.

The one thing I didn’t have from him. The one thing he didn’t want to give, or give enough of, kept me fixated. It kept me in the beds of strangers with my husband’s consent. I should have been fine with our arrangement. I was getting off. All marriages have to make compromises, right? No one is perfect. No relationship is as good as it looks on the outside. But I couldn’t help it. I wanted him. I wanted my husband, and he didn’t want me back. Not in the same way, at least.

And because I’m a selfish bitch, it’s all I could think about.

two

Thank God my car’s windows were tinted to the maximum legal limit. Sucking the sugary chocolate off my thumb, I pressed the pink lid onto the glass container, tossing the plastic packaging into the backseat.

Chocolate frosted brownies courtesy of Mam’s Bakery on fifth street.

Today’s meeting was at Eva’s house. Well, house was putting it mildly. I had a house. A big house. Eva had a mansion. Eva Gregory was the Chief of Surgery’s wife. A position my husband was gunning for, provided Henry Gregory retired on time next year. I’m sure my husband was telling the truth when he said he wanted me to make friends here in Washington. When we moved here, I hadn’t known a soul or ever set foot outside Georgia. Joining the Doctor’s Wives Club seemed like a natural, albeit pretentious, place to make friends. But I wondered if somehow my pure-hearted man had an ulterior motive in sending me to cozy up with Eva and gain intel on Dr. Gregory. Cedric did seem particularly interested in any mention of him or his career plans. On the seldom occasion Eva even mentioned it.

No, usually these meetings were just giant brag-and-bitch fests.

My curly red hair instantly soaked in the humidity and frizzed the moment I stepped out of the car. At least the rain let up long enough for me to click my pumps down Eva’s winding brick walkway. In Georgia, after a thunderstorm, the air smelt like bitter soil and fresh cut grass. In Seattle, though, the only aroma was concrete and mold. My chest tightened remembering home. If only we could have stayed. If only the incident never happened, we might still be there.

Pausing with a jump, I almost ran smack into a woman standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the grand house.

“Oh, hi, sorry,” she apologized, holding her handbag to her ribs like a kid with their stuffed animal.

I’d never seen her before, but her Birkin bag told me she must be in the Doctor’s Wives Club. “No worries. You coming in?” I asked, gesturing towards the ominous navy blue set of double doors.

“Do I have to?” she replied with a nervous sort of giggle that made me instantly like her.

“Yes, I hate to tell you, but it’s a requirement. If you want to be a snooty bitch, you have to attend our meetings,” I replied, quirking a sarcastic eyebrow. “The snacks are horrible, but the gossip is pretty juicy. I heard Meredith’s got a new nose and I’m dying to check it out.”

Her answering giggle shook her prim blonde bob as her shoulders loosened and she dropped her bag to her side. “I’m Cora Sanderson,” she extended a hand. “Just moved here. My husband took a job at Evergreen Hospital and is insistent I make friends. Oh, please say you’ll be my friend. You seem somewhat normal.”

A short laugh escaped my throat. “Hey, I’m Dorthea Winslow, but everyone calls me Dolly. Somewhat normal is probably a compliment,” I grinned. “My husband’s at Evergreen too. Neurosurgeon.” Suddenly, water began tapping the lid of the brownie tray.

“Shit, this goddamn rain again,” Cora cursed as we hiked up the stairs to the porch. “How am I supposed to survive this constant bad weather?”

“The same way we survive everything, darling, we pretend,” I smirked, pressing the doorbell. Cora’s frustrated candor revived a part of me, all while the tang of longing reminded me of how much I missed my sister. I hadn’t seen Odette in four months. Despite texting nearly every day, it didn’t feel like enough.

The door opened with a flourish as Eva’s sing-song voice welcomed us in. “Ladies, so glad you’re here. Come in, come in!”

“Dolly, you’re looking marvelous, as always. We missed you at the last meeting,” she said with her usual pop of her red lips as each cheek touched mine briefly.

“Hello, Eva. Yes, I was feeling under the weather.” More like being felt up under Travis, my date two weeks ago. Which reminded me I hadn’t heard from him. Then again, my burner phone was tucked in my nightstand. I’d let it die after my lunch-romp with Kenneth and hadn’t bothered to recharge it. Not having my sex-cell on me was a way I found I could distance myself from my lovers. I was never available, physically or otherwise. I pulled out the phone, and the men, when I needed them and never more.

“And you must be Dr. Sanderson’s wife. Welcome to Seattle!” Eva kissed each of Cora’s cheeks, much to my new friend’s stiff blushing.

“Yes, but I go by Cora,” my new friend muttered under her breath, and I hid a grin.

Today Eva Gregory’s accent was a mixture of French and British. The fact that I’d made it through these twice-monthly gatherings for six months without someone catching me rolling my eyes was a miracle.

“Oh darling, I forget not everyone in America is accustomed to the faire la bise. In France, it’s just second nature. Come, come, the ladies are waiting in the tearoom.”

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