Page 34 of It's Holy Matrimony, Baby

“Put me down.” She slaps repeatedly at my shoulder as I carry her into the bathroom. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Running you a shower, babe.” With one arm wrapped around her waist, I reach inside the cubicle to turn it on. Cold water jets from the showerhead, soaking the sleeve of my T-shirt.

“Is there something wrong with my hygiene?” She crosses her arms, under her tits, under that pizza stain that’s never coming out. The corner of her mouth turns up, though no doubt she tries to stifle it as her eyes dare me to admit that there is. Not going to happen.

“Nope. Nothing.” I test the water with my hand, waiting for it to heat up.

“Are you sure about that? If you didn’t think there was why did you carry me into the bathroom? It isn’t very subtle. You think I’m disgusting, don’t you?”

I think she wants me to believe she is. And considering the smell and the state of the rat’s nest on her head she’s put a hell of a lot of effort into proving it. She’s trying too hard though. It’s too obvious. Especially with the fifty million bottles and tubs and tubes of product that now litter my bathroom and bedroom and fridge.

“I just thought you being a princess and all would appreciate being waiting on a little.” I lift her off her feet and move her straight under the water, clothes and all.

She sputters and gasps as the water hits her. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Believe it.” I kick off my boots and climb in with her. Her tank top is already soaked through. It clings to her curves, semi-transparent. Black. Her bra is almost completely visible through the thin material. It scoops low between her tits as they jerk up and down. The cubicle is tiny, barely enough room for the two of us. Half an inch of movement and her breasts will be pressed against my chest.

I push the thought down. Squash it. She’s not going to want that. I turn my attention to the fancy bottles on the shelf, read the labels to make sure I get it right before picking one and squeezing a dollop of goo into my hand.

“Are you serious?” She stares at me like she’s never shared a shower with someone before. Never had someone treat her just a little bit special. She’s so independent and so certain that being with someone, anyone is bad. What happened to her to make her so skeptical? Not that this is what I’m doing. I’m not trying to look after her. I can’t even look after the people who matter to me. Can’t keep my promises.

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you done with this hot mess act?”

“What if I like being a slob? Does it bother you?”

“No.” I shrug. “Not at all.”

“It’s okay if it does,” she says, but it sounds more like a question. As though she’s a little sad at the idea. “We don’t really know each other. We didn’t know each other at all when we married.”

“That’s true.” I move behind her and massage the shampoo into her hair, paying attention to her temples and the nape of her neck until she starts to relax. A sigh parts her lips as I tip her head back. The suds dissolve under the water while I run my hand through the strands to make sure I get it all out.

“We don’t have to do this,” she continues, but there’s no resolve to it. The hot water must be like a balm, relaxing her as it washes away the dirt and sweat. “We could just go our separate ways.”

She’d like me to agree to that. She wants me to tell her I’ll sign whatever documents she puts in front of me. I can’t. There’s too much on the line. Too many people relying on me that I won’t let down again. I pick up a bottle of conditioner and squeeze some onto her hair. My fingers slip through her tresses, and she moans. It warms my chest, in a way that makes me want to smile. It feels good to look after her. Especially when her back sinks against my chest. I breathe in the scent of her conditioner, something sweetly intoxicating and almost edible. It makes me hard. She can probably tell each time her ass hits the bulge in my jeans. Tilting her head back, I let the water wash away the remnants of conditioner.

I find the soap. A clear bottle full of something pink that’s labelled cleanser. The gel smells like roses and pepper and spices as I smooth it onto her shoulders and down her arms. “I told you I’m not ready to give up on our marriage.”

I pick up one of her hands and rub the soap into it. She doesn’t wear the ring. Didn’t expect that she would. Hope she still has it. Don’t expect that either. But it was the ring my mother wore for the fifteen years my parents were married, and I’d like to have it back by the end of our time together. Sure my parents fought, loud banging and clanging arguments that would send us kids flying out into the yard to avoid them, but they were never serious. They were nothing in the scheme of things. Blown over just as soon as they started. A drop in the ocean of a blissful life together. Until she died.

Dad never got over it. Never moved on. Always believed that was what marriage was supposed to be. Two people loving each other no matter what. Always thought I would give that ring to the woman I’d spend the rest of my life with.

I move onto the other arm. My hands slip and glide over her bicep, her forearm, her wrist. Our fingers entwine. There’s something between us that makes it hard to think straight. But it shouldn’t matter that I’m attracted to her. It’s not important. Only looking after my family and restoring Casey Records matters. Liking her has nothing to do with that. If anything it complicates it.

“You still don’t want to call it quits, even though I’m making a mess of your life?” She turns around and looks up at me. Water drops cling to the tips of her eyelashes, thick dark lashes that sweep her cheeks as she glances down at my chest where the cotton is suckered to my skin.

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” I crouch and pick up her foot so that I can soap it. She has no idea how messed up my life is. How much I’ve let my family down. My dad. Myself. The state of my house is nothing in comparison to the whirlwind of destruction I brought into our lives.

I run my palms up her leg until I get to mid-thigh. I bite my lip as I consider moving them higher. Her tiny shorts are baggy and leave room to roam as high as I want. Was a time when I wouldn’t have had to second-guess such a move. Could have anyone I wanted. They lined up for us outside concerts and gigs. Pushed their panties into our hands and our pockets. Threw themselves in our paths. Stalked us.

I don’t miss it. Don’t miss any part of that lifestyle. Not the women, and not playing in front of crowds, or at all. I drop my hands to the other foot and start again. “You’ve made a mess of our cabin.”

“And myself,” she adds. I glance up to catch her roll her gaze at the ceiling.

“A little,” I admit. I’ll give her props for the effort she put in. At the same time I happen to like that she’s not perfect, or trying to be. And that messy hair was a turn on. The image of how she looks after a night between my sheets with me runs through my mind.

She makes a sharp little sound as she pulls in a breath and her lips part. Her hand squeezes my shoulder, fingers digging into my flesh. She blinks long and slow.

“What is it?”

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