Page 26 of With This Ring

I walk down the street and meet the taxi I ordered before I left the house. Once I’m settled in, I tell him to take me down to Shell Village, the city on the opposite side of the bridge. Right now, I want to find a club to sit in, letting the bass beats drown out my thoughts as I get drunk. I’ll have the bartender call me a cab when I’m ready to go home. But not until I’m well and truly fucked up.

A long exhale leaves my lips as soon as we enter the city. My mind somewhat clears as I look around to find somewhere to drown my sorrows. As soon as I spot a club that looks lively, I have the taxi driver stop. Reaching for my wallet, I pay him his fare, along with a hundred dollars for a tip since he didn’t try to make small talk.

At the door of the club, I slip the bouncer a hundred and he lets me through. I’m searched—though he doesn’t find the blade at the small of my back—then allowed entrance into the club proper.

It’s not even midnight, but the place is packed wall to wall. The patrons on the dance floor writhe against each other, their bodies pressed tightly together. I move as far away from the dance floor as I can. Don’t want to run the risk of someone trying to drag me out to make a fool of myself. Besides, I came here to get shitfaced, not hook up.

Once at the bar, I take a seat on one of the free stools and order some top shelf tequila. If I’m gonna get fucked up, might as well do it with something that will get the job done quickly.

The bartender pours me a shot, but I stop him before he gets too far away. I tip the drink into my mouth, the burn of thetequila like liquid fire in my gut. I grimace but hold up the glass for another. He pours a second, then slides two more glasses on the bar and pours me shots three and four. I salute him with the fresh glass and tip it back as well.

Handing the bartender my card, I yell, “Start a tab,” over the music. He nods and takes my card, hooking it to a clipboard behind the bar.

The burn of the tequila lingers behind my ribs, and I wait for it to dissipate before I take the next shot.

I still shouldn’t be getting in my feelings because of shit Pop says. But him talking about my business always gets under my skin, especially because I know it’s profitable. I’ve been over the books after my accountants and know I’m well into the black. St. Clair’s Construction is worth over ten million dollars. I know it’s not failing. But what is Pop’s angle? Why does he always have to knock me down?

Shaking my head to clear it of Pop’s bullshit, I take shot number three, then number four follows quickly behind it. The burn is still there, but it’s lessened. I’m starting to get tipsy, but it’s not fast enough. I wave the bartender back over. He nods and comes back over with the bottle. He lines up four more glasses and tops them all off. In rapid succession, I toss them all back, the burn now gone completely.

I turn the glasses over, stacking them on top of each other as my mind starts to go in different directions. Even with all the alcohol in my system, Carter’s words continue to reverberate in my skull.

Yeah? Then you’ll know no matter how much you kiss his ass and try to be the perfect son, he’ll never fucking love you. Why do you insist on trying to get his approval when you’llneverget it?

It shouldn’t sting as much that he saw through Pop’s bullshit. Anyone with eyes knows how he feels about me. But it doesn’tmake me feel any better. I don’t have a mom. From what Pop told me, she dropped me off when I was barely a year old and never looked back. Like me, he’s an only child, so I have no aunts or uncles. No grandparents. It’s just me and Pop. Even before I told him I liked other boys when I was barely a teen, we were never particularly close.

So why does his lack of affection make me feel like shit? Seeing what Carter has with Dominic must be what’s getting to me.

Why does Carter pointing it out make me feel so alone? Even more so than I usually am. Nico has always been in my corner, but we grew up together. That’s to be expected. Other than Nico, I have no one. I thought, after our explosive time in his office, that Carter would reconsider hating me, and I don’t know, be someone else in my corner…

That’s not to be. It’s been weeks since we fucked, and he hasn’t even tried to talk to me more than saying a few snarky sentences. It seems like for the rest of my life, or the rest of the time I’m married to Carter—whichever ends first—I’ll be alone.

Thinking about Carter now leads me to think about how he took me over his desk. He was so commanding of my body, so in charge of my pleasure. He owned me like no one else ever has. But that was his point, wasn’t it? He said he owned me after he shoved his cum back into me.

His dick tunneled into me like he had every right to be there, like my body belonged to him and only him.

Groaning, I put my head down on the bar, hoping a few knocks will dislodge the image of Carter, but that does nothing to stop him from overtaking my thoughts. His hard, tatted body. How fathomless his eyes are when they land on me. And his lips. Fuck, his mouth on mine made meburn. What would it be like if he took his time with me? If he let me touch and lick him allover? If I could study him while I rode his dick, watching every expression cross his face.

“Get out of my head,” I mutter, banging my head against the bar a few more times. I’m supposed to be hating my husband, not lusting after him.

“Having a bad day?” a soft, feminine voice shouts in my ear. I’m slow to respond, since I’m starting to feel the tequila in a big way. When I lift my head, I see a white hand with long red nails, dragging over my forearm. “I’m a good listener.”

I roll my eyes and hold up my left hand without making eye contact. “I’m married.”

“Well, I don’t see her anywhere around,” the woman says. I look up at her, meeting dark brown eyes that are void of any emotion other than greed. I’m sure she’s clocked the Vacheron Constantin watch I have on—one of my least expensive watches—and the Cartier cuff links and thought she’d find an easy mark.

I turn to her with a lazy grin. “He’sat home. We like to give each other space to do our own thing sometimes.”

Her smile stays in place, but I see the hope dim in her eyes. “Oh. Well, that’s good for a healthy marriage. Excuse me.” She moves away from the stool she perched on, then slinks up to some other poor slub. As soon as I said I was married to a man, she must have known she had no chance. The guy she chose eats up her attention, facing her fully with a wide smile on his face, like he just hit the jackpot. Good luck to him. Hope he knows she’s going to bleed him dry.

After another round of tequila and a beer, I have to piss like a racehorse. Stumbling over my feet, I make my way to the restroom, which is blessedly empty. I go into a stall, not wanting to embarrass myself if I have to lean against the wall to take a piss.

I relieve myself, thankfully not making a mess with how heavy and sloppy my hands feel. I wash my hands and head backto the main floor to get the bartender to call me a cab. Now, I wish I hadn’t left my phone at home so I could get in touch with Nico to pick me up. Or even Carter. Carter would give me shit about getting shitfaced, but he wouldn’t be mad right? I don’t want my husband to be mad at me.

A brief chuckle escapes my lips, causing a few people I pass to look at me like I’ve lost my mind. I have a fucking husband. One that I’m supposed to hate, but don’t really. We don’t talk, we argue when we do exchange words and we fucked one time, but I think I want more. I think I want to get to know him, to see if I’ll really be unhappy with him or if I’m so used to not having anything that I resign myself to unhappiness.

An arm comes around my waist and steers me towards a back door. I look up at the person touching me, expecting to see one of my men or a Whitlock guy, but I don’t recognize the person whose arm is wrapped around me. “Come on. We’ll help you get home.”

“Who the …. fuck are you?” I slur when someone else guides me to the door. I bring the second man into focus, but don’t recognize him either. “Geoff me.”

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