Page 5 of Duress
Me
Thanks. I’ll see what I can do.
Sighing, I tuck my phone away after sending my noncommittal response. It’s not like I can go. Bryce would throw a fit if I wasn’t home with dinner ready for him. But I can’t quite bring myself to crush the fantasy I have building in my head of a normal night, with normal people, doing normal shit like playing board games and drinking cheap beer.
Instead, I pull out a canvas and throw myself into my art. A portrait slowly takes form in front of me as I work. A portrait of a masculine face featuring impossibly green eyes, sandy blond hair that’s fallen out of place and dangles across one piercing orb, and full, pouty lips quirked up in just a hint of a secret smile.
Hours later,I hear the front door open, and slam shut. The noise startles me out of the hyperfocus I fell into while painting. Jumping back with a gasp, my paintbrush makes an errant blue mark across the canvas. Shit. I’ll have to fix that, but there’s no time right now. I am shocked when I take in the portrait I was working on and realize it’s nearly complete. Holy hell. It’s been years since I’ve gotten in the zone like that and knocked out an almost completed piece in a day.
The clock on the wall reads 8:07 p.m. Oh fuck, I really did lose track of time. Bryce is going to be so pissed that dinner isn’t ready. Thinking quickly, I rush out of the studio and head to our bedroom to change out of my paint spattered clothes and throw on a cute dress. Maybe if I convince him to go out for a date night, he won’t be too grumpy about dinner not being ready.
I tug on a dark blue maxi dress that I know is one of his favorites. It shows off an ample amount of cleavage that I hope will be distracting enough for him to go along with my plan. After fixing my hair into something that resembles a romantic messy bun and swiping on some lipstick, I take in my appearance, hoping it doesn’t look like I just spent the day painting. No errant paint colors are on my face—a minor miracle, normally I wind up covered in paint—and I look presentable. Satisfied with my reflection, I head out of the bedroom to find Bryce.
Bryce is sitting at his desk in his study, whiskey tumbler in hand and a pensive look on his face. My husband is a handsome man. I could never deny that, even if the passion and love between us has fizzled away. A five o’clock shadow perpetually dusts his strong jaw. His dark hair has just started to silver slightly at the temples, giving him a distinguished edge, while his tanned olive skin makes it look like he’s always just got back from vacation. He takes so much after his father it’s hard to believe he and Dane are related. The Mediterranean genes are strong on that side of his family. His once warm brown eyes now burn with a hard intensity that will make anyone squirm under their gaze. Useful in the courtroom, but I miss the sweetness I used to see in them when he would look at me.
Leaning against the door frame, I clear my throat before speaking, nervous to disrupt him. “Hey, you’re home…”
When he turns his attention to me, I feel myself wilting like a flower. His gaze is cold. Hard. He’s looking at me like someone he needs to cross examine in the witness chair, not his wife of twelve years.
“What’s for dinner?”
No ‘Hi honey, how are you? I missed you.’ Just straight to the point. I do my best not to let my disappointment show on my face, desperate not to start an argument.
“I was thinking we could go out tonight. It’s been so long since we’ve gone out on a date… I thought it might be good for us.” I stammer through my words, hoping he will go along with my idea.
His stare rakes over me, examining me with his lawyer’s eye for detail, seeing if I am selling him a line or if I’m telling the truth. His eyes linger on my chest, and I feel my skin heat under his scrutiny. Holding my breath, I wait for his answer. I don’t want another tense night. I don’t want to fight. I know our marriage doesn’t have any love in it anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep the peace. If I’m stuck in this sham of a relationship, I want it to at least be somewhat amicable.
After a long, tense moment where my lungs begin to burn from the lack of oxygen, he finally nods. The breath I had been holding whooshes out as I heave a sigh of relief. He doesn’t say anything as he swallows the last of his bourbon before standing and walking toward me. He stops when he reaches me, leaning over me, caging me in with his arms. The smokey, charred caramel scent of the alcohol he was drinking fills the space between us. He lowers one hand, and traces a finger along my cleavage, causing a hitch in my breath and my pulse to spike. The hunger in his eyes is unfamiliar. I haven’t seen him look at me like this in so long. Like he wants me. Needs me.
“You look good, Everly. I can’t wait to take this off of you later.” My eyes flare at his compliment. It’s been so long since I’ve been noticed by him, I can’t help the tiny thrill of excitement it sends jolting through me. Maybe…maybe our marriage isn’t dead after all. Smiling, pleased that my plan has worked, I cup his jaw in my hand and lean forward to dust a kiss on his lips.
“Thanks, I wore it just for you.” He doesn’t kiss meback. Just takes the small peck I give him with no further show of emotion. Wordlessly he pulls away and heads toward the front of the house, and I bury my disappointment, trying not to let it show as I trail after him.
CHAPTER 5
EVERLY
We go to Bryce’s favorite bar for dinner, The Blind Pig. It’s one of those bars that fancies itself as higher class and charges minimum $20 a cocktail. The food is also nontraditional, deconstructed takes on typical bar fare. Pretentious and insufferable. A lot like my husband.
I am picking at the Bahn Mi sliders I ordered, wishing it was an actual Bahn Mi sandwich from my favorite Vietnamese restaurant. These are a sad imitation of the real thing. But that place is a tiny hole-in-the-wall, and Bryce wouldn’t lower himself to going somewhere with only three tables and two employees for dinner. No one would see him there. Bryce likes to be seen and feel important. I feel like that’s eighty percent of the reason he is still married to me. Being connected to me equals being connected to my dad, and he is gunning for his job eventually.
“Are you even listening to me, Everly?” Bryce’s clippedtone pulls me from my distracted thoughts of actual good food. When I look up at him, his face is an annoyed mask. Shit, I tuned him out. I’ve been doing that a lot when he talks about work. Mostly because it doesn’t affect me, and he never asks me how my day was.
“Yeah, sorry. I zoned out for a second. What were you saying, darling?” The smile I give him doesn’t quite reach my eyes. I put my slider down and give him my full attention.
“I said we need to go to the Harringtons for a dinner next Friday. Skip is fund raising for his campaign for re-election. We need to make an appearance and a donation. Also, Veronica wants you to join her for a luncheon on Sunday. You will need to go to that.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at his demand. The Harringtons are some of the most shallow, superficial, pretentious busybodies I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing, and for some unfortunate reason, Veronica has been trying to recruit me to be her best friend. My gentle brush-offs and reluctance to make plans never seems to phase her. She persists in inviting me to do things, and if I brush these plans off, Bryce will know and give me a lecture about not doing my part networking to support his career.
Forcing another smile, I respond, “I’ll give her a call this weekend.” I shove a large bite of slider into my mouth while returning my attention back to my plate, hoping that is the end of that conversation. Maybe I’ll get lucky and come down with a gnarly case of food poisoning from this subpar pork slider and have an excuse to stay home.
Eventually, a couple of attorneys Bryce works with come in and spot us. Bryce proceeds to spend the next forty-five minutes ignoring me while glad-handing and chatting with them. I throw back two more overpriced cocktails and scroll on my phone, waiting for him to remember I am there. This is almost always how it is when we go out for dinner. He goes somewhere to be seen, is seen, then proceeds to ignore me in favor of whomever he can connect with for whatever case or pet project he is working on.
Once I finish my third cocktail, my bladder decides it’s time for a trip to the ladies room. My seat is tucked against the wall, and I’m blocked in by Bryce’s colleagues. Shane and Rob? Steve and Bob? Shit, I can’t remember their names. There’s no way I’ll be able to sneak past them without disrupting their conversation. Bracing myself for the awkwardness, I clear my throat and stand.
“Sorry, gentlemen, I need to slip past to go to the ladies room.” Steve—or is it Shane?—turns to look at me, and the look he gives me more closely resembles a leer. His eyes rake down my body, lingering far too long on my chest, and I suddenly feel self-conscious about the dress I chose to wear. It’s one thing for my husband to ogle me. Another for his older, balder, also married colleague to do it. This man is in his late fifties and could easily be my dad.
“Sure, Everly. Squeeze on by.” He gives me a smile that causes my stomach to turn and my dinner to threaten a reappearance. Taking one step back, he gives a minuscule amount of space for me and my ample ass to scoot between him and the table. Bryce’s attention is fixed on Rob or Bob,or whoever he is. Blowing out an exasperated sigh, I move to slide past Shane/Steve. As I step in front of him, I feel his hand fall to my hip, grasping it tightly as he pushes his crotch into my ass. I freeze, shocked by his brazenness. He has his hands on me, right in front of my husband, and he doesn’t even seem to give a fuck.
