Page 33 of Dirty Ink

Rachel

Mason walked up to the woman at the bar so easily. I sat alone on the couch. Had it been that easy with me? In Vegas in that casino on that bar stool all those years ago. Had he walked up to me like he just walked up to her? Had the conversation come easily with me the way it was coming easily with her? Had my smiles been quick like hers? My laughter fast flowing like hers? Had I fallen for him without any protest at all the way I was watching her fall?

Had it been that easy for him? When it was me?

I was out of beer and Mason’s hand was at the small of the woman’s back. I wasn’t sure which was worse. At least the beer situation I could fix. I could get up and stalk over to the bar. I could slam my fist down. Rattle glasses. Knock over bottles. I could shout out, “Give me a goddamn beer. Right now!” But what in God’s name was I supposed to do about Mason’s hand there at the small of the woman’s back?

I couldn’t get up and stalk over there. I couldn’t push the woman away and take her place on the bar stool. I couldn’t slip onto the seat and face Mason’s amused eyes, his eyebrow arched to show he was intrigued. I couldn’t tell him that I didn’t want him to leave with anyone else but me. That I didn’t want anyone else in his bed but me.

That I was his wife and I wanted to be his wife and I wanted him to fuck me like I was exactly that: his wife. His lover. His everything.

I couldn’t do that.

I couldn’t do the opposite either.

I’d had all night to fess up. I’d had more than enough liquid courage to tell the truth. More than enough “fuck it” juice. My lips should have been plenty slippery enough to slip up at one point or another.

But I hadn’t.

And I couldn’t.

I couldn’t tell Mason that I had moved on. That I was with someone else. That the reason I knew we were married was because I was engaged to someone else. That the reason I needed a divorce now was that I. Was. Marrying. Someone. Else.

Like too many times in my life, I was stuck. Trapped. Caught between two worlds. Caught acting. Caught playing yet another role.

Because I couldn’t— No, because I wouldn’t tell Mason the truth. I was forced to play the role of wife. And not just wife. Because he didn’t want me to be loving. Or caring. To listen to his fears at night. To caress his hair at the nape of his neck in the morning. To be with him in sickness and in health. To love and cherish. Now and forever more.

No, I was only to be the angry wife. The cheated-upon wife. The screaming, hair tearing, bitch-chasing-off wife.

There, right in front of me, was apparently the woman I would see in Mason’s bed the next morning. I cringed as I imagined having to walk in there. To see her still naked with her arm draped across his chest. To know what they had done. To try to force out the images that played in my head of the two of them all night long.

To repeat this fucking act the next day with another woman. Another pair of tits. Another perky ass. Another set of hips wiggling against Mason’s groin till she laid eyes on me. There in the doorway.

I went to drain the last of my beer before re-remembering that it was already gone. All already gone.

I watched as Mason’s hand came to rest on the woman’s knee as he ordered them shots. It was just moments ago that his hand had been on my knee. I could have shoved it away. I could have asked him to please not touch me, because I’m with another man. Or I could have intertwined my fingers with his. I could have guided his hand up. Closer to the warmth that burned between my legs. Closer to where I wanted him.

Instead I was sitting on the couch watching. Like an understudy stuck in the eaves. My lines wouldn’t come till the morning. Till after the good stuff.

On the woman’s body, Mason’s hand went where I wanted his hand to go on me. The woman tensed. Drew her tongue across her lip.

I knew that tensing. That bolt of electricity that straightened the spine. I knew that thrill of knowing the night would be long and hot and good, toe-curling good. I knew that buzz that was surely already in her fingertips because Mason was pressing his lips to her ear. Whispering God knows what. Maybe whispering something he whispered once to me. Something that made me laugh the way she was laughing.

I loved him more than anything.

And I hated him, hated him, hated him more than anything in the fucking world. I wanted to tell him the truth. To hurt him. I also wanted him never to find out. For my big new role to be his wife. Not Tim’s. Never Tim’s.

I was conflicted. Conflicted over what I wanted. Conflicted over who I loved. Worst of all, I was conflicted over who I wanted to be.

But I did know one thing, on one thing there was no conflict, my heart, my body, and my mind were all on the same fucking page for once: it hurt like fucking hell to watch Mason lean down and kiss that woman.

From across the bar on that dingy little couch I could see Mason’s lips moving against hers. They would be soft still, I was sure. They would press gently. Like the brush of the first warm breeze of spring. He wouldn’t press harder even though she would want it. He would make her be the first one to dart her tongue against his. To slip her fingers around his neck and draw him in closer. To suck his bottom lip into her mouth. To scrape it against her teeth. To nip at the corners of his mouth.

Only then would he give her what she wanted and really kiss her. When she’d played her hand. When she’d laid herself bare. When her need and desire and arousal was more than obvious. When it was all she thought about. When it was his to do with as he damned well pleased.

Her fingers reached up toward Mason’s neck. Just as I knew she would because I had done the same.

I turned away from the sight of them. I fumbled around in my purse for a while before I knew exactly what I was looking for. At first it was just a way to distract myself. To focus on something, anything else. Then my fingers grazed my phone and I realised Tim must be worried.

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