Page 6 of Lust

Ruby? This is my best friend, who stared down jock assholes in the High School hallway, who threatened to call their mothers and accuse them of grabbing her ass, or to call their girlfriends and tell them that she’d sucked them off…? What?

My middle fingers twist in my ear canals, trying to erase what I just heard. There’s no way my Ruby would take that shit. First tears, now groveling to this asshat over some department store job? Where’s the regal queen who enthralled the whole school with every musical performance?

“Your suit, sir.” Manuel knocks on the dressing room door, then pushes it open and slides the garment through the narrow gap. Sighing, I strip out of my coat, boots, blue jeans, and white t-shirt. I don’t care about my dad’s funeral anymore. Never really cared about it much to begin with, but it’s been completely surpassed by my new and very crucial mission: to rescue Ruby from whatever hell her life has become and finally make her mine.

How convenient that the timing coincides with the launch of my new luxury subscription service, the Arrow Black app. How perfect will it be for Aaron Luther, established playboy, to greet the press at launch time with his future wife on his arm, proving to the millionaires about to shell out for Arrow Black that love is always possible?

The thought sends fire surging through my veins. The girl who filled all my High School fantasies, the best friend I could never admit I wanted, is finally going to be my wife. Sure, there’s the tiny little problem of that ring on her left finger. But even the thought of it makes me laugh, because a guy who’d give a girl like Ruby a ring that insignificant won’t be a challenge for me. I’ll figure out his weaknesses and exploit them before breakfast, then have him begging for relief.

I laugh at the image.

A knock sounds on the dressing room door.

“Everything okay in there, sir?”

I turn in front of the mirror. The suit looks fine. A little tight in the chest, a little short in the sleeves and pants, but it’ll do for something I’ll wear for an hour and then incinerate.

“Acceptable,” I reply. “I’ll take it.”

As Manuel rings up my purchase, he’s joined by a bald man in a hideous mauve suit. His open jacket reveals a mint green shirt. Buttons strain over his round midsection. He looks like a terrible porn actor from the 1970s. Without even reading his name tag, I can practically hear his voice in my head. Nasal. High-pitched. Obnoxious. This has to be the guy who’s abusing my Ruby.

A quick glance at his name confirms my suspicions. Not only does his label provide both a first name (Gary) and a last name (Barnum), I can also infer that the presence of both names means he gets to feel important.

Well, fuck you, Gary Barnum.

Ruby doesn’t appear again before I leave the store. It’s for the best. I’m not ready for her to see me yet, and I’m late for lunch with my family at the clubhouse. But I’ll be back soon enough, and I will find out everything there is to know about her life. By New Year’s Eve, Ruby will be kissing me under the mistletoe, just in time for the launch of Arrow Black on January first.

Ruby

I swear to God, if Gary suggests one more time that I should suck his cock to get ahead in this job, I’ll agree to do it just so I can bite the damn thing off and shove it down his throat. Looking at his ugly face and bald head makes me want to puke, but I do need this job, I really do. So I smile, nod, grit my teeth like always, and play along as much as I can without actually throwing up all over his ugly polyester suit. Luckily for both of us, all he manages to do is silently grope my chest before Manuel summons him out of the office to deal with an important customer. Tears well up again as I grab a handful of clothes off the rack by the dressing-room.

No. Fuck no. I won’t cry any more. Not about Gary, and certainly not about my stupid husband. And certainly not about Delilah.

After fifteen years of marriage, I can count on one hand how often I’ve looked at my husband’s phone. But I was home with a migraine and his alarm went off while he was in the shower. The annoyingly upbeat song blared shrilly through my skull, despite the layer of pillow pressed against my ears. Finally, I dragged myself over to where he’d left the phone on top of his dresser, just to turn the damn thing off.

And there was her name. A beautiful name. Attached to a very beautiful woman.

Good morning, sexy.

The message was simple. Straightforward. Seductive. Even my brain chose to read the words in a smoky, sultry voice.

Delilah’s ten years younger than me, if she’s being honest in her profile on the Arrow app. Long, honey-gold hair flows over bronzed shoulders in her cover photo, in which she wears a tiny white bikini. You have to have a thorough tan to pull off a white bikini. Delilah’s tan makes her coppery eyes glow.

After looking at the first picture, I told myself I’d seen enough. My finger kept swiping, like it had a mind of its own and had decided to destroy my self-esteem.

Is she being truthful in her pictures? My husband sure as hell isn’t. His profile is full of high school photos and pictures from his semi-professional football days, before he got hurt and stopped playing. Before we were married.

When he married me, my husband swore he loved my body, that all the years of teasing and torment in high school had been an attempt to hide his attraction. He said he’d been too embarrassed to admit to his friends that he liked the Big Girl and swore he wasn’t only interested in my lucrative record contract. At first, his attention in the bedroom underscored his point.

But that was fourteen years ago, before everything changed. Before he got hurt, before we went into protection, before my contract was gone and I had to start working whatever odd jobs I could cobble together.

His enthusiasm in the bedroom faded quickly after that. Sex became a chore for him to barrel through with eyes closed, racing to the finish line as quickly as possible. Just like he used to run the ball in high school. Hard, fast, and fuck whoever got in the way. Fuck me and my desires, fuck the possibility of love, and family, and children.

Breath catches in my throat at the thought of children. I hold a silk blouse in front of my face. Too late. A tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it on the sleeve, giving no fucks about whether I damage the expensive fabric or the pattern of tiny red cherries that covers the white fabric.

Of course, beautiful Delilah already has a child. She can probably get pregnant by just breathing in the same room as a man. She’s probably already pregnant from just texting him. I’m sure she doesn’t have some obnoxious condition like polycystic ovarian syndrome destroying her dreams of motherhood and saddling her with crippling pain every month. No. Delilah is clearly utterly perfect.

I hang the silk blouse among the other versions of itself, noticing the small streak where my tears marred the delicate pattern. Whoops. A quick tuck keeps that sleeve out of sight. Then, for good measure, I move the blouse to the back of the rack, never mind that it’s a size small.

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