Page 1 of Strung Along

1

ANNALISE

There arefew things I hate in this world as much as a thong.

Between the string trying to crawl inside of me with every shift of my thighs and the perpetual feeling of having a wedgie, I’m usually stuffing any I’ve been peer pressured into buying into the back of my drawer. Panty lines? I embrace them. They’re better than having my butt cheeks flossed.

If it weren’t for the birthday surprise I suspect Stewart is planning for me tonight, I would have slipped on my favourite pair of 100 percent cotton briefs instead of the red thong with the tag still attached. His favourite dress of mine is a tight, silky thing from one of my favourite boutiques that doesn’t allow for underwear. Not the visible kind. It will be worth the pain, though. I know it will be.

I smooth my hands down my generous hips and dart my eyes to where my phone lies on the bed. For the third time in the past couple of minutes, the screen is dark, no new messages waiting for me. Like every time before, I brush it off. Stewart didn’t have to tell me that he’s planning anything for me to know he is.

We’ve been dating for three years, engaged and living together for just over two of them. He’s always done something grand for my birthday. His giving soul is one of the things I lovemost about him. The incredibly successful, classically handsome man I met after one of my sister’s animal shelter fundraisers turned a girl against marriage into one who didn’t hesitate to say yes when he dropped to one knee at our special spot—the Oak Bay Marina in Vancouver—and asked me to be his wife.

Every year since, we’ve celebrated my birthday with a big party on his company’s yacht despite the slight chill of October in Vancouver. Last year, he hired a string quartet to play me a collection of my favourite songs. I’ve tried not to let my expectations for this year fly too high, but I’m only human.

With a final brush of my fingers through my pin-straight hair, I nod and spin to grab my phone. A swipe across the screen tells me there still aren’t any new messages. But after a quick look at our shared location, I know he’s at the marina, most likely so busy finalizing everything that he forgot to tell me when I should be there. I figured six o’clock was a safe bet since that’s when the party was last year. My sister’s lack of response to my text asking when she was told to arrive only confirms that she must already be on her way.

It takes half an hour to get to the marina from our high-rise condo, but the drive is easy. The long walk from the parking lot to the docks is the more tedious part, especially in these wedges. My deep red nail-polished toes wink at me when I step out of the car and into the setting sun’s light.

A spark of confusion appears in my mind at the lack of familiar vehicles in the parking lot. My mom’s new Jeep—a gift from her new husband—is hard to miss with its new orange paint job, but it’s nowhere to be seen. Maybe I’m just early.

“Oh my gosh, you shouldn’t have,” I gasp, beginning to practise what I’ll say when I arrive. “This is the sweetest thing ever! An ice sculpture of my perfect figure? You’ve outdone yourself this year.”

My following snort is loud and gross. An ice sculpture would be beyond my expectations, but I’m definitely not opposed to it.

The Band-Aids I stuck to my heels in preparation for the walk to the docks work like a charm when the marina finally comes into view and not a hint of a blister has appeared. The cool ocean breeze sweeps through my hair and over my warm skin, reminding me of why I love it here so much. Seagulls soar through the air above the dock, leading the way to where the yacht waits.

It’s quiet when I approach the back end and step on board, the water softly lapping at the sides, rocking it side to side. Climbing the stairs that lead to the sliding glass door, my stomach rolls, a prickle of doubt nestling into my mind at the continued silence.

The door slides open, unlocked. “Stewart?” I call softly, stepping inside.

Worry pierces my chest. There’s no sign of a party. No sign of anything or anyone besides the open back door.

Each one of my steps clicks on the wood floors as I walk through the open layout of the kitchen and sitting room. I focus on the open door that leads to the first deck. “Stewart?”

Nobody replies. It’s too silent . . . until a high-pitched cry punctures that quiet calm. My pace kicks up into a jog as I rush toward the door, snagging the fire extinguisher from where it sits in the corner of the sitting room on my way. I don’t even knowhowto use a fire extinguisher—which is atotalsafety hazard—but I won’t be using it to put out a fire. I’ll smash it into someone’s face if I have to instead.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh turns my blood cold. A deafening whoosh fills my ears. Each step out the door feels sluggish.

“Stewart?” I call, the name sounding pitifully weak.

It takes all I have not to collapse on the deck as my knees wobble. The scene unfolding in front of me is nothing more than a cruel, cruel joke. I’m having a nightmare, my real body tucked nice and safe and happy in our bed.Our. Bed.

My shaky gasp hits the air like a gunshot. It’s the woman who notices me first, her pale green eyes going wide as her cheeks pale. The red flush that was there a blink ago is gone. But the sweat on her forehead is still there.

She doesn’t look away, and neither do I. Not even when she drops her legs from where they were just wrapped tight around Stewart’s waist, and certainly not when she raises a shaking hand to her swollen lips and then has the decency to at least cover her bare chest with her forearm.

“You said she was gone!” she shrieks at my fiancé.

My stomach threatens to fall to the floor when he whips his head to finally stare at me.

Stewart’s shoulders are bare to match the rest of his body. The scratch marks zigzagging across the expanse of them are new. Lord knows I’ve never felt enough pleasure from sex with him to mark his skin that way. His always perfectly swooped chestnut hair is messy, sticking up every which way. From her fingers, no doubt. Not mine.

Not my fingers. Not my scratches. Not my legs that were just wrapped around him.Not. My.Anything.

The rock on my finger suddenly weighs a million pounds. The silver ring burns my skin like acid.

“Anna—”

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