Cruel Beloved

“Sorry?” I say confused.

He isn’t talking to me, is he?

“You’re beautiful, and I want to take you out. Where should we go?” he asks me. The rest of the band members look my way, and my face reddens.

“I’m married,” I say, spitting it out and hating myself for it.

“But… are you?” Chase steps closer, smelling like cigarettes and bad regrets.

I want him.

He’s at the end of the bar, nothing’s separating us. Only a glass which I’m holding in my hand.

His band members start to leave my bar, leaving just the two of us here by ourselves. Chase reaches for my hand, turns it over, and pulls a pen out of my pocket that I use for writing food orders. When he’s done, he blows on it and steps back.

“Call me when you think you aren’t married. But believe me, I have no qualms about sleeping with a married woman.” Chase winks and walks out.

My heart beats loudly in my chest as he goes, and I have to remember to breathe.

The last man I was attracted to is now my husband.

Now, I’m way wary of who to let in. Could they fuck me over as well?

I hate Whiskey for putting those insecurities inside of me. I never had them before him and his bullshit.

Closing up, I head home, constantly looking at my hand. I shouldn’t do it. I know it would be wrong to do so. I’m a married woman, and I’m not a cheater. I have strong beliefs in that. But is it cheating if it’s fake? The certificate might be real, but the marriage is anything but.

Pulling up to my home—technically his home—I notice his car is parked in the garage.

What on earth is he doing here?

Wondering if I should pull away and come back later or just go in, I decide to go in, because this can’t be my life avoiding the asshole. I need to face him head-on.

Gathering all my strength, I pull my jacket on and walk inside. When I do, he’s sitting at the dining room table with food, waiting for me, as if he hadn’t left.

“Whiskey.”

He turns to face me. His eyes roam me as I walk closer to him.

Pulling out a seat, I sit across from him. “Why are you here?”

“To see you, of course,” he answers.

“Why?” He pushes a plate toward me full of food.

“Can I not visit my wife?” he asks.

I watch him for motive. He’s here for something. What? I just don’t know yet. I look down at my hand, the one with Chase’s number on it. I was thinking of calling him. Maybe.

“What’s that on your hand?” Whiskey’s eyes glance down, and I pull my hand away and place it under the table.

“What do you want?”

“What’s on your hand?”

“A number,” I answer him truthfully.

“Who’s number?”

“A drummer.”

“Name?”

“Chase,” I answer.

He nods. “And do you plan to fuck him?”

Whiskey’s words for some reason shock me. “Get out.”

I get up from the table, not even bothering to go any further with this conversation.

Whiskey follows me, though.

Because he can’t leave well enough alone.

23

Whiskey

She has a rock star’s number on her hand. Of course she does. If she were serving me, I would ask for her number as well. Fuck! I’d do more than that. Hell, I did. I married her.

Carla storms off to the bedroom, and when I walk in, I don’t even recognize it as my own anymore. All my things are gone from the closet, and all that hangs in there are her things. Her wedding dress, which I dream about her in often, hangs proudly on the door.

“You got rid of my things?” I ask, coming up behind her.

She starts taking off her earrings, one by one. “Yes. Why would I keep your shit here if you aren’t here,” she answers then sits on the bed, slipping off her shoes.

“Don’t get undressed. We have an event.”

She eyes me up and down. “You can go… by your damn self.”

“No, you should come. Your parents will be there.”

She harrumphs, and I know I’ve won.

“Black tie?” she asks. Then with an eye roll she follows with, “Of course, it is. My father would not go to anything less.” Walking to her closet, she pulls out a dress.

“You don’t have to wear an evening dress, if you don’t want to.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “What? No, I have to.” Then she starts undressing.

I turn, looking away and sitting on the bed while she gets ready. “Do you plan to see him?” I ask.

“Possibly, after this.”

I turn to her just as she slides the dress up and over her gorgeous perky breasts. “He’s a male whore,” I tell her. “I see him and his antics posted in all the magazines.”

“Has to be better than a blackmailer.” She raises an eyebrow, turns away, and continues to get dressed. Walking into the bathroom she disappears, and I see the bedding has even changed. You can’t even tell I used to live here. It’s completely her.