Marx Girl

“But?” I ask.

“I guess I never expected to…” He stops mid-sentence.

“Will you stop doing that?” I ask.

“Doing what?” He frowns.

“Stopping yourself from saying things to me. I’m your wife now, Ben, and you can tell me anything.”

He grins, and rolls onto his back, pulling my body half over his.

“What were you saying?” I ask as I look at his face.

He kisses my forehead and his fingers run through my hair as he thinks. My head is on his naked chest. “I never thought you would accept me if you really knew me,” he admits.

“So, you were only going to give me seventy percent of yourself?” I frown.

He nods, distracted by his thoughts. “I thought that’s all I could give.”

I smile sadly against his chest.

“What about you?” He glances down at me. “I only know forty percent of you so far.”

My mouth drops open. “Forty percent? You… you know me better than forty percent,” I stammer.

“I don’t know what your favorite subject was at school. What your favourite book is. How you like your eggs. Why you stopped having sugar in your coffee, and what you think about when you crinkle up your forehead.” He smiles above me. “And I doubt I’ll ever know what you see in me.”

I smile and kiss his chest. “I like husband Ben.”

He laughs and holds me tighter to him, and we lay in blissful silence for a few moments until he turns the television on and flicks through the channels. He stops on the news.

BREAKING NEWS

In what can only be described as a gangland-style execution,

U.S. diplomat, Jason Steel, and his wife, have been shot dead as they were leaving a restaurant in Washington, D.C. last night, in the midst of a crowded street.

Authorities are treating it as a professional hit.

They leave behind four children, all under ten years of age.

I frown in horror.

Dear God.

“Fuck!” Ben snaps as he jumps out of bed.

“What… what does this mean?” I stammer.

“We’ve got a fucking problem.”

“Are they going to come after us? Where’s the envelope?”

“It’s here. I brought it with us.”

I jump out of bed and put my hands on my head.

“I’ve got to get Joshua to decipher it. I have no choice. I need to know what it says,” he snaps.

I nod. “He can break the code, I know he can.”

Ben’s phone rings; he looks at the name on the screen then answers it. He’s still naked.

“Hello.”

He listens and puts his hand on his hip. “What was taken?” he asks, narrowing his eyes as he listens.

“What?” I mouth, sensing something is wrong.

He ignores me. “Okay, thank you. I’m away at the moment, but if you can organise the door to be fixed I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

He listens for a moment.

“Thanks for your call.” He hangs up.

“What?” I ask.

“My apartment was broken into last night. Ransacked, as if looking for someone or something.”

My eyes widen. “What does that mean?”

“Whoever killed Jason Steel… they know about the envelope.”

Fuck.

20

Bridget

“What do we do?” I ask as my nerves escalate.

He stares at me for a moment, thinking. “Did you leave anything lying around at home about New York?”

I think for a moment. Oh no. “I scribbled the flight times on the notepad on your desk.”

“When you booked the flights, did you use my credit card like I told you?”

I shake my head nervously. “No. I used mine.”

“I told you to use mine!” he snaps.

“I know, but I was taking you away. I didn’t want you to pay for your own birthday present.”

He glares at me.

“The hotel, Bridget. Tell me you booked the hotel with my card.”

I wince and shake my head. “Nope, that’s in my name, too.”

“Fuck!”

He briefly disappears into the bathroom, then comes out carrying all my shampoo and makeup and throws it in my open suitcase.

“Get dressed.”

“What?” I frown.

“Now!” he orders as he starts throwing everything into our suitcases in a frenzy.

I start to run on the spot in a fluster. “Do you think they’re on their way here?”

He looks up at me and he’s eyes have a steely calm about them. “Bridget, don’t freak out. Every moment we’re here, you’re in danger. Hurry the fuck up.”

“Ah,” I cry as I start to run around the room frantically. I grab my wallet and phone charger. “Where do I put this?” I wail.

He looks at me, deadpan. “In the fucking suitcase. Where do you think?”

“Got it.” I run around, but don’t actually do anything productive.

He throws his phone at me. “Log into my internet banking and transfer one-hundred-thousand dollars.”

“What?”

“Do it,” he growls.

With shaking fingers, I hit the banking app on his phone. “What’s your password?” I ask.

“Bridget,” he replies.

My eyes rise to him and I smile broadly. “I’m your password?”

He rolls his eyes, but he keeps packing, and he zips up his case at super speed.

“You are so getting laid tonight.” I smile.