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“They make strap-ons, right? You should just ask her for what you want.”
“That’s...no, I can’t ask my wife to do…thatto me.”
“Why not? If she loves you, she’ll probably give it a try. But if she’s not into that sort of thing, then you could get you a dildo or whatever.”
“This is...can we please talk about something else now?”
“You started it,” he reminds me with a smirk.
“I didn’t want to talk about me and my unfulfilled sexual fantasies!”
“So, you do have unfulfilled fantasies?” he remarks. “That sucks, kid. You should just try and be honest with your wife instead of freaking out or feeling guilty for worrying about how she’ll take it without bothering to ask her.”
I nod but know that I won’t be talking to Maddie about any of this shit because...well, I’m embarrassed about it. I don’t want her to think I’m gay or not attracted to her. Because I definitely am attracted to her. God, she’s so fucking beautiful. Every inch of her, inside and out. I spend most days thinking that I don’t deserve her, and that I’m going to wake up and the two of us, our marriage, will only have been a really great, really long, dream.
Or Maddie will realize that she can do better than a greedy, closeted bisexual and leave me for a man who never thinks about dick and only thinks about her.
The doubts about our life together have always been there, ever since I was enduring the worst hangover ever in Las Vegas a year ago last June, and she told me we were married. I thought that once we lived together for a while, we would grow closer, and that my yearning for something else would eventually fade.
Instead, it seems to have only gotten worse. So much worse.
I worry about every little thing, like if the way I chew my food gets on her nerves or if I snore too much and keep her awake atnight. Or, worst of all, if I moan someone else’s name, a man’s name, in my sleep she might walk away from me forever.
“Ah, Jordan,” RJ says, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“Why is your wife running toward us like she’s being chased by the hounds of hell?”
“No fucking idea,” I mutter through my frozen shock as I look out the open garage bay doors. “Wait. What?Maddie?”
The woman is coming in hot, and she doesn’t slow down before she slams into me, a gasp of relief escaping her. I stagger back a step in surprise because Maddie’s a tall girl, even if I have eight inches on her. When I recover, I wrap my arms around her thin frame as she clutches at the front of my white cotton tee. “Safe. I’m safe,” it sounds like she whispers between panting breaths.
“Jesus, baby. What’s wrong?”
I think she tries to speak, but all I hear are choked sobs.
“Breathe, just slow down and take a deep breath,” I urge her, rubbing my palm up and down her back.
A few more of those and she finally speaks. “He’s…he’s dead...his eyes...” Her fingers clutch my shirt tighter as if I’m her own personal life preserver and she would drown if she lets go.
Then her words hit me.
“Dead?” I repeat, glancing over to RJ who is wide-eyed and watching this all play out, air gun still in his hand. “Who is dead, Maddie? Where?”
She shakes her head either because she doesn’t know who is dead or can’t talk about it, then says, “Greer’s…in the kitchen.”
“Greer’s dead?”
“No,” she says, which is a relief. “Someone…someone else.”
“You saw a dead man in Greer’s kitchen?” I ask, and she nods. “Fuck,” RJ and I both mutter as we look at each other. Keeping one arm wrapped around Maddie, I pull out my cellphone from my jean pocket with my free hand while RJ does the same, no doubt calling his husband.
“What?” the deep rasp on the other side of my call huffs, sounding annoyed, like he was sleeping.
“Sorry to wake you up,” I tell Greer. “But, uh, I think we might have a situation at the bar.”
“What kind of situation?” the gruff man asks.
