Page 48 of Hidden Desires

After a while, she shifts and rests her head on my shoulder. “So what now?” she asks, voice small.

“Now, we sleep,” I say. “And tomorrow, we talk. And talk. And talk.”

She nods, subdued. “I know. Thank you, Jack.”

I tuck her closer. “I love you, Eliza. Now let’s go upstairs.”

We get up slowly, and I lead her to the master bedroom. I undress the beautiful blonde, and she seems even more precious than before. Her shoulders are slim, breasts big, and her hips flare wide. She’s as docile as a child, but I merely pull her into bed with me before tucking her in against my side. Sure enough, Eliza’s breathing slows, her grip on my hand goes loose, and I can tell she’s finally, really asleep.

I lie awake a while longer, listening to the silent house, the steady tick of the clock down the hall, and the soft inhale-exhale of the woman in my arms.

It’s not perfect, but it’s honest.

And in the dark, I find myself grateful.

11

CHAPTER 11 – AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSITION

Jack

You can tell how old a man is by the number of microbrews and health supplements in his fridge. At my house, tonight, it’s a full squadron of both. I line up the bottles on the kitchen island—IPA, stout, a token gluten-free thing for Gerald, who claims he’s “pre-diabetic” now that he’s near fifty—and it’s almost artistic, the color gradient from urine yellow to engine oil black. The poker table’s already set up in the living room, cards fresh from the box, chips in neat little Fort Knox stacks. I’ve even lit a fancy “man candle” someone got me as a joke, so the whole place reeks of woodsmoke and a touch of aviation fuel.

Gerald arrives first, five minutes early because he can’t break the habit. He’s wearing a North Face pullover and his usual Gophers cap, his Dad bod bulging over the waistband of his khakis. He spots the poker chips, grins, and gets right to shuffling, hands twitchy like he’s been mainlining Red Bull all day.

“Ready to lose your pension?” he cracks.

“Only if you up the stakes,” I reply, grabbing a beer for him and water for me. Tonight, I want to keep my wits sharp.

The other two guys—Brent from the gym and Ken from the VFW—show up within minutes. Brent’s brought a sack of gas-station beef jerky, which he rips open and leaves on the table like it’s a centerpiece. Ken’s got a bag of “artisanal” cigars and absolutely no intention of going out to the porch to smoke them.

We settle in, deal the first hand, and the banter gets loud fast. War stories, ugly jokes, every hand another excuse to take the piss out of whoever’s lost the most weight or the most hair since last time. I play tight, stacking chips and letting them underestimate me. After years flying with these guys, I know all their tells. Gerald’s got a tick where he taps his cards three times before folding. Brent scratches his ear if he’s bluffing. Ken can’t keep a straight face to save his life, which is why he’s already down twenty bucks by the second round.

After an hour, the air’s thick with cigar smoke and competitive bravado. I let Gerald win a few hands, just enough to keep him happy, and then rake in a huge pot on a straight flush that makes them all groan. Brent fake-pouts and throws a fistful of chips at me. Ken slaps the table and howls, “Goddamn, Jack, you cold-blooded bastard.”

I raise my glass. “You boys make it too easy.”

The table erupts in laughter, and for a moment, I let myself relax. I almost forget that I’m dating my best friend’s daughter, and that he has no fucking idea. But then, in the lull between hands, Gerald says, “Hey, Jack, quick word in the kitchen?”

He makes it sound casual, but there’s an edge in his voice that reminds me of the night before a big deployment. I nod, wipe my hands on my jeans, and follow him.

The kitchen is colder, quieter. The hum of the fridge and the faint pop of glass settling in the dishwasher. Gerald goes straight to the counter and leans on it, back to me, staring into the depths of his beer like he expects an answer to rise up from the foam. He stares at the floor, thinning strands of brown hair unable to fully cover his shiny pate.

“What up, bud?” I ask in a mock-cheerful voice. “Something going on?”

He pauses before glancing up at me.

“You notice anything off about Eliza lately?” he asks, voice low.

I feel the knot in my gut tighten a notch. I play it smooth, grabbing another beer from the fridge. “What do you mean?”

Gerald turns around, mouth twisted in a frown. “She’s… I don’t know, different. Out late. Not telling us where she’s going. She’s always on her phone, but never says who she’s texting. Nancy’s convinced she’s hiding something.”

My heart races, but I make myself stay calm on the outside. I pop the cap on my beer and take a long, slow sip. “Your daughter’s twenty-one, G. Not a teenager. She’s got her own life.”

He shakes his head. “Yeah, but she’s still living at home. That means I have a right to know what’s going on.”

I shrug and smile, but my heart’s doing double-time. “You want me to talk to her?”