Page 31 of Two Wrongs
Out there, in the other room, with the music and dancing, the place heavy with the atmosphere of sex, I’d thought him unthreatening.Unthreatening in a place three miles out from my comfort zone.I remember thinking he had warm eyes, that he’d maybe be kind. That he’d understand when this fell apart because Dylan wasn’t truly going to make me do this, was he? I now think the opposite, and all I want to do is peel his fingers from my skin and douse myself in a vat of Lysol.
‘Are you here to talk or fuck,’ calls a voice from inside.
‘He doesn’t like that I called you baby.’
Sandy’s whisper is meant to be conspiratorial, but I don’t want to conspire with him, let alone have sex with him. And truthfully, I don’t like that he called me baby, either. I say none of this as my eyes adjust to the light.
Dylan stands at the far side of the room, his broad back to me as he switches on a lamp. As he turns, our gazes lock. He looks at me as though he’d prefer not to—as though he’d prefer to look atanythingbut me... yet has no choice.
I hold his gaze. Letting him know I’m not going anywhere as I’m compelled to step over the threshold. I ignore the inadvertent dance of Sandy’s fingers down my spine as I move. On the sideboard next to a lamp stands a tray of glasses and a bottle of black labelled bourbon. Dylan pours two fingers in one, holding it out to me, and my feet don’t stop moving until the tips of my shoes are almost touching his.
I take the glass wordlessly. Bringing it under my nose, I hope to drown the overwhelming scent of him. It’s torture to my senses; the spice of his cologne and the underlying scent of laundry detergent from his shirt. If I reached out right now and touched his cheek, I know exactly how those dark bristles would feel against my fingertips, almost recalling the sensation of them against the tender skin between my thighs. It’s the little things that hurt the most. Small reminders that steal my breath—the tiny scar on his jawline that most people wouldn’t notice, and the way one of his incisors overlaps ever so slightly, making him appear less than perfect up close.And a little more real. Small things that, from across the ocean, I could choose not to recall, but this close to him, I don’t have that luxury, and the sense of nostalgia pains me acutely.
I throw the fiery liquid back, closing my eyes tight against the burn.
‘You never did appreciate good liquor.’ His mouth lifts in one corner as he takes the empty glass from my hand.
‘The good stuff is rarely made in Tennessee.’
‘You’re a disgrace to our people.’
A long-standing joke between us. Scots are supposed to have whisky in their veins, and he’d often said he was looking forward to the day we’d travel to Scotland together. That we’d visit the distilleries, sampling spring water and single malts, and it’d take him nothing more than a few hours to convert me.Because I’m so malleable to his wants and desires.But the truth is I’m a lightweight; I like a glass of wine or two. Maybe a fruity cocktail by the side of the pool on holiday. Spirits have never been my deal until...
‘I developed a taste for vodka this afternoon.’
He lowers his gaze from mine quite suddenly, lashes as black as the lies I’ve told shading his eyes. As he looks up again, our connection is severed, his focus sliding over my shoulder to where the other man stands.
‘Let’s get on with this,’ he says, his voice all business.
He turns fully from me, and I begin to shake bodily at his denial of me, almost stumbling to the dresser in my haste to fill my glass again. And that’s what I do; no measly half shot this time. Much like the first mouthful, it burns on the way down; only this time, I’m able to sell it to myself that it’s the booze stinging my eyes.
I can do this. Even if I think I can’t. I won’t break down.
Across the room, Dylan lowers himself to an armchair, my glassy gaze making his image watery and indistinct. I’m a tactile person and always have been, so it’s fair to say as Sandy appears next to me and strokes my cheek, I lean into him.Lean into him, all the while looking at Dylan and feeling his fingers touch me.Blame the bourbon. Blame the man watching me from a chair at the end of the bed. Blame his cruelty. Blame a career choice where I spend my day touching strangers. Massaging heads.
This is so fucked up, but I can do this. Dare me, Dylan. Let me call your bluff.
Sandy’s hands turn me to face my husband fully and panic grips my throat. This is where it starts. Or ends. But how can he sit there watching? Watching another man touch me. Defile his marriage bed. The fist holding my heart squeezes tight, demanding I take action. Demanding I leave. But I don’t. I don’t have that luxury.
Hands run from my shoulders to hips then kisses press against the back of my neck. Wet, open-mouth kisses while Dylan’s green eyes bore into mine. As soft breath feathers across my skin, I shiver again, rolling my neck to keep my jawline—and mouth—away from this man. It’s not meant as a green light for him to begin sucking there, but he does. I try to muffle the sounds of my distress, the emotion hitting the air as a shaky groan.
Tactile. I’m tactile,I tell myself as his hands move to my shoulders once again. I realise a moment too late that he’s pushing at my dress. It slips from one shoulder then the other, sliding down my arms and catching at the elbows where my fingers grip them. And I’m frozen like a deer in the beam of Dylan’s gaze because, of the two men in the room, one is whispering seductions while the other just stares. Watches me. Watches my fingers flexing against the urge to cover myself.
Fuck you, Dylan. Fuck you, and fuck all those girls you fucked since I left. Fuck you for believing what your eyes couldn’t see. And fuck you for coming home covered in the evidence of some slut sucking on your dick.
When I’d chosen this dress earlier, I hadn’t anticipated coming this far, yet here we are.I’ll show him...Uncrossing my arms, I allow my dress to slither to the floor, my bareness reacting to the cool of the room. Not at all a gentleman, Dylan’s eyes consume; from the hard peaks of my breasts to the brevity of my thong.
I try not to react—try not to jerk—as Sandy’s arms slide around my ribcage, his fingers rising to caress.
I’m tactile. It’s just physical contact. I can deal.
My nipples tighten as his fingers pinch. I try to make sure my face doesn’t do the same, casting my eyes heavenwards. Beyond the sounds of this man sucking on my neck and my heart pounding against my ribs, I hear the liquid swish around Dylan’s glass.
Fuck you and the plan you rode in on.
Fuck you if you think I’m backing down.
Sandy straightens, rubbing his hardness against my ass, so I reach my hand over my shoulder to pull his head to mine, and all the while his mouth moves over me, whispers to me—as his hands maul and his dick rubs—I’m watching the man in front of me. The man whose relaxed demeanour is made liar by a very taut jaw. The man who stabs my heart with his gaze. And like a rapier through my heart, truth passes between us. For the first time since I arrived in LA, I feel the truth. This thing; this monstrous act he’s brought me here to complete, is his severance of me, not my punishment. And I can’t lie to myself anymore; he’s going to make me go through with it, and he’s going to watch. He truly intends to watch me debase myself with another man, to sully my skin because he needs this from me.
