Walking Away

by Xavier Neal

  I let go of another smile. “Not that your opinion matters, but if you were to pick the music, what would you wanna listen to?”

  Jason sighs loudly, “I don’t know…country?”

  “Not surprised.”

  “That I have good taste? My wife proves that.”

  Disagreeing isn’t possible.

  Gwenny looks like a pin-up model and handles herself like she’s queen of the whole goddamn world whenever she’s a good distance from Donald Downer in the back seat. Still slightly amazed I’m gonna get to be balls deep in that shit.

  “Good taste in pussy, yes. In music…? Eh.”

  The offense is immediate. “Fuck you. I grew up listening to George Strait and Willie Nelson. Learned to serenade chicks to Tim McGraw and Keith Urban. I’ve got great fucking taste in music unlike you. No woman in her right mind would let you crawl between her legs after sitting around listening to this shit.”

  “You are so very wrong, Blondie.” I pull onto the highway and proclaim, “In fact, back in the day I took many many v-cards with them playing as the soundtrack.”

  “I don’t think you should be as proud of that as you are.”

  “Probably not. But I am.” We laugh together for the first time all afternoon and a small relief is discovered.

  Fuck, I didn’t realize how bad I needed that.

  “What about Gwenny?” My desire to keep the conversation going prompts the question. “She into the ho-down lifestyle too?”

  “She loves anything she can dance to….” The nostalgia in his voice causes me to steal a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror. Unlike earlier there’s not a line of stress or even a glimmer of a frown. His face is relaxed. Eyes soft. Smile adoring. It almost makes me wish I could pull over just to observe it without having to worry about crashing. “Man, I miss her dancing….She used to dance around the house all the time. Didn’t matter what the task was, she was singing and moving her hips. She used to do these little strip teases before starting a load of laundry….”

  The idea encourages my already stirring cock to continue to rise. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Unexpected excitement cakes his tone. “We actually met at a nightclub.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Nope,” he lightly laughs. “My buddy, Tank, was sleeping with the bartender at some club downtown and wanted to surprise her while she was working but didn’t wanna look like a desperate asshole and go alone. Somehow he convinced me to go with him. I think he mentioned free drinks.”

  “Drinks or shots?”

  “Probably both.”

  I don’t bother stifling my chuckle.

  “Honestly can’t remember what he said to get me there, but he did, and Gwen was there working. She was stalking a basketball groupie for a piece of jewelry the chick had taken after a one nightstand with a married player. Let’s just say the necklace she was after wasn’t the only thing she successfully went home with that night.”

  His phrasing shocks me. “No shit? She slept with you on the first night?”

  There’s arrogance in his tone. “And never another guy since.”

  This time when I steal a glance in the mirror I see him torn between glaring and hiding his growing guilt. Rather than tread in the murky territory, I let the music smother out the tension, and make the newfound silence somewhat bearable.

  What the fuck am I doing? Is any of this really going to help this marriage or just destroy it faster?

  I skip the original plan of stopping for gelato and take us straight to support group that’s being held in the meeting room of a church. Getting Jason out of the van proves to be just as difficult as it was getting him in. While I’m not expecting the meeting to be like a tailgate party, it’s even drearier than I pictured. There are fifteen people gathered, excluding me and the counselor, all with the same glum expression as Jason’s. For about an hour the twitchy guy, who looks like a young Chris Tucker, encourages the members in the group to share their experiences, their pains, and hopes. It isn’t nearly as effective as I’m sure he was hoping, but I imagine it probably takes time for people to open up. I picked this group because it seemed to be newly formed, meaning Jason wouldn’t come in automatically labeled “the new guy” or have all the attention focused on him for being the newest addition. The few people who are willing to share their experiences, tell tales about incidents from work mishaps, domestic relationship attacks, and tragic accidents.

  Every story told is existence altering, leaving each individual unsure of how to cope with their new unwanted way of life. Some mention how alone they feel. Others how disgusted they are with their new limitations. Many of the emotions they claim have me wondering if that’s how Jason silently feels.

  By the time we’re leaving, the sun has set, and the only thing I’m certain about is the truth in the closing statement Louis, the counselor, made. Life literally can change within the blink of an eye. It’s up to us to decide how to respond to it.

  Dating the two of them already has me behaving in unusual ways and battling unusual feelings. How I respond to it is all on me. Where I let it lead me, if I let it lead me, is a choice. A choice I want to continue following…even if Jason continues to put up a bit of a battle. I think he needs me just as much as Gwenny does. Problem is.…I’m starting to think I might need them too.

  Once I’m settled in the front seat of the van, I turn around and ask, “So? How do you feel?”

  Jason’s fist strikes me with an overload of force right in the nose.

  I grit my teeth in excruciating pain, yet don’t give him the satisfaction of verbally announcing my grievances.

  “That’s how I feel.”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose in an attempt to stop the throbbing, I make eye contact with him and grumble, “Fair enough.”

  I turn back around to start the van, letting silence momentarily nestle between us.

  Music tries to calm the tension and distract us from everything we’re not saying, but clearly want to. Occasionally, I look in the rearview mirror to assess the amount of anger still lingering on his face. Unlike our drive to group, which was filled with laughter and a mild case of flirting, this one is stiff and quiet.

  We’re almost to their place when I declare in a low voice, “You have two choices here, Blondie. You can either start talking to Gwenny or…I guess me if you prefer, or we can keep going to those fucking meetings and you can talk to them. Either way, you have to start talking to someone ‘cause that shit you’re keeping locked up isn’t doing anything for you or anybody fucking else. I don’t give a fuck how much you loathe the life you have now, it’s yours. Deal with it. Stop punishing Gwenny for trying to help you adjust to it, and decide on a better way to respond to it before it costs you the only piece of your past life even worth giving a fuck about.” I pull up to a stoplight and look at him in the mirror. “And yeah. I’m talking about Gwenny.”

  Jason doesn’t bother pulling his attention from where it is planted outside the window.

  I mask my defeat by giving my sore nose a small, smoothing rub.

  No more words are spoken for the short distance we have left to travel. After parking in the garage, I help him back inside.

  Almost immediately, we’re greeted by a panic faced Gwenny. “Where the hell have you two been? And why didn’t either of you answer your phones?!”

  Jason doesn’t answer as he rolls past her into the kitchen.

  Her shoulders plunge at the lack of a greeting, yet she follows behind him anyway. “Are you gonna answer me?”

  He doesn’t stop until he’s in the formal dining room struggling to pour himself a glass of whiskey. The minute Gwenny attempts to move closer to help, he coldly snaps, “I can do it my fucking self.”

  She stumbles backwards right into my arms. They flex around her tightly, wanting to shield her from the anger radiating off of him. She leans back against me and relaxes into my touch. My lips press softly against her ear. “It’s not you he’s pissed at r
ight now. It’s me.”

  Gwenny glances over her shoulder. “What did you do?”

  “We took a little bonding trip.” I turn my attention to Jason who is finishing his first gulp. “Isn’t that right, Blondie?”

  He glares, grabs the bottle, and pours another.

  “He’ll cool off eventually.” My eyes drink in the stunning, sweaty creation in my arms. “You look fucking sexy in these yoga pants. Tell me your self-defense instructor is a chick.”

  “Nope. Male. And an ex-Navy Seal.”

  “He interested?”

  “You jealous?”

  “Don’t think I won’t take on an ex-Seal for that pussy, Gwenny.”

  She slightly snickers while Jason grumbles something most likely unpleasant.

  “On that note, I’m gonna get going.”

  Gwenny’s mouth parts to object when mine intervenes. Her tongue’s instant surrender shoots straight to my cock. The mixture of chocolate and lust in it hits mine with every twirl and has me hating the fact Jason’s pissy even more. Every time I get any piece of this woman, my body immediately goes into gluttony mode. I wanna spend hours swimming in the flavors between both sets of her lips. And then I want Jason to use his tongue to take the taste of her from mine. If he wasn’t being such a little bitch right now, it would be a very real possibility.

  My cock knocks against Gwenny in agreement yet I pull back and sigh, “Goodnight, Gwenny.”

  Her breathless response makes leaving even harder. “Night….”

  “Hey Blondie.”

  To my surprise he meets my eyes.

  With a wide grin, I purse my lips together and blow him a kiss.

  He flashes me the middle finger of his glass free hand.

  I let out a chuckle as I turn on my heels to use the other exit.

  He’ll get over it. It may take a couple of days for the severity of my words and the stories at the meeting to set in, but when they do I have no doubt, he’ll start to come around. Change isn’t always flashy and apparent. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes you don’t even realize it’s happening until it’s already over and your life is suddenly somewhere you never imagined it would be.

  “A gold giraffe statue with onyx eyes?”

  “Yes.” The thin man sitting in the office chair across from me sighs, eyes still focused on his phone. “I have exhausted every resource I have to find this statue, but nothing. No one has found a clue in regards to who might have it in their current possession and the trail seems to have fallen ice cold as far as who might’ve taken it. I was told if I want the impossible located to contact you. That you can find anything.”

  Anything except how to wrap up this conversation apparently. I was hoping to leave the office early today. Unlike last year’s Valentine’s Day, which I dreaded, I can’t wait to celebrate. Besides it’s not only a romantic holiday, but our one-month anniversary as a couple. Throuple? Is there a word for a three people relationship?

  My lack of retort causes his eyes to finally lift. “Well. Can you?”

  I present him a cocky smirk that would make Hudson proud. “I can.”

  His face twitches concern. “But?”

  “But the price has to be right Mr. Edgar.”

  “Laurence.”

  The lack of repeating his first name seems to gather more of his attention.

  “And what exactly is the right price, Gwendolyn?”

  “Mrs. Kincaid.”

  Surprise flashes across his face.

  “You made an appointment for my help. You are sitting in my office. You will respect my presence as an equal rather than a servant you plan on throwing a few grand at to get a chore done.”

  An impressed expression appears.

  “I pick the price based upon the task once I’ve agreed to take on the challenge. You will sign a few documents, including a NDA, which prevents you from discussing the details of my business or how it is conducted. You will show up at my office only when requested, but will be kept in contact as needed during the retrieval of your lost possession. However, due to the lack of respect you have shown me since you walked through my door, I am reluctant to take your case.”

  “My apologies, Mrs. Kincaid.” He swallows his building anxiety. “I didn’t realize-”

  “That you wouldn’t be dealing with a pushover? That I didn’t get to where I am by letting people like you walk on me like they do their Yolandaz rugs?”

  Laurence’s cheeks redden.

  “I’ll take your case for an additional non-refundable fee.”

  “Of how much?”

  “Ten grand.”

  “Done.”

  Folding my hands on top of my unusually shaped desk, I question, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  His forehead wrinkles briefly. “My wife would love to add a Tucker Frost piece to our collection.”

  The name rings a bell though I’m not certain why.

  “The problem is, he doesn’t create for profit, merely for family.”

  “Ah. His artwork is what hangs in some of the Frost Luxury Hotels, correct?”

  “Precisely. And every time we see one she begs management to let her purchase it, but they aren’t for sale. Indefinitely.”

  I nod my understanding at the same time I type a note on the tablet beside me. “And how much are you willing to pay for a painting?”

  “I’d like to keep it under a million.”

  “Including my finder’s fee for the painting?”

  “You’re going to charge me an additional fee on top of the other one?”

  “Unless you would like the price doubled for both I suggest you lose the attitude in your tone.”

  He promptly clears his throat, tempting me to smile at the power shift he is loathing. “Under a million for just the painting. Under twenty five percent for your…finder’s fee of it.”

  Like I can hear the cash symphony warming up, I smile, add the details, and meet his eyes once more. “Perfect. I have all your contact information on file. I’ll have the official papers drawn and be in touch.”

  Laurence slowly stands. “Sooner rather than later I expect.”

  He doesn’t wait for a retort before exiting my office.

  I rather enjoy making men like him squirm. What I love more is charging them outrageous prices for pissing me off. Sometimes I actually do need the amount high enough to cover my sources around the globe, other times, like today, I do it as a not so gentle reminder that they can’t treat everyone who works for them like shit. Putting their egos in check occasionally gets me a bit drunk with power, but like any good buzz, I know my limit.

  As quickly as possible, I lock away the stacks of files I had been rifling through before Laurence arrived, shut down my computer, sneak a candy treat, and tuck my tablet into my work bag alongside my laptop.

  Unfortunately, the moment I’m practically finished, Ronnie comes prancing into my office waving a white envelope in the air. “You’ve got hand delivered mail….”

  I slide the bag onto my shoulder and make a gesture for him to put it in my possession.

  Ronnie gleefully places it in my palm. “Is it a love letter?”

  The blankness has me weary to open it, yet I don’t show it. “From who Ronnie? Who would write me a love letter?”

  My words barely have time to leave my lips before I have the answer to that question floating on the tip of my tongue. Hudson. Hudson would write me a love note like this, though it would be filled with poorly executed sexual references, and he would command an A for effort. Sadly enough, I’d give it to him. Over the past month I’ve come to realize Hudson might need us the same way we need him, which is so much easier to swallow than having someone with all their shit together come into your marriage. Three fucked up people are a bit more equal and on the same playing field than two fucked up people and one person who has life already figured out. The more time we spend together the more I see none of us do despite how hard it is we’ve tried in the past. We’r
e developing an unusual flow that wouldn’t work for most people, but that I’m beginning to see definitely works for us. Jason needs a friend. Hudson needs stability. I need...well, more positive human interaction. Dealing with rich assholes day in and day out, who attempt to treat you like a disposable device rather than a person, can wear on much more than your ego, especially when there’s no one at home to remind you that you are more than just a handy tool only to be used when all else fails.

  I examine the envelope for a moment longer before proceeding to open it. The contents inside causes my smile to appear and actions to return to their haste. “I gotta go.”