Commitment

by Golland, K. M.

  “She’s had it already.”

  I stopped at her desk. “Her bag is still here.”

  “Maybe she’s taking a piss.”

  Good point. My instincts told me that wasn’t the case, but I walked to the toilets anyway, opened the door and called out, “Hill, you in here?”

  Silence.

  My unease amplified, and I started to fear the worst.

  Jogging back to her desk, I picked up the phone and dialled her mobile. It rang, but it was ringing from inside her handbag. “Fuck!” I exclaimed and hung up abruptly, jogging out to reception. “Val, have you seen Hillary?”

  “Yes, she walked out maybe twenty minutes ago.”

  “Shit!” I muttered, heading to the door. “Do you know where she went?”

  “No! Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Which way did she go?”

  “Um … left, I think. Dean what’s —”

  I didn’t have time to explain, so burst through the door and hung a left, jogging toward the shops, which were cafés, a naturopath, a newsagency, and a butcher. As I went past the small alleyway, which led to the parking lot at the back of our building, I paused, wondering if she’d gone to her car. It didn’t make sense, considering she’d left her bag in the office, but then Hillary leaving her bag and heading out didn’t make sense either.

  Rounding the corner and stepping out into the open car park, I noticed a tall, blond guy standing in front of Hillary, her back pressed against her car, his towering frame obviously intimidating.

  It was the arsehole boyfriend. No doubt about it. And she looked terrified, cowering before him.

  “Hey,” I shouted, picking up my pace.

  Both Hill and the abusive prick looked up, the arsehole turning to face me front on. “Is this the guy, Hillary?” he asked, stepping away from her, his hands by his sides.

  “Yeah, I’m the guy, you prick,” I answered, swinging my fist at him and connecting with his jaw. “How’s it feel when someone fights back, huh?”

  He stumbled backward, losing his bearings for a second before charging me. Hillary screamed, “Stop”, just before a reflection of light caught on the blade he was holding in his hand, a blade I wasn’t quick enough to dodge.

  “Dean! Oh my God, Dean! HELP! Somebody help!”

  The clang of metal hitting concrete sounded in my ears at the same time an electric shock fired through my body, followed by the most intense heat I’d ever felt. I raised my left hand to just below my right armpit where the burn was most extreme, and that’s when I felt pain. Severe pain. Sharp. Deep. Excruciating pain. It was the worst kind imaginable. It was also the moment of what had just happened registered.

  I’d been stabbed.

  Removing my hand, I looked down, seeing nothing but blood staining my fingers and shirt. I tried to speak but nothing came out.

  My knees buckled.

  And everything just … faded.

  Chapter Twnety-Nine

  Tash

  Dean.

  Has.

  Been.

  Stabbed.

  Four of the most frightening words I’ve ever heard spoken in succession, but more so when spoken from Hillary’s panic-stricken voice as she’d sobbed them through my phone. They still rang in my head, haunting me, as I clasped my fingers around Dean’s. He looked peaceful, lying in the stark white, hospital bed, and he would almost pass for sleeping soundly if it weren’t for the chest tube poking out of his side, the drip in his hand, and the nasal cannula protruding from his nostrils.

  “Mrs Jones, I’ve just paged the doctor. He’ll be here shortly to explain your husband’s condition and the injuries he sustained.”

  I looked up to where the voice had come from, blinking away my tears. “Oh, thank you.”

  The young, blonde nurse, taking Dean’s vitals jotted something down on her clipboard and smiled encouragingly. “He should wake up soon.”

  I scoffed. “Knowing my husband, he may just decide to sleep in today.”

  “He’s not a morning person, huh?”

  “No, not normally.”

  “Well, I guess he does have a really good excuse today,” she said before leaving the room.

  “Yeah, I guess he does.”

  I trailed my hand down the side of his face, taking note of the grey hairs in his stubble and sideburns. They were a new feature, one he hated and one I loved. He also hated the mole on his left cheek, which I thought added character; again, another part of him I loved.

  There was so damn much I loved about Dean: his eyelids that were closed and lightly fluttering, his soft lips that were never dry, and the way the tip of his nose pointed, subtly.

  Skimming my finger across it, I appreciated its existence — I appreciate all of his existence.

  “Oh my God!” I quietly gasped, the reality of what had happened mere hours ago hitting me. I nearly lost you, Dean. Our boys nearly lost you.

  I couldn’t even comprehend what that could’ve meant, his absence in our lives just … unfathomable.

  From what Hillary had told me, Dean had been stabbed in the parking lot outside of his office building by her ex-boyfriend. Apparently, Robbie — the scumbag’s name— had a knife to her throat when Dean stumbled across them and hit the guy. Dean hadn’t seen the knife, and the next thing Hillary knew was that Dean was on his knees covered in blood while Robbie fled the scene.

  Just the thought of what had happened, what could’ve happened, and what shouldn’t have happened tore me apart. I was so angry. Scared. Proud. My husband had the purest of hearts and it had nearly cost him his life.

  “You stupid idiot,” I whispered, lowering my head to the bed and crying into his crisp white bed sheets.

  “Who are you calling an idiot?”

  My head shot back up at the sound of his raspy, dry voice. “Dean! You’re awake?”

  “Not quite,” he groaned. “Just pressing snooze one more time.”

  Wiping tears from my eyes, I smiled. “Okay. Just once. Then it’s time to wake up and come back to me.”

  He nodded. “I never left you, love.” His face fell peaceful again. Still. And all I could do was shake my head in wonderment and grip his hand even tighter.

  “I may be a hero, love, but ease up on the hand a little.”

  “Shit! Sorry.” I let go and rested my hands on his leg instead.

  “A little higher,” his gravelly voice suggested, and I wondered if he needed water.

  “Should I get the nurse? Do you need anything?”

  He didn’t answer, so I just stared at him, studying every inch on the man I fell in love with eighteen years ago. The man I married, shared children with, and would love for the rest of my life. My normal.

  “Hi, I’m Doctor Williams,” a man explained, offering me his hand to shake as he entered the room. “Your husband’s surgeon.”

  “Hi, I’m Tash, Dean’s wife. I can’t begin to thank you enough—”

  “Please, there’s no need to thank to me. Your husband did most of the hard work.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Dean murmured, slowly opening his eyes.

  “Oh good, the hero awakens. How are you feeling, Dean? How’s the level of pain from zero to ten? Ten being the pain of running out of beer.”

  “No beer? Shit, this doesn’t even come close.” Dean winced when he tried to shuffle on the bed. “Let me see, maybe a six.”

  “Okay, good. Your wound was packed with anaesthetic before we stitched you up, so that will last you a little while longer. In the meantime, we’ll keep your pain meds up and see how you’re travelling tomorrow.”

  I nodded and squeezed Dean’s thigh.

  “Love, just a little higher.”

  Oh my God! I could hit him.

  “Dean Jones, I will yank that chest tube out of you if you mention that one more time.”

  Dr Williams laughed. “Well, we don’t want that, so my recommendation is that you behave, Dean, because when you were stabbed you suffered a perforat
ed lung, which then collapsed due to an abnormal build-up of air and fluid between the chest and lung cavities — known as a pneumothorax. That chest tube is draining that abnormal build-up of fluid and air; therefore helping your lungs expand fully. We need it to remain in there a little longer.”

  “Was anything else perforated when he was stabbed?” I asked, worried. “And will his lungs be affected or permanently damaged?”

  “Apart from the obvious: skin, fatty tissue, and muscle, Dean was very lucky nothing else was penetrated by the blade.”

  I sighed with relief and rubbed Dean’s shoulder.

  “As for permanent damage, he should be fully recovered in five to six weeks if he adheres to the recommended post operative care.”

  “Oh he will!” I stated. “Won’t you, babe?”

  Dean nodded but his eyes had closed again.

  “It’s normal for him to drift in and out of consciousness until the anaesthesia wears off.” Dr Williams flipped a page on Dean’s chart. “Everything looks fine. We’ll monitor him and keep his pain meds topped up for the next couple of days and then he should be right to go home. He won’t be able to drive for roughly two to three weeks, nor lift or do any strenuous activity.”

  “Sex isn’t classed as strenuous right, Doc?”

  Both Dr Williams and I glanced at Dean who still had his eyes shut but was sporting a mischievous grin.

  I bit the inside of my cheek. “Are you sure that chest tube is important?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” he answered sternly, but offered me a secret fifty/fifty hand gesture.

  I giggled and Dean opened one eye, suspiciously.

  Dr Williams dropped his hand by his side. “Right. My job here is done. Do you have any further questions?”

  “No. But thank you again.”

  “My pleasure. Now, no more heroics, Dean, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Doc.” Both Dean’s eyes sprung open and he went to sit up in bed. “Hillary? What happened to Hillary is she okay?”

  “Yes!” I gently coaxed him back down with Dr William’s help. “She’s fine, babe.”

  His body relaxed but the discomfort he’d just instigated wasn’t lost on his face, his eyebrows pinched, his teeth clenched.

  “Dean, you have to try to remain calm. No sudden movements.”

  “Did they catch him?”

  I kissed his cheek. “I hope so.”

  * * *

  Six weeks later, Dean was fully recovered and due to return to work this coming Monday. Bryce and Lexi had insisted I take bereavement leave to play ‘home nurse’ — Lexi even lending me a costume, which was not the type of ‘nurse’ costume suitable for my caring role. I’d declined the costume by politely saying, “Hell fucking no! You actually wear that in the bedroom?” but gladly accepted the leave from work until day three, when I was begging to go back.

  Dean was the worst patient ever!

  Demanding.

  Whiny.

  And did I say demanding?

  If it weren’t for the fact that I adored his sorry arse, I would’ve kicked back everyday and eaten donuts in front of him while finger-fucking myself. But hey, I’d only done that once.

  The boys had dealt with their father’s injuries surprisingly well. Thomas didn’t quite understand the severity of the situation but had offered his Security Cadet services anyway, standing guard at Dean’s side for the first week he was home, recovering. It had driven Dean crazy, which, for me, was appropriate payback for the demanding, whiny crap.

  William, on the other hand, did understand the seriousness of what had happened. He knew his father was stabbed trying to protect his secretary. He knew his injuries were bad but could’ve been a whole lot worse. He knew the guy who’d stabbed his father was violent and locked away. But most of all, he knew his father was a hero.

  He’d also cried three nights straight because of his understanding.

  It had broken my heart as well as strengthened it, knowing that love hurts but heals just as eminently.

  Hillary’s boyfriend had been apprehended in New South Wales three days after the stabbing. He was currently being held in remand — after bail was refused — until his Committal Mention Hearing in three weeks time.

  I was nervous about the entire situation, and I knew Dean was as well. He just refused to admit it. So I’d planned a surprise getaway, also known as Alpha Female phase three.

  The boys were staying with Lexi and Bryce.

  I had Eleanor.

  I was about to kidnap my husband.

  Pressing the horn, I honked it twice and waited, butterflies fluttering in my stomach in anticipation of the look on his face when he opened the front door and —

  “What the fuck?” There it is.

  He stepped outside, and I squealed, bum-dancing in the driver’s seat.

  “Tash! Why are you driving Eleanor?”

  “Because she’s ours for the weekend.”

  He adjusted his crotch and scratched his head.

  My eyes widened. “Are you hard right now?”

  “Yes, I think I am.”

  “Should I be jealous?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His expression was priceless; confused elation at its finest.

  “So … you ready to be kidnapped, Mr Jones? It’s date night tonight, and this is my something ‘new’.”

  He strolled down the steps and stopped at my door, tilting my chin and placing a firm kiss on my lips. “You, Mrs Jones, have absolutely nothing to be jealous about.”

  After grabbing a few final bits and pieces, because I’d packed before taking the boys to the penthouse apartment, Dean was loading the car and closing the glove box as I locked up the house.

  “So, where are we off to?” he asked, opening the passenger side door for me like the perfect gentleman.

  “Great Ocean Road, babe.”

  “Could you be any more perfect?”

  I sat in the seat and smoothed my dress down. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Dean climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key, revving the engine a couple of times. I laughed at his childish excitement before spotting Trixiebell in her front yard, pulling weeds. She looked up, waved, and pointed two fingers at her eyes then rotated them toward our house.

  “I’ll watch it like a hawk,” she shouted. “Don’t worry. Go have some fun, kids.”

  We waved back.

  “So … I’m thinkin’ of setting up Trixie with Rob,” Dean said, as he reversed out of the driveway.

  “Rob? The guy you work with? The one that looks like that short guy in Seinfeld? I thought you said he was a jerk.”

  “He is. But I think if anyone could tame him, it would be Trixie.”

  I bit my fingernail. “You could be right. So how are you going to set them up?”

  “I don’t know. Pool party … BBQ?”

  “This could be the best idea you’ve ever had, or it could be the end of the world as we know it.”

  “Not the best odds, huh?”

  I shook my head and smiled. “Nope.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, we were driving along the Great Ocean Road toward Lorne, the wind in my hair, the sun on my face … my sexy as fuck husband beside me. I eyed his exposed arms, trailing my sight along the ridges of his muscles as he gripped the steering wheel. He was wearing his aviators, his dark brown, windswept hair blowing in the breeze, a slight pink sunburnt tinge forming on his collarbone where his white t-shirt dipped into a V.

  “Eleanor suits you,” I said, twisting a lock of my hair.

  He glanced over. “You suit me.”

  I bit down on my pointer finger and smiled seductively.

  “Want to know something?” he asked, a smile creeping in at the corners of his mouth.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve always fantasised about finger fucking a girl while driving a Mustang convertible.”

  “Really? Just any girl?” I asked, elevating my voice all girl-like
.

  “No. Not just any girl; the perfect girl. My brown-eyed, brunette, donut-lover.” He reached over and set his hand on my lap, slowly inching it up my thigh and pushing the hem of my dress up along with it.

  The muscles between my legs clenched with excitement and a sweet tingle shot straight to my core. I sucked in a deep breath and opened my legs just a little, rocking my pelvis into the seat to create a little friction.

  “Mmm,” I moaned.

  Dean slid his hand down the inside of my thigh, gripping it tightly, his fingers pressing into my skin. I opened even wider for him, and his finger found the seam of my underwear.

  He lightly skated it across my clit, and I jolted, pleasure hitting every nerve ending in my body. I was so fucking wet that my vagina could rival the world’s greatest water slide. I mean, seriously, it could be named the Epic Plunge or Tash Snatch Splash Express. For fuck’s sake, babe, take the plunge. Do it now!

  He did.

  And his plunge was epic.

  “You’re so wet, love. Are you laying eggs again?”

  I laughed. “No! This time it’s all you, babe. Own it. Be proud.”

  “Oh I’m fucking proud alright.” He slid deeper and swirled his finger round and round.

  I rocked against it. “Tell me what it feels it like?” my voice low and sexy. “I want to know what I feel like.”

  He groaned and strained to reach deeper, his finger strokes more desperate against the walls of my pussy. “Mmm… it feels like … like wet bubblewrap.” What the fuck?

  “Bubblewrap!” I exclaimed. “Could you have picked anything less sexy?”

  “It is sexy!” he exclaimed back. “Slippery, wet … bumpy.”

  “Now I’m a four wheel drive track. Thanks!” I wiggled away, removing his finger and crossing my legs. “I need a tissue. Where are the tissues?” Reaching forward, I opened the glove box and a can rolled out and landed in my lap. I looked down, a big-breasted woman with spread-eagled legs staring up at me. “What the hell is this?”

  “What’s what?” he asked, glancing over then back at the road, then back over at me.

  “This!” I read the can. “Vulcan Vagina: the realistic LoveSkin masturbator feels just like a tight ripe vagina. WHAT?” Tight, ripe, vagina! Oh my God! It’s boss-man’s. “Ew! Ew! Ew!” I squealed.