by Devon Scott
Ryan places his feet on the cold floor. Hands to his face, holding his head. The pain is a dull roar—a throb that lessens a bit when he massages his temples with his fingers.
Checks his watch.
Seven-thirty A.M.
SHIT!
Door opens, floor creaking.
Ryan glances up and sees her.
Reese—clad in a white tank top and matching panties—caught in mid-stride. It is her thigh that Ryan attempts to focus on. Their stares lock before her head turns along with her body. Then her back is to him as she retreats to her room, and Ryan is left with the after-image of her round bottom, ass cheeks rising and falling in slow motion, the contrast of her white panties on dark skin—thrilling. For a moment, he forgets everything—the past and the present—as lust infuses his being, and he exists merely as a male. For a brief moment in time, he watches her silently, feeling himself swell and rise. However, as quickly as the euphoria comes, it is gone, and all the images, sounds, and feelings from the previous night come crashing down upon him—back to reality, shattering any sense of lustful thoughts that were beginning to take hold.
Ryan’s head throbs as he rises. He wobbles unsteadily as he shuffles over to the coffee table where his jacket has been deposited. Reaching into the pocket, he fishes out his cell phone, powers it up, and experiences spikes of pain radiating throughout his chest as he sees sixteen missed calls.
Sixteen…
Five voice mail messages.
Ryan listens to them—all from his wife, Carly, her voice morphing from calm and collected to frenzied, harried, and then crazed.
He winces in pain, more so from Carly’s words than his hangover.
He’s got to call her. Let her know he’s okay.
Got to get out of here first.
His mind races with detailed thoughts.
Got to get home fast.
This thing between him and Olivia is a snowball that’s rolling down a hill, expanding in mass and volume as it goes. Soon, it will be an avalanche—nothing in its way stopping it.
The thought makes him pause.
Ryan realizes he no longer knows for sure who this thing is about anymore.
Is it Olivia—the object of his obsession?
Once upon a time, it was.
But now, with the icy words of Miles, her husband, creeping back into his psyche, Ryan no longer knows.
He can’t even trust his instincts.
Oh God.
How did he get himself into this mess?
He snaps the cell shut, and then re-opens it. Contemplates calling his wife this very instant. Begins to speed-dial her number before snapping the phone shut again.
No, not here.
Not yet.
But she’s got to be going crazy—wondering if I’m dead or alive.
He sits. Ping-pongs back and forth—should he or shouldn’t he?
Get out of here—find the car. No, too much time. Instead, get to a pay phone and call her from there—appease her mind.
The cell phone is heavy in his hands.
He stares at it as if it is a meteorite—something not of this world. Turns it over in his palms before opening it and sighing heavily. Glancing at the empty doorway, he speed-dials her number.
Carly snatches up her phone on the first ring. And Ryan feels her fury.
“WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN???”
“Baby,” he begins, the pain in his head threatening to make him black out. He presses forward, through the fire. “I’m sorry. I was too drunk to drive, so I slept in my car. Phone’s been off—battery dead—just have a second or two of juice left…”
Carly is in the midst of a rapid-fire tirade that Ryan can only half comprehend.
“Baby,” he interrupts, “I’m on my way. Just have to get something in my stomach before I get sick again. Be home soon, okay?”
She is relentless, on fire. Ryan winces, turns the volume down, lest the entire neighborhood hear their back-and-forth exchanges.
“I know; I know, Carly. I’m sorry, but I was drunk. Look, gotta go. Be home soon.”
He closes the phone on her words. Shakes his head as the cell is dropped into his lap. He exhales slowly before glancing over to the doorway. Reese is there again, shoulder pressed into the doorframe, still clad in her sexy white tank and panties. Legs crossed. Arms folded across her large chest.
She is staring at him. He is staring back. No words are spoken.
He is observing her, the jewelry in her eyebrow and sparkle at her nose. The steel, along with her full, moist lips, is drawing him near. The outline of dark nipples pokes through translucent fabric, making him weak—a slave to the flesh. Ryan is unblinking. He is thinking about her—this stranger—wondering about her allure, if she has the power, the authority to take his hurt away.
If only for a moment.
Make him forget…make him right with the world. If only for a single solitary moment. He’d give his right arm for that…a moment of solitary peace.
But he’s got to go—get home. Face Carly and her wrath.
Suddenly, everything is falling away again. This time, Ryan prays the instant will last.
Reese turns and walks away.
Her footfalls are heavy on wood.
Ryan’s heart is pumping a mile a minute as he observes her retreat. Her fullness speaks to him again.
The sound is loud…
Seconds later, he rises unsurely.
Head pounding, blood flowing, he follows…
Like a slave.
Chapter 14
Pulling off the main road and into the sub-development, he feels what he always feels at this moment—peace, tranquility. It’s as if he has been transported from one dimension to another—steel, concrete, brick; cars commandeered by hostile drivers; speeding taxis; everyone moving way too fast—giving way to fresh clear air, sunlight, the shrill of birds, the rustling of tree leaves, and best of all—urban silence.
Their house is on a cul-de-sac, a large reddish brick colonial; it sits on a slight hill, higher than the others—a mistake made by the builder—giving it an air of majesty. The grass front and sides are well manicured, the hedges well trimmed. He feels enormous pride every time he turns onto his street and spies his home.
Their home for five years.
Yet this feeling that satiates him is short-lived.
Ryan steers the car up the driveway, feeling his heart race as the garage door lifts. He enters his stall to the right. He takes a deep breath and sighs before hitting the remote to close the garage door. He exits his car, checking his rumpled clothes before sighing again. Ryan steps up and opens the door.
Their house features a large eat-in kitchen facing the deck and backyard. A bay window divides the room; beyond it is a sunken living room. The walls rise to the second floor where a balcony overlooks the room and the fireplace on the far wall. He pauses briefly to take in the expanse of the well-decorated first level.
She is there, like he knew she would be.
Her back is against the island, facing him, a steaming mug of herbal tea in one hand, supporting the cup in the palm with her other. Her favorite, wild berry. Ryan can smell it from where he stands.
Carly’s showered, changed. The sweats are gone, and are now replaced by faded jeans and a flattering sweater that showcases her smallish breasts. Shoeless, white socks adorning her feet—the way she’s most comfortable. Done her hair up the way he likes. Straight, smooth down her neck.
After all, she’s had plenty of time.
It’s now close to eleven.
Ryan lets the door close behind him.
Observes her.
She is eyeing him silently. She is in the act of taking a sip when he enters. She finishes, taking a soothing gulp, as if there is no rush.
Not a care in the world.
There is something on the counter behind his wife—thin molded plastic, reminiscent of a thermometer. His attention diverts back to her.
“Hi.”
<
br /> She stares, but says nothing.
Ryan advances, hands at his side. When he reaches her, his arms raise up to embrace her, head tilting down to implant a kiss. Carly reacts by turning away as she puts up a hand, pushing him back.
“Don’t come near me,” Carly whispers, and for the first time, Ryan is scared. He has never heard his wife use this tone before and it chills him. For a moment, he looks away, past her into the living room, taking in the rest of their home, thinking, I could lose all of this. I’ve already begun my downhill slide.
“Baby,” he begins, but Carly shuts him down.
“Ry, you can’t be serious?” She puts the mug down on the counter behind her with a thud. Ryan takes two steps back. Her hands go to her hips. Glancing at her watch, she continues. “I mean, it’s fucking eleven o’clock—almost three hours since you said you were on your way home!”
Carly glares at him. She purses her lips, then mashes them together as if she were squashing a bug.
Ryan doesn’t like it when she curses. Doesn’t like it one bit because it means she is beyond angry.
“I know, Carly, and I’m sorry. It’s just, I had to get something in my stomach, had to get gas—”
“And all that took three fucking hours? Please!” She reaches for her mug. In the process, her wrist connects, sweeping it off the counter and onto the tile floor. It shatters on impact, ceramic shards and sweet hot tea expanding outward like a hydrogen bomb. In seconds, her foot is red and burning. Carly screams, hands to her toes as she sidesteps the impending wave. Ryan reacts, reaches out to her as she recoils as if in horror.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” she hisses, hobbling backwards to the table and taking a seat. The sopping, now stained sock is flung away, narrowly missing him. Ryan backs away. He grabs a roll of paper towels to deal with the spill.
“Don’t even come near me after some bullshit excuse like that.”
Ryan is kneeling, silent.
Carly is rubbing her calf and toes, shaking her head.
For a moment, the two are still.
Then the tears begin to fall…down both cheeks…and Carly makes no move to wipe them away.
“Oh, baby,” Ryan says, rising. “I’m so sorry for all of this. Please, believe me—”
Carly interrupts him. “You know what? I don’t know what to believe. All I know is this: we’ve been together going on seven years and in all that time nothing like this has ever happened. You’ve never stayed out all night. You’ve never,” she says, rising while wiping her cheek with the back of her hand, “never got so drunk that you couldn’t drive. I have no idea what you are doing. No idea whom you are doing it with.”
“Carly, it’s not—”
“Let me finish!” she exclaims. “If you are doing something, only you know. I’ll tell you this, though—I’ve been your devoted partner and wife for all these years. I’ve stood by your side, taken the good with the bad; never complained; never faltered in my love for you. But if you think for one second—”
He goes to her, wraps his arms around her frame, despite her protests, and holds her tight.
“I love you, Carly, I do. Wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”
The sobs wrack her frame as Ryan holds her tighter, letting the moment pass. She pulls away, again wiping both cheeks and the tears that form in the corner of both eyes.
“I stayed up all night waiting for you,” she says, slightly above a whisper.
Ryan leads her to a chair and sits facing her.
“Had some news I wanted to share with my husband,” she says.
He swallows audibly. He knows he’s fucked up.
“I’m here now,” he offers, a half shrug.
She stares at him, taking in his features—his face, his hair, nose, jawline, eyes. Considers the right words to use—tongue against the roof of her mouth before exhaling and nodding imperceptibly.
“I’m pregnant.”
Ryan is speechless. He is still, eyes scanning her face, searching for a sign, something that is all-telling. Carly is grating her teeth; he witnesses her jaw seesaw back and forth.
“You sure?” is all he can muster.
She nods.
Reaching over to the counter, she picks up the plastic thing and hands it to him. He stares down at it. Two small windows embedded in plastic at one end—one round, one square. Two parallel lines, one in each window. He glances up. She nods a second time, takes it from his hand, and lets it fall into her palm.
“We’re going to have a baby,” she confirms.
Ryan extends his arms, connecting with hers. For a full minute, they embrace.
Kissing her forehead, he repeats what she has just uttered. “A baby…a baby.”
Carly leans back to look him right in the eyes.
Her eyes are wet, yet she is unblinking.
“Don’t mess this up, Ryan,” she says in a near whisper. “We’re going to have a family, so please don’t…mess this up.”
Ryan nods slowly.
“I can forgive many things, but ruining this,” she says, waving the plastic thing at him, “is not one of them.”
Carly stands.
She reaches for Ryan, grasps his shoulder. “I don’t know what is going on with you, but whatever it is, I hope to God it passes.” Their eyes lock. “Because if you break this,” she says, gesturing a second time with the plastic thing in her hand, “a lifetime will not be enough for my husband to be forgiven.”
With that, Carly walks away, leaving Ryan there in the room alone.
His mind is a rushing stream; it races along. Visions enter his mind at light speed—his home, his wife, his burgeoning family.
All imagery coexisting in peaceful harmony.
Nagging at the edge, however, is a subtle thought. One that tugs at his insides, a new consideration—Reese. Her scantily clad body in silhouette, staring him down from across the room, taunting him, drawing him inside her web like a spider, infusing herself into his being.
A snowball rolling down a hill…
Ryan thinks himself incapable of slowing it down…
The thought both petrifies and ignites his soul.
Chapter 15
She is in her cage, watching him.
She arrived at 7:00 A.M. He arrived thirty minutes later, striding across the wide expanse of office space, meandering around cubes and conference tables with a purposeful step, briefcase in hand, a man on a mission. Didn’t offer up a glance her way. Not even for a second.
She watched him climb the steps to his office, his cage diagonally situated from hers. Observed him drop his bag onto the low, leather sofa, the one she’s so fond of. Monitored him as he went to his desk, settling into the chair, firing up the laptop before the walls went opaque. She’d swear their eyes locked for a split second before he punched the button.
Maybe. Maybe not.
It is now close to nine. Ryan’s been behind closed doors since he arrived. She checked Outlook. Nothing on the shared calendar, but a few of his design engineers sauntered up the stairs close to an hour ago and have been sequestered in his cage ever since. She checks her cell phone. No text messages, no returned voice mails. Nothing.
She’s called him—several times. The first was on Saturday morning after she’d hung up with Carly. Calling to see where he was. Wanting to know if everything was alright. Again, later in the day. Calls not returned.
Strange. Not like him at all.
She had spoken to Carly later on that afternoon, and learned her husband had indeed returned home that morning. Olivia had resisted the temptation to speak with him that very moment, the gnawing feeling regarding Friday and the conversation between Miles and he not sitting well in her midsection at all.
On Sunday, she ventured another call that went straight to voice mail. She left a short message, hoping all with him was well, and asking that he call her, needing to discuss a business matter, something that would be on the agenda at Monday’s staff meeting.
That call wa
s left unreturned, as well.
Finally, on Sunday night, beyond frustration, the knot in the pit of her stomach a constant dull pain, like a nagging headache that wouldn’t go away, she text messaged him. Short and to the point.
R U OK???
Nothing.
Olivia checks her watch and sighs as she realizes it is time to get back to work. Forget Ryan, and whatever has crawled up his ass and made a home there. Too much to do. Work never stops; it doesn’t even slow down.
Ryan will come around. He’ll emerge from his funk; all will be forgotten; life will pick up its pace and they’ll move on. He’s just being a man—a Gemini, a regular Jekyll and Hyde.
Yeah, Ryan’ll come around.
In time, all men do.
The video con call with the Malaysian plant couldn’t wait. Problems with the line over the weekend dictated that Ryan handle the situation ASAP. So he got his team together and placed the call. No matter it was a 13-hour time difference. Business comes first.
He now sits in his chair, fumbling with the stylus of his Ipaq, half-listening to the back-and-forth banter between his guys and Chin, known to everyone as Chinny, the head of production in Malaysia. Ryan allowed his team to take the lead, as he is fond of doing, stepping away from the limelight, letting his guys run things, only inserting himself when leadership is needed.
As usual, the finger pointing is reaching an all-time high. Production blames Engineering for the defect, which has led to the slow-down on the line. Engineering, on the other hand, states unequivocally that their designs are sound. They have schematics and computer models to prove their case. So the drama continues.
R U OK???
Ryan stares at the screen. Taps the stylus against the glass quietly in time to a rhythm only he comprehends. Checks his watch. Sits forward, clearing his throat.
“Okay,” he says, standing, pressing his tie against his starched blue and white striped shirt, “I think everyone’s had ample time to make a solid case. Problem is, we still have an issue with the line. So…Jan, Chinny…I need answers and a game plan.”
He stares at his Senior Design Engineer named Janice—a dumpy-looking white woman in her mid-twenties, who dresses terribly and has clingy brown hair. A permanent scowl adorns her face, yet she is brilliant, the best they have. His gaze pans to the plasma attached to the back wall. On screen, Chinny is sitting at his desk juggling golf balls. As usual, he is smiling, no matter how dire the circumstances. “Two hours—handle it offline, cool?”
