Glass Cage

by Francesca Baez

  Before I have a chance to tell her otherwise, or at least consider doing so, the door from the dining room pushes open and H nearly stumbles into us. Selina quickly pushes away from me, like we’re teenagers getting busted in the high school halls, and H just gives us an awkward nod and a tight smile. Damn it. Selina is already scurrying away, heading back toward the kitchen.

  “Princesa,” I call out after her, and she pauses, turns back to me. Even in the artificial light, with no makeup and a smudge of red sauce on her cheek, she looks like the queen she was born to be. It’s a shame that I stole that future from her. “Thanks for the tacos.”

  She nods in response, offering a shy smile, and disappears.

  * * *

  We arrive at Bone’s Steakhouse the next night with Miel and Hernando in tow, and Javier assures me there are several police officers already there. There was a time, right after Max died, when security around me was particularly heightened, but never to this degree. It’s hard to forget exactly what kind of threat we’re dealing with, when even dinner requires calling in multiple backup teams.

  Our table is near the back, away from the windows, but close to an exit for easy escape. Since when did I start noticing things like this? Probably around the same time I married an up-and-coming mob boss, I guess. But at what point did I stop thinking about our union as an act of extortion? And since when do we go on dates? For some reason, it’s almost more unsettling when he pretends that we’re normal people, a normal couple. I don’t like playing these games, going around in these circles.

  He lets me choose our wine—likely more because he doesn’t know shit about wine, and doesn’t give a shit about knowing about wine, than as a gesture of generosity. I choose a merlot I’ve never had before, but oddly enough, when my glass is poured, I don’t find myself as eager for the drink as I might have been a few months ago. I mean, I’m still going to down the whole bottle, of course. It’d be a shame to let a couple thousand dollars’ worth of crushed, rotten grapes go to waste.

  “How have you been?” Javier begins awkwardly, and I make big, horrified eyes at him. What the hell? We don’t ask each other shit like that.

  Thankfully, our calamari appetizer arrives just then, sparing me having to answer the bizarre question, or more likely, starting an argument based on it. My mouth is full of tiny tentacles when Javier clears his throat and, for reasons beyond my understanding, repeats the question.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” I say, gesturing at the restaurant around us, at the question hanging between us. “Act like this is a real relationship. I don’t need that. I’m a big girl, I’m perfectly capable of casual sex without needing to be wined and dined or have my emotions fluffed.”

  Javier doesn’t say anything for a moment, then clears his throat. “I know that. I’m not trying to do any of that. I truly want to know if you’re doing alright. You haven’t seemed quite yourself lately.”

  I snort at the statement, shoving more calamari into my mouth in an equally unladylike fashion. I haven’t been myself since the day I met him. He stole myself from me, along with everything else. “Why would you suddenly care?”

  “Because I’m your husband,” he says simply, as if that’s a real answer.

  I laugh, a hollow, bitter sound. I don’t even know where to begin with that statement, but our filets are arriving. I swear, this server is my guardian angel tonight.

  “I mean it, Selina,” Javier says. I can tell he’s trying to meet my eyes, but I keep mine on my plate, cutting myself a tiny bite of the juicy steak. “Just because this marriage is… unconventional, doesn’t mean I don’t intend to fulfill my marital duties.”

  Well, he’s certainly been doing a damn fine job of fulfilling certain marital duties.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” I say, finally looking back up at him, gesturing with my fork. What I want to ask is, what does a man like you even know about marriage? People capable of taking lives can’t also be capable of love. Lately, I’m starting to think we both belong in that category, one way or another.

  “It does,” Javier insists, finally cutting into his own meat. “It means it’s my responsibility to protect you, not just your life and physical wellbeing, but all of you.”

  “So what’s my responsibility?” I ask, cocking my head. “To cook your meals and do your laundry and suck you off every night? Until I start pumping out babies, that is.”

  The server reappears just then to make sure everything came out alright, almost certainly catching most of my tirade. Maybe not so much on my side after all.

  “Your responsibility can be whatever you want it to be,” Javier says, once we’re alone again. “Even if you decide that’s nothing at all.”

  “This really does mean something to you, huh?” I ask, studying the man across from me. Things have been different between us since we signed that damn paperwork. I thought it was because I’d changed, but what if he’s the one who did? Suddenly, I flash back to the files I saw on him at the police station. Of course a man who grew up witnessing a union so violent it led to multiple fatalities would have pretty strong views on the institution, one way or another. I guess I’m lucky Javier took the over-protective approach. A chill runs up my spine, and I remember what Miel told me last week. At the end of the day, all men are like that. I push the thought out of my mind. Clearly, Javier won’t respond well to much more prodding on the subject, and honestly, I don’t feel like going down this road either.

  “I have to go to the ladies’ room,” I say, pulling my napkin off my lap. Javier cuts his eyes to the front entrance, and I’m sure he’s about to send Miel in to babysit me while I piss. “I can’t run away, and no one bad can get to me. We’re surrounded by cops. I’ll be fine alone, I promise.”

  What I really mean is, please. Please let me have two seconds of privacy. Please let me have a figment of trust.

  Javier hesitates for a moment, and I think he’ll deny me, but instead he just nods. “Of course.”

  I rise, grabbing my tiny Coach clutch. There’s nothing in there but a tube of red lipstick, but that’s all I really need. I’m relieved when I push the bathroom door open and find it empty. I’m in no mood to make small talk with a socialite tonight. Not that I ever am.

  I’m touching up my lipstick in the mirror when the door swings open again. When I see it’s a man, I startle and gear up to scream. Nothing good comes of men barging into women’s bathrooms, especially when the woman is alone. The man quickly flashes a police badge, though, and I deflate slightly. I guess Javier changed his mind about letting me go alone. Why wouldn’t he have just sent Miel, though, or at least a female officer?

  “Detective Andrews,” the man says, holding a hand out to me. I take it out of habit, but something about him sets an alarm off in my head. I know the police are under Javier’s thumb now, here to protect me, but some instinct tells me that I shouldn’t trust this man, no matter how pretty he may be, and boy are my womanly weaknesses primed to want to trust this man. Because Detective Andrews is the kind of guy that could make a nun cream her panties—tall, broad shouldered, and so built he can’t hide his musculature even under that cheap, ill-fitting suit. His skin is dark, the kind of black that is almost obsidian, and his hand is warm and unexpectedly soft. This is a man used to getting what he wants, especially from women, but he’s out of his mind if he thinks I’m falling for whatever he’s here to sell.

  “Selina,” I say stiffly. Why are we doing introductions? Why would a detective be on date night guard duty? I should go. “Thanks for your help, but I should get back to my dinner before it gets too cold.”

  “I just need to speak to you for a few minutes,” Andrews says, matching my step forward with one of his own, blocking my exit. My pulse speeds up, but I keep my face perfectly even. In the back of my mind, I’m already adding up his weak spots. Those loafers don’t stand a chance against a sharp stomp from my stiletto, and a knee to the balls is always a safe bet.

 
“What about?” I ask, keeping my voice light and casual, like I’m not picturing smashing his manhood and fleeing.

  “Your husband,” he says. Fuck. “Javier Vega. Pretty whirlwind romance, huh? How long did you two even know each other, before the big day?”

  “What can I say, when you know, you know,” I answer through a gritted smile, trying again to step toward the door. Again, he cuts me off.

  “Let’s just cut to the chase, Miss Palacios,” he says, and I wish he’d keep my name out of his mouth. “I know you were at the police station the day your company’s previous CEO was shot to death, and I know you were in his office when it happened. I also know your new beloved’s criminal record disappeared the next day, a few hours before you signed your marriage contract.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, keeping my tone measured. My heart is pounding. I should be kneeing him in the balls right now, like I practiced a thousand times with Miel. But what if he’s trying to help me? What if he’s trying to save me?

  Do I still need saving?

  “Okay, sure,” Andrews says, sighing. “My instinct tells me you’re just as complicit as he is, Selina, but I’m having a hard time coming up with motive. Actually, the facts suggest you might be involved in all this against your will, no matter what my gut says. So tell me, are you a damsel in distress, or are you a good girl gone bad?”

  Maybe women can be more than the belittling archetypes men made up to pretend to understand our behavior better, to explain our actions in imaginary relation to themselves. Maybe I’m just a woman trying her best, not quite in distress, not quite gone bad. I’ve never been a good girl, though, that much is certain. And for once, I don’t feel forced or torn about siding with my unexpected allies over this faux-kind stranger.

  “I don’t believe you’re supposed to be thinking about this at all, with your gut or whatever else you usually use,” I say, tossing aside all charade of politeness. When I hear the coldness of my own voice, even I’m surprised, but Andrews just smiles softly, as if he expected this. “If you don’t let me walk out of this bathroom right now, I’m going to scream for my husband. Now, he’s just a regular civilian like me, but I can’t say what it might bring out in him, to find his ‘damsel in distress’ under attack.”

  Detective Andrews keeps looking at me, and I can see in his eyes that I’m confirming his oddly prescient image of me, not as a victim, but as an active player in my own destruction. It chills me a little bit. No one’s ever looked at me like this before, like I’m something to be reckoned with. Like I’m worth taking seriously, even in my Chanel sweater set. Maybe it should set off warning bells in my mind, let me know that I’ve gone too far, but instead it lights something new in me. Something dark and dangerous and exciting, deep in my belly.

  The man steps aside, and I march past him, my stilettos making satisfying little clicks on the bathroom tiles as I leave. I know I should tell Javier about this, let him know about this new potential threat to our plans, but for some reason I don’t really want him to have this one. I don’t want him to swoop in and take over what I already took care of.

  I can handle things too now, even if no one will ever know about it.

  * * *

  Selina is fairly quiet for the rest of the dinner, but as soon as we get into the car, she’s on me like a starved animal.

  “Whoa,” I say dumbly, completely taken aback as my wife dives for my pants zipper before I get a chance to put the keys in the ignition.

  “Shut up and push your seat back,” she says, and my hands are already obeying, beholden only to my quickly hardening cock.

  “We’re in the car, and my people are going to ask what’s taking so long,” I protest weakly, feeling like an idiot for even voicing any complaints. What kind of man tries to slow down the woman whose hands are on his dick?

  “The windows are tinted, and you can tell them to wait, tell them we’re talking,” she pants, climbing over the center console and into my lap. “Just shut up.”

  I do, letting her steer. I don’t know what’s happening. Honestly, I thought she was pissed at me. This should probably be another reason for concern, more evidence of erratic behavior, but fu-u-u-uck, her soft hands are on my cock and her softer lips are on my ear. I give in to the pleasure. I’m only human, after all.

  She works me with her hands until I’m too close, too fast, and then she’s tugging her panties to the side, positioning her hungry cunt at my head. Damn, she’s dripping wet. Despite her arguments earlier, all that wining and dining certainly seems to have turned her on. She teases me, lowering herself onto me just a touch, then pulling back, torturously out of reach. I hiss and grab her hips, desperate to plunge into her, but she pulls away from my touch.

  “You’re going to give me a chance,” she says, a whisper in my ear that is too serious for my mood right now. “I’m done waiting. Done trying to prove myself to you.”

  “What?” I ask dazedly, thoroughly confused and dangerously close to blue balls.

  “You’re going to give me a chance to be a real part of the team,” she says, brushing her wet folds against my cockhead, nibbling the shell of my ear. Fucking hell. I’d give her just about anything she asked for right now, and she knows it. “Promise me.”

  “Alright,” I say, and she moans with pleasure, as if I’d just used my mouth on her clit instead of to promise her violence. “Whatever you want, princesa.”

  I feel her let her body go, so I pull her hips down onto me, hard. I hit her cervix, and she howls with pleasure, her nails digging into my shoulder even through this stupid suit jacket. I swear, her pussy fits me like a glove, warm and velvety and so fucking tight. It’s all I can do not to cum right now, like a one-pump teenager who’s never felt a woman’s touch before. The things she does to me, I never could’ve imagined. I pull out and push into her again, and again, and she’s meeting me thrust for thrust, so I let go, let her take control. God, she’s really feeling herself tonight, riding me with abandon, throwing her head back and crying out as if this car is soundproofed as well as bulletproof. I’m almost relieved when she cums, hard and fast and violent, because I couldn’t have held off much longer. I love dominating my woman in bed, maybe a little too much, but who doesn’t like a woman who knows how to take control?

  Selina sags against me as her inner walls spasm around my cock, aftershocks to the main event. Her hands release my shoulders and her head bends beside mine, our chests heaving against one another. Goddamn. Did we really just have a quickie in the parking lot?

  “Tell me I’m powerful,” Selina breathes between pants, in a small voice that sounds anything but.

  “You’re powerful,” I tell her, and I’m not lying.

  “Tell me we’re going to destroy that motherfucker,” she says next, and I don’t have to ask who she means.

  “We are,” I say, and I try to make myself believe it, believe that a boy who came from nothing can really bring down the king.

  “Tell me you’re going to stop handling me with kid gloves, like I’m still a damsel who needs to be protected from reality.”

  If she knew the full truth of what her new reality entails, she would never ask me that. I lift her off me and set her back in the passenger seat, zipping my softening cock back into my pants.

  “You really have changed, if you think these are kid gloves,” is all I say instead, casually, like it’s a joke and not a red flag.

  “Stop saying I’ve changed like it’s a bad thing,” Selina says, her tone harder now. “You’re the one who was so hell bent on breaking me.”

  “I still am, princesa,” I tell her, and that much is true. I just didn’t know that a broken Selina would only come back stronger. “I still am.”

  * * *

  I really shouldn’t have agreed to let Selina have a real spot on the team.

  I mean, she literally had me by the balls, but still. And technically I promised her this a long time ago, the day we were legally wed. But
I never thought she’d truly want the position, never thought I’d trust her enough to give it to her if she did.

  There’s no reason for me to hold up my end of the bargain. No reason for me to play along with her demands. But I did. God knows why, I did. There’s no way I’m letting her into the field, obviously, and she doesn’t have the experience or the temperament for the logistical side of things. No, her strength is that damn mouth, and I’m finally going to put it to the test. And after our business is taken care of, well, I can think of a few other uses for those red lips.

  “Here are all the names we have dirt on,” I say, turning the laptop Selina’s way. We’re sitting side by side at the kitchen island, leaning in so close our shoulders are touching, despite Miel’s dramatic eye roll as she grabs a blueberry muffin and exits wordlessly. Selina grabs the laptop and pulls it closer to herself, skimming down the list pretty fast. She doesn’t ask where I got all this information, and I don’t offer. I know her relationship with our neighbor was tense even before their altercation at the bridal shower. “Names in this column, info here. It’s all in shorthand, so let me know if—”

  “No,” Selina says simply, shoving the laptop away and taking another sip of coffee.

  “No?” I ask, taken aback. This is already going poorly. “What do you mean, no?”

  “I’m not doing any of these,” she says, squaring her shoulders. She’s so sexy when she’s stubborn, it’s all I can do not to slide my hand under that skirt and up her thigh, right here in the kitchen.

  “You asked for a chance,” I remind her, although the verb “ask” is generous. “This is it. You won’t get another.”

  “I want to do it,” she insists. If it weren’t for the tiny tremor in her fingers that she tries to hide by wrapping her hands around her mug, I’d almost believe her act. “But I’m not interested in any of these names.”