Husband Sit (Husband #1)

by Louise Cusack

  He looked angry now, but there was a resignation with it that didn’t bode well. Then he shook his head. “What was I thinking?” Before I could answer, he went on with, “You don’t want hot sex with me. I’m the charity case—”

  “You don’t want any sex with me!” I shot back. “So don’t get on your high horse and—”

  He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me into a hard kiss that instantly woke my aching pussy into happy little clutches of joy. I dropped my handbag and wound my arms around his neck, grinding my abraded breasts against his chest as I kissed him back, wet and needy, my tongue laving his, wanting to push him over the edge.

  Wanting him to fuck me where I stood, actually.

  But I knew that wouldn’t happen. So we kissed on and on, and my face felt hot, my ears buzzing so much I thought I’d faint. And then I heard a repetitive beeping, and was completely disoriented when he pulled away from me. Cold air swept down my front and I watched on helplessly as he pulled a phone out of his jeans, swiped the screen and put it up to his ear.

  His gaze returned to me. “Hello?” He sounded husky and impossibly sexy.

  A shrill voice came through the speaker and a sense of inevitability washed over me. It was Katinka. She was pulling on the leash, and he would go home. He’d kissed me like he meant it but that didn’t matter. What Katinka wanted, she got. She wanted Finn. She’d get him. If he’d stuck with her this long while she’d cheated on him, he was hardly likely to give her up for a girl who fucked husbands.

  “I’m at the airport,” he said. “Picking up an old client. I won’t be long. I just have to get them to a hotel and make sure they don’t need anything.”

  None of it was a lie, but his wife would imagine he was still at Surfers Paradise, driving some old man to the Hilton and making sure he had the room service number.

  “Are you coming home?” he asked, still staring at me. “We have to talk.”

  I closed my eyes and wanted to be anywhere but standing in front of him listening to this. It was embarrassing. Which was odd. I now fucked husbands for a living. But the idea that the couple beside us would think I was a mistress about to be abandoned was humiliating.

  I had to get away before his I need to save my marriage speech started, so I reached down and picked up my handbag.

  Finn caught my arm. “Probably two hours,” he said into the phone. “I’ve got to go now. I’ll ring you then.” He hung up without waiting for her response and said, “I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t kiss me again.”

  And please let me go. I really need to crawl into a dark corner and forget this whole thing. Maybe with a bottle of whisky.

  “Will you be okay?”

  I could tell that wasn’t what he wanted to say, but whatever had been happening before the phone call was over.

  I nodded. “You can stable the white horse. I’m fine to look after myself now.”

  “I hope so.”

  I know he didn’t mean to sound cruel—he was hoping I would be okay, not hoping that I wouldn’t call him. But it sounded bad, and I was acutely aware of the couple beside us.

  I shrugged. “Give my love to your cheating, slut wife.”

  His stiff mask loosened. “Give my best to your next fucked-up husband.”

  “It’s a son, actually.” A calculated volley, designed to shock. I’d probably never see Finn again, so he may as well think badly of me. “His mother didn’t want some ‘diseased, drug-peddling, high-school girl’ in her house while she went on holiday, so she hired me to keep Simon happy at home with clean, wholesome sex and three healthy meals a day.”

  Finn’s smile faded. “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-two,” I bragged. “And as horny as hell. He told me he can get it up five times a night. I doubt he’ll be interested in cunnilingus, but my skills in fellatio will definitely be in demand.”

  Let Finn lie in bed thinking about that while Katinka snored beside him.

  He shook his head, lips pressed into a tight line, his beautiful eyes narrowed. Disapproving, I’ll bet.

  I bulldozed on, “So thanks for the cunt-teasing.” I turned a bland smile on the couple beside us who had the good grace to glance away embarrassed.

  If I expected Finn to be completely put off by my use of the C-bomb, I was in for a shock. He merely shook my hand and said quietly, “Call me if you need me.”

  Ha!

  “I’ll be deleting your number from my phone,” I snapped, evil Jill taking control. “Don’t bother to call me again.” Then with chin up and hair swishing, I marched out of the bar as fast as a burning ass and high heels would allow. There was no way I wanted to experience this horrible longing again. Unrequited love was not a noble thing. It hurt like a bastard and I wanted it over with.

  Naturally, I wanted to hate Finn for inflicting that pain on me, but it was more complicated with that. So I settled on hating myself as I teetered onto a moving sidewalk, ignoring the curious glances of people who rightly thought I was over-dressed for the airport. I tugged on the bottom of my tight red cocktail dress to try and lower its hem, only managing to expose more cleavage at the top. If I wasn’t careful, I’d have nipples showing.

  After retrieving my cases from their locker, I headed through the airport, trying to clear my brain of Finn and his hot, hungry mouth so I could plan my future. I had a sister to worry about, and Brittany—ungrateful thought she was—deserved my complete commitment.

  First up, I had to retrieve my car from the long term car park. Then I had to think about where to go. I had four days before I needed to be at Simon’s house, and I didn’t want to spend that time alone. Self-loathing had a way of smothering me if I wasn’t distracted. The antidote was girlfriend time, and Angel was the closest at Parramatta.

  In my whisky induced fog, I couldn’t remember why I hadn’t gone there for comfort in the first place. I was sure she’d let me crash for a few days, and her obsessive compulsive celebrity-watching disorder was always good for a laugh.

  Five minutes later, I was out of the terminal into the cool night air where I quickly found a taxi and jumped in while my leering driver put my cases in the trunk. When he lumbered into the front seat, I gave him the address of the long term car park before pulling out my phone to call Fritha. I needed to download, and it gave me an excuse to avoid small talk with the driver who’d given my legs and boobs way too much attention when I’d tottered unevenly up to his cab.

  The message screen of the phone was blank and that opened up a fresh ache inside. I’d half-expected to find a missed call from Finn, but he’d clearly taken my words at face value. I tried to be grateful for that as I dialed Fritha and pressed the phone hard against my ear. He’d be easier to get over if I never heard from him again.

  The phone rang for ages. Then finally, I heard her sleepy voice on the other end. “J? What time is it?”

  I glanced at the display in the front of the taxi. “Ten forty-three. Sorry. I’ve just escaped from a locked apartment and had a huge public argument with Finn.”

  “Finn!” I heard scraping sounds and a bang. Had she dropped the phone? “Where are you?”

  “In a taxi on my way to my car. I’ve got my suitcases—”

  “Still in Sydney?”

  “At the airport. That’s where I met Finn.”

  A beat of silence. “He flew in to see you?” Her voice was growing more avid by the moment, and I could hear the matchmaking wheels turning in her head.

  “He’s not leaving his wife, Frith.” I was sorry to disappoint her. Very sorry, in fact. “He just organized the locksmith to free me from the psycho husband’s apartment and then…I don’t know. He came down to make sure I was okay.”

  “Because..?”

  “He didn’t seem to know why.” I looked out the window at streetlights flashing by and gnawed on a fingernail.

  “And you told him to fuck off?”

  “He kissed me first.”

  “Holy shit in a handbag
! He kissed you?”

  I smiled at my reflection in the window. “It was fucking fabulous too,” I whispered. “He’s such a good kisser.”

  “J, you twat! You let him get away!”

  “Katinka-bitch rang him and wanted to know where he was.”

  “Did he lie to her?” Fritha sounded as though she was holding her breath.

  “Yes, he—”

  “Oh my God. He’s in love with you!”

  “No, he’s not. He went back to his wife.”

  “He bloody, bloody is!” Fritha shouted. “He’s head over heels. Oh my God…” There were clunking noises before her voice came back on breathlessly. “I don’t have a real bridesmaid dress. Fuck, J. You won’t make me wear pink, will you? It looks shit with my hair.”

  I think I got hysterical then. I was laughing and crying and was a mess of slobbery tears for about a minute. At last, when I settled down, Fritha said, “Poor baby. Come to my place. I’ll give you a back rub and we can plan the reception.”

  I shook my head. “I’m going to Angel’s.”

  There was silence for a second, before Frith said, “Is that wise? I mean, in light of the husband sitting thing. I thought you were going to avoid the other girls.”

  “No.” I suddenly felt affronted. “I just wasn’t going to tell them. I’m not contagious.”

  “I know that. It’s just…” Frith was so transparent. She was clearly trying to think of a tactful way to warn me off. “When they eventually find out, maybe they’ll think back and…”

  “What? Wonder if I fucked their husbands while they were asleep?”

  “Come to me,” Frith pleaded, and for five slow seconds I considered hanging up in her ear, and I never did that. Eventually reason seeped past my growing whisky fog and I decided not to shoot the messenger.

  “Okay. I’ll go to a spa or something.” I turned further away from the driver and lowered my voice to a whisper. “The psycho husband beat my ass with his belt and I’m sore as hell. I need to get that sorted.”

  “Oh baby.”

  I could hear the compassion in Fritha’s voice but I was a big girl.

  “It wasn’t all bad,” I whispered. “In fact, it felt pretty good at the time. I was enjoying it all until he locked me in.”

  Fritha’s voice was firm when it came down the line. “Did you get that clause written into your contract, about the client not being able to retract payment?”

  “Yep. And I’ll take photos of the damage. Might even see a doctor to get a medical report. If they try to sue me, I’ll threaten to go public.”

  “Good girl.”

  Talking about ‘business’ seemed to settle my emotions, so Frith and I chatted on about property prices and where I might like to buy my house, keeping the cover story real in her mind. Eventually her yawns encouraged me to let her sleep. The driver dropped me and my luggage outside the long-term car park at eleven fifteen at night, and the warmth I’d gotten from girlfriend-goodness faded.

  In a dimly-sit street in front of a multi-story building with a million dark corners, I suddenly felt cold and lonely and abandoned, wishing like hell that I’d worn anything other than a bright red cocktail dress and ridiculous heels. There didn’t seem to be anyone about, but I still hurried, looking over my shoulder, fretting about the empty elevator, and what would happen if someone got in.

  Eventually I reached my car, threw the suitcases in and locked myself inside. I felt like a complete idiot then. My emotional superiority with Finn had been ridiculous. I should have let him escort me to my car. He would have come in the taxi with me, I’ll bet. He’d have been by my side, making me feel safe and protected and cared for. Instead, here I was again: middle of the night, nowhere to stay, all on my own.

  I was tired then. Tired of the whole thing. And I wished for nothing more than to be normal, to have a boring life, and a boring husband, and boring sex. I wanted to be tucked into bed by someone who cared about me, and for the very first time I wondered if I’d done the wrong thing in leaving Doug. Fritha had tried to talk me out of it at the time—partly because of her ongoing fantasy about wearing a rainbow-colored bridesmaid’s dress—but I’d told her there was nothing worse than a life of quiet desperation bound to a man I felt no desire for.

  Was that still true?

  I put the key into the ignition and shook my head. How far down the bottom of the barrel was I sliding, wondering if I should have stayed with Doug! I should never have had those whiskies.

  This clearly wasn’t the time to be analyzing important decisions. I needed food and sleep. When I was rested and feeling more emotionally strong, I’d delete Finn’s phone number, because I never wanted to embarrass myself by being that needy again.

  Or at least, that was my plan.

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Simon

  After five days of sitting on a squishy icepack in a lonely hotel room, I was ready to move on—tired of thinking about Finn and what the hell my life had become. It was what it was. I just needed to push through it.

  So I found myself standing in the kitchen of a renovated terraced house in trendy Paddington waiting for Simon to arrive home from college. Unlike my debacle with Damien, this time I had very clear instructions about what would go down (or who would). So I waited in my sensible white blouse, denim knee-length skirt and ballet flats, knowing I was to offer blueberry muffins and fruit for afternoon tea, then let Simon do any homework before ‘recreation’ was available to him.

  His mother had wanted to meet with me before she flew out, to give final instructions. I should have known better, but due to low self-esteem, I couldn’t say no. It was a humiliating experience, as I’d expected it to be. She was only a decade older than me, but she’d seen fit to give me condoms (as if I was too stupid to bring them with me) and then she set out demands about limiting his usage of murdering computer games and Internet pornography. Clearly, I was to offer sex as an alternative to these ‘unsavory pursuits’, but only at designated times.

  The rebellious part of me wanted to say Fuck you, Mrs. Simon’s mother. I’ll screw your adult son whenever I want to. But the desperate sister in me knew I’d try to follow the rules—it was my best chance of snagging the two grand bonus if Simon logged on for less than ten hours of porn in the fortnight. Apparently, his usual usage was five times that.

  With the payment for this job already transferred to the hospital in Bangkok, I only needed another fifty to get Brittany home. Being over halfway there was a relief, and I still couldn’t quite believe that people paid so much for sex, but I was grateful—unlike Brittany, who alternated between being bored and being cranky during our brief daily phone calls.

  I told myself that cranky was better than sick, and hoped she’d stay put in the hotel and not get into any dramas before I could bring her home. Of course, how I’d keep her away from losers when she got home, was a whole other problem I didn’t want to think about yet.

  So I sipped my filtered water and gazed out the big picture windows off the kitchen into the leafy courtyard beyond, thinking about Simon and how clever he was. It was clear to me that if he was watching fifty hours of porn a fortnight, as well as being a full-time college student, he probably wasn’t getting any sex—schoolgirl variety or otherwise—and had likely manipulated his mother into thinking he did, so she’d hire me. But whatever. I had the job, and if she needed to give me some I’m the mother, no one knows my son better than me attitude, I could care less.

  All I was interested in was the money.

  I’d particularly like to snag the bonus for keeping Simon away from his laptop, but how I’d do that, short of hiding it, or tying him up would be…

  Wait a minute. Tying him up?

  I was just thinking about that when I heard a key in the front door. The single-story, narrow, terraced house had a hallway running down one side of it with everything coming off that hallway: two bedrooms, a lounge, a bathroom and a kitchen. Then the tiny courtyard at the back. From where I stood, I could step
out of the kitchen and see him walk in the front door, but instinct kept me beside the sink. He was a cocky son-of-a-bitch, and I wanted him off guard. Let him wonder if I was even there.

  I heard him call out, “Jill Sitter?” from the opened door, and it reminded me how smarmy he’d been when I’d refused to give my surname. At the time, I’d put his bravado down to nerves. Now, however, I wasn’t so sure.

  The front door closed, then another opened—probably his bedroom, then I heard his footsteps on the timber floorboards. A second door opened. That would be his mother’s bedroom which I was inhabiting, with strict instructions not to have sex in her bed. Even I agreed that was a disgusting idea. But I wasn’t thinking about that now. I was thinking that Simon hadn’t knocked. He’d just opened my bedroom door and either looked in, or gone into it looking for me.

  And fuck that. What about privacy?

  I straightened and took a quiet step away from the sink.

  “Simon!” I shouted, as though I was letting him know where I was, but I’d heard his footsteps. He was probably at the lounge room by now, only ten paces away, so hopefully I’d have scared him. “I’m in the kitchen!”

  “Alright, already!” he snapped, then he came around the corner, tall, dark-haired and rangy in a blue tee-shirt and board-shorts with that overgrown hair that makes men look as if they’re wannabe boy band members. He frowned at my clothes. “I thought you’d be wearing something sexy.”

  I decided I might cut his hair while he slept.

  “Afternoon tea.” I pointed at the table with its plate of muffins and artfully constructed fruit platter.

  He shook his head. “You’re not my mother.”

  “Au contraire.” I smiled. “My client is paying me for several duties. One is to replicate her provision of food. I don’t have to cook it, but I do have to serve it.”

  “I’m the client,” he said with a sulky pout that would be cute on a toddler. But on a twenty-two year old? Not so much. Still, he sat at the table and reached for a muffin.

  “Milk with that?”

  “I’m not five,” he snapped, breaking open the muffin. “And we’re doing things my way. I’m the client.”