After arriving, though, we’d had a small argument when I explained I needed to leave for a bit.
“You’re leaving me here in a strange city, in a strange place, all by myself?” she’d questioned, the panic clear on her face.
“Baby, I got you a spa treatment. While you’re getting all primped up, I’ve got to run an errand. But I’ll be back in less than an hour. Promise,” I’d explained.
She’d given me her pouty look that I loved, pooching out her bottom lip all cute-like, but I also saw that the idea of the spa had caught her attention.
“Okay, but only because I’m curious to see what they’ll do to beautify me,” she’d said, cutting her eyes at me.
“That’s my girl,” I told her, kissing her forehead.
I’d walked her down to the spa then leaving the hotel, gone a block almost due east to get the surprise I’d planned for her.
Because she’d had so much hurt in her short life and I loved that the smallest things made her happy, and since she loved Christmas trees—I always teased that she was like that kid in the Home Alone movies—I’d planned a trip that evening to Rockefeller Center. She’d never been and I knew she’d love it.
So after dinner, we’d taken a cab there and she’d been ecstatic. We rented skates and made our way around the rink several times before I got her to the center where we’d stopped to stare at the tree.
“It’s so beautiful,” she’d murmured, the reflection of the lights twinkling in her teary eyes.
“You’re beautiful,” I’d answered from bended knee, retrieving the small blue box from inside my jacket.
Turning she looked down to see me holding up a ring and I had to chuckle when her mouth dropped open.
“Sonya Marie Walters, will you do me the greatest honor I could ever have and become my wife?” I asked.
She’d tackled me to the ice, planting sweet kisses all over my face as she’d whispered, “Yes! Yes!”
Chapter 3—Birdie
I was ecstatic. Mason and I were starting our lives together and I couldn’t wait.
I’d passed my last CPA exam and had been hired by a firm at which I loved working. Mason was now working as a junior investment banker in Mergers and Acquisitions.
And we were busy.
I was planning the wedding.
Mase was schmoozing new clients and pitching for deals.
I’d gained a job at a young company and had landed on their audit committee as a junior advisor.
Mason was working several buy-side deals.
Like I said, busy.
But we still had time to attend the occasional party thrown by our friends or to watch a movie as a couple, cuddling on the couch.
And things between us were great.
We’d settled on a Saturday in April for our wedding which gave me a year to plan it, which was okay, but my God, I hadn’t realized what all went into planning a fricking wedding: Location. Dress. Bridesmaids’ dresses. Tuxedos. Cake. Flowers. Caterers. Invitations. Gah!
By the time the big day got there, I was frazzled. The wedding planner, who I’d lovingly dubbed, Ms. Shakes Her Head a Lot, just, well, shook her head then handled things like a pro. I guessed by then my micromanaging had gotten on her nerves, but whatever. Jaden, my best friend of ten years, had made sure I’d been occupied on the big day so the planner could get things done. I’m thinking a deal must’ve been cut because Jaden had bragged afterward that she’d be using the same planner for her upcoming wedding the next year. Anyway, everything had turned out even lovelier than I could’ve imagined and for that I was infinitely grateful.
Mase and I had flown out that evening to enjoy our wedding gift from his parents—five days in Bora Bora for our honeymoon. Because of the time difference, we checked into our little water villa around one in the afternoon the same day, and after christening the bed…the kitchen table…and then the shower, we relaxed.
And, holy cow, our little hut on the water was amazing! There was a glass floor in the living room that allowed us to watch the fish underneath and I think we sat there in awe for an hour the first day just observing them. Mase then came up with the brilliant idea of going skinny dipping, which I’d seriously balked against because we had neighbors, but he’d been adamant until a couple stingrays had swum by then his face had turned white. I’d never laughed so hard in my life.
“Ooohh, let’s do it, honey,” I’d teased.
“For the sake of our progeny, because, you know, my dick, I decline,” he’d retorted.
“Uh, I don’t think those are dick-zapping stingrays, Mase,” I’d replied with a giggle.
“Never know…”
The rest of the time we’d done “touristy” things and it’d been just what I’d needed to de-frazzle after months of all the wedding crap. God. I’d loved every second of our stay.
Back home, our routine picked up again. And, again, we were busy.
And life was still good even with the little spats we had here and there.
“Uh, you think you can channel your inner LeBron and actually hit the laundry hamper a few times out of a hundred?” I’d asked grumpily one weekend as I did housework.
Mase was on his computer and faintly replied, “You think you can channel your inner Betty Crocker and make a decent meal for a change?”
I dropped the laundry basket right there in the living room and glared at the back of his head from where he sat at the computer desk. “Come again?”
He paused what he was doing and turned to give me a vacant frown. “What?” he asked innocently.
Eyebrows raised, hand on my hip and cocking said hip, I bit out, “What’d you just say?”
Puzzled, he asked, “Huh?”
“Mason Allan Chapman, you basically just called me a bad cook.” I narrowed my eyes at him watching as he realized what’d come out of his mouth.
Then he’d started laughing.
“It’s not funny!” I spat.
As I bent to pick up the basket, Mason was suddenly there, grabbing my hips in his hands and pulling me back into him.
“Baby, as long as you keep putting out, you could feed me Ramen every night and I’d be happy.”
“You know what’s good for you, you’ll let me go right now, Mason.” I tried prying his hands from my hips. “Jerk!” I hissed.
He ran his nose along my jawline. “You know angry sex turns me on, Birdie.”
I was about to protest when one of his hands dropped down inside my shorts where he slid his fingers through my folds. At the same time his other came up underneath my t-shirt to clutch my bare breast, pinching then rolling my nipple between his thumb and finger, all of which made me suck in a breath.
Damn it. He always knew how to distract me.
“Mase,” I warned, wanting him (kinda) to stop.
“What, baby? You wanna come for me?” he whispered as he slid a finger inside.
“T—take back what you said,” I breathed out, clearly losing the battle.
He let out a low laugh. “I take it back. I, uh, love your spaghetti,” he offered, which wasn’t a huge compliment since I only had to boil noodles, drain them, then pour in a jar of sauce and voila! dinner. But seeing how his fingers were working their magic on me just then, I was more than unmindful of our would-have-been argument.
At that point, I couldn’t have cared less how he felt about my cooking, and skating my hand down to cover his fingers, my head falling back against his shoulder, I let out a breathy moan.
“Mase,” I rasped. So close. I was so close. God.
He pushed his erection against my back. “Want you to come so I can fuck you,” he growled as he rolled my clit between two fingers.
And that did it.
“Oh, God!” I cried, coming hard.
Next thing I knew, I was in his arms and he was carrying me to our bedroom where he made love to me as he usually did, kind of vanilla, but I loved him so I loved it. It was comfortable. Safe.
Afterward, as we
lay there, I looked over to see him pressing his palm against his forehead, his eyes tightly closed.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Headache again. I’m good.”
I turned toward him and ran a hand through the sparse hair that covered his chest. “Baby, you need to see your doctor. They’re getting worse.” He let out a sigh. “I know I’m not your mom,” I added quickly, because we’d been through this a few times before. “But I’m worried, honey. They seem to be happening more often.”
“Yeah. I’ll call on Monday.”
He did call on a Monday. A year and a half later.
And that had been when my world came crashing down.
Chapter 4—Beck
Yeah, I know. I proposed to Sonya after only knowing her just over two months.
What can I say? When you know, you know.
After we moved to NYC, she graduated that May and got a job as a social worker at a nonprofit youth reception center working with foster kids.
The next April, we’d married in a small chapel in her hometown. She’d been the most beautiful bride I’d ever seen—aside from the fact that she’d dropped thirty pounds leading up to the wedding about which we’d had a discussion.
“What’s going on?” I’d questioned one Saturday night in February, two months before the wedding, when I’d noticed she hadn’t eaten anything all day.
She looked up from where she sat at the kitchen table addressing wedding invitations. “What do you mean?”
“You haven’t eaten today. Come to think about it, you only had half a salad and a couple drinks last night when we went to dinner.”
She let out an annoyed huff and tossed the invitations aside. “You know I’m trying to fit into my dress, Beck! Unlike you, I can’t just drop fifteen pounds like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“Baby, I love the way your body is.”
And here came the tears. As she swiped under her eyes catching the fresh tears that were falling, she replied, “Well, I don’t. It’s something I’ve dealt with my whole life. I just want to look good on my wedding day. I want to look good for you.”
I pulled her to stand bending a bit to get right in her face making her look at me. “Sonya, you could show up in a fucking gunnysack and I’d still think you were the most irresistible woman I’ve ever seen.”
She rolled her eyes in disbelief.
Then to prove it, I’d bent her over the table and fucked her hard from behind, my mouth at her ear telling her she was mine, that she was perfect.
And I thought I’d settled it because she began making a point to eat a bagel every morning while I ate my oatmeal. She packed lunches every day for us both, making sure to show me her sandwich each time until I told her to stop, that I believed her.
And things were good.
The next month when I saw she’d withdrawn money from our account, I’d inquired, “What was the second two grand for?”
She’d given me a panicked look before abruptly replying, “The caterers.”
Narrowing my eyes at her, I asked, “Thought that was what the first two thousand went to?”
“No! That was for securing the church and paying for flowers. Uh, also the invitations.”
And I’d believed her.
But, my God, she’d been the most dazzling bride to ever walk down an aisle. I’d even teared up aware of the pain she must’ve felt at having her uncle walk with her, knowing she wished it’d been her dad.
“You okay?” I’d asked when she’d gotten to me.
Two perfect tears had spilled from her eyes, which I’d quickly swept away with my thumbs. She’d nodded bravely and smiled then we’d become husband and wife.
After the reception, we’d run to the waiting cab as our guests threw birdseed at us—totally Sonya’s idea because “rice bloats birds’ stomachs,” whatever the hell that meant—then we hopped on a plane to Atlantic City for a weekend honeymoon which had been fantastic.
Back home for the next year and a half, our lives resumed as usual with her coming home each night upset over a kid who’d been placed in foster care…or who hadn’t been placed in foster care. Meanwhile, I was rocking the hell out of my job, having integrated a new computer simulation into the system which had upped sales significantly and I’d been on top of the world.
“Let’s celebrate,” I told her one Friday night.
“Yes! Can we go to that dance club, Fever? That’s where a couple of my friends hang out and I can call to let them know we’ll be there!” She squealed when I nodded.
What can I say? I was a sucker to make my wife happy. And if going to some raucous club accomplished that, then so be it.
We met up with a few friends we’d called along with the two girls Sonya had mentioned, and we’d had a lot of fun. Now, my wife loved to dance, so I was out there on the floor with her almost the entire time. And while I can’t say I’m the greatest dancer, since it mostly involved me holding her hips from behind and grinding my dick into her ass, I was good with that.
As the evening went along and Sonya disappeared for the umpteenth time with her two friends, I’d gotten a little aggravated, wondering just how many times chicks needed to visit the restroom. So I’d followed to make sure she got there okay because although she seemed good, her friends were pretty trashed. All three had gone into the ladies’ room as expected, but as I stood waiting for her to come out, when someone opened the door, I caught a glimpse of Sonya bending at the counter looking like she was snorting something off it.
What the fuck.
When she and her friends emerged from the restroom laughing and cutting up, all three rubbing their noses clean, I could only stand and stare.
Huh.
My wife was fucking doing drugs.
How long had it been going on? And how did I not know?
Fuck!
Her eyes went big with surprise when she saw me standing there but, man, she was slick and smoothly recovered. She turned to say something to her friends, who smiled and waved at me before heading back inside the club, and when she turned back to me, putting on the fucking charm and strutting my way before curling herself around me, I wanted to punch a wall.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she purred in my ear, rubbing her body against mine and making it harder than hell for me to ask the million-dollar question.
I pulled away and asked, “What were you snorting in the bathroom?”
I watched as several emotions flew across her face: surprise, panic, indecision and finally nonchalance.
She giggled as she rolled her eyes. “What’re you talking about, honey?”
Taking her by the shoulders I got right in her face. “I saw you, Sonya.”
Her brow wrinkled and I thought she was going to lie again but then she stunned me. “It was just a little cocaine. I needed a pick-me-up, Beck. God. It’s not a big deal.”
She tried spinning from my hold but I tightened my grip turning her back to me keeping her firmly in place. “Not a big fucking deal? Are you fucking serious?” I rumbled.
And that’s when the real Sonya showed her face.
Her eyes got hard when she replied, “Look, I’ve been doing this since my family died. So, no, it’s not a big deal.” She huffed out a laugh at my look of utter shock. “Oh, what, are you going to be my hero now and ‘fix’ me?”
She’d been using for seven years. Jesus.
It suddenly dawned on me why she’d made so many withdrawals from our account. “Is that where the money went?”
She flat-out laughed then. “Oh, so that’s what you’re worried about? The money? Don’t worry, baby, I’ll pay it back,” she declared snottily. She turned again to go back to the dance floor but I grabbed her by her wrist, spinning her to face me.
“We’re leaving,” I snapped, then dragging her behind me I headed toward the exit. She tried a few times to get me to release her, her fingers prying at my fingers trying loosen them, finally resorting to attempting to wrench her wrist from my
grip. When one of the bouncers stepped toward me as if to help her, I announced, “My wife was snorting coke in your bathroom. You want that shit to get out? ‘Cause I can sure as fuck make it happen.” He backed the hell off and I ground out, “Yeah, didn’t fuckin’ think so.”
Sonya didn’t speak to me on the cab ride home which was fine because nothing she could say at that point would make things any better. And I probably would’ve put my fist through the window anyway, so her silence was a good damned thing.
Inside the apartment, I walked her to the couch and ordered, “Sit. We’re going to talk.” She let out a breath, looking annoyed, but sat. Sitting next to her, I turned my eyes to her. “Tell me about it. All of it.”
And I learned about an entire new side to my wife.
At first she’d played games trying to convince me she was fine. That she could quit using, would quit, piece of cake. But as she continued talking, I found out a lot more than I ever knew. She’d started smoking pot after her parents and brother died which she said helped numb the pain. This had led to her using X. When that wasn’t getting the job done, she’d started snorting coke.
As I listened, I couldn’t help but feel that her using now was all my fault. I told her I should’ve been a better husband. If only I’d taken better care of her, this wouldn’t be happening. Maybe if I’d been around more, she wouldn’t be doing this. She’d assured me I was wrong, that she was the one to blame, but I still felt like shit.
When I asked if she’d done heroin or anything harder, like maybe meth, she adamantly denied it, crying and telling me she wasn’t that into the drug scene. When she finally begged my forgiveness I, of course, gave it.
Because I loved her.
Because she said she’d stop.
Because I believed her.
Until I’d come home just after lunch one Friday a month later to see her passed out on the floor with a fucking needle in her arm.
I’d hauled her up off the floor, scared to death that she’d overdosed, ready to dial 911. But when she mumbled for me to put her down so she could enjoy her high, I’d had it. Placing her in our bed—after pulling the needle out—I’d kept an eye on her as I made a phone call.
Thursdays (The Wait Book 1) Page 2
