by Amiee Smith
“Sure. I’ll play it for you when we get back to our room. It hasn’t been mixed and mastered so it’s rough.”
“I bet it’s as beautiful as you are tonight,” I whisper, stroking her palm with the tip of my finger.
“Are you coming on to me, Alex?” she asks with a tilt of head.
I haven’t hit on a woman in years. I’m out of practice. But at least I’m giving it a shot since it’s our date night.
“Yes! That’s what we’re supposed to do on a date,” I say. “This will only work if you actually act like you’re on a date, Brittney.”
“I haven’t been on a date in over a decade. I’m not sure how to act, Dragon.”
“You didn’t date anyone... even during the two years?”
She’s slow to respond. “No.”
“Well, tonight we’re going to husband-and-wife date. No rants about the patriarchy and capitalism.”
“Ew. What will I talk about?”
“Ah, music... the weather, our dog... how much you’re attracted to me? And no bullshit about dudes with beards and hipster glasses. I remember the reaction.”
Brit sighs. “Alright. Fine. When you’re not breathing fire, you’re... easy on the eye. No heated lectures about adulting and getting a teaching job.”
“Shit. I do that... a lot.”
“All the time, hunky husband. All the time,” she says under her breath.
“Ah, okay. No lectures.”
“Cool. Now let’s have fun,” she says, joyfully.
“Let’s have fun.”
***
“Were you here last night?” says the older gentleman at the table next to us.
We sit in the concert hall. The space is cramped with small round tables. Elegantly dressed, mature adults of all ethnicities surround us. Brit and I are the youngest attendees by at least two decades.
“No, my wife and I are in town for a wedding. I’m Alex Willingham. This is Brit Willingham,” I say running my palm over the top of her thigh under the table.
She doesn’t move my hand away.
“Fred Mercer. This is my wife, Marissa. We drove in from Tiburon for the show last night. This young man was so outstanding we bought tickets for tonight. You are in for a treat.”
Fred is a white man with a round face and a salt and pepper beard. Marissa is a coffee-colored woman with gray locs wrapped in a bun on top of her head.
“We saw Emmet Cohen a few years ago at the Jazz Bakery in Los Angeles. My husband owns all of his records,” Brit shares.
God, it’s nice to hear “my husband” come out of her mouth. My chest fills with a newfound sense of peace. Confidence.
“Our son studied trumpet at Cal Arts in So Cal. Where in L.A. do you live?” Marissa asks.
“Silver Lake,” Brit says.
“Downtown L.A.,” I say at the same time.
Even on our date night, we can’t pretend we live in the same place.
“We have homes in both areas,” I say, awkwardly.
Brit changes the conversation, expressing her admiration for the Cal Arts jazz department and inquiring about their son’s professional life. A social butterfly, she builds relationships wherever she goes. People just like her.
Mentally, I check out a bit.
We live less than six miles apart in L.A. If it weren’t date night, I’d give Brit my best argument for why we need to live together, especially since she’s not working. But I’m keeping my heat to myself.
If I can convince her to stay married to me, I’ll need to cut out the lecturing. I doubt I appear fuckable in those increasingly more frequent moments when I am offering... demanding... she follow my plan.
It’s tough. I give people advice all day. But those people pay for my financial guidance. Acting the same way with her is inappropriate. No wonder I’m stressed out all the time, I’m always on.
On the other hand, my do-gooder wife practices the art of keeping the peace. It’s rare she gets riled up. And if she does, it’s usually over the lack of hot sauce, social injustice, environmental issues, or LeBron James.
She doesn’t trip out during my lectures. Never yells. Occasionally, she’ll offer a wacky left-wing counter argument: “Alex, systematic income inequality gives you a false sense of what is right when it comes to personal finance, and your need to lecture me is just a byproduct of your patriarchal privilege.” (Okay, she might be right.)
I come from a family of strong-willed, opinionated, short-tempered, argumentative assholes. Behind closed doors, yelling is the norm.
In public, the Willinghams are a postcard for the American Dream. Attractive. Successful. Affluent. Well-spoken. Charming. We are aware enough to know when to turn it on and off.
Brit is on the opposite side of the same coin. A natural performer, she knows when to turn her sparkle and shine on and off, but the difference... she’s the same in public or private.
Fun-loving. Caring. Radiant. Passionate. She tells her truth with soul and conviction. She doesn’t fuss or complain. She just loves what she loves. And after eight years of marriage, I long to make the list of what she loves.
The house lights dim and the crowd quiets in anticipation of Emmet Cohen taking the stage. I ease my hand higher up Brit’s thigh, squeezing her curves. She gives me a brief side glance, her cognac eyes aglow.
She places her hand over mine, grazing the nail of her index finger against my knuckles over and over. My dick pushes against my zipper. Only second to eating pussy, nails against my skin does it for me.
My wife loves her nails. Whether at my house or hers, every Sunday she does her nails. Before getting married, I never knew what it took to make nails pretty.
During her at-home manicure, music, or a documentary, or a basketball game usually plays in the background. Her body always draped in a kimono. She spreads her professional-grade nail kit on the floor and ceremoniously cares for herself.
I have spent countless hours watching her clip, file, buff, and polish her long natural nails. Round or square, a dark shade of red or midnight blue, but usually a glossy black.
How can two people know each other so intimately, but have never kissed?
Tonight, I plan to kiss all my wife’s lips until she’s a wet mess, yearning for her husband.
This is our date night.
CHAPTER 8
BRIT PALMER
I study Emmet’s hands as he solos on “If It Isn’t Love.” He’s a bit ahead of the beat, but only a person who has spent most of her life playing piano would hear it.
As much as I enjoy the music, I’m finding it difficult to focus on anything but Alex’s masculine hand against my thigh. His nearness creates a sense of safety and security. A sensation more arousing than words can describe.
His eyes are closed behind his silver glasses and he ever-so-slightly bobs his head in time with the rhythm section.
He really is a “suit,” always in a suit. The archetypal “white man” progressive activists march against. But when he listens to music, he transforms into the image of the peaceful messiah, saving souls and walking on water.
His deep devotion to jazz is intoxicatingly sexy. And humbling. Alex is not a musician or an academic critiquing the performance. He’s just a fan, willingly allowing the players on the stage to lead him on a sonic journey. He’s the listener every musician plays their instrument for. He’s who I play for.
I can’t continue this marriage. I can’t continue the secrecy. It disrupts the purity of my art. My music. But tonight, I’m not a player on stage. I’m just a woman, on a date with her husband.
The song ends, and the crowd applauds.
Leaning over, I whisper into Alex’s ear.
“I want to be with you tonight, Dragon. In every way.”
He inches his face closer to mine. His tranquil blue-green eyes turn into heat seeking missiles.
“Are you giving me consent, pretty girl?”
Hot. Raw. Exciting. A man asking for consent is sexy. My Dragon askin
g for consent is exhilarating. A rush of euphoria runs through my body like I’m high or shopping or hitting that elusive whistle note.
The applause stops. Emmet blesses his audience with an anecdote on how improvisation is an opportunity to say yes. Yes, to life. Yes, to the moment.
Everyone sits on the edge of their seats as he speaks. The only sound is his studious voice coming through the microphone. He’s the type of man I used to want; an intelligent jazz nerd with a warm disposition.
I peer at Alex, who seems to be on the edge of his seat, awaiting my reply.
With Emmet chattering in the background and under the watchful blue-green gaze of my Dragon, the truth washes over me.
I’m already married to an intelligent jazz nerd with a warm, no, hot disposition.
And I want him, right now, in every way.
(Jazz deities, please forgive me for what I’m about to do. Thank you. Love, Brittney Willingham.)
Grabbing my purse from between my feet, I whisper into Alex’s ear.
“Yes, Dragon. I’m giving you consent. Let’s go back to the hotel.”
“Right now? You always say it’s sacrilegious to leave any time before the encore.”
I drag my lips over his smooth cheek. He groans. It’s the closest I’ve come to kissing him.
I whisper in his ear. “Daddy, do you want to quote me or fuck me?”
Emmet eases into “Be My Love.” Alex grunts.
Oh, what a gift it is to be a woman on the receiving end of my husband’s lustful grunt. My body catches fire and my mind reels with thoughts of being skin to skin under this man.
Grunting is his thing. He does it when he’s pissed. He does it when he’s amused. He does it when he wants to say no to my request for a luxurious coat inappropriate for L.A. weather. It’s his way to express himself when words get jumbled in his mind.
In this moment, Alex’s grunt means he’s feelin’ me tonight.
He removes his hand from my thigh and digs into his pocket, retrieving his wallet filled with crisp bills all facing the same direction. (Wallet hygiene is very important to him.) Dropping a hundred dollar bill on the table, he stands and extends his hand.
Still sitting, I stare at his palm. I’ve never held Alex’s hand.
After all, we’re just friends.
And hand-holding is a patriarchal concept designed to entrap women.
And... and... what if I like holding his hand... and never want to let it go?
An older woman with a nurturing, yet stern voice, sitting at a table behind us, halts my mental (and emotional) debate.
“Dear, a handsome gentleman is offering you his hand, take it or make him sit down. He’s blocking my view.”
“Yeah!” another woman says.
“Girl, if you don’t want him, I’ll take his hand,” a man says.
Alex flashes his charming grin. Gosh, he’s attractive. I definitely want him.
Standing on my own, I accept my husband’s hand, and let him lead me out of the concert hall.
***
After a twenty-minute Uber ride into the City, we arrive at the St. Francis. We stride hand in hand into the hotel lobby.
“Friends, my ass. I always knew something was going on between the two of you.”
Will, Alex’s right-hand at Willingham Wealth Management greets us. Ivy League educated, impeccably faded black hair, slim build, tall as Alex. Will is one fine black man.
He’s got a Kid Cudi vibe, personable, and always sharply dressed. Normally, I’d love to hang with him. He’s hella fun.
But Will wasn’t invited to the Lilly + Michael wedding weekend.
If he’s here, in our hotel lobby, after 11:00 p.m., that means there is a problem. A problem that couldn’t wait until Monday when Alex returns to the office. A problem that couldn’t be discussed over the phone.
“Brit, go to the room. Pay the dog sitter,” Alex says, dropping my hand and giving me a hundred dollar bill.
His tone, curt. His brow, furrowed. His lustful glow, gone.
I know my husband. I know when he’s anxious. His pupils have grown large and his heart beats so fast I can almost hear it. I can almost feel it.
Something is really wrong.
And when he’s like this, I get goofy and say something outlandish to get him to half-smile.
“Ahh, no threesome?” I joke.
Will chuckles, but Alex only appears more distraught. Even stressed out he’s still a beautiful man. But this is not him. He is always cool and collected in front of his employees and clients. Usually, I’m the only one privy to his anxiety, but he’s not putting on a face for Will.
Something is really wrong.
“Go!” he commands.
His demeanor, defensive. His voice, cold. His eyes, unaffectionate.
I comply, retreating to our suite. Not because I’m a well-behaved woman. No. I leave my husband standing in the lobby with Will because for the first time, the safety and security that has kept me in this farce of a marriage dissolves.
The man who commanded me to leave wasn’t my Dragon.
Scared. Desperate. Ashamed.
The man who commanded me to leave is a little boy preparing for the fight of his life.
Something is really wrong.
***
“Miz Pepper, you’re going to have to sleep in your own bed tonight. Mommy and daddy have to use the bed.”
I sit on the floor, barefoot, wearing just my jeans and tank and stroking my adorable dog’s belly. I’ve been in this position for at least an hour, repeating the same phrase with each stroke. She doesn’t seem to believe me anymore than I believe myself.
I want to text Alex, but even when he’s in a good mood he loathes text messages. Unless we’re sneaking around at a Jen + Jon party, he prefers voice recordings.
“You should call daddy and tell him we miss him. Tell him he shouldn’t be working on our date night. And tell him to bring Mommy some snacks... and a box of condoms.”
She and I both know there will be no sexing tonight, at least not in this suite.
Getting up, I cradle Miz Pepper in my arms and stare out the window at the dazzling San Francisco lights below. Our spacious room features north-facing bay windows with sweeping views of Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the North Bay.
Lilly shared that Michael has the same view from his bedroom window at his house in the Pacific Heights neighborhood of the City. I bet they’re cuddled-up in love right now.
Envy creeps up. In rehab, I learned envy was one of the reasons I spent over 2 million dollars in three months. Eight years of attending my weekly post-rehab support group for compulsive shoppers has taught me how to feel and acknowledge my longing for what others possess, without acting on it. But tonight, I don’t want to responsibly feel my feelings. Rage rears its head.
This was supposed to be the crescendo of my relationship with Alex! The big finale. Alex and I are supposed to be cuddled-up right now! This is not fair, dammit.
For eight years, he’s worked like a mad man. And the one night I give myself permission to be more than just friends with him, he bounces on me... and he didn’t even leave a credit card for me to play with!
“Miz Pepper, we are going to find daddy.”
After shoving my feet into my sparkly $4,000 heels, I shift my dog into one arm and grab my card key from the desk. Leaving the room, I sprint the hallway to the elevator. Frantically pressing the button, the doors open, and my hunky husband steps out.
“Where are you going?” Alex asks.
“To find you. To see if I could help in any way,” I say sweetly.
Crap, I’m doing what I always do... playing nice to avoid my feelings. Playing the role of the great friend and being whatever someone needs me to be. But tonight, Alex and I are not friends.
We are a very married couple.
“No, Alex. That’s a lie. I don’t want to offer my help. I want to yell at you for leaving me on our date night.”
“Y
ou yell?”
“Never out loud. But I was going to attempt to yell at you.”
Alex retrieves Miz Pepper from my arms, and she cuddles into his embrace.
For the first time, I’m envious of my dog.
“Pep, tell mommy she can yell at daddy any time she wants. Just as long as she’s naked.”
CHAPTER 9
ALEX WILLINGHAM
Once behind the door of our suite, Brit strips out of her clothes.
I was kind of joking about the naked yelling. After the last hour I’ve had, the last thing I want to do is listen to my wife air out her grievances.
Little puddles of Brit, her clothes, follow me from the door through the living area to the bedroom.
After easing Pep to the floor, I change out of my suit into black warm-up pants.
It’s been a long, long day.
“Okay. I am ready to yell at you.”
My wife stands in front of me in black panties and a black bra. As always, she’s pushing the boundaries of the rules I set.
“I said naked, Brittney.”
“Yes, Dragon,” she replies.
Unhooking her bra, she tosses it to the floor, revealing brown nipples with silver barbells through them. My mouth waters as she shimmies out of her panties, leaving them next to her bra.
“If you’re going to yell at me, you need to call me “daddy.” I also will not listen until you pick up your clothes and put them in your suitcase.”
I never complain about her messiness. Seeing her shit everywhere annoys me, so I usually just pick up after her. She is who she is. And I am who I am.
But if she’s going to yell at me, in a hotel room I’m paying $800 a night to stay in, then I don’t want to walk through puddles of Brit. It may be the last time I can spend this type of money for a while. A long while.
To my surprise, my smart girl retrieves her clothes and shoes from the floor, folding and placing them where they belong.
“Good girl,” I mutter, stretching out on the bed.
Pep trots in from the living room, yelping at me to lift her on to the bed. Since I can’t handle both females in my life yelling at me tonight, I scoop her from the floor and place her on my lap.
