by Amiee Smith
She flops on her back, commanding me to rub her belly. I comply. After the shit I’ve endured over the last hour, it’s soothing to pet my dog.
“If I knew you had a problem with my clothes, I would have picked up after myself. Daddy, you really need to use your words.”
“I’m always cleaning up your mess. That should have been an indication of how I felt,” I say with frustration.
“I just thought you had a strange fascination with cleaning.”
“If that were the case, then why would I pay for Lydia to clean my place once a week and your mansion three times a week?”
“I thought it was just a part of your obsession with me.”
“My obsession with you?! You think I’m obsessed with you?”
“Of course you are! You could have totally divorced me after I got out of rehab or during the two years you only communicated with me over email, but you didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you divorce me, Brit? And don’t give me your sad song and dance about being poor. A simple divorce in California costs less than your shopping budget each month.”
“Ew, I’m not going to deny myself a month of shopping when my husband is making truckloads of money.”
“And what if I were poor? Would you still be with me?”
“Daddy, if we’re going to have this conversation, you need to be naked too. Miz Pepper! Go to your own bed in the living room!”
Our little dog, who only selectively listens and walks on her own, leaps off my lap and goes into the other room. She doesn’t whimper as Brit shuts the door. My pierced, tattooed, very naked wife is playing alpha tonight. And everyone in her pack must obey.
Rising, I remove my warm-ups and boxer briefs. I approach her, standing at the foot of the bed. The lamps from the nightstands casts a warm glow over our hotel room.
“Yell at me, wife. I can handle it. My ass has already been handed to me once tonight,” I say.
I run my hand from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck. My fingers massaging and plucking the soft small curls at her hairline. She shudders. Closing her eyes, Brit moans.
“Why would Will yell at you?” she asks, breathy.
“He didn’t yell. Just delivered a shit-ton of information.”
“What’s going on, Alex?”
“We’ll talk in the morning. Why do you want to yell at me?”
I lift her thick soft hair, pressing a kiss on the back of her neck. I’ve never done this with her. Over the last eight years, I’ve practiced the art of restraint, limiting my affection.
“When did you get this?” I ask, running my fingertips over a tiny tattoo of a seahorse at the base of her hairline.
“Gosh, you haven’t seen the seahorse? Ah, I had it done one night... after watching a Warriors game alone during the two years we didn’t talk.”
I grunt. It’s the best I can do. Those two years were rough. I hate myself for denying us that time together. Time we may never have again.
I continue to kiss her soft skin, holding her thick curly hair in my hand. I tighten my grip, just a bit. She moans deeply, swaying and grinding her hips against my groin. For a second, I savor the touch of her curves, her skin against my skin.
I release her hair and step back. Brit turns, facing me. I can’t resist, I glide my hand over her soft chest and ample breasts. The stainless-steel barbells in her tight nipples, tease and tickle my palm.
She moans, closing her eyes and tilting her head toward the ceiling. Goosebumps form over her light brown skin. I wish my mind wasn’t heavy so my dick could enjoy finally being able to touch my wife.
I drag my hand away.
Brit’s cognac eyes fly open. Her gaze lusty and annoyed.
“Alex, tell me what’s going on!”
“Why would I share something personal with you? You don’t want to be married to me.”
“That’s why I want to yell at you! This could have been a real date, maybe even a real marriage, if you didn’t work all the time. You just had to have an emergency meeting with Will tonight. On our date night! And you’re not going to tell me why! Like I’m a child.”
Her arched brows scrunch in the center of her forehead. Her jaw clinched. She never gets angry. Not like this. She’s the fun-loving friend. Easygoing. Carefree. Give no fucks. I learned in my support group that underneath anger is hurt. And if she’s hurting, maybe she might care...
“Do you want to be real married to me, Brit?”
The anger dissipates from her pretty face and she’s back to being herself.
“I don’t know,” she shrugs.
I hate that answer. I hate that shrug. Shrugs and “I don’t know” are her way of avoiding her feelings.
I reach for my pants on the edge of the bed. She sighs, embracing my arm.
“I’m sorry, Alex. I probably could be real married to you. Could you be real married to me?”
“I think so. Will you continue to manage your shopping?”
“I will do my best.”
“That’s fair. Would you have my kids?”
“They would be our kids.”
“Sure. But would you want to be a mother?”
“I’ve always assumed mothering wasn’t for me, but... maybe... I could do it... with you.”
“Why with me?”
“Well, you’re an upstanding citizen. Hot and rich. And good to me and Miz Pepper.”
“What if I weren’t rich? Or unintentionally did something that made me less than an upstanding citizen? Would you stand by me?”
“Yes, assuming it was unintentional.”
“What changed your mind? You were adamant about divorcing me earlier today.”
“I don’t know. History? I want to believe I’d be better off without you, but would I really be? What if there is no right or wrong way to do a relationship?”
“But in your world, there is clearly a right and a wrong.”
“Oh, yeah. Totally.”
“The patriarchy?”
“Wrong!”
“Abuse of capitalism?”
“Wrong!”
“A hot man obsessed with a weirdo woman?”
“You’re a weirdo too, Dragon.”
“So, you agree we’re a good match?”
“Why do I feel like this was just a sales pitch and you’re getting ready to lock me into an ironclad contract?”
“Maybe I’m selling a bit. I just need to know that you’ll be there for me... no matter what.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad. Really bad.”
“I guess we’ll deal with that in the morning. Let’s have fun now.”
“What do you have in mind, pretty girl?”
“Two naked weirdo adults in a hotel room... we’ll figure something out.”
Brit presses a single kiss on my chest, before resting her cheek against my shoulder. I wrap my arms around her waist. It feels so good to hold her.
She steps out of my embrace and sits on the edge of the bed.
“Your heart is beating so fast, Dragon. I can’t just throw caution to the wind and have fun tonight. I need to go into this aware. I need to know what you did. Tell me everything. I won’t judge you.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Brittney.”
“Really?”
“I followed protocol to the letter, but I was greedy. Arrogant. It was after the article in L.A. Magazine. I missed the signs at first. Then I tried to make things right and implicated myself in the process.”
“What’s going to happen?” Brit asks, calmly.
“I won’t know until it happens. If it happens. My attorney says the FBI can freeze all of my accounts during the investigation.”
“Why would the FBI be involved?”
“Money laundering. Ah, my Russian clients. Luckily, they didn’t just use my firm. They also used a firm in New Jersey.”
“If you didn’t do anything, why are they investigating you?”
“I grew suspicious and reported it
to the SEC. Now the FBI is investigating me. Will got a tip from one of his Yale connections who works at the Bureau. To preserve the business, tonight we sent word to our clients that I will be taking a leave of absence. An extended vacation. Will is acting CEO. If something happens, I will assume responsibility. My employees and clients should not have to suffer.”
“What does this mean?”
“You know what it means. There is a possibility we won’t have access to cash for a while.”
I purposely avoid saying what Brit already knows.
“I will accept the Mills College job on Monday and put my album on hold.”
“Are you sure, sweetheart?”
“Real or fake, I’m still Mrs. Willingham. And Willinghams do whatever it takes. I’m cold. I should get dressed for bed,” she says, flatly.
Brit wipes a lone tear away before standing and leaving the room. I want to believe she’s crying over the possibility of her husband going to prison, but deep down I know she’s grieving the loss of the life she could have had without me.
CHAPTER 10
BRIT PALMER
I wake up in our hotel bed, in my teal kimono, to my phone dinging on the nightstand.
It’s a text message from Lynn inviting me to the Mafia brunch at her place at 11:00 a.m. to close out the Lilly + Michael wedding weekend.
It’s 9:45 a.m.
Usually, I’m down for friends, food, and booze before noon, but after last night I don’t feel like partying.
Alex and I spent hours talking about all the potential outcomes of the investigation and assembling a bit of a plan. There was no sex. The possibility of him going to prison killed the mood.
I don’t text Lynn back. Rising, I go into the bathroom. Alex is gone. I heard him leave earlier. I assumed he took Miz Pepper out, but she trots into the bathroom to watch me pee.
A part of me wants to pick her up and run as far away from this situation as possible. But I truly believe Alex is innocent. Last night, I scanned his face for any signs he might be lying, but I only saw a scared, humbled man. If things go as he perceives, our only saving grace in the short run is my job offer.
I can’t leave him, but the timing of this situation is so incredibly messed up. I finally figured my shit out, made a record I’m proud of, and now I have to put my dream on hold.
For years, I watched everyone around me do what they wanted to do. My mom, the girls, Alex. I watched everyone do what was right for them. I watched everyone thrive and succeed on their own terms.
My mom didn’t care that her ambition left me homeless, alone, and clawing for a lifeline.
Lynn didn’t care that I spent a summer selling dresses to wealthy women who treated me like a hired hand, so I could pay to share an apartment with her in Venice Beach. And once I was finally in the green, she moved to San Francisco for a job at Google.
Alex cared, I guess. But his actions were driven by guilt, obligation, and building a multi-million-dollar business.
And I sloshed through my day-to-day, caring just a little too much about everything and nothing all at the same time. Searching and waiting for my window of opportunity to succeed and thrive.
My moment finally arrived this week. I sat in Malachi’s studio, hour after hour, and poured my soul into every note I sang, played, created. And when I listened back to each track, I heard what I had been waiting and searching for all these years.
I heard the real me.
But now I have to press pause because my fake husband is being investigated by the FBI.
For years, Alex has said I need to put myself first when it comes to my finances. And now, I finally have something of value to offer the world. My collection of songs could potentially turn into a viable living. But instead of following my dream, I have to stand by my man.
Because he stood by me during the worst time of my life.
Because he’s always done right by me.
Except for failing to mention until now, he reported to the SEC he suspected a group of clients had used his firm to launder money. I know the wealth management business. I helped him build his company. I know how messy these investigations can get.
Sure, we haven’t been doing the mutual masturbation sleepovers for a while, but we still saw each other... J + J parties, jazz shows, basketball games, Miz Pepper swaps, my late-night cravings for ribs or tacos. And not once did he say anything. Not once.
Maybe it was his way of protecting me from the situation? Maybe he didn’t want to say anything until he knew what was going to happen? But now the FBI is involved... and I feel blindsided.
We are married. Friends. Sooner or later I will forgive him. But right now. I’m struggling to be in the same hotel room as him.
I hear the door open and close.
“Brit!” Alex calls from the living room of the suite.
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
I finish up, washing my hands, brushing my teeth, and splashing water on my face before scooping up Miz Pepper.
Entering the living room, I notice Alex is not Alex.
My Alex is always in a suit. Always. It’s his pseudo-spiritual “act as if” ritual he started after he graduated from college. Today, he’s wearing his around-the-house shorts, a white undershirt with a deep V revealing his tattoo, and Nike slide sandals.
My Alex would never wear this outfit in public. My Alex is always prepared for a chance meeting with a potential client. My Alex would never go out with unbrushed hair, unshaven, and dark circles under his eyes. Never.
But I’m no longer married to my Alex.
I’m married to a man potentially facing federal criminal charges.
“You went out in shorts and a T-shirt?”
He grunts, retrieving Miz Pepper from my arms and handing me a coffee and a small brown bag with a pastry inside. “Half-caf mocha” is written on the side of the cup. He always remembers the way I like my coffee. Always.
“My brother texted me about a brunch,” he says, sitting on the sofa.
“Yeah, I got a text from Lynn, but I’m not going,” I say, plopping down next to him.
“We should go. Tell everyone we’re seeing each other so it doesn’t seem strange that we’re moving to Oakland together,” Alex says, stroking our dog’s head.
“I have to make sure the job offer is still on the table,” I say before sipping my coffee.
“At least tell your friends we’re dating.”
“Alex, I can’t do anymore lying. I’m just going to tell them the truth. All of it. They’ll understand your situation.”
“No, I want to be able to sign them as clients when all this is over. Tell them we’re dating, and I am taking some time off to be with you. Also, I don’t want to tell my brother or my parents until...”
I stop mid-bite of my cheese Danish. “Until you’re getting ready to serve twenty years in a federal prison.”
Alex’s blue-green eyes widen, and he dips his head.
So, I’d never label myself a bitch. But what I just said was hella bitchy.
He’s trying to hold it together. Trying to believe this situation will go away swiftly. Trying to act as if we’re two people on our way to happily-ever-after and this is just a quick stop on the journey.
I’m trying to act as if all the romantic feelings I felt last night did not evaporate with the rising sun. I’m trying to act as if I’m a loving wife, quietly humming, “Stand By Your Man.” I’m trying to act as if I’m not so mad at that man, I could throw punches at his gorgeous face. And I’m a pacifist for crying out loud!
But Alex stood by me through rehab. So, I will stand by him through this investigation. One thing is for sure, the no-sex clause is alive and well. Because when this is all over, I will sell my wardrobe to get out of this marriage and get on with my life.
I’ve wasted too many of my best years on this capitalist-crazed suit. For now, I’ll accept my karma: yet another woman enslaved by the patriarchy.
I abandon my coffee and Danish
, leaving them on the table.
“I’ll go to the brunch and tell the girls we’re dating,” I say, rising and heading to the bedroom to get dressed.
***
“You traded in my car!” I yell.
Freshly shaven, wearing charcoal slacks and a white dress shirt, Alex flashes his charming smile. The smile he uses on clients. The smile that has never worked on me, until last night, when I took his hand and left in the middle of a concert. (Again, so sorry, jazz deities.)
“I thought this would be more comfortable for our drive back to L.A. Do you like it?”
We stand in the parking garage for the St. Francis with our luggage. Alex hands me the keys to my new white Jeep Cherokee 4x4 Limited.
I glare at him like he just hung a Confederate flag in my yard.
Six months ago, Jon traded in Jen’s Maserati for a white Volvo SUV. It was a surprise gift in preparation for them starting a family. She said she felt her insides die when she saw her mom-car in the driveway with a big red bow on the hood.
I now know exactly how she felt.
“No. I liked my car, Alex. This... this... this is a mom-car. Why would you do this without asking me?”
He pulls a set of keys from his pocket and opens the rear door, loading the luggage.
“Your car was on its last leg. I thought you’d be happy. You can tell the girls I bought it for you... like Michael bought Lilly a car.”
Of course, Alex is trying to flex his rapidly atrophying wealth muscle so he looks cool in front of our friends. Of course, he gets to look cool at my expense. Of course, he’s forgetting Lilly + Michael have a real relationship. A real marriage.
Envy. Rage. Sadness. All welling up in the corner of my eyes.
“Go fuck yourself, Alex Willingham,” I mumble.
I place Miz Pepper in the doggy car seat that used to always be in my Jeep Liberty, and I strap it into the charcoal all-leather rear cab. The new car scent only intensifies my rage.
I bought my Jeep Liberty used, and it didn’t smell new. Not like this.
I spent months planning my purchase, calculating and budgeting my financial aid refund after my expenses were paid for my masters at the Berklee College of Music. I ate ramen for most of the year and worked as a burlesque dancer in an offbeat comedy troupe to have enough money to buy my car and still make rent.
