“You want to explain this shit to me?” West growls as soon as I step past the threshold of the front door.
I blink, coming out of my daze and look up to his dark, angry eyes. I can’t tell by the rest of his features how pissed he is, as he’s started keeping his beard much longer, and fuller than he ever has before. Even his hair, which he kept a little long but still neat, brushes the tops of his shoulders in a curly mop now.
My gaze shifts to a piece of paper that he holds in his hand. “Explain what, West?” I sigh.
He growls, closing the distance between us, and slaps the paper against my chest. I take it in my hand and look down. It’s our credit card bill. My eyes scan the numbers and everything looks around the way I thought it would, so I’m confused.
“The fact that you spend two-fucking-thousand dollars at your gym every goddamn month,” he spits as he places his fits on his hips and aims his angry eyes straight at me.
I nod once, biting the corner of my bottom lip, trying not to get angry at him, trying to keep myself calm. “I do spend that much, you’re right,” I admit.
“Explain.”
“There isn’t much to explain, West. I have a personal trainer who charges a hundred dollars an hour. I usually go to the gym two hours every day, five days a week, and he trains me for one hour, and the other hour I work out on my own. One hundred times five, times four weeks, equals two thousand dollars.”
West runs his hand through his long hair and then scrubs it over his face. “I don’t say shit when you buy the kids more clothes and shoes than they need. I don’t even say anything when you buy yourself whatever you want, but this is too much, Ivy. You’re wasting money, throwing it down the fucking toilet and for what? So you can work out on a treadmill?”
“That wasn’t nice,” I whisper. “I don’t go out and spend crazy money on clothes for me or anybody else in this house, West, and you know it. I’m a bargain shopper, and this is for me. I would think that if anybody understood, it would be you, the man who spends how much money on motorcycle shit?”
West shakes his head once before he speaks, and when he does it’s low, and it’s lethal sounding. “That’s my job, it’s different, and you know it. Without my bike, without my truck, we don’t get money for you to blow. Cancel this shit, Ivy. We have college coming up in a few years, and I don’t want to be strapped for cash because you wasted it on yourself. Don’t be fucking selfish.”
I jerk back as though he’s delivered a physical blow to me. “Selfish?” I whisper. “You’re calling me selfish? Are you sure you want to say that to me, West? Are you sure you want to say something like that, that you can’t take back?”
He has the good sense to at least flinch. What he doesn’t do is apologize. “You don’t work, Ivy. You don’t bring in a fucking dime. But here you are spending two grand a month to exercise? For what? You fuckin’ your trainer? Is that what this is? You’re spending two grand a month to fuck some hard body?”
Narrowing my eyes on his, I cross my arms over my chest. “I cannot believe you just said that to me,” I seethe. “Not that it matters, but no, I am not fucking anybody.”
“Well I know you’re not fucking me,” he growls.
It’s true. I’m not fucking him. I haven’t been for months. However, that isn’t all me. First, he hurt my feelings when I overheard him talking shit about me to Tinker a few months ago. Then, he left on a run for a few weeks. Then it all turned into this heavy unspoken thing between us. Like we’re both pissed off at each other but refusing to communicate it, or why. Then, there’s the fact that he’s hardly home anymore.
“Why would you want to fuck your fat wife? I mean, were you just doing me a solid all those years?” I blurt out.
He jerks his head and has the nerve, the downright nerve, to look confused. “Ivy,” he whispers. “Is that what all this is about? All this working out, changing your eating habits. All of this is over what I said to Tinker?”
Blinking rapidly, I refuse to cry. I didn’t want him to know, and I just blurted it out. He reaches out for me, but I don’t allow him to touch me. I take a step back. West takes a step forward until my back is slammed against the front door and his front is pressing against mine. He slams one of his hands near my face and the other he wraps around my waist.
“I didn’t mean it, baby,” he whispers. I let out a shaky breath when his nose slides alongside mine. “Swear to fuck, I didn’t mean it. I was trying to warn him away from that bitch. She only wanted him for his brand, it was obvious.”
Letting out an unladylike snort I turn my head to the side, refusing to even speak. My eyes slide closed when the hand next to my head moves to gently wrap around the side of my neck, his thumb moving up and down my throat.
“Baby,” he breathes. “Swear to fuck, it wasn’t about you. You were sexy as shit before. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
I want to believe his bullshit. Three months ago, I would have. Today? I don’t. “Where have you been sleeping on the weekends?” I ask.
His fingers grip my hip tighter and I open my eyes, watching as his jaw clenches. I wait it out. He’ll answer me, if it’s the truth or not I won’t know. Our problems are more than just three months old. We’ve been moving apart for a while. Essentially, the moment we had children, and I wasn’t young and carefree anymore. I had to stay home, take care of them, and of the house.
West has always done what he wanted, I’ve been fine with that. He’s been, for the most part, a present husband and father, but as the years have gone by, he’s drifted, except he’s moved further away from me.
We don’t talk anymore, we haven’t for years, and the past three months we haven’t even been having sex. It’s fucking depressing.
Ivy looks, fuck, she looks heartbroken. I want to tell her that I’ve just been sleeping at the clubhouse, drinking one too many beers with the guys, and nothing else. That would be a lie though. I’ve been spending my entire weekends in the free-for-all room.
I’ve been watching people fuck, and be fucked, and I’ve loved it—every second of it. I’ve come close, more than once, to joining in, too.
My love for my wife keeps me from taking the plunge, but to be honest, with the way shit is going right now, I’m not sure that the love I have for her alone, will keep me at bay. This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself visiting the room more often than not. I’ve done it off and on throughout the years.
There’s something about the freedom in there, something I desire. It’s not the women, it’s not the strange pussy, because I could fuck that anytime I wanted. It’s the inhibition of the people when they walk through the door. Everything is gone, insecurities, problems, drama—it all just disappears. It’s nothing but primal, raw, fucking.
“Been sleeping at the clubhouse,” I say, telling her the partial truth. The last thing I want to do is hurt her. Her eyes slide closed again, and she lets out a breath. “There’s been nobody else, baby,” I admit.
I watch as her eyes open but she doesn’t look relieved, she looks, confused. “What are we doing, West? You’re mad because I’m spending money without your approval? You thought I’d let myself go, so I made a change. I’m finally feeling really great about myself, and you accuse me of screwing around on you. You aren’t home anymore, and we aren’t even having sex. This isn’t a marriage,” she whispers.
My fingers flex at her words. Those words ring true, she’s right. This, what we’re doing, it isn’t a marriage. Neither of us is happy right now. I’ve hurt her, and I don’t know how to fix it. I’m not even sure that I want to fix it.
“What do you want?” I ask.
I watch as tears fill her eyes and her bottom lip trembles. “I don’t know.”
“First things first. Cancel the trainer. Then, you and me’ll go on a vacation. Just the two of us,” I suggest.
She blinks back her tears as she shakes her head. “I’m not canceling. I’ll get a job if you want me to, but I enjoy going
down there. I like the way it makes me feel, the accomplishment I feel. I’m not willing to give that up,” she states, and I’m taken aback by her words. Ivy has always been level-headed, and agreeable. This woman, this is not my Ivy.
“What will you do?” I chuckle.
Ivy hasn’t done anything since we’ve been married. Before that, she was a waitress downtown at a dessert bar. It’s not like she has any experience in much of anything. I highly doubt she could make two grand a month after taxes anywhere around here.
Her body stiffens beneath my fingers, and she lets out an angry growl. “I’ll figure something out. It’s nice to know you have so much faith in me though.”
I shake my head. “Babe, you have zero work experience. None of the Old Ladies really work, so it’s not like you can find a job working for a friend somewhere. You gonna go back to waiting tables? You have a household to take care of, sports to get the kids to, homework to help them with. What’re you gonna do?”
Releasing her, I take a step back and try to keep the smile off of my face as I watch her process everything I’ve just said. I also watch as something shifts inside of her, something I’m not sure I fucking like all that much.
“A vacation isn’t going to fix us, West. Not if this is the way you feel about me, and about my role. I’m a mother, yes, but our children are very much yours as well. It is not my sole responsibility to do everything around here. I’ve done it, and maybe that’s my mistake. I’ve done everything so that you can work and play, probably play more than I even realize,” she whispers. Her gentle voice is deceiving, and I stare at her like a fucking dumb idiot.
I wait for her to continue, not sure what else she’s going to throw in my direction. “This isn’t working anymore, West.”
Her words are like a physical punch to my gut. I feel sick the second they leave her mouth. I rush her, bending down to wrap my hands around her thighs as I pick her up. Pressing my mouth against hers, I don’t let her say anything else.
She’s mine.
My wife.
“West,” she moans when my lips travel down her neck.
She tastes like salty, sweet sweat, and her. I’ve missed her taste. She wraps her legs around my waist and shifts her hips so that her center rubs against my jeans, causing the semi I’m sporting to go fully erect. Stepping back, I carry her toward our bedroom.
Once we’re inside, I release her onto the bed, not allowing her to even take a breath before I strip her tight workout pants off of her. I shove two fingers inside of her center and groan at how hot and wet she is for me.
“Fuck,” I hiss as I fuck her with my fingers. Her legs widen, and she arches her back as she pushes against my hand, enjoying the way I touch her.
Popping the button off of my jeans with my free hand, I quickly shove them down as far as I can. Ivy wraps her hands around my wrist as I pull my fingers from her pussy. Switching our holds around, I encircle her wrist with my fingers and shove her hand above her head onto the mattress before I slam into her waiting, warm, pussy.
“West,” she breathes on a hitched breath.
Wrapping my other hand around her hip, I fuck her. My eyes stay glued to our connection. Watching as her wetness coats my cock with each thrust of my hips. It isn’t soft and tender, I pound into her body, taking my frustrations out on her. She cries out beneath me as I continue to take her, fucking her with quick, hard strokes until I feel her pussy flutter around my dick.
Ivy lets out a gasp as her cunt clamps down around me. I don’t let up, my release is on the brink, and I continue fucking her until I plant myself deep inside of her and come, on a shout. Pulling out of her almost immediately, I tug my jeans back up as I try to catch my breath.
“West?” she mutters from the bed.
I look into her eyes for the first time since she told me that this wasn’t working anymore and I slide my own closed slowly. “You’re right, Ivy,” I murmur.
“What?” she asks.
“This isn’t working anymore,” I state before I turn around and walk out of my home.
The home we bought when our son Remi was born almost eleven years ago. The home we made our eight-year-old son in, nine years ago. Ivy is right though, we aren’t working. Not right now anyway. I leave her in our bed, climbing onto my bike, starting the engine—I ride.
I don’t know where I’m going yet. But I know that I need to go.
I watch him leave, walking out of our bedroom and then with a slam of the front door out of our home. The look in his eyes, it said so much without him having to say a word.
My heart shatters into a million pieces as I stand up and make my way toward the bathroom. Trying to shove the, what ifs, and uncertainty aside I start the shower water.
Peeling off my top and my bra, my eyes catch my brand in the mirror. The black scroll is a bit faded, it needs a touch-up, but the name is still very clear—Camo. I’m his, not only his wife but his Old Lady as well.
I’m not really sure that I’m going to be either of those for very long. The thought makes my heart pound against my chest. I love him, when all is said and done, I love the big stupid man. However, I know that love isn’t the only thing needed in a marriage to make it work. I don’t know if we have the other pieces of what’s needed to make us whole again.
Stepping into the shower, I let the hot water pound against my body. Tears immediately start to fall. The realization that my marriage may be over washes over me.
Once I’m showered, I dress in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and an oversized shirt. Actually, everything I own is now loose fitting and oversized.
Contrary to West’s belief, I don’t go shopping and blow money on myself. I’m in desperate need of clothes that fit though. However, today, I think I will do just that. I still have a few hours until Reid, my youngest, is home from school.
I head toward my SUV, start the engine and go shopping. I bring my phone with me, not because I am waiting for West to call, but just in case any of the kids need to get ahold of me. Once I’m on the road, I call Chad. The car’s Bluetooth picks up the call and my speakers flood with the sound of a ringing phone.
“You’re bailing, aren’t you?” Chad asks as his greeting.
I let out a laugh driving toward the mall. “I’m not, actually. I’m calling to let you know that I’ll be there.”
“Your husband?” he asks.
I sigh. “We got into a huge fight. It’ll just be me,” I explain.
Chad asks me what the fight was about. I know that I can’t tell him everything, and I don’t want to get into money, not when it was about paying him. It’s not his fault that we fought. Chad has to eat and pay bills too, I don’t want him to feel guilty. In reality, West’s and my argument is about so much more than just finances.
“We haven’t really been doing well lately. It’s just getting worse,” I admit.
The wooded area of my drive starts to fade away as I make my way closer toward the mall. Chad’s hum sounds throughout my car but he doesn’t make a comment. I tell him that I’ll see him at the bar tonight before I end the call.
I can feel my throat closing up as I think about what this fight with West means. What his words and my own meant, and what the future holds for us. This isn’t how I saw my life unfolding.
Pulling into the parking lot I let out a sigh. I feel like everything has been unraveling slowly like a small thread has been being pulled at the rate of molasses. Now it’s starting to reach the end of the fabric, and everything is coming to a head.
My life as a wife, and an Old Lady, may be over. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m not sure that I really feel all that upset at the moment. It will probably hit me when everything is said and done. West did not look like he wanted to talk things through, not that he ever has. I’m just tired of it all, and maybe that’s the difference this time.
Maybe it’s me who has changed, and he’s stayed the same?
Throwing my car door open I make my way into the mall. I
start to head to the same store I always shop in, except standing at their storefront feels different. I don’t want the same shit I’ve always worn. The same mom jeans, the same full coverage bras and panties. I want to feel as sexy in my clothes as I do when I look in the mirror. I’ve worked hard, and although I don’t want to look like I’m trying, I still want to feel beautiful.
I head into a store that is a bit too old for Rosalie, but a place I would have thought was too young for me and hold my breath as I cross the entrance. The music as I enter is loud, but I’m used to loud music so it doesn’t bother me. What is truly intimidating is the rows and rows of jeans, all different fits and styles. I don’t know where to even begin.
“Can I help you?” a perky sales girl asks. She’s around twenty and all smiles.
Clearing my throat, I suck in a deep breath. “I need new clothes, new jeans for sure,” I murmur.
“Do you know what size you are?” she asks as she walks over to a wall of jeans.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. “I think I might be a six, I’m not sure.”
“I’ll grab you a couple different sizes and styles, and we’ll go from there.”
I watch as she thumbs through the jeans and pulls out about six different pairs. Then I follow her toward the dressing room. She leaves me alone, and I stare at the clothes then myself in the mirror until my eyes shift back to the jeans.
Stripping my heavily faded, extremely loose pants off I grab the top pair and pull them on. They’re meant to be skinny jeans but they’re too loose in the thighs and waist. Taking them off, I notice that they’re larger sized than the next, so I chance trying them on.
They fit like a glove.
“Do you have any on?” the sales girl asks.
Opening the dressing room door, she looks down then back up at me with a huge smile. “Those look so awesome on you,” she practically squeals. “When you said your size, I wasn’t sure, but those are a twenty-eight, which is a six. You are dead-on and they look fantastic.”
Rough & Real Page 2
