The Wife Gamble

by Charlie Hart

  “You’ve seriously been holding out on me, Hux,” I say, playfully pushing a hand against his rock-hard chest.

  He grabs my arm, and pulls me to him, leaving Salinger to walk a few feet behind us, a small frown tugging at his lips.

  Huxley beams at the patrons of his shop, introducing them to me, his wife. It feels good to be beside him, and a flush of pride wells up in me. Yes, he is selling stuff under the table here, but there must be a few dozen people in the shop and everyone seems to know and respect him. And even though I feel all eyes on me as I’m the only woman here, it’s as if no one dares make a distasteful comment in front of Hux.

  An older man sitting behind a register looks up with a smile as he greets Huxley.

  “Hello, boss, didn’t expect you this evening.”

  Hux shrugs. “I got word that a delivery would be coming in about a half-hour. I wanted to be here when it arrived.”

  The man nods. “Understood. And who might this be?” he asks, offering me his hand.

  I shake it as Huxley answers, “This is my beautiful bride, Tia. Tia this is Benjamin.”

  “Pleased to meet you, darling. We don’t get many women in this shop.”

  Sal pipes up. “You mean any?”

  Benjamin winks at me, then asks. “Did you like those romance novels?”

  I flush, remembering the erotic romances Huxley brought me home a month ago. The way I devoured them, imagining myself doing the uninhibited things those heroines so easily tried. In all honesty, they did give me confidence in being a bit more daring. Before having read them, no way would I have sprayed whipped cream on my lover and licked it off.

  “Aww,” Benjamin says. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you. Those books were my wife’s, may she rest in peace. I have more here somewhere if you’d like another stack?”

  I smile at his consideration. “That would be lovely. Reading has always been my favorite thing, ever since I was a little girl.”

  Benjamin nods. “I understand, with the way of the world these days, I don’t mind retreating to a fantasy myself.” He pats my arm as he passes me. “Though I prefer science fiction to bodice rippers, but to each his own.”

  Huxley chuckles beside me and I smile up at him, loving seeing this side of him.

  “Can you show me around?” I ask him.

  “Sure, I--” His phone buzzes and he frowns when he looks down at it. “Actually, the delivery is here. I need to go out back.” He glances over my shoulder. “Sal, can you give her the grand tour?”

  Sal nods, cocking his head to the back of the shop. “The grand tour?”

  Hux grimaces. “I don’t know, it might be too much.”

  “Too much for what?” I ask, not wanting to be in the dark.

  “She can handle it,” Sal says, not meeting my gaze.

  Huxley purses his lips and gives a hard shake of his head.

  “Handle what?” I’m getting frustrated now.

  “You’re asking for trouble, man,” Hux says. “But it’s your baby, show her off if you like. But it’s your funeral if Fallon finds out.”

  Huxley gives me an odd look before turning and walking towards the back of the shop.

  “You’re acting suspiciously,” I say, trying to keep my tone playful, but my chest squeezes with warning.

  “I want to show you something.” He grabs my hand and leads me towards the far corner of the room, through bookshelves and a long corridor.

  “How about a drink?” he asks, lips tugging up and his eyes twinkling as we come to a stop in an empty room.

  His smile is so damn good to see. I’ve felt like the Sal I know has been gone since the night I ran, and I’d do anything to see that light-hearted man again.

  I look around the space, wondering where he plans on getting a drink. “Here?”

  He nods, giving me a sly grin. “You don’t think men come here and barter over books, do you?”

  “I didn’t know what to expect, in all honesty.”

  He grabs my hand. “Come on.” And then he drags me to a far corner of the shop, past rows of dusty books. He glances around suspiciously as if deciding if the coast is clear, and when he deems it is, he pushes against a wooden panel and pulls me into a dark room.

  I suck in a breath and Sal turns to me, the blackness swallowing us, and he leans in close enough that I can breathe him in, his citrus shampoo calming me despite the unusual circumstance I’ve found myself in.

  “This is a no judgment zone. Okay?” he asks, but it doesn’t feel like a question.

  I bite the side of my mouth. “Okay.”

  “I mean it, Tia,” he says. “And no talking about it after. Fallon would have a fucking coronary.”

  “I can handle anything,” I tell him.

  “I know.” His fingers find mine, and a thrill runs up my spine. “You’re the fucking bravest woman I’ve ever known.”

  I pull in a breath, his words so sincere they startle me.

  “You’re pretty brave too,” I reply.

  He sighs. “Yeah, right.”

  “You are,” I say, pressing a hand to his chest. The darkness gives us a chance to speak more freely. It’s like I can tell him how I feel without having to look in his eyes, and that’s easier somehow. “You stood up for me with your parents, Sal. That means so much. Especially considering how powerful they are.”

  He brushes a strand of hair from my eyes. “I’d do anything for you.”

  “Most of the time I think you...”

  “What?” he asks hoarsely.

  I exhale, trying to still my shaky breath. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just insecure.”

  He chuckles softly. “You, insecure? I don’t think so.”

  That’s when I realize Salinger and I may be close in some ways but in others, he still doesn't know me. He hasn’t shared my bed, or listened to my hopes, or erased my fears. That’s what we really need in order to understand one another.

  “So, what am I supposed to keep secret?” I ask.

  He squeezes my hand and then laces his fingers with my own. Then he sweeps back a curtain and reveals a room that seems like it’s from another time entirely.

  Cigar smoke wafts in the air, an old jazz standard rolls out of a self-playing piano, and there are half a dozen tables with men from all walks of life sitting with elbows on the table, cocktails in hand, discussing matters discreetly.

  “What in the world?” I ask, looking around with wide eyes as Sal leads me to the gleaming wood bar manned by a man with a crisp white shirt and bow tie, a mustache curled on the ends. “Should I be here?” I ask, tugging on my husband’s shirt sleeve.

  “You’re the proprietor's wife. You can be wherever the hell you want.”

  Proprietor. He means Huxley. This is all his.

  “Why has Huxley never brought me here before?”

  “Did you forget the last few months? It’s been one shit storm after the next.”

  “Still, I knew he had a shop that was... discreet, but I didn’t realize it was all this, too.”

  “That’s because the husbands don’t know about this side business.”

  “Why not?”

  Sal holds up a finger to me as the bartender slides down. “What will it be, Sir?”

  “Two Negroni’s, please.”

  “What’s a Negroni?” I ask, feeling like I just walked into a movie set in the 1920’s.

  “Gin, mostly. Campari and vermouth. It’s good, I promise.”

  “Is that your signature drink?” Suddenly I feel out of my element in a million ways.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know about all that. It tastes good though.”

  I nod, and the bartender delivers them to us. “Your room is open,” he tells Sal who nods, picking up our drinks.

  “You’re sure no one is back there?” he asks.

  “No,” the bartender says, wiping down his counter. “They won’t be in until later tonight. The coast is clear.”

  I follow him, swallowing hard, trying to think
of some clever thing to say, but I’m at a loss for words. Everything feels shady and yet exhilarating.

  Sal guides me through the tables and leads me to a corner of the room with a brocade curtain, which he lifts revealing an intimate area with a couch, large floor cushions, an exotic rug.

  “What’s all this?” I ask as he sets out drinks on a low table.

  “It’s my hidden lair,” he says with a wry smile. He sits down on the couch and pats the cushion beside him. “Kidding,” he adds when he notices my uncertainty.

  “You have a special room here? For what?” I sit down next to him and he hands me my drink. He seems so suave, so at ease and I can tell he has spent a lot of time in this room.

  “I’m the one who backed Hux’s enterprise,” he explains. “This one anyways. We opened this place together, so I get perks. Like a special place to get a drink after a long day.”

  “You come here after work?” I ask, biting my bottom lip. I try to picture him leaving the office and coming here before arriving at home. I mean, it makes sense in some ways. There’s only me at the compound. I wouldn’t expect my men to constantly watch me interact with my other husbands. Hell, Sal walked in on Hux and me twice today.

  Why shouldn’t he have somewhere to go?

  But as I sit here and listen to him, I realize I haven’t considered what I do expect of my husbands.

  As if reading my thoughts, two women pull back the curtain and walk into Sal’s lair.

  Sal stiffens at the sight of them. “Uh, hello Jen, Lana.”

  When I say women, I don’t mean women like I have ever met before.

  But they are women that I’ve heard about.

  Fishnets, lingerie, high heels, pearl necklaces twisted around their necks. Bright red lipstick.

  I bite my bottom lip self-consciously.

  “Are you…” I start to ask, but then chicken out.

  “Are we what?” a dark haired one asks with a curved lip. “Hookers?”

  I swallow, not wanting to answer.

  “God, Sal, your wife looks scared to death.” The other one laughs.

  “Oh, dear lord, you brought your wife! We heard all about you, Tia,” the other one says, looking me up and down. “Did you come to play too?”

  My eyes widen in shock. Play?

  “God, Sal, that is so like you. Did you not tell her before you brought her here?”

  “Tia can handle anything,” Sal says with a firm lip, not looking in my eyes. Then he shrugs, a familiar Sal smile coming on. “But to be frank, I didn’t think you were working.”

  They snort with laughter. “God, you’re bad, Sally. What a husband you’ve got, sweetheart,” the blonde says to me. “Bringing you to a brothel.”

  Brothel. My husband owns a brothel.

  Oh. My. God.

  And yet, I’m the one being given such a hard time for my secrets? I force myself to coolly lift the cocktail to my lips and sip. Except I spit it out. “Oh God,” I say, the bitter taste rancid on my tongue.

  Sal barely registers my distaste. His eyes are on Jen and Lana, or at least I assume they are. I mean, look at them, what man’s eyes wouldn’t be all over them? And not just their eyes. Jealousy creeps into my chest.

  “Anyways, I’m here because I wanted an extra shift,” the dark-haired woman explains as she pulls a thong from between her butt cheeks. My face flames as I watch her, shocked with her comfort level in front of my husband. “Hux has a catalog from the States with some fancy perfume. I’m dying to buy it.”

  I watch them with incredulity. These women aren’t the kind that I lived with at Saint Augustine’s. And if Salinger thinks I’m the bravest woman he’s ever met, he must have forgotten about this pair.

  If they were caught here, dressed like this, their lives would change. They would be scrubbed clean and sent to a lottery. At least that’s what I’ve been led to believe.

  Maybe I’m wrong. Or maybe I’ve been lied to again.

  I thought all women of marriageable age were sent to the Lottery in Alaska.

  Granted, women like these, wouldn’t marry the sort of reputable men I married. But all men want a wife, no matter what her past might be. Maybe their lottery pot wouldn’t earn so much, but all women in Alaska are now required to enter, regardless of personal preference.

  Right?

  But these women are different.

  I said I wanted freedom - but in a way, these women are living, breathing freedom.

  Sure, they may be prostitutes, but they’re living by their own rules.

  Beholden to no one. No man.

  And yet able to take any man of their choosing. Even my husband.

  I stand, hand over my rapidly beating heart. “I need Huxley,” I tell Salinger, my stomach churning with emotion. “Now.”

  Chapter 8

  Salinger

  Tia takes off so quickly, that I barely have a chance to catch up to her before she’s woven her way through the tables of men, pushing through the dark curtains and out the door into the back room.

  “Damnit, wait,” I growl out, grabbing her arm and turning her towards me.

  She won’t meet my gaze.

  “What the hell is wrong?”

  “Are you serious?” Her chin snaps up and she glares at me. “You just... you just introduced me to your...” She shakes her head and her eyes glisten with unshed tears.

  “To my what?” I don’t like the accusation in her eyes.

  “Who were those women to you?”

  “They work here. That’s all.” Maybe Huxley was right, I shouldn’t have taken her back there. But I hadn’t known the women would be working this early. And part of me wants to show her my world, find a way to open myself up to her. God knows I’m failing at it miserably.

  Tia’s breathing is rapid, her small hands tightening into fists at her side, and I can tell she’s trying to control her emotions when she asks, “And you never... you never slept with them?”

  Shit. I should have known that question was coming.

  Heat creeps up my neck, and I drag my fingers through my hair and glance away.

  “Oh, my God, you did.”

  “It was before I met you. Before we were married.”

  “But you still come here to see them.”

  “No.” Fuck. “I mean, yeah I still come here, but not for them.”

  She blinks up at me like she doesn’t believe me, and says with a hiss, “So, just for the drinks, then?”

  Frustration slices through me, because I’m not the one sleeping with multiple people. I haven’t given even a sideways glance at another woman since I said my damn vows. Vows I never intended on taking. And considering I’ve been walking around with blue balls for the past couple of months, that’s saying something.

  Rubbing the back of my neck I try to understand why she’s so upset, but I can’t. “I thought you could handle this--”

  “You thought I’d be okay with meeting my husband’s whores?”

  “They’re not my...” I rough my hands over my face and try to collect my thoughts. “Yes. I had sex with them. But I’ve been faithful to you. I always will be.”

  “You just won’t have sex with me.” Her words are all anger, but her lips quiver and her cheeks flame with color. “And now I know why.”

  “I told you why.”

  “Right. Because you wanted to know me first.” Her eyes narrow on me. “Like you knew them.”

  “That’s different.”

  “No, it’s not.” She shakes her head and starts to turn, but I stop her.

  “You’re jealous?” Is that what this is about? I don’t know a lot about women, but these past two months have been a lesson on that emotion. “You have no reason to be. They mean nothing to me. You, Tia, mean the goddamn world.”

  She shrugs away from me. Her arms cross over her chest and I see something in her expression like she’s trying to decide if she is jealous. Finally, her shoulders release the tension and she lets out a low, uneven breath.<
br />
  “Look,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself like a shield. “I’m not jealous that you were with other people before. And I know you didn’t want this marriage, so I guess...”

  The silence stretches between us.

  “Tia.” I take a step towards her, wishing I could take back the decision to bring her here. I’d thought she’d appreciate the place, with its old-time decor, and all the small details I helped Hux design. It wasn’t just a special project. It was my first real rebellion against my father.

  When I reach out to touch her, she flinches.

  And this is our dance. One step forward, two steps back.

  Will it always be like this?

  “I shouldn’t have brought you here,” I finally say after a few minutes of silence where neither of us looks at each other.

  “No.” She wipes her cheeks with her palms. “I’m glad you did. It helps me understand.”

  “What do you understand?”

  “I won’t hold you to your vows.” Her words are like a punch to the gut.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You didn’t want this. Me. Us. I won’t hold you to the... prison of being with me.”

  “Tia.” Her name is a warning on my lips as a spark of anger flares inside of me. No, more than a spark, it’s a fucking volcano ready to erupt.

  “You can... be with them.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I won’t stop you, and I won’t say anything to the others.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Frustration rushes through my words, and this time when I reach for her, I don’t let her step away. I hold her shoulders and lean down so that we’re eye level, and I growl out the words I’ve been holding back for too long. “I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

  She shakes her head, and when she blinks, tears fall over her cheeks.

  “Salinger, you don’t have to--”

  “You think this is easy for me?”

  “I know it’s not. That’s why I’m giving you an out. I know you haven’t been happy--”

  “Happy?” I laugh and it’s a bitter sound. “No, Tia, I haven’t been happy. I’ve been fucking miserable.”