I set my phone on the counter and took a bottle of wine from the fridge, twisting off the lid and pouring the cheap moscato into a glass.
I could respond. Out of the fifty-four messages I’d received so far, I hadn’t responded to any. But this one I could handle. He was offering his help and I did have a lot of questions. I picked my phone back up and leaned against the counter.
Hey Kurt. This is
I paused. We hadn’t put any names in our profile, and using Elle… though common enough to hide my identity, just seemed wrong. I settled on my middle name.
Hey Kurt. This is Rachel. I’m the wife. Thank you for the warm welcome. We are still feeling out the site and figuring out if it is something we want to get into.
I sent the message and watched the indicator change to delivered. While it wasn’t going to win any Pulitzers, I was happy with it. Simple and non-committal. Which was good, since the chances were high that he’d turn into one of the three types soon enough.
I took a sip of wine and wondered what Easton was doing in Los Angeles. It’d been forty-five minutes since his last text message, when he’d checked in and told me that they were headed out for drinks with Nicole’s agent.
My stomach knotted and I took another sip, pushing away the bit of doubt that liked to creep into my head when he was out of town. I’d met Nicole and gotten a strong lesbian vibe. Still… the last time he’d been out of town alone was Phoenix, and he’d confessed of a flirtation at the bar, one he had enjoyed a little too much. I knew that he would never do anything, that he was fiercely loyal but…the uneasy feeling persisted. My phone chimed and I returned my attention to it, opening the newest message from OrlandoC11.
Take your time. It can be intimidating at first. Have you guys tried anything already or are you complete newbies?
I set down the wine glass.
Not complete newbies. We had a threesome with a friend of ours. We don’t want to mess up that friendship, so are hoping to find a replacement for him.
I pinpointed the root of my concern at the exact moment that I sent the reply. My nerves weren’t about Easton, they were about me. It felt like I was being sketchy. Looking at men. Reading messages from them. And now—chatting with one. Even if my communication with Kurt was innocent, I understood what he was doing. Easing me in. Making me feel comfortable. At some point, maybe later tonight, after three more glasses of wine and a dozen more emails… our conversation would change. Twist. Deepen. Maybe he’d send that dick pic I was suddenly curious for. Maybe he’d ask for a nude pic of me.
A volley of messages passed between us, and with each one, my comfort with Kurt, and my unease with the situation, grew. I finished off the glass and texted Easton.
I’ve been going through our messages on the site. Lots of crude and creepy ones. Found one guy who seems nice. We’ve messaged back and forth a few times.
I watched as it was delivered and then read. A minute passed before Easton replied.
Give me a minute to step outside.
I refilled my glass and took it into the living room. Wayland was lying on the couch and I eyed him, then let the forbidden location slide. Settling back into the recliner, I pulled a blanket over my legs. My phone rang. “Hey.”
“I’m getting jealous.”
I winced. “To be honest, it feels sketchy, chatting with guys without you here.”
“Oh, there’s multiple guys?”
“Well, I’ve only responded to one. An accountant out of Orlando. He’s nice. It’s been a G-rated conversation so far. Maybe PG.”
“An accountant? Sexy.”
“I know. At least he’s being honest. I don’t think anyone would lie about being an accountant.” I picked up the remote and flipped through the guide.
“What’s his dick like?”
I laughed. “I don’t know. He doesn’t have it on his profile.”
“Good. It’s probably small. Miniscule.”
“You know, you sound a little insecure,” I teased.
“I’m three thousand miles away from my sexy wife. I’m hella insecure.”
“Oh please. I’m at home in pajamas while you’re out in an LA bar.”
“Elle, there’s not a woman in California that can hold a candle to you. You could walk into this place in a potato sack, and you’d break every single one of these assholes’ hearts.”
I brought my knees to my chest and smiled, feeling better about the distance. “How’s it going with Nicole?”
“Pretty good so far. I think this game could be great for her. We’ve got meetings all day tomorrow with the designers and marketing team for it.”
The game he was referring to was a video game, one where you picked a tennis player and competed in various tournaments. Unlike the other existing games, there was also a reality component where you could make life and financial decisions for your player and then deal with the positive and negative consequences as that player. I hadn’t yet decided if the idea sounded stupid or brilliant. MGM Entertainment, who was creating the game, wanted the rights to Nicole’s name and image—plus wanted her to invest in exchange for putting her on the cover. Ten million dollars was the number that had been thrown out. She’d pay ten million for a sixteen percent stake in the game and her image on the cover and all promotional material.
It was new territory for Easton, and the pressure was on to give her intelligent advice that wouldn’t come back and blow up in his face. The game could release in as quickly as eighteen months, and depending on its success or failure, Easton would be judged. He had to make the right decision, and I willed him to see the correct path for her to take.
“Go back to them,” I urged. “I just wanted to check in with you. Do you want me to wait and chat with this guy when you get home?”
“It’s all through the online messages?”
“Yeah, on the site.”
“Then, no. Keep going. I can read through them later.” His voice dropped. “Are you flirting with him?”
“No. Not yet. But I’m worried it’s going to head in that direction.”
“Just do as much as you feel comfortable with. I’ll read through it tomorrow. I trust you.”
Did he need to trust me if he was going to read through the transcript of our conversation? I clamped down my irritation and reminded myself of how I’d feel if I were in his shoes. “Okay. Good luck.”
“Thanks, baby. I love you.”
I ended the call and felt the phone buzz with another new message from Kurt.
I’ve got to run. Hit me up if you have any questions. Also, if you guys need a guinea pig to practice on. Your husband is a very lucky man, and I think you’ll enjoy this lifestyle, if you do it the right way.
My fears had been unfounded, and I felt a little disappointed that Kurt hadn’t pushed the envelope with flirtation. His abrupt departure only increased my interest in him as a potential candidate. I replied back with a quick final question.
What’s the right way?
He responded almost immediately.
With full honesty between the two of you. Don’t ever do anything sexually—or let him do anything sexually—that you aren’t comfortable with. And stop if it stops being fun.
From beside me, Wayland let out a snore. I glanced at him and composed back my best attempt at a casual yet door-opening end.
We may take you up on that guinea pig offer. Enjoy your friends—chat soon.
Xoxo Rachel
As soon as I sent the message, I regretted the x’s and o’s. Was I twelve? Smitten? A pathetic horny housewife? I kicked my feet free of the blanket and turned up the volume on the television, watching as a solemn narrator recounted a brutal crime scene and the forensic clues that had been left behind.
Gathering up my blanket, I heaved out of the recliner and moved to the couch. Lying beside Wayland, I put one arm around the big dog and laid my head on his shoulder. He wasn’t Easton, but in a pinch, he worked pretty well.
I tried to focus on the show, but had lost
some critical elements of the crime during my messaging. I changed the channel to a QVC tutorial on eye shadow and thought through everything Kurt had shared. He was divorced. Came to Miami frequently on business. Had been a member of the site for a year. Got into the lifestyle with his ex-wife. Preferred to be the third with married couples. Less drama, he said, assuming the husband wasn’t an asshole.
All in all, he seemed really nice. Safe. I tucked my feet under Wayland and stared at the screen until I fell asleep.
17
The next morning, my period had retreated to a barely present and entirely manageable second-thought. Checking my phone, I saw a late-night text from Easton along with a new message from Kurt.
I opened Easton’s text first.
Can’t sleep. I tried to call you but it went straight to voicemail. I just wanted to say that I love and miss you.
I texted him back, letting him know that I was awake and missed him too. It was strange, waking up in our bed alone. In five years of marriage, we’d only been apart a handful of times, and the bedroom felt strangely vacant without his presence. On the upside, I didn’t need to worry about the remaining hot water for my shower, and hadn’t woken up six times during each one of Easton’s snooze cycles.
I rolled onto my left side, then remembered the message from Kurt. It had come at 7:19am.
I’ll be in Miami next Sunday if you guys are free. No pressure. We can just meet for drinks.
Drinks sounded incredibly awkward. Casual messages between me and him were one thing, but the three of us, perched at a high top in a bar? I flopped on my back and stifled a groan.
Next Sunday. No pressure. Just drinks. 10 days away.
He seemed like a nice guy. The right mix of playful and respectful. Good looking enough, though he wouldn’t win any beauty pageants. Maybe, shockingly enough, we had found our new third. And it hadn’t even been that hard.
I would have patted myself on the back, but I was too achy to move. The thought of getting dressed up and going into the office was cringe-worthy, which was good, since today was my date to play hooky at Chelsea’s pool.
* * *
I hid my bloated stomach in a muumuu, one that had looked amazing on the Instagram ad (and only $13!) but ballooned out from me like a purple circus tent. I staggered through Chelsea’s pool deck and collapsed on the closest cushioned chaise lounge that was in the shade. “I’m claiming this one,” I announced, and lowered my sunglasses into place. “Hey, Aaron.”
Aaron nodded from his spot beside the pool pump, his toolbox open beside him. “Hey. How’s E’s trip going? He a movie star yet?”
“Not quite, but I’m sure it isn’t for lack of trying. Chelsea, stop putting Aaron to work.”
“It’s his fault. I told him to let me call the guy.” She followed me to the chair and peered down at my toes, a glass of iced lemon water in hand. “Good lord, woman. How long has it been since you had a pedicure?”
I curled my toes against the cushion in an attempt to hide the picked-apart pink nails. “Leave me alone. I’ve been busy.”
“At least take the polish off and let your nails breathe. I’ll go get some remover. Want some water?” She offered the glass, which I took. From her pocket, Katy Perry started playing and she pulled out her phone and answered it.
“Got any Midol?” I whispered hopefully.
She gave me a thumbs up on her way up the steps, her freshly highlighted hair bouncing as she went. I watched the flex of her calves and noticed, for the first time, that she had lost a little weight.
“Aaron.” He glanced up and I patted the lounger beside me. “Come sit.”
“Oh, no.” He stood, a rueful expression crossing his face. “Now I know how E feels when you summon him. What’d I do?”
“Nothing.” I tugged at the cushion and glanced toward the house, which had swallowed Chelsea up. “I’m just wanting to catch up. How’s everything going?”
“Fine,” he said warily, taking a seat and pulling off his baseball cap. Underneath, his hair was sweaty and messy, the damage enhanced as he scratched at the back of his head. “I got a new contract. Restaurant remodel. You know that Chipotle over on—”
“Yeah,” I interrupted. “Congrats. That’s great. How’s it going living here?”
He grinned. “Good.” His grin widened, almost shyly. “Really good. I mean—not that I don’t miss staying with you guys.”
“Right,” I said dryly, watching as a uniformed maid carried a set of towels toward us. “I’m sure you miss doing your own laundry and picking Wayland’s hair out of your toothbrush.” I smiled at the woman, who set the towels down and then picked up an empty coffee cup and half-eaten muffin, wiping down the side table’s surface before quickly walking off.
“Not going to lie, the maid service and setup is pretty swanky.” He pulled his hat back onto his head.
“And what about with Chelsea? Are you guys getting along?”
“You know Chels. She’s super chill. It’s been good. We’ve gotten to know each other more.”
“As friends?” I clarified.
He glanced at me and hesitated. “What—”
“SWINGERS!” Chelsea screamed the word from her upper balcony and down at us. I tensed as I watched her whirl around and into the bedroom, the door slamming shut behind her.
“What the fuckkkk….” Aaron drawled out under his breath. “Did you—”
“No,” I hissed. “I didn’t.”
The back slider ripped open and Chelsea all but fell out, her pink coverup billowing around her as she scurried down the steps and toward our spot in the shade. She didn’t look pissed. If anything, she looked gleeful. “Swingers!” she panted out, pausing before us, her large chest rising and falling in dramatic fashion as she caught her breath.
Aaron and I didn’t respond. I felt frozen in place, my heart rapidly pounding as I tried to figure out how to handle this.
“That she-wrench-from-hell told me.”
“Your stepmom knows?” That didn’t make any sense. Of all possible leaks, for the news to get all the way to Regina Pedicant… everyone must know. Everyone.
“She heard from some snuffy nose who used to work at the law firm. Apparently, rumors have been swirling around them for years. But it’s like, legit. One hundred percent true.” She beamed at me. Beside me, Aaron let out a slow and grateful breath, processing the clues before I did that she was not accusing or talking about us.
“I’m sorry,” I said carefully. “Who are we talking about?”
“Your new listing!” She tucked the hot pink wrap tight around her waist and carefully lowered herself to the chair. “The mobster-attorney-guy.”
“Wait—Brad and Julia De Luca are swingers?” That couldn’t be right. They had seemed so… normal. Well, not normal. Annoyingly perfect. Madly in love. Uncreepy in every way. I glanced at Aaron and found him watching me, his face guarded, and I realized the hypocrisy of my thoughts.
It was as if I was putting Easton and me in a separate category from the rest of the people in this…what had Kurt called it? Lifestyle. Not that we were in the lifestyle. We were just… I frowned, trying to think of what it was we were actually doing. Testing the waters. Yes, that was it. We’d had one quick dip to see the temperature. That was all. One quick dip and a few harmless and fact-finding messages. I’ll be in Miami next Sunday if you guys are free.
“I know,” she said gleefully, settling back in her chair and closing her eyes. “So fucking crazy.”
Irritation bloomed in my belly. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re a born again virgin and you’re suddenly judgmental of others?”
She cracked one eye open and squinted at me. “Who put your granny panties in a bunch? I wasn’t judging. I just said it was crazy. It is crazy, Elle. Being single and cock jumping is one thing. It’s a lot different when you have a wedding ring on your finger.”
I struggled to process a response. I opened my mouth, then clamped it shut. I couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Aaron
shot me a warning look and stood. “I’m gonna run up to Ace and get another connector bib for this pool pump. If you need me to pick up anything while I’m out, just text me.”
“Thanks, I think I’m good.” She smiled sweetly up at him and I fought a sudden and intense wave of dislike toward her. Just as quickly as it came, the emotion was replaced with panic. Was it jealousy about Aaron? Shame and insecurity over my actions? Rightful indignation over her comments?
“Did you grab me some Midol?” I asked tersely and God, I was being a bitch. Maybe it was my period. Day 3 hormones pushing on my hot points as well as my cervix.
“Oh, no. I forgot in the juicy gossip. Aaron, can you—”
“I’ll just get it,” I grumbled, gathering up the muumuu and pushing to my feet. “Where it is?”
“In the medicine cabinet in my bathroom. I mean, I can go and get it…”
I didn’t respond, already striding toward the house and up the steps that led to the back deck. It was nice to know that Chelsea considered married threesome participants open targets for ridicule and scorn. My stomach flipped, and it wasn’t the cramps. I thought of Brad’s hand, settling on Julia’s butt. Their kiss in front of me, in the kitchen. There was no way my new clients—my first big clients—were into this kink. No freaking way.
“Elle!” Aaron called out my name just before I reached the back staircase that led to Chelsea’s master suite. I paused and turned to watch him gently close the slider door.
“Talk to me for a minute.” He approached warily, the way Easton did when he needed to capture a skink. Coming to a stop before me, he peered down at me. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s going on between you two?” The question exploded out, as if it had been bottled up and pressurized for days. And maybe, possibly, it had. “Are you dating? Fucking? Giving each other goo-goo eyes over dinner each night? Does Becca know what we did?”
Twisted Marriage: Filthy Vows Sequel Page 10
