“So he doesn’t fuck you, this Michael,” she said as we began to scoop our yogurt and looked at the people walking into and out of Bloomingdales. “You better count your blessings, girl.”
“It’s not that, Cheryl,” I told her with a sigh. “It’s just that Michael seems to despise not just having sex with me but everything about me.”
“I don’t know, girl,” she says looking at me. “Why would he do everything you say he did to marry you if he’s not even going to talk to you or try to paw at your beautiful body? And don’t tell me it was to win some election.”
But that’s exactly what it is, I think to myself as I replay Cheryl’s words as I walk into the darkened townhouse. That’s exactly why he kept me around. The optics of a beautiful wife are much better than being single.
Oh, right, I forgot to mention that I went to lunch with Cheryl to celebrate my birthday. I officially turned 36 today. Married to a man who doesn’t love me. In a marriage that I can’t get out of.
Well, I guess it could be worse. Mom and dad are probably pretty aware of the fact that I’m not going to be able to give them grandkids anytime soon. So thankfully they don’t hassle me about that.
But still, I’d like to be able to someday. I don’t know if that’s something to realistically plan for anymore, though. Not with Michael at least.
I walk through the darkened house. Michael is probably at a work function or a campaign related event. I don’t know where Lance is. But that’s more of a relief than a worry.
If Lance were here, I don’t know if I’d be able to control myself. Not today, of all days.
That’s when a single light goes on in the living room. I turn around and gasp.
I really should make sure things are as they are before telling you about them.
Because there stands Lance, in front of the window overlooking Carl Schurz Park. I didn’t spot him at first because it was dark, but I see him quite clearly now.
He’s standing next to a table with two glasses of champagne and the bottle in a chilled ice bucket. Next to the bottle and ice bucket is a multi-layered tray, holding an assortment of delectable items—canapes, chocolate covered strawberries, grapes, mini-quiche.
I gasp.
“Happy birthday, Jocelyn,” he says, taking a glass and walking up to me.
I hadn’t expected this.
I hadn’t expected anything.
“How did you know?” I manage to ask as he walks up to me and hands me the glass. “I never told you.”
I can smell his cologne. I can feel the warmth of his large, hard body as he stands next to me and we clink our glasses before taking a sip.
“Come on,” he says teasingly. “You’re a fucking public figure, I looked you up on Wikipedia,” he says to me with a smirk.
I blush. I don’t know what to say. What does a girl say in this instance?
“Oh?” I manage, completely off balance. “And do you Wikipedia everyone you know?”
Lance shrugs. I was curious.
That’s it. My mind is spinning at a mile a minute.
Why did he look up my age? To see if anything with me was appropriate? Could he be interested in me?
Well, of course, he must be interested in me. I had his cock in my hands the other day. I was sitting on his lap. Making a fool of myself.
“Hey,” Lance says, taking a step closer to me. He bends his knees, bringing his face more on level with mine. “You okay?”
I close my eyes, trying to keep the tears away. God, does he know just how much I want him? How when I leave the house to go to the gym nowadays I keep imagining his body that day that I saw him working out? How every spare moment I think back to Central
Park and nestling my head in his chest after he rescued me.
“It’s nothing,” I tell him, shaking my head and opening my eyes and trying to smile. “I’m just sad I’m growing old,” I lie.