I shake my head and push my glass away in disgust. “What, so I’m not worth talking to if I won’t sleep with you? For all you know, I’m the most interesting person you’ve ever met.”
He snorts. “You’re not. And even if you were, it wouldn’t matter if you’re not giving it up. Trust me, there’s not a guy in this place who cares what you have to say. We just pretend to listen until we get to the good stuff.”
My mouth drops open in indignation. “You’re a pig,” I snap.
But… Maybe he has a point. This club is a meat market, and I’m off the market. Why am I here? I’m not even sure my own husband would care what I have to say, but I know none of the guys here do. Why would they? They don’t know me. They’re just here to make a connection, have a little fun while they’re at the beach, and go home with a story about banging a chick in Bora Bora.
But if I can’t assert my freedom this way anymore, what am I supposed to do? What’s the point of freedom if it’s not to follow a passion? What’s the point of anything if I don’t have a passion? Have I been fighting for an illusion all along? Holding onto the notion of freedom because it’s the only one I can bear to look at, the only reason for my mother’s leaving that I can stomach? At least she had something to run to, something worth leaving her family for. I have nothing.
The guy shoves away from the bar and storms off to find someone he has a shot with. I slide off the barstool and turn to the nearest guy, determination giving me strength. This isn’t for nothing. It’s not. If I keep acting, keep pretending, maybe it will eventually be true. Maybe I’ll figure it out if I keep going. Meaning will emerge eventually, right?
A few songs later, the guy I’m dancing with is all over me, his hands groping my body until I have to push him off me. A minute later, he’s back at it. I’m about to push him away again when someone grabs him from behind, wrenching him away from me.
“What the—” the guy yells, reaching for me as he stumbles backwards.
Through the haze of smoke and pulsing lights, I make out my husband standing still in the crowd of writhing bodies, wearing low-slung sweatpants and a white T-shirt like he just got out of bed. The guy tries to shove him off, but King pulls back a fist and decks the guy. Several girls around me scream when the guy goes down like a ton of bricks, crumpling to the floor in a heap. King towers over me, his eyes flashing with rage, his jaw set tight.
For one drunken moment, pride snaps through my brain. My husband can throw a fucking punch. I smile before my brain catches up with my body, but King’s not having any of it. He grabs me by the arm and marches me off the dance floor like I’m a bad little girl who snuck in on a fake ID, and he’s my daddy coming to give me a lecture and haul me out of the bar. Not that my dad ever did that. I was partying from the time I turned thirteen, and he couldn’t do shit about it. He didn’t bother to, anyway. With his wife gone and his son dead and the families at war, he had enough on his plate. So he just let me do what I wanted.
“Eliza,” crows my waitress friend. “Where are you going?”
“My husband,” I say, gesturing wildly toward King with my free hand, since he still has my other arm in a death grip.
“Oh,” the waitress says, frowning from me to King. “Okay, then. Have fun!” She waves and disappears into the crowd of writhing bodies and pulsing music while King drags me out of the bar and back to our room, walking so fast I nearly lose my balance on my heels as I half-run to keep up with him.
He strides into our room and slams the door so hard the pictures of sunsets on the wall tremble. Only then does he release me, his eyes blazing with fury as he faces me.
“I told you at the wedding, youwillcome back to me,” he says, his voice low and deadly.
“I don’t think it counts when you fucking drag me,” I snap, rubbing my arm where he grabbed me. “You didn’t have to do that. I would have come back eventually.”
He just stares at me, breathing hard, his chiseled jaw clenched tight. He may not say much, but there’s plenty going on in there. Maybe it’s the alcohol making me brave, but suddenly I want to poke him until he explodes, until he shows his hand, lets me know what he’s really thinking.
“What’s your problem, anyway?” I ask.
“You have no sexual feelings, but you can rub your ass all over some strangers dick in a club?” he demands.
“So what?” I ask, raising my chin and glaring back at him. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“Except it does,” he says, his voice a dangerous growl. Suddenly, I realize how stupid it was for me to tempt fate, to push his limits when we’re in another country where I have no real protection. “The deal was that I would let you do your thing in private, but you would respect me as your husband in public. I take my word seriously. If you want to survive this marriage, you’d better learn to do the same.”
“That—that was for the families,” I say, swallowing the tremor in my voice.
“Bullshit,” King growls. “That was pretty fucking public, what you just did.”
“No one at home will ever know.”
“I’ll know,” he says flatly.
“So, what? I can never go out dancing again?” I ask, feeling an ache behind my eyes. I fucked it all up already. I should have been more cautious, not gone all-out. I should have reined it in and taken it slow, working up to this. But of course I didn’t do that. For me, it’s balls-to-the-wall or nothing.
“You can dance any time you want,” King says. “If you need to grind your ass on some guy’s dick…” He breaks off and shakes his head, then lowers his voice. “I’m right fucking here, Eliza.”
A snort escapes me before I can stop it. “What? I’m supposed to grind on you?”
We stare at each other for a long moment, neither of us speaking.
“Oh, you poor thing,” I say at last. “That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”