Marital Bitch(42)

“I’m Vicky,” she says, making damn sure I know her name. I grip her hand tightly in an attempt to make her squirm. I want her to know who she’s dealing with; but she’s strong. She squeezes back and I squeeze harder. The smile has now fallen from her face and she’s giving me a pointed look. It’s a challenge.

“Colleen Patrick. I’m Brad’s wife. But we went over that at the station,” I say, a fake smile plastered on my face. I look down at my attire or lack thereof and give my best innocent look. “You’ll have to forgive us. We’re newlyweds, you know.” She’s squeezing me too tight, I try to pull my hand back but she won’t let go. I look to Brad and whimper.

“Vic, come on,” he urges her to let go. I smirk at her. That’s right, Bitch. Brad shakes his head.

“Come sit down, pretty girl,” Brad says in a gentle but commanding way. I would go sit down, you know, if I could get my hand back!

“It’s okay, Colleen,” Vicky grins, “you don’t have to pretend here. I know you guys aren’t really married. I never would go out with a man with a real wife.” Excuse me? She’s joking, right? If what I just did doesn’t qualify me as a real wife, then everything Grammy said about marriage is a lie.

“Oh,” is all I can say. She finally lets go of my hand and takes her seat beside Brad. I narrow my eyes at her as I watch her hand touch his knee. Brad grits his teeth. I walk over and plop down on his lap, crushing her hand beneath my leg. She yanks her hand back, clearly annoyed. Brad is shirtless and he looks amazing. I wrap my right arm around his neck and place the other on his chest, making a light trail. His entire body tenses.

“So, what brings you to our home, Vanessa?” I ask, watching her ire rise.

“Actually,” she reaches out and rubs her hand on Brad’s arm and batting her lashes at him. “Brad invited me.” My nails dig into the back of his neck as I fight the urge to slap her hand away.

“Oh, did he?” I ask, glaring at him. He’s wincing. How in the hell could he do this to me? This is beyond mortifying. I compose myself quickly, removing my nails from his neck and stand up. “Where are my manners? Is there anything I can get you two to drink?” Brad shakes his head but Vicky nods.

“Yes, do you have any juice?” she asks.

“Is Cranapple alright with you?” I ask. She nods again and I walk off. From around the corner in the kitchen, I can hear their muffled conversation.

“… Great ass, Bradley. Seriously, it’s firm and perky. God, you’re a lucky man.” I hear him grumble and then walk into the kitchen. I try to look like I was getting glasses out of the cupboard the entire time.

“Would you put some goddamn pants on, please?” he snaps, his face livid. I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Why would I do that? You don’t want your precious little tart to know that you fucked me? Or is that a dirty little secret you’d like to keep?’ My voice is cold and callous; but his face softens at my words.

“No,” he says softly, his hand finds mine. “You are not a dirty little secret, Colleen, not ever. I want you to put some pants on because Vicky is bisexual and apparently she thinks you have a great ass.” Oh.

“Oh,” I say, blushing just slightly. I move our hands to my ass, encouraging him to touch it. “And what do you think?” He grins and pulls me flush against him.

“Keep it up and I’m going to bend you over this counter and give Vicky a good show.” I laugh and slap his chest away. I walk to the fridge and pour two glasses of Cranapple juice. Brad takes one and downs it. I want to be annoyed with him—he said he didn’t want any juice, and yet—but I can’t bring myself to be. It’s not like he’s being a jerk. I refill the glass with Cranapple and put the juice away. The laundry room is just off the kitchen, so I sneak in there and grab a pair of sweats and pull them on. Vicky may be bisexual, and she may think I have a great ass, but I know she still wants Brad, I can tell.

Walking back into the kitchen, I pick up the glasses. I peek around the corner and see that she’s looks unhappy.

“I get that I have bad timing, but she’s being a real bitch, Brad,” she grumbles. “I don’t even know why I agreed to this.”

“She’s just embarrassed,” he whines.

“Is there ever going to be a day that you won’t blindly defend her?” she grumbles. “You told me that Medusa in there tries to make friends with your girlfriends. You promised me lunch dates and clothes shopping and gossip, not bruises and emotional scarring! You owe me for putting up with her bullshit, pal.” Well… I’ve never. How rude. I have been as nice as I possibly can to an interloper like her.