My alarm goes off at eight the next morning. Last night I let Mariah talk me into an all-night drunk. Inside my head were a hundred miniature tap dancers, shuffling off to Buffalo on my vodka-soaked brain. As soon as I got home, I threw myself into bed, eschewing even the basic ministrations of teeth brushing and face washing. Sometime during the night, my phone rang and I missed a call from Ian.
Today I’m supposed to meet an old friend who’s visiting Portland for just a few days. I mentioned it to Ian—what I “forgot” to mention was that this old friend happens to be of the male persuasion. Why ruffle his feathers for no good reason?
I sit up, rub my eyes, stand up to stretch, and gasp so loudly I nearly choke on my own spit… for leaning against our bedroom wall is a tall, seething man—mine to be specific. His posture is defensive, slightly slouched with arms folded across his chest, and I can see anger flaming in his gray-blue orbs. That’s the thing with his eyes: they’re basically clear so they absorb any hue or color of environment or emotion.
I would lick my lips if I had any saliva left in my mouth. It evaporated the moment after it tried to choke me. He’s not saying anything, a situation that I always find completely unnerving. It’s up to me to defuse the situation.
“Ian! Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home early? I expected you tomorrow morning.”
“Clearly,” he says, not moving a muscle.
“Is there a problem?”
“You tell me, Ella. Do you have a problem?”
“No, I don’t. Do you?”
“My only problem of the moment is you.”
“Why?” I ask, genuinely confused as to his anger with me. What did I do?
He finally unfurls his arms, stands up straight, and walks over to me, his long legs closing the distance in three strides. “Why? Why.” He says the second interrogative rhetorically with a bitter little laugh. “For one thing, your phone was ringing and you weren’t answering it. I picked it up the second time and saw there was a text message from someone named Michael. Who is Michael? I didn’t want to read your personal messages so I’m left to wonder. My imagination is taking me to unfriendly places, Ella.”
“What are the other things?”
“Other things?”
“You said, for one thing, implying there are others. What are the others?”
“You didn’t answer your phone when I called last night either, so I’ve been worried. Also, Mason told me you shook him off when you went out last evening with Mariah. More stress for me. I’ve been standing here debating the wisdom of dragging you by the hair into the dungeon where I could properly punish you for your multiple transgressions.”
I rub my eyes again. “Ian, I didn’t mean to lose Mason last night; in fact, I’m trying to get him and Mariah together. But we couldn’t find him when we were ready to leave so…” I shrug. “I apologize. And Michael is the old friend I told you I was planning to meet. He’s just a friend, nothing more. Dragging me to the dungeon is not a good idea, FYI, unless you’re interested in a swift yet crippling kick to the groin along the way. If it’s any consolation, you’ve given me stress, too.”
No humor at my remark registers on his face… at all. He is really pissed off. His voice is deadly soft when he asks, “How is that?”
“Whatever you’re keeping from me, Ian. And whatever happened with Natasha that you’re not telling me. And the fact that you insist I take Mason with me wherever I go when supposedly everything’s been resolved.”
“Fair enough. Let’s go reconcile our differences in the dungeon.”
“No. That’s not smart. Sex is supposed to be loving and fun, not a way to vent aggression.”
“What’s wrong with occasionally employing it as an outlet for aggression? No one gets hurt, not really.”
“I don’t like it, that’s why.”
He gets closer to me, leans down; he’s in my face as he whispers, “Liar. You, Ariel Strong, love it. You love it when I tie you up, torment you, tease you, tickle you, and ultimately, fuck you till you scream. How long will you continue to deny it?”
My respiration is speeding up. I haven’t even had coffee yet but at this point, I probably don’t need any. Is he right? Do I love it? My body is reacting in a way that doesn’t please me: it’s contradicting my words. I can say I don’t like it, but he can tell I do by my body’s response. Am I some kind of masochistic pervert?
“What are you going to do?” I ask, voice barely audible.
His eyes bore into me; right now they’re the color of a roiling sea. “I never divulge my evil plans, Ella.”