Stirred (4 page)

Attired in my favorite little black dress, a sexy Narcisco Rodriguez number I hoped would put me in a better mood, I slipped on my tallest Louboutins and grabbed a sleek, black Hermes handbag, quickly dumping inside the contents from my everyday purse. A glance at the time on my cell told me I was already running late. It also told me I’d missed a text from Aurelia. I pulled it up and read.

Sorry, Ede, gotta beg off tonight. Gotta sore throat, 1st sign of a nasty cold. Wouldn’t dream of exposing you all. Just wanna sleep the weekend away. Have a great time. Say hi to everyone Mwuah! XO

Great. I really wanted to talk to her tonight.

It was a purely selfish thought, one I felt instantly guilty for. Reely was sick, for goodness’ sake. And here I was feeling sorry for myself. With a disappointed sigh, I texted Aurelia back.
Get some rest, feel better soon.
But the message felt trite and hardly seemed enough. Regardless of how I was feeling, I wanted to be the friend she could depend on to help her feel better, so I thought a little care package was in order.

Grabbing my car keys, I headed out from my Eastside home in Medina. I crossed the 520 Bridge into Seattle and stopped at a nearby drugstore for throat lozenges, Nyquil, Emergen-C, a trashy romance novel, and a cuddly little teddy bear, all of which I tucked into colorful tissue paper and stuffed inside a festive gift bag. Ten minutes later, I pulled up to Reely’s lakeside bungalow in the city’s Madrona section. I didn’t want to wake her if she was asleep, so I used the key she kept hidden just off her front porch. My plan was to leave the bag on her nightstand so she’d see it when she woke up.

When I entered her house, I smelled incense burning and noticed the only lights were from flickering candles, one on the entry table and the rest upstairs. It was very quiet at first, until I heard what I thought was Aurelia’s high-pitched sneezing, again and again.
Poor thing
. I slipped off my heels and hurried up the narrow stairs barefoot, but paused just after stepping onto the second floor landing. That’s when I heard it again, but they weren’t sneezes, and Reely wasn’t alone.

I giggled to myself, realizing my friend had lied her way out of Ladies’ Night so she could get busy with the delectable James, the latest in her long line of boyfriends. But any humor I felt quickly evaporated when I recognized the unmistakable voice of her companion, and, to my horror, it was
not
James.

“Feel
that
, babe?” he asked in a guttural growl. “Mmm, I know you do. Listen to you squeal.” He laughed, deep and throaty.

Declan. Goddamn cheating bastard!

With a pounding heart that felt lodged high in my throat, I slinked through the darkness and approached her bedroom, peering through the gauzy sheers that lined her French doors. Reely was on her feet, bent over the ornate iron footboard of her bed, each hand tied to a corner post and an O-ring gag strapped across her face.

Kinky. Not Declan’s typical style, but, obviously, I didn’t know him as well as I’d thought—or Aurelia either, for that matter, even though we’d grown up together, attending high school and college as if attached like Siamese twins. Over the years, I’d often thought we were too close, but I’d just remind myself, imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, and move on.

Still, from day one, it had always felt like Reely was trying to step into my life, to live in my skin. At the University of Washington, she’d joined the same clubs, declared the same major, taken the same classes, and even applied to the same post-graduate jobs. She’d said it was because she admired me, that she wanted us to work closely together, that she loved me like a sister. Back then, I’d been insecure enough to believe every word, but not anymore.

I was no longer the pudgy sidekick from back in the day. I was a late bloomer, true, but bloom I had, and, as the petals unfurled, the weight dropped off, my skin cleared up, and I learned how to tame my unruly hair, straightening the once-frizzy helmet into long, chestnut tresses that hung in gleaming waves halfway down my newly-svelte back. But not once in the twenty years we’d been married had Declan ever fisted my mane the way he currently was Aurelia’s, twisting her shoulder-length, white-blonde bob so fiercely, her head tipped back a full ninety degrees.

I cringed at the awkwardness of her pose. No way could she be comfortable, but perhaps that’s what she found so satisfying. There was no doubt my husband found it so. I gathered by the three books scattered across Reely’s bed that they were acting out some secret
Fifty Shades
fantasy. One of the tomes was opened, yellow highlighter striped across the worn, white pages. And collected in the center crease laid a smattering of little blue pills that had fallen out of an amber prescription bottle.

Well, that would explain Declan’s red face and the unexpected speed and ferocity with which he battered Aurelia’s lily-white ass. His sharp fingernails left angry, crescent-shaped lacerations on her hips, at least on the one I could see. But if Reely minded him marring her perfectly smooth skin, she didn’t let on.

“Yes,” she ground out in pleasure, then, “Say it.
Say it!
”

“For Christ’s sake, Reely…” Declan begged as he worked her from behind.

“Say it
now!
” she ordered through the O-ring in her gag.

With renewed force, Declan put exaggerated effort into each thrust. “‘I want you sore,’” he ground out, straight from the pages of E.L. James. “So every time you fucking move, you’ll think of me.”

“Yes, yes! All of it!” she commanded.

“‘Only me,’” Declan recited. “‘You are mine!’”

Oh, for the love of God! Can they be any cheesier?

Christ, if it wasn’t my own husband quoting that passage, I’d have bent over laughing. However, with circumstances such as they were, the whimsy of the moment was lost on me. It just felt too surreal, as if every planet had freakishly aligned, and not in a good way either. More a moment of blinding clarity, like a puzzle piece that—once slipped into place—allowed me to see the big picture for what it really was—a goddamn clusterfuck of astounding implications. But, like a freeway pile-up, I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away.

Not the reaction I would’ve expected had I known what I was stepping into. Maybe I should’ve screamed or wailed or, at the very least, sucked in a sharp breath of disgust. But that would’ve required a deep level of affection I no longer possessed. So I just stood there, staring, as my husband plowed into my best friend. Strangely enough, I couldn’t help but think,
Wow, he never tried that with me
.

Declan had always been a bit prudish in
our
bed—traditional, missionary, quiet for the most part, strictly dutiful, and, weirder still, never fully undressed. Yet, there he was, naked as a dancing African, pummeling Aurelia Wylde from behind, and I don’t mean doggy-style either. And Aurelia? Well…she appeared to be enjoying it. Remarkably so.

I found that curious, as well, because Aurelia portrayed herself as the most puritanical among our group of ladies, a term not all that appropriate for her anymore. Not that she ever completely had me fooled. I’d caught glimpses of some shamefully dark corners in Aurelia’s otherwise spotless mind and had pulled away in response. I think, deep inside, I knew all along that something wasn’t right with Aurelia, that something had changed between us. But I’d ponder that some other time. I was too distracted by the scene playing out before me.

Aurelia moaned in rapid pants with each of Declan’s driving thrusts, until finally, with a strident grunt, he shoved himself so deep and hard, he lifted her lithe five-foot-six-inch form clear off the floor as she screamed one last sob that tapered off to an animalistic mewling I found more than a little disturbing. 

Declan’s toned body shuddered as Aurelia’s weight pressed against his thighs, and her tiny wrists appeared ready to snap in two beneath the thin, silk cords leashing them to her bedposts. As his trembling eased, she relaxed and leaned back against his freshly manscaped chest. Her head lolled along the top of his well-hewed shoulder, and their lungs heaved in excited synchronicity, as did mine, oddly enough.

Normal feelings would dictate an angry, visceral response. A lot of screeching, nails clawing, spit flying, and vile insults spewing from lips drawn over tightly clenched teeth. But so totally
not
my style. I was contained, had been for a while now, my feelings for Declan having long ago declined into little more than dutiful commitment. Regardless, I was still fuming inside, but I doubt it was for the same reasons or to the extent most wives would feel at the sight of their husbands sodomizing their so-called best friend. But that just wasn’t me, not anymore. And that, in itself, was the core of my resentment, not the betrayal, but the lack of emotion behind it—for either of them—that, over time, I’d been diminished, whittled down to a whisper of the wife, and friend, I used to be.

After Declan lowered Reely back to the floor and eased out from between her thighs, he leaned forward and started grappling with the impossibly tight knot on his lover’s wrist restraint. That was my cue to vacate the premises, hopefully before they noticed me spying on them. I tiptoed backwards a few steps then turned and padded quickly out the way I’d come, not ten minutes ago. I jumped into my Beemer and took off.

And to think I’d gone there on a mercy mission.

I ground my teeth and stomped on the gas, speeding through the city on my way to Tequila Pulido. I was barely aware of stoplights or speed limits as the scene at Aurelia’s played over and over in my head like a skipping DVD. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling though. It wasn’t jealousy or betrayal; I knew that much. When I tried to put my finger on exactly what it was, all I could come up with was disappointment, not so much in Declan or Aurelia, but rather myself.

I’d never deluded myself about my husband. Our marriage was one of convenience, for the both of us. At the time, I’d considered myself lucky. Declan had everything going for him—wealth, looks, brains, charm—but he was also controlling. Back then, I was just grateful to have a man’s name and protection. And I knew—with money not being an issue—that I wouldn’t need to work a regular nine-to-five. I could just write full-time if I wanted to. That was my dream, and Declan had been my conduit, and, in the beginning, I did write. Or at least I tried.

Unfortunately, the first few years of my marriage ended up being less than I’d expected—less of a connection, less feeling, less contentment, less everything, really. The mediocrity inspired very little as far as my writing, and the career I’d dreamed of all through high school, college, and grad school faded away. Declan had urged me to find a more fulfilling way to earn a living. What he really meant was a more lucrative way. But, after a few years of less than marital bliss, I caved in and figured out a way to use my degree in early childhood development.

Starting the Meydenbauer Academy Montessori School had been a life-saving decision, both earning me a living and offering fulfillment. Not much to complain about, that is, until my friends started to marry, and I began to realize what a real Prince Charming looked like, and it wasn’t Declan.

I pulled my car up outside of Pulido and sighed as I threw it into park. All those happily married friends were waiting for me inside. I wasn’t sure I could face them without giving myself away, but damn, I wasn’t about to give Declan that kind of power over me again. With a glance in my visor mirror, I swiped at my smudged eyeliner and reapplied a dab of colored gloss to my pale lips. After a quick fluffing of my hair, I climbed out and walked into the restaurant.

The main dining room was packed with twenty-something hipsters—men in skinny jeans and women in leggings. At least half wore some variation of clear-lensed Ray-Bans, a slouchy beanie, and multiple layers of iconic rock band t-shirts, all of which were at least one size too small. But, as rumpled and mismatched as they all appeared, I had a feeling this crowd was almost universally employed by some hot tech start-up in the area, which, at their tender ages, meant no mortgage and copious amounts of cash to spend on the bar’s obscure, yet expensive menu of tequilas and signature cocktails.