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I’ve been seated at a table for a little while now, taking a load off my swollen feet. No assigned seating at this sort of reception. I’ve had a slew of friendly old ladies and brothers to converse with, as Marshall sits at the furthest table, engrossed in hushed banter with my mother, sisters, and the husband. They seem rather comfortable, sipping their wine from glasses they brought themselves and ignoring the fun biker vibe altogether. The Sacred Sisters have migrated to my table for the most part. Jezebel and Pixie, who have grown into close friends, are trying to draw me into some idiotic debate about dick piercings. It’s quite titillating, let me tell ya.
“How in the hell would you know if a Prince Albert adds more pleasure than a Jacob’s ladder or a dolphin?” Jezebel queries in all seriousness. Raising her cup, she sucks back the rest of her beer and slams the empty cup to the table with inebriated gusto.
“Axel has two of those three, and I’ve asked some of my customers. That’s why,” Pixie explains, annoyed. Like answering the question is the dumbest thing she’s ever had to endure.
“Why are we talking about this again?” I interrupt, leaning back in my chair and cupping Harley who has decided in the last twenty minutes to play soccer in my womb.
They both snap to glare at me. I snicker at their mashed up faces and shrug. “What? I’m just asking.”
Pixie takes a shot and drops the glass to the table with a thud. Then she slouches in her chair and searches the crowd for Axel. Pinning him in her sight, she dreamily sighs. “Jez wants Bulk to get his junk pierced. She wants to be the one to convince him which one would be best suited for their kinky humptastic tango.”
Jezebel barks a laugh, and I blush, giggling under my breath. Pixie talking like this is a rarity. I like this new side of her. “Humptastic. I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply dryly.
“You do that,” Pixie licks her lips, her eyes blazing with lust at her man. Whiskey and hormones does it every time.
“I’ll…be…right…back,” she purrs, pushing up from the table and sexily sauntering over to her man who pulls away from his brothers and sweeps his tiny old lady into his arms. Devouring her mouth in a sinful kiss, he grabs a palm full of her tiny ass and grinds what I would presume is his hard pierced cock against her stomach.
“I guess they’re about to fuck,” Debbie singsongs, dropping down in the seat Pixie just vacated with an exhausted huff.
“They need it. Axel just got back from a run four days ago, and she’s been hell-bent on banging his brains out every chance she can. Between us,” Jezebel leans in, and like a girl posse ready for a juicy story; Debbie and I eagerly lean in too.
“She wants a baby,” she whispers. “She went off birth control, and he don’t know. He don’t want kids. Never did. She does though, and the hormone imbalance of being off the pill has her going bat-shit crazy. Found her this mornin’ on her bathroom floor riding a suction cup dildo. This was after she and he had just finished, and he’d left. She said she doesn’t know why but she feels like she wants to come all the time. Can’t shake the feeling. Kinda feel bad for the poor woman. That puss has got to be gettin’ tired.”
Through this whole horny sob story, all I can think about is how lucky Pixie is. I know that might not be your reaction. Or most people for that matter. I don’t feel any sympathy for the woman. A) She’s got a man to help feed her sex drive, B) She can get off on her own, without Axel’s assistance. I, on the other hand, can’t get off without a partner. The only time I come is either on a motorcycle, which I can’t do right now, or in my dreams. Both are pathetic. All because of ….. I recline back into my normal position and turn my head to see Marshall is now munching on some appetizers. Not a care in the world about his girlfriend, because he’s too preoccupied with the rich people on his even playing field to even look over to check up on me. Asshole.
The dinner bell rings, just as Debbie finishes up whatever last second chatter she and Jezebel are mulling over about poor Pixie’s radical sex drive. Yeah well, try finger banging yourself in your bathroom while your boyfriend is in bed reading some snooty-falooty biography about one of the presidents only to come out completely unsatisfied and hornier than you went in. Then crawl into bed, try to straddle your sexy boyfriend’s lap, and be told ‘no’ and ‘please get off me’. I think I am starting to understand what the majority of what men go through when their women brush them off instead of taking ten minutes out of their day to please their partner. Think about it; you might not be in the mood, but how hard is it really, to just suck it up and lay like a dead fish, or suck a cock for ten whole minutes. Seems rather simple if you ask me. Not quite the daunting task that old biddies make it out to be.
Big stands next to the buffet table raising his hands in the air, with his woman flanking his left side. “It’s time to eat,” he bellows as the crowd goes silent. My brother hasn’t returned from his mating chambers quite yet. I’ve been to a few of these weddings before, and some bikers take the consummating thing very seriously. Doesn’t surprise me Brew would consider this one of those occasions.
A long line forms at the buffet, and I remain seated. Viper approaches me, as does Deke; both of them politely offer to get me a plate so I don’t have to get up. Graciously I decline and fold my hands under my belly, as I wait for the line to dissipate. Fifteen minutes later, I stand and waddle over. Grabbing a thick paper plate, I load up on heavenly scented food, refusing to waste any energy checking to see if Marshall has eaten yet. He’s on my shit list already.
The seats around the room have become occupied while people chow down on their grub. As I re-approach my table, I internally scowl when I see Debbie with Dallas and Jezebel with Bulk, they have joined the table, alongside Big Dick and Marylou. He did this on purpose. I can tell by the smug smile he discretely flashes my way as I give him the stink-eye followed by an exaggerated eye roll, before I take my seat across from him.
Poking my fork into my salad, I eat, and the table dines in companionable silence until a drunken Jezebel opens her big fucking trap. “So Bink, how’s Deke’s garage treatin’ ya?”
I grumble under my breath, and glance up from my plate to see Deke taking the last open chair at our table. The one that is directly next to Marylou.
“She loves it, of course,” he answers for me.
“Well,” I drop my fork onto my plate and recline back in my chair, stretching my legs under the table. My toes bump into a pair of boots, and Big’s eyes jerk up to meet mine. I immediately look away, tugging my feet back under my chair. Shit, I didn’t mean to touch his foot.
Way to go, you stupid bitch.
I clear my throat. “Well Jezebel, I think my boss is a pain in the ass for the most part, but the pay ain’t bad, and I get to wear whatever the hell I want.” I playfully wink at Deke, and he smirks, shoving a forkful of corn casserole into his pie hole.
Swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Deke takes a drink of his tapped beer. “Maybe I should change the dress code for women. How about we move to miniskirts and crop tops?” he grins devilishly; setting his cup down and picking up a fluffy roll on this plate. No doubt meaning every fantasy induced word. After the alley-almost-fuck-fest, I’ve been anointed with the knowledge that my boss is attracted to me, even with a baby growing in my belly. Maybe he digs pregnant porn? I should ask him about that one of these days when we’re not sitting at the same table with Big and his hottie-potattie. She’s wearing a dress that is more robin’s egg blue than powder-blue, and it’s short, like don’t-move-or-I’ll-be-able-to-see-your-cervix short.
A fist slams down on the table, and I jump in my chair, my heart shooting into my throat. “The fuck you will,” Big sneers at Deke.
“It was a joke,” I stick up for Deke, whose expression is a mixture between fuck and oops-I-did-it-again.
With my eyes attentively staring at Big like he’s the biggest jerk in the entire galaxy, he purposely hooks his arm over the back of his woman’s chair and scoots her closer so she’s in the c
rook of his arm. She doesn’t seem to mind; the idiot purrs like a kitten and snuggles into the side of his chest. I try to do my best to remain impassive over this sad display of dominance. I feel myself failing as my face squishes, making me look more constipated than jealous. I’m jealous alright. I’m not admitting it to anyone else but you. So yeah, now ya know. Big with another woman makes me insanely jealous. I knew before I left in September that my feelings for Big were more than lust. They’re love. Maybe not in love-love but damn near it. My heart wouldn’t pound like this or ache like this otherwise, now would it?
Suddenly, I get the urge to pee. Call it nerves or Mother Nature; I don’t care which. I just know I can’t endure another second of this shit. It’s my brother’s reception for Christ sake, and Big can’t let me breathe for one goddamn minute without showboating. The single dimpled grin on his face is enough to make me want to scream. He knows he’s affecting me. Shit, I’m sure the whole fucking table knows it too. If I cared enough to acknowledge them sitting here, I’m sure I’d see it written on their faces. But nope, I can’t though. Why? I am too engrossed in glaring at this crazy hot, Neanderthal biker to process anything other than him. God, I wish I could slap the sexy right outta him. It would make my life just a little bit easier. I hate feeling like I’m not in control of anything anymore. Not in control of my emotions, not my body, not Marshall, and definitely not Big. This sucks; it really, really sucks ass.
Pushing up from my chair, I excuse myself from the table and weave between the tables, past the bar, to the hall door, so I can go to my room to relieve myself and gather my rickety bearings back. I don’t spare a second glance to anyone as I exit the main room into the hall. I don’t see a thing once my mind registers on a single task. Get to my room. I turn the corner at the end of the hall, and I jog the last few steps to my door. Reaching into the top of my dress, I yank my key from my bra, unlock my door, and heave a giant sigh of relief as I cross the threshold and shut the door. A weight is immediately lifted off my chest. Thank you Jesus. Tossing the key on the dresser, I head straight to the potty to handle my business.
I finish and wash my hands, still swirling in an unwanted vortex of emotional confusion and rampant, needy hormones. Drying my hands on the soft terry cloth towel on the rack, I return to the sink and take a good long look in the mirror. Who is that woman staring back at me? The woman with the deep blue eyes and the short golden hair? The woman who’s gained nearly thirty pounds and is carrying the biggest secret of her life snuggled in the depths of her womb? I hardly recognize myself anymore. Sure, I look the same, but months of stress and heartache robs you of yourself. I know I can’t play victim, and I’m not. Not for the most part anyhow. I chose to leave, and I chose to come back and visit. Simple as that. But seeing him, I mean really seeing him, in person after so long feels like I’ve regained a huge chunk of my soul. Even if he’s with another woman, cuddling with her, and treating me like dog shit. Apparently deep down, I’m a misogynist at heart, a true glutton for punishment. After all that, after all the heartache, lies, and sorrow, I still long for him. In my dreams, I dream of him. I hate to admit it to myself, really. It’s hard. It’s like admitting you’re an alcoholic; the acknowledgement is only half the battle. The rest is how to regroup and untangle the web to which my emotions and love has weaved, since probably infancy. A lifetime of memories, even if they weren’t ones of romance, are hard to undo and discard, like meaningless sex.
I shake my head and break away from the mirror. That’s enough of that. I am here for my brother’s wedding. That’s it, that’s all.
Righting myself by dusting off my dress that has absolutely no dirt adorning it, I straighten my back and open the bedroom door.
“What!?” I scream and gasp. Throwing my hand to my mouth, I back pedal as fast as my swollen feet will carry me and slam the door shut. Oh my God! I lock the bathroom door and throw my back against it with a loud thud.
A knock sounds on the bathroom door. I don’t respond. The next knock quickly turns into a thunderous pound that bounces off the tiled walls in the tiny bathroom, making my ears ring.
“Open the goddamn door, Bink. I know you’re in there, and there is no way out except through this door. And I am not leavin’ until we talk,” Big gruffly demands on the opposite of the bathroom door.
Fuck-shit- fuckity-fuck- shit-fuck. I don’t want to do this.
Slamming my noggin against the door, I groan in defeat, “I have nothing to say.”
“I have plenty.”
Great, we’re going to be here all night. Can’t elude him now.
“I’m listening.”
“Come out of the bathroom.”
“Why? So you can call me names, and tell me how fat and ugly I am?” I peer down at my ankles and shiver in disgust. Yuck. Frodo Baggins and I have swapped feet, except my ankles are plumper, and they ache like hell.
I continue, “Or how huge my ass has gotten? Or how much you wish I’d never have come back? I’m sorry, but I’d rather be insulted with a door separating us,” and so I can cry without you having to see me. I finish the sentence in my head.
Sounds of nails scratching the back of the door are his reply. Seconds turn to minutes and with every beat of my heart the clock ticks. I would’ve thought he’d have left by now, but the scratching persists. Then there’s a clunk, like the sound of metal colliding with the door; his ring would be my guess.
“What are you doing out there?” I have to ask because this silent waiting game is almost worse than the inevitable confrontation. I’m tense, and shaking, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I hate this.
“I’m trying to figure out why I bother. Why I even care.” I hear him groan, and his voice lowers to a deep soul owning gruff that I feel deep down in my marrow. “Sugar tits, you show up here…” he drifts off, and I wait for a reply, only it doesn’t come and more agonizing minutes slip by.
Stepping away from the door, I hesitantly wrap my small fingers around the cool knob. I really hate to have this ‘talk,’ but I know it was bound to come to a head sooner or later. And the melancholy that’s steeped in his voice makes the voices in my head take notice. The caring part of me wants to fix his troubles and ask what he really needs to say. The other part wants to run far-far away and never look back. Since I’ve already accomplished the latter, I figure I owe him the former, out of respect if nothing else. Even if he hasn’t shown me an ounce of respect since I’ve arrived.
My heart slams into my ribs and my breath shoots in short spurts, as I reel in the courage to face him one on one. The first time since I’ve arrived that we’ve had the chance to be just us together, with no spectators to fuel our inner tumultuous emotions.
Flicking the lock on the door, I slowly ease the knob to the right, and at a snail’s pace, crack the seam. Peeking through the slit, I get an eyeful of Big sitting on the lip of my bed, bent forward, as he rakes his thick shaky fingers through his loose hair. His hair tie, now snapped in two, lay on the floor by the bathroom door. My eyes scan the room for any signs of Marylou or another bystander. Nobody but him and me and the giant cloud of uncertainty is here. Oh, and our daughter, can’t forget her.
Now partially comfortable and set at ease about his bestial state, I pull the door the rest of the way open. He glances up, eyes rimmed in red. He’s been crying. My heart melts on the spot. My Big is crying. Whoa, wait, I mean President Big. Not mine.
Standing here in silence, my body has the strong urge to move quickly and fall at his feet, take his face into my hands, and kiss the sorrow away. Not going to happen, although, every cell in my body wants me to do just that. My sharp, logical mind knows that’s the worse choice in this situation. So for once, I go with my brain and not my heart.
“Hi,” I whisper, walking into my bedroom and coming to rest my back against the blank wall across from the foot of my queen bed.
Fisting his hands, he uses his knuckles to grind the wetness from his eyes.
“
Hi,” he mutters, returning to his former position, slumped with hands in his beautiful hair.
“I’m going to stand right here.” I stomp my foot on the ground for emphasis, “and you can say what you want to say, deal?”
“Nope,” he grunts and shakes his head, his eyes cast on the floor.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no. You know how long it’s been since you left me?”
“I didn’t leave you.” My reply comes back too quickly, and I sound defensive.
He bitterly scoffs, as his right foot begins to bounce. “Fuck yeah, you did. You left me. I never left you. Now answer the fucking question!” he snaps.
A jolt shoots through me at his brash, hate-filled words. “Six months or so,” I blurt, unsure. I haven’t kept track. I knew if I had it would’ve made things worse for me. Emotionally speaking.
“187 days. It’s been 187 days since you left me in my fuckin’ bed, sleepin’ with a smile on my face. You know how long it was before this that we spent apart?” he snaps his head up, eyes blazing into mine, more unshed tears welling in his stricken ice-blue gaze.
“Well do you?!” he shrieks, voice cracking, the hands in his hair trembling.
God, I did this to him. I did this to Big. I made him feel this way. Such a beautiful man, and I’ve broken him. What have I done?!
I don’t answer his question for fear my emotional dam will break, and I will turn into a blubbering idiot. Each and every little part of me longs to take the pain away. The anguish in his eyes is eating me alive. I’m such a monster.
I shake my head in response.