His mouth leaves my neck, and he gravely stares at me before stepping back. I have to lean against the Toyota or lose my balance. My breath comes in lusty pants as he says in a voice thick and grim, “Look what a mess we’ve made. You’re going to have to cover that up.” He points to my neck.
Turning on his heel, he heads towards his black dually. My eyes follow the taper of his back down to his waist, and I admire his tight ass longer than I should. To think I know what every inch of that gorgeous body looks like beneath his clothes. I know the way his flesh feels pressed against me, too. I can’t catch my breath, my entire body trembling at the thought of what happened and what could happen if he wasn’t walking away?—
Clearing his throat, he calls over his shoulder, “Quit staring at my ass, Hops. You’ve got to pick up our babies.”
Shit! On top of everything else, he’s caught me drooling over him. I’ve got to be the worst ex-wife in the world. Well, almost-ex-wife.
I don’t know if there’s a female equivalent of blue balls, but if so, I’m it. Even after the release moments ago, my girl parts are already tightening back up, conspiring against me as I think about the way his hips powerfully thrust into my hand, coming as I touched him through his pants. I want to melt into the ground, mortified. But I want to melt into him even more.
I cover my face with both hands only to discover the smell of his musky cum on my palm. The familiar odor sends my pussy into full throb mode again. Yep, the worst ex-wife ever put on this green Earth. I hear his truck door slam shut, and I look up. The streetlamp gives off enough light for me to see him point at his neck through the back window as he looks at me, eyebrow raised, through the rearview mirror. Yes, I’ve gotthe message. I’ve let him brazenly mark me in the middle of my work’s darkened parking lot like a hormone-driven teenager. Not a good look for a woman claiming to be a happy-go-lucky single gal.
In the 4Runner, I grip the steering wheel tightly, taking deep breaths and trying to calm myself. After regaining a modicum of control over my shaking, desirous flesh, I pull down the sun visor above me, turning my head to the side. Sure enough, there’s a large strawberry stain on my neck at the pulse point.
Dammit! I frantically think about where I’ve stashed a scarf, a bandana, or some other scrap of cloth to cover up his love bite. After all, I still have to head to the ranch to pick up the kids from Wolfe’s dad, brother, and sister-in-law. I have nothing that’ll work.
I almost call Wolfe, ordering him to get them for me. But considering he’s walking around with a load in his shorts, he’s in an even worse position.
Instead, I drive back to my house, making the walk of shame to my porch, thanks to my nosy neighbor, Sheila Murphy. She’s wearing a caftan, and her white hair is in a turban as she approaches me, holding her annoying little chihuahua, Squirt. Squirt barks and snarls at me like he always does, even though we’ve lived here for four months.
By the lights from the streetlamps and our porches, Sheila’s eyes immediately fixate on the dark spot on my neck. Dammit! Recrimination floods her face, and her eyebrows rise. I can’t wait to hear what the rumor mill will say about it come Monday morning. This has got to be one of my least favorite aspects of small-town living. In Seattle, where I grew up, you could have an eyeball hanging out, and nobody looked at you twice.
Personally, I couldn’t care less what others think of me. But being a museum director kind of makes me a staple of thecommunity. A staple who apparently likes to dry hump her soon-to-be-ex-husband in poorly-lit parking lots while letting him suck her neck raw.
“Yes, it’s a hickey,” I reply unceremoniously. “But at least it’s from Wolfe, so you don’t have too much to talk about.”
Her eyes are in her hairline now as she sputters. I laugh at her hypocritical reaction, knowing she’ll milk this story for everything it’s worth when she gets inside and starts ringing her friends. “But I thought you two?—”
I shake my head, and she points towards my left hand where my marriage bands should be. “No, we’re not back together,” I sigh. “Just torturing each other.”
“Oh my!” she says breathlessly as I wave, excusing myself to go inside and retrieve a turtleneck and a dry pair of panties.
Chapter Five
WOLFE
Ienjoy the pre-dawn quiet of Monday morning, using my time wisely before the kids rise. I live in a rustic two-story cabin my foster brothers helped me build on ten acres of Rough & Ready Ranch. While cozy, it hasn’t felt like home since Izzie moved out.
I have yet to decorate for Christmas. It just doesn’t feel right without my wife, but I should at least get a tree for the kids’ sake. That said, it barely feels like December. The weather’s been unusually warm with little more than snow flurries. We usually get the worst of it starting in January and stretching through March or even April, though, so it shouldn’t surprise me.
My days now have a domestic regularity, starting at 4 a.m. When I was an Army Ranger or even a PMC living overseas, I often kept crazy hours, going days without sleep. Of course, that life came with plenty of excitement and kept me on my toes. As for eight to five in Ophir City? The verdict’s still out.
I take another sip of black coffee, going over the museum security protocols and specs in front of me. Nobody has updated this shit since at least the nineteen eighties. Itshouldn’t surprise me, considering how old the facility is. I stretch, leaning back in my chair. Izzie’s only been the director for the past three months, and I wonder what kind of pushback she’s already gotten.
The historical society is housed in a large building from the nineteen seventies and serves a dual purpose as a museum and historical research institute with a library. It contains some of the state’s most precious historical records and photos along with a rich collection of artifacts, all hearkening back to when Sierra Nevada gold country fueled California’s expansion.
A mixture of full-time state employees—a few curators, a librarian, and a janitor—and docents keep it running. Some of the docents have been there for decades, and God knows when they last underwent a background check or fingerprinting.If ever.
Today’s the day I start shaking up their world. I have to do it. The museum contains a priceless Native American basket collection, thanks to historical and regional local Dat So La Lee, a renowned Washoe basketmaker. The original director of the historical society meticulously collected as many of her baskets as possible. Some of Dat So La Lee’s pieces are worth millions, which means a security audit has been a long time coming.
My mind wanders back to the congratulatory phone call last Friday morning from Dr. Alan Watts, the administrator of museums. After relaying the news, he told me how impressed the various museum directors were with my proposal and presentation. He also made it clear that Izzie put in a strong word on my behalf. Strange, considering the way she acted Friday night.
I hope I can count on her as an ally throughout this process. I have no idea how all of this will go down, though. Fuck, I’m still confused about what happened with her at Lucky’s. I rub my hand over my face, trying to quiet the tangleof thoughts in my mind. They’ve been twisting and spiraling out of control since I got up. I dreamt about her again last night, which doesn’t help anything. I hate it when that happens because then I have to wake up and remember what a mess I’ve made of my life.
I also have to remember the divorce papers burning a hole in my desk drawer.Does she really want to divorce me?Of course, that’s what she says. But the way she let me touch her and mark her in the parking lot?—
These are not the internal thoughts I need to entertain right now.
I take another sip of coffee. If I’m being honest, I both love and hate the predictability of my current existence and career. It makes me feel like a wild horse, chomping at the bit. I could handle it if I still had my family. But keeping a broken home is the last thing I thought I’d do with Izzie. I rub my hand reflexively over my heart.
