Julia
I hate this place.
As the movers scurry about, hauling boxes and expensive furniture under Jack’s watchful eye, I lounge in a deck chair with a glass of lemonade in one hand, trying not to cry.
This whole place is ghastly, no matter where I turn. The landscapers had been out a few weeks earlier and had turned the backyard where I’m currently sitting into a patchwork of sod. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken, and the grass is now dead and lifeless. Beyond, the yard gives way to mud and marsh. Cypress trees rise up in gnarled fingers, their roots hidden by murky sludge. Insects whine and drone amid the greenish haze.
I won’t even let myself think about those dreadful tombstones. Jack’s been arguing with the town for permission to remove the cemetery, but so far, he hasn’t been able to cut through the red tape.
I take another sip of lemonade and then press the side of the sweating glass against my forehead. How is it so hot? It’s early November. Even the mountains of snow we had while staying in Upstate New York for most of the fall would be preferable to this moist, unrelenting heat.
Thinking wistfully of our large rental home back in New England and the pile of winter clothes that will be sitting, untouched, in my new closet for the foreseeable future, I find myself wishing that I’d added a splash of whiskey to the lemonade.
“Babe?” A voice calls, jerking me from my regrets. I turn in my chair to see Jack trundling down the lawn. He cuts a hell of a figure in that perfectly tailored suit and those sunglasses that cost more than what most people make in a week. How is it that I’m sitting out here, sweating my ass off, while he looks absolutely perfect? Life just isn’t fair.
I paste on a fake smile, doing my best to dazzle him. “How’s it going in there?” I ask, trying to sound genuinely curious.
Ignoring my question, Jack reaches for my glass. “Is that lemonade? Thanks!” Before I can protest, he downs the rest of the liquid and hands the empty glass back to me. “That hit the spot.”
It takes all my willpower not to roll my eyes at him. “Is it coming together?” I press, nodding back toward the house.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” he assures me, as though I’m actually concerned. In all honesty, I’d have been delighted if he’d said that the movers had lost all of our earthly possessions, and we’d have to go back to New York after all. Moving back to Florida is no longer an option since he sold the home we had there.
“Do you think they’ll finish today?” I question. I’m secretly hoping that the movers take their sweet time, forcing us to stay in a hotel for one last night.
Unfortunately for me, Jack nods enthusiastically. “Oh yeah,” he says. “They’ve got most of the furniture set up. In fact, they’re working on our bedroom right now.” Even with his sunglasses hiding his eyes, I can feel his heated gaze raking over me.
I look up at him, and this time I can’t keep the distaste off my face.
“I know Hahnville wasn’t your first choice,” he says earnestly. “But let’s give it a shot. Six months. If you still hate it here, we can sell this place and find somewhere else to build our dream home. What do you say?”
“Six months?” I ask, crossing my arms.
He nods.
My eyes creep past him toward the swamp. It looks practically prehistoric out there, like some monsterous green dinosaur is going to come crashing through the underbrush at any moment. The headstones, tall thin antiques covered with centuries of moss and lichen, loom out of the misty, greenish shadows. I haven’t even seen the marsh at night yet.
I don’t think I want to.
“Fine,” I utter, my eyes fluttering closed. “I’ll give it six months, but not one second longer.” Though my words sound resolute, trepidation stalks through my veins. Somehow, I feel like I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.
But I’m distracted as Jack’s fingers curl under my chin. He tips my face up so that my lips brush his. His tongue swipes at the seam of my mouth, demanding entrance. I quickly oblige, more out of duty than for passion’s sake at the moment.
When he breaks away, he grins saucily at me. “I’ll let you know when the movers are done,” he promises before sauntering back toward the house.
God, it won’t be long enough.
I contemplate my situation as the afternoon wears on. Jack and I met in college. He was a business major gearing up to take over his father’s finance company, and I’d studied English. His lavish gifts and passionate promises lured me into a whirlwind courtship and an early marriage. It strikes me now that I hadn’t even had time to get to know the real Jack before we exchanged vows.
If I had, would I still have married him?
It pains me to admit that the answer was a solid maybe. I live quite comfortably, and that is certainly worth something. Over the years, I’ve become accustomed to the manicures, shopping sprees, and the relative freedom of not being chained to a desk from 9:00 to 5:00. In return, Jack shows me off to all of his important friends, and I do my best to please him in the bedroom, though it sometimes feels like a chore rather than a delight.
Sure, Jack can be kind of an asshole, but I’m used to him and his peculiarities. He’s never been outright mean to me, never abusive or nasty. A lot of women have it much worse.
Guilt washes over me as I admonish myself for being so ungrateful, but a smaller voice still whispers that maybe I deserve to be happier. Maybe I deserve something more.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I’m so lost in my troubled thoughts that I nearly jump out of my skin as a hand closes around my shoulder.
“Whoa, babe. It’s just me,” Jack says, holding his palms out to me in a cartoonish gesture of disarmament.
“Sorry,” I sigh, shaking my head. “I didn’t hear you.” My gaze shifts to the house. The windows stare blankly back. “Are the movers done?”
Jack nods. “All done,” he confirms. “Come take a look.”
Leaving the empty lemonade glass by the chair, I take his offered hand and allow him to lead me across the depressing, wilted lawn toward the open back door.
As we step inside, I have to admit that it looks great. Though the construction has taken absurdly long, it’s all done masterfully. The furniture, which I’ve spent months picking out and changing my mind and swapping around, is exactly as I’d imagined.
Perhaps living here won’t be so dreadful after all.
Jack doesn’t stop to let me explore the cavernous rooms. Instead, he all but drags me to the stairs. I know exactly what he has in mind, so I follow him demurely as we climb up to the third floor.
“What do you think?” my husband asks as he steers me into the master bedroom.
“Oh, wow,” I breathe.
It really does look lovely. Everything is done up in my favorite modern style. Colors range from deep black to slate grey and pristine white. The bed is huge and inviting. A small sitting area takes up the other half of the room. If I draw the thick drapes over the window to block the view of the swamp, maybe I can pretend that this really is our dream home.
As I wander around the space, Jack makes a beeline for the sitting area. I notice he’s already prepped it with a bottle of expensive champagne in an ice bucket sitting alongside two crystal flutes. He pops the cork and pours each of us a glass. Before he brings me mine, he presses a few buttons on his phone and turns on the surround sound. The dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra fill the room as he hands me my glass.
“To new beginnings,” he toasts, holding his flute up.
“New beginnings,” I agree, tapping the edge of my glass against his. As I take a sip, Jack wraps his free arm around my waist, drawing me in closer and swaying me in time to the music. Not wanting to spill my champagne, I set the crystal flute down on the small table, and he does the same.
For the second time that day, Jack’s lips find mine.
I try to find the sweetness in it, but it’s a tall order. Jack is often selfish in bed, but it’s never unpleasant. Still, I can’t get my mind off where we are. I don’t know if I’m in the mood to have sex when there’s a cemetery right outside my window.
But as the Sinatra song ends and a haunting, bluesy melody flows through the speaker, Jack’s kiss deepens into something more desperate. He seems lost in the lyrics as the rich voice begins to roll.
Folks, I’m goin’ down to St. James Infirmary, see my baby there…
A small gasp of surprise escapes me as Jack’s lips trail down my neck toward my collarbone. He nips at the sensitive skin there, and to my embarrassment, I can’t suppress the moan that tumbles from my mouth.
Spurred by my noises, Jack begins pulling at the hem of my dress. He draws away for me only long enough to pull the expensive garment over my head and toss it away, and then he’s back, his lithe form pressed against every inch of me.
This time, when his lips meet mine, I kiss him back with equal fervor. A part of me that’s been slumbering for far too long stirs as Jack’s hands ghost over my breasts, teasing my nipples through the thin, lacy fabric.
She’s stretched out on a long, white table…
Jack backs me up until my knees hit the edge of the bed. Understanding his silent command, I fall back onto the mattress. When I look up at him, his eyes are clouded with lust. It’s sexy as hell, and I’m surprised as a rush of heat blossoms at the juncture of my thighs.
Without breaking his gaze, Jack slides my panties down my legs. The graze of his nails against my sensitive skin is like sweet torture. I squirm in anticipation as his hands dance toward my center, and then cry out as he finally dips a finger inside.
“Jack,” I moan, gripping at the sheets as he pumps his digit in and out of me. He doesn’t usually do things like this, and it’s driving me fucking wild. Pleasure builds as my nerves fray from the onslaught of sensation. Just when I’m inching toward the point of no return, Jack removes his hand.
I’m not expecting what comes next. In one swift, breathtaking motion, Jack flips me over onto my belly. Unsure of what he’s trying to do, I rise to my hands and knees. At the same time, I hear his zipper and the rustle of fabric as he quickly undresses.
I let out a gasp of pleasure and shock as I suddenly feel the tip of his cock against my entrance. He rubs against me for a moment, teasing me. And then, without warning, he slides inside me with one deep thrust. The combination of sensations has me bucking against him.
One of his hands comes around to gather my hair, pulling my head back with a sharp tug. “You’re mine,” he growls and draws out almost all the way before slamming back in again. “You’re mine.”
I moan as he pistons into me, bringing me closer and closer to the release he has me begging for.
And over the sounds of our bodies, I’m dimly aware of that strange song playing in the background, omnipresent.
So sweet, so cold, so fair…