“Hey.” Paul had finished his Scotch and was signaling the bartender for a refill. “What are you thinking about over there?”
She let out a long sigh. “I’m thinking your day was probably worse than mine if you’re ordering a second drink.” Paul rarely drank. It was something they had in common. Neither one of them liked feeling out of control, which had made jail a real bummer, ha ha.
She asked him, “Everything all right?”
“It’s good right now.” He rubbed her back with his hand. “What did the shrink say?”
Claire waited until the bartender had returned to his corner. “She said that I’m not being forthcoming about my emotions.”
“That’s not like you at all.”
They smiled at each other. Another old argument that wasn’t worth having anymore.
“I don’t like being analyzed,” Claire said, and she could picture her analyst offering an exaggerated shrug as she demanded, “Who the hell does?”
“You know what I was thinking today?” Paul took her hand. His palm felt rough. He’d been working in the garage all weekend. “I was thinking about how much I love you.”
“That’s a funny thing for a husband to say to his wife.”
“It’s true, though.” Paul pressed her hand to his lips. “I can’t imagine what my life would be like without you.”
“Tidier,” she said, because Paul was the one who was always picking up abandoned shoes and various items of clothing that should’ve been put in the laundry basket but somehow ended up in front of the bathroom sink.
He said, “I know things are hard right now. Especially with—” He tilted his head toward the television, which was showing a new photo of the missing sixteen-year-old.
Claire looked at the set. The girl really was beautiful. Athletic and lean with dark, wavy hair.
Paul said, “I just want you to know that I’m always going to be here for you. No matter what.”
Claire felt her throat start to tighten. She took him for granted sometimes. That was the luxury of a long marriage. But she knew that she loved him. She needed him. He was the anchor that kept her from drifting away.
He said, “You know that you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
She invoked her college predecessor. “Ava Guilford would be shocked to hear that.”
“Don’t play. I’m being serious.” He leaned in so close that his forehead almost touched hers. “You are the love of my life, Claire Scott. You’re everything to me.”
“Despite my criminal record?”
He kissed her. Really kissed her. She tasted Scotch and a hint of peppermint and felt a rush of pleasure when his fingers stroked the inside of her thigh.
When they stopped for air, she said, “Let’s go home.”
Paul finished his drink in one swallow. He tossed some cash onto the bar. His hand stayed at Claire’s back as they left the restaurant. A cold gust of wind picked at the hem of her skirt. Paul rubbed her arm to keep her warm. He was walking so close to her that she could feel his breath on her neck. “Where are you parked?”
“Parking deck,” she said.
“I’m on the street.” He handed his keys to her. “Take my car.”
“Let’s go together.”
“Let’s go here.” He pulled her into an alley and pressed her back against the wall.
Claire opened her mouth to ask what had gotten into him, but then he was kissing her. His hand slid underneath her skirt. Claire gasped, but not so much because he took her breath away as because the alley was not dark and the street was not empty. She could see men in suits strolling by, heads turning, eyes tracking the scene until the last moment. This was how people ended up on the Internet.
“Paul.” She put her hand to his chest, wondering what had happened to her vanilla husband who thought it was kinky if they did it in the guest room. “People are watching.”
“Back here.” He took her hand, leading her deeper into the alley.
Claire stepped over a graveyard of cigarette butts as she followed him. The alley was T-shaped, intersecting with another service alley for the restaurants and shops. Hardly a better situation. She imagined fry cooks standing at open doors with cigarettes in their mouths and iPhones in their hands. Even without spectators, there were all kinds of reasons she should not do this.
Then again, no one liked being told what to do.
Paul pulled her around a corner. Claire had a quick moment to scan their empty surroundings before her back was pressed against another wall. His mouth covered hers. His hands cupped her ass. He wanted this so badly that she started to want it, too. She closed her eyes and let herself give in. Their kisses deepened. He tugged down her underwear. She helped him, shuddering because it was cold and it was dangerous and she was so ready that she didn’t care anymore.
“Claire …” he whispered in her ear. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want this.”
“Tell me again.”
“I want this.”
Without warning, he spun her around. Claire’s cheek grazed the brick. He had her pinned to the wall. She pushed back against him. He groaned, taking the move for excitement, but she could barely breathe.
“Paul—”
“Don’t move.”
Claire understood the words, but her brain took several seconds to process the fact that they had not come from her husband’s mouth.
“Turn around.”
Paul started to turn.
“Not you, asshole.”
Her. He meant her. Claire couldn’t move. Her legs were shaking. She could barely hold herself up.
“I said turn the fuck around.”
Paul’s hands gently wrapped around Claire’s arms. She stumbled as he slowly turned her around.
There was a man standing directly behind Paul. He was wearing a black hoodie zipped just below his thick, tattooed neck. A sinister-looking rattlesnake arced across his Adam’s apple, its fangs showing in a wicked grin.
“Hands up.” The snake’s mouth bobbed as the man spoke.
“We don’t want trouble.” Paul’s hands were in the air. His body was perfectly still. Claire looked at him. He nodded once, telling her it was going to be okay when clearly it was not. “My wallet’s in my back pocket.”
The man wrenched out the wallet with one hand. Claire could only assume a gun was in the other. She saw it in her mind’s eye: black and shiny, pressed into Paul’s back.
“Here.” Paul took off his wedding ring, his class ring, his watch. Patek Philippe. She had bought it for him five years ago. His initials were on the back.
“Claire,” Paul’s voice was strained, “give him your wallet.”
Claire stared at her husband. She felt the insistent tapping of her carotid artery pulsing in her neck. Paul had a gun at his back. They were being robbed. That’s what was going on. This was real. This was happening. She looked down at her hand, the movement tracking slowly because she was in shock and terrified and didn’t know what to do. Her fingers were still wrapped around Paul’s keys. She’d been holding on to them the entire time. How could she have sex with him if she was still holding his keys?