CHAPTER 2
I wake stoutly at the feel of being watched. Lately I've become overly sensitive with everything. I get scared even from my own shadow sometimes.
It's only natural, right? Someone is out there to kill me. I'm not sure who it is, but three attempts have been made already. I should be insane by now.
"What the hell?" I murmur, waving away the smoke of cigar wafting in my nose. "I hate that. At least do your smoking outside." I pull the duvet up to my chest, blocking the lustrous look thrown on my body.
Patrick rises from the bed nonchalantly, still dressed in his neat white suit with a black unbuttoned shirt. I see his hairy chest, and perhaps the twenty years old me would be enthralled.
My husband is super rich— that's his immediate description. He's got a fair body for his age of forty six; maybe he looks younger even. His average frame towers around me, eye-fucking me, and I'm scowling hard. Pervert!
"I heard what happened." His thick southern accent makes him more priggish than he actually is. "Didn't I fucking tell you to stay at home? Do you realize what I had to postpone just so I can get back here?" he lashes, his face arctic.
Can't he just shut up!
My head hurts. I shut my eyes momentarily, and the flashback of last night adds more to the migraine. The gunshots in the club, the screams, and people running everywhere, it all comes back.
Patrick is disgusted by my hangover face. He hates it when I drink. But where was he when I needed him the most? As always he's busy making more money . . . Closing big deals.
"Patrick, I don't wanna argue with you." I slowly scramble out of bed, still feeling beat.
He drops the cigar on the ashtray lying on the table and seizes me briskly into his arms, hugging my naked body from behind. I shriek, for his touch feels like a punishment nowadays.
Breathing into my hair, he says, "I also don't wanna fight you, Mia. I missed this sexy ass." He slaps my barely covered behind, and his lips graze on my neck, nuzzling my skin.
Please, don't touch me. A bile rises in my throat. I wanna throw up.
"I need to shower and brush my teeth," I whisper, trying to free myself from this horny bastard I have for a husband.
He's been probably banging some cheap model the whole night and now he's here trying to pour his leftover semen into my precious vagina. Damn him! Not that I care whom he fucks or get fucked with; I just demand my respect.
"I don't have time, Mia. I'm flying to Geneva in two hours," he says, his voice intoxicated, and I feel his dick throbbing already.
Old insatiable beast! Does he use Viagra? I glower mentally, my libido deeply asleep. I no longer desire fucking him as I used to before, ever since I caught him banging his ex-wife. I'm disgusted by him.
And he's leaving again? I pull out of his arms immediately, glaring at his silvery, sultry eyes. The bastard is smirking. The audacity! Ugh, how do women stand their cheating husbands?
"Again to Geneva?" I demand, the typical housewife rant on full track. "Why?" My face crunches.
"A big transaction needs to be settled. I'm tired of incompetent assholes so I'm gonna see through it myself." His phone buzzes and he's quick to answer it. He frowns as he snaps, "What?" to the person on the call.
What kind of business is he dealing with that he always uses the Swiss bank? I ponder as I watch him casting an impatient glare on his gold and diamond Rolex, snapping at whoever is on the phone. He's pissed already.
But I know he deals with everything. He's into agriculture, technology, export and imports, real estate, and other stuff that makes his bank accounts read so many zeroes after a decent digit. He's super loaded.
"That's what I'm paying you for!" he barks while tugging me back to his dominion. His hand crosses my chest so I stay put, squeezing my right breast. "Get the asshole and lock him up until he says who sent him!" He hangs up and throws his phone on the bed.
Am I even surprised? Not really. I've seen weirder, and I've heard worse. Patrick is the type of a man who doesn't allow snitches, and much less traitors. I wonder if he's never killed someone.
"Are you going with your secretary?" I ask, for I'm sure he wouldn't miss the chance of taking his mistress with him.
Yes, the bastard is fucking his secretary. He's never admitted this to me, and I've got no proof, but a woman's instinct is hardly wrong. At least mine isn't, I believe.
"She's my Personal Assistant, Mia. So yes she's coming with me," he breathes, tugging the lace fabric of my bra cup lower, releasing my breast. "And don't start that boring old song please!" He bites on my earlobe, and I moan at the tinge.
My eyes clam as he kisses me roughly, his mouth demanding. My husband is a vicious player, one of the reasons why I fell in love with him upon our first night together back in Paris. It was hot and I was a naive little girl from the suburbs of New Orleans.
I was just a nineteen years old model and amateur designer, and he a thirty-six years old hunk: copper hair that stayed ruffled mostly, silver eyes that devoured my young and inviting body on the catwalk, with a very intimidating personality that drew me in instantly.
He was my first.
"Why aren't you screaming yet, huh?" he rasps, cupping my sex. I hold my breath tightly, the nicotine breath from his lips so revolting. "I want you to scream my name, Mia! Fuck, I don't wanna imagine someone else touching what's mine!" He clasps my panties and eases his finger deep inside me.
"Argh!" I grunt, tossing my head onto his shoulder.
"Yes. Like that. I love you screaming like that. And you're so wet for me, baby. So wet." He strokes me mercilessly.
I am wet, but not for him. What kind of dream was I having again? I can't remember the details but I'm sure it was wild.
"No!" I whimper as he speeds up, thrusting another finger. Why do I feel strange? I want him to stop. "Patrick, no!" I yank out of his grip.
He's startled. I've never said no to his sexual advancement toward me. I always fall easily into his ploy no matter how much we fight and argue over several unresolved issues.
"What the fuck, Mia!" He growls, shooting me the how-dare-you glare. I fix my bra, panting. He strides over and grabs my throat. He's menacing, his eyes dark and bemused, but he never hurts me physically. "You don't want me to fuck you, do you?" he demands, purely angered.
No, I don't. I don't even want him to kiss me. I simply want him away from my body.
I catch my breath. "Let's not pretend like everything is fine with us, Patrick. Putting on the public appearance that we're a great couple is enough! I don't have to put up with it even in private!" I snap and pull out of his grip.
"Mia . . ." He's rattled. Whenever I bring the subject that lingers my possibility of leaving him he cowers. I'm his little trophy, his most precious possession as he shamelessly declares, and he won't let me go easily.
But I want my divorce.
"I'm going to the country house for a few days." I pick my shoes and dress as I say this. He's still up to his feet, watching me. "I need a break, Patrick. Far from the media, I want to be alone." I gaze up at him.
"We're gonna settle this when I come back! I'll write you a cheque so you can solve your mess with the investors. Your bodyguard will be with you in the country house." He gets his phone from the bed.
"Don't bother. I'll solve my own mess," I retort.
He snorts. "You're fucked!" he says as he scurries toward the dressing room. And into the phone he snaps, "We're leaving. Tell Red to call me later. I've got no time to wait." He's off my sight.
Red.
At the mention of the name my breath slides away. My life's a mess and I can't recognize who I am anymore. Everything is chaotic. A good shower and heavy breakfast is all I need.
I'm into a maxi dress, my hair in a ponytail, as I barrel into the kitchen. Patrick is gone. That's his style; coming and going. I hope Butler Lucas has had the cook prepare something decent.
"Oh my head!" I grimace. Reaching the door, I suddenly hold my steps at the sight of him standing near the fridge, uncapping the bottle of drinking water after a seemingly intense workout he's just finished.
The sweat smears his skin, his curly hair drenched, the muscles of his strong biceps rippling tensely, and that sexy Adam's apple tips as the water slides in his throat. My breath quickens.