Beautiful Savage Read online

  He swallows hard, and when I shift my hand down to his thigh, slipping it between his legs, his breath catches. Satisfied with his reaction, I lean in further, pressing my lips to his ear and lowering my voice. “But you see, Ford? The fucking part? That’s exactly what I’m about.”

  So, I guess I’m not as bad at flirting as I thought.

  Though really, how hard is it to talk the average guy into bringing you back to his place?

  Not very, am I right?

  Ford, however, is turning out to be anything but average.

  And I’m not talking about the size of his dick.

  Because even though I woke up in his bed this morning, I still haven’t seen it.

  The guy is a hard sell, taking me back to his place for the sole purpose of making me breakfast at midnight (again with the sustenance), and then, after eating, tucking me into his bed while he slept on the couch.

  He hasn’t even kissed me yet.

  Sure, sure…it’s sweet. And most women would appreciate the chivalry, the restraint he displayed when I tried every move in my sad, outdated little bag of tricks to get him into bed.

  But me?

  Screw sweet.

  I’m not looking to be impressed. I have no use for gallant self-control. I’m not in this for his mind, his heart, or his respect.

  I want to be used. Used solely for my body and what it can do. I want our relationship to be casual, our sex feral and meaningless.

  I want to be used so that I can use him.

  If I have any chance of luring Hollis away from his wife, I need some goddamn practice. It’s been almost sixteen years since I’ve had anything other than the standard, run-of-the-mill missionary fuck.

  Hollis was pure passion, wild and hungry, and he brought those traits to the bedroom, rocking our sex life, rocking me, and I haven’t experienced anything like it since. To be fair, in the early years of our marriage and before he took over the firm from his father, Nicholas was a little more adventurous, his attention more attainable. Sex wasn’t so bad then. I mean, it was hardly like it was with Hollis, but at least he stroked what needed to be stroked, made sure I was (somewhat) satisfied. But still, even with that lukewarm beginning, the most exotic place we’ve ever had sex has been in the hot tub on our lanai during our Hawaiian honeymoon.

  If I’m going to win Hollis back—and I am—then I have no choice but to be prepared…in every possible way. I need to picture the best-case scenario and plan for the worst. So while my sex life has gotten more and more dull in the intervening years, I have to assume that his has only gotten hotter. That his wife is a sex-crazed nympho with the uninhibited nature of an exhibitionist and the flexibility of an Olympic gymnast high on energy drinks.

  The most risqué thing I’ve done lately is masturbate in front of our neighbor while sucking on a bottle of gin.

  At least it’s a start.

  • • •

  I don’t go back to the café. Now that I look more like the old me, I can’t exactly take the same risks, watch him as closely as I did before. Back when I thought I’d be satisfied merely looking and not touching. I mean, I could go so far as wearing a wig, maybe sport a boxy baseball hat and oversized sunglasses like they do in the movies. But that would just be, you know, psycho.

  Of course, not seeing him every day is hard. Just being near him this past week has been such a comfort. I’ve spent the last decade and a half wrapped in the cool confines of numbness, locked inside a tomb of my own creation. But now, after reading Hollis’s book and seeing him in person, I’ve changed, realized that simply existing isn’t the same thing as living, as loving. So I’m thrusting back the lid of my self-imposed prison, bursting from the depths like a caged bird who’s had the key to her freedom all along.

  And it’s so fucking liberating! I’m a whole new person, one who doesn’t mind when the alarm goes off in the morning and the sun parts the horizon. My spirit is overflowing, bursting right out of my skin and filling up the whole damn universe.

  Thankfully, there’s plenty to do in the meantime, and the sudden purpose surrounding my mission eases the sting of not seeing Hollis every day. I haven’t had to work for anything in a long time, haven’t even desired anything enough to work for it, and I have to admit, I’m enjoying the heady bliss of motivation, the urge to rise each day when for years it didn’t matter if I pulled myself out of bed or not. Now I’m busy as a bee, trying to get everything in order, mapping my moves and intentions down to a T. In order to fully infiltrate Hollis’s world and break it apart enough so that he can put it back together with me, I need to learn everything I can about his life as it is now. I need to find the flaws, the cracks, and start peeling them apart, bit by bit.

  This may all sound entirely cold-blooded, and I get it, I get it. But if there are cracks – and come on, of course there are – then they’re only going to get bigger as time goes on. These jagged edges will rip apart eventually; I’m just hastening the process. So really, this is all very positive. In fact, I’m doing them a favor. Because what’s worse than settling for someone? Having someone settle for you. Am I right or am I right? Hollis’s wife may not come right out and thank me, but deep down, she’ll know this is for the best. After all, I’ll be saving her a lifetime of playing second fiddle to my memory.

  And no woman wants that.

  Because Hollis wants to be with me, has always wanted to be with me, and she’s just some chick he settled for after I left.

  Well, now I’m back.

  And I think it’s time we all got on with our lives.

  I keep forgetting about the kid.

  A small snag in my plan.

  But I can deal with a kid. I don’t have to like the baggage that comes with step-parenting another’s woman’s child, but I can live with it. Of course I can live with it.

  As long as Hollis is by my side, I can live through anything.

  And I’ll be a damn good mother. Maybe I’ll even be better than her own mother. The little rug rat will adore me, worship me, because I’ll be the fun one, the one who is full of good times and fresh air and candy and freedom. I’ll treat her like an adult, not a child, and allow her the independence she craves so that she can become whatever she wants to become without restraints.

  God! Hollis is going to be so grateful when he sees how much his daughter loves me. We’ll fight for custody and win, because judges always prefer to put kids in a home with two parents instead of one. Not to mention, his wife (soon to be ex) will be a wreck after the divorce, because she’ll still be living the lie, believing that their love was real (barf) and that Hollis is the only one for her (he’s not). She’ll be so far down in a pit of despair that I doubt she’ll be able to care for herself, much less anyone else.

  But she’ll be fine. Eventually. It’ll only be her ego that’s bruised, not her heart. And egos eventually recover.

  As for the kid, she’s so young that the divorce won’t affect her. Children at that age are resilient, able to jump from one tragic moment to another with the bright-eyed optimism of a Disney princess who trills about and frolics barefoot with anthropomorphic woodland creatures. I mean, my dad walked out on us when I was six, and I turned out fine-just-fine.

  Of course, if the kid turns out to be a complete brat, then we can always send her to a boarding school.

  I jot down the idea in the notebook I’ve taken to carrying, a reminder to check out some appropriate out-of-state establishments just in case. There are so many moving parts to this plan, so many ideas that keep popping up in my mind, flitting through my brain, that I find if I don’t write them down immediately, I risk losing them entirely. Some are ridiculous, sure. Like number twelve: Befriend Hollis’s wife, lure her out to the middle of Lake Superior, and drown her. Even I know that smacks of crazy.

  Crazy, crazy, crazy.

  As much as I wouldn’t mind seeing her gone (in whatever way, shape, or form that may take), I’m obviously not going to kill her. Of course, if a drunk driver h
appened to knock her off Highway 61 and straight into the trunk of a tree, I’d be totally fine with that. I mean, Jesus, that’d be absolutely fucking perfect.

  I send a little prayer to God and a few other deities, just in case they’re listening, and click my pen. Pressing it to paper, I smile, deciding to also employ the Law of Attraction for good measure: Visualize Hollis’s wife crashing into a tree at seventy miles per hour every night before bed for five minutes.

  I close my notebook and lean back on the bench, tilt my face to the sky. I’ve been allowing the sun on my skin more and more lately, and slowly but surely am acquiring that bronze glow I had when I was with Hollis. I look sun-kissed and summer-fresh, can actually feel the warm flush as it spreads across my skin. Long lost freckles have resurfaced, sprinkling my nose and dusting my cheeks. Last night, I even snagged a pair of scissors and cut blunt bangs, a thick fringe that hangs heavy over my forehead and just skims my eyebrows.

  I am now a mirror image of the woman I used to be when I was with Hollis. I even feel like her, clad in clothes I bought this morning from Target and changed into in my car in the parking lot. My legs are bare in cut off jean shorts and my shoulders exposed in a hot pink tank top with spaghetti straps. I even bought gigantic chunky earrings just for the hell of it. The kind that are supposed to look artsy and glamorous but, when you get up close and personal, just…don’t.

  I feel giddy in this getup, like Halloween has come early and I’m pretending to be someone else, someone noteworthy enough to have a costume designed after her. Like a character from a best-selling novel or TV show. Or maybe the undercover attire of a superhero’s alter ego, like Clark Kent and his ridiculous glasses.

  But instead of imitating someone else, I’m just being…me. The real me, the one who finally ditched the costume I’ve been wearing all these years.

  I am Becca Cabot, aka Beautiful Savage.

  This nickname of Ford’s makes me smile, makes me feel like a fucking warrior queen out to right the world’s wrongs. I’m a goddamn powerhouse, a woman of steel, confident enough in my abilities that I can handle anything the cold, cold world throws my way. Righteousness fills me to the brim and victory is guaranteed without even a sliver of doubt.

  So when I look over and see Hollis’s wife sitting at a picnic table, sharing an ice cream sundae with their daughter, I don’t even hate her. I’m so high right now, so far up the emotional scale from hate, that the only feeling I can muster when I look at her is sympathy. The poor woman doesn’t have a clue about the shitstorm that’s coming her way.

  From what I’ve learned about her – and I’ve learned a lot – she’s comfortably naïve. Or gullible. Or just plain stupid.

  While Hollis does everything he can to guard his life from creepers, Mrs. Thatcher – otherwise known as Marla – does the exact opposite. She was easy to find; a simple inquiry into a Minnesota legal site gave me the name of Hollis’s wife along with the date they tied the knot. I searched Duluth’s online newspaper and discovered their daughter’s birthdate (she’s almost four), and that Marla is a special education teacher. I even drudged up an old interview she did with the paper regarding the public school’s special education program and the ways it can be improved. Her answers to the interviewer’s questions regarding the system’s lack of funds were so naïve, so damn Pollyanna, that I literally felt the gin I had for lunch rise in my throat.

  A few clicks on the keyboard later, I found her Facebook and Instagram profiles (neither of which are private) along with her Linked-In account, which I really have no interest in. Her Facebook is pretty boring, full of motivational quotes and cute-but-annoying baby videos. But her Instagram account…now that’s been a help.

  My phone buzzes, a soft tingle against my hip, and before I even fish it out of my pocket, I know who it is. The only people I associate with are the wives of Nicholas’s associates, and as I’m the boss’s wife, the duchess to the head honcho, intimidation alone causes them to steer clear of one-on-one gatherings. They would never call me, and I gave strict instructions to my executive assistant, Bernadette, not contact me unless it was an absolute emergency. And since the home staging business is pretty much trauma as well as drama free, I don’t expect to hear from her at all. The place runs just fine without me, which is how I prefer it.

  I swipe my finger across the screen and find, as expected, a message from my husband, letting me know in clipped text-speak that an emergency arose with their newest project and he needs to get to the site ASAP. He’ll be in Toronto, he assumes, for at least three weeks, maybe longer, though he can try to fly back for a quick weekend getaway if I really need him to.

  I don’t, and tell him so, writing back that I’d rather he focus on the job, get done what needs to be done, and that I’ll be completely fine at home without him. It’s not true, but it’s not a lie; it’s more of an apathic response, really. I used to care when Nicholas’s job took him away from home for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. Used to pace the floors of our renovated, mid-century modern home that felt more palatial than any place I’d ever lived before it. I practically climbed the walls waiting for him to return, even once flying the coup altogether and surprising him in Houston, where he’d already been for six weeks. But when I arrived, eager to spend the weekend with him, he showed more irritation than elation, and I ended up spending most of my time in the hotel’s pool…alone. It always annoyed him, the way I desired his attention, and eventually I stopped craving it.

  I haven’t missed him in years.

  I smile as I hit send. Tucking my phone back in my pocket, I glance over to Marla and the kid, watching as she types something into her phone. Perhaps, like me, she’s responding to a text from her husband. One that’s filled with love, with adoration, and possibly with all the ways he wants to enter her tonight in bed.

  She smiles, and a soft giggle slips past her lips, the sound floating to me on a breeze.

  Fuck it.

  I pluck my phone from my pocket again and scroll through the numbers, my thumb landing on the one Ford programmed into it a few nights ago at the bar.

  When the cat’s away, the mouse might as well play.

  Okay, I’ll admit it.

  It’s kind of cute, the way Ford’s trying to date me.

  When I rang him earlier today, it was strictly for a booty call. Just the thought of Hollis writing dirty love notes to his wife was enough to make my skin crawl. And, strangely enough, the thought also made me horny as hell. I’ve been deprived of a lover’s touch for so long that my own just isn’t cutting it anymore. So, filled with ridiculous desperation, I reached out to the only man I could think of. At that moment, sitting there on that park bench and feeling the chill of my husband’s cold indifference, I craved heat. I needed to feel the warmth of someone’s skin as it slid against my own. Needed to feel his hardness, his hunger, and know that I not only inspired it but was also the only one who could satisfy it. And for one night, for one goddamn night, I didn’t want to be in charge of my own fucking orgasm.

  I was certain that I could get him into bed this time, could dull his inhibitions with a chilled bottle of wine and a form-fitting outfit that left just enough to the imagination to make him want to rip it right off. But when I arrived at his apartment—my dress clinging to my tits and a bottle of red tucked in the crook of my arm—and smelled the most delicious aroma bleeding out into the hallway from the crack beneath his door, I immediately knew he’d put more into this night than what I was willing to deal with.

  I didn’t want dinner. I wanted a quickie, and then a longer quickie, and then another again in the morning. I wanted to witness those kind eyes of his give way to his darkest demons as he slid into me, wanted to feel the scorch of the Devil’s stare sear my flesh.

  I wanted to see Ford go dark.

  And if that wasn’t going to happen, then I had no use for him.

  But when he answered the door in his usual getup, looking all domestic with a towel slung over his shoulder a
nd his feet bare, and I saw the candlelight glow coming from the room behind him, my resolve wavered, and my urge to walk away evaporated entirely.

  I suddenly saw a man who cared enough to plan an extravagant night for a woman he barely knew, when that same woman’s husband could hardly be bothered at all.

  Ford smiled at me then, that adorably crooked smile that was both cocky and bashful, so boyish when the rest of him was all man, and something in my chest cracked open.

  I pushed him back from the door, kicked it shut with my heel, and kissed that smile right off his face.

  • • •

  “I need to turn off the oven.”

  His voice is hoarse, his chest heaving against mine, and his breath is hot on my lips when he speaks. “Just give me one second.”

  “What if I say no?” My hand is down his pants, gripping his length, feeling it grow hard against my palm. I give him a gentle squeeze, and he moans.

  He brushes a kiss over my forehead. “Then the fire alarm will go off and eventually the sprinklers, and that will ruin our entire night.” But instead of pulling away, he brings a hand up, cupping my cheek before crushing his lips to mine.

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  I’m tingly all over, haven’t been kissed like this since….since…Hollis.

  The thought of Hollis clears my head, if only a bit, and I gently push Ford back. “Go,” I say. “Go and deal with the food. We can do, um, this later.” My voice is teasing, because of course I don’t want to do this later. When our bellies are so full of whatever meal Ford cooked, and all we want to do is lounge on the couch and, I don’t know, watch Netflix or something.

  The only thing I plan to binge on tonight is Ford.

  He frowns, pulling me closer, pushing his hips into mine, which only serves to tighten my grip on him. “On second thought, maybe I don’t want to do this later, either. Maybe,” he whispers, sliding his tongue along the shell of my ear, “I want to do this right now.”