Detachment Ch. 06-10

Chapter 6

Kylie

Monday (Week 3 of the new job)

Bath bombs, some lavender candles, soft music—that's how I choose to spend the nine o'clock hour before Travis gets home.

The steamy water is finally nearing the top of the bathtub, so I cut off the faucet, light the candles, then switch off the lights. On the way to the tub, I strip then toss my panties and pajamas over to the laundry basket as I step into the bath.

"Ahh," I moan as I ease on down into the hot water, laying back and sinking lower until my shoulders are submerged. "Oh yeah..."

Without wasting any more time, I grab a bath bomb from the basket beside me and plop it in. Another moan escapes me as the water fizzes around me, making my skin tingle while coaxing my muscles to relax. I take a slow deep breath of the lavender and chamomile goodness swirling around me then exhale slowly.

I needed this. Not because work is stressing me out like it used to or anything. With one week of training and one week of actually executing my job duties now under my belt, today was busy, but manageable. Far from stressful. It's my home-life that's been taxing on me.

Saturday was actually civil, and relatively uneventful. Rainy weather forced us to cancel our plans to spend the afternoon downtown, which meant date night changed to ordering Thai and cuddling up to start binging Easy on Netflix. Watching the one episode where the actress's friend fucks her against the living room window spurred me to slide a hand into Travis's pants—an attempt at mending our turbulent, sexless streak with some good old-fashioned TLC. Travis took the bait and then plowed me into the armrest real good, spilling his seed in me only to pull out and get dressed without even cuddling for a little bit afterwards.

How foolish it was of me to think that a lovemaking session would lead to me waking to a warm, fuzzy Travis on Sunday morning. My husband woke up and shrugged me off when I tried to get him to cuddle. He just absolutely had to eat and get some coffee right away before he got a headache... And, just like that, it was back to our old, dysfunctional rhythm. Annoyed, I kept my distance all morning. Bickering ensued that afternoon because it was his day to cook but he asked me to make something because the Pats game was on...

When I asked for him to help me because my hands were dirty, all I got was, "Just make yourself useful for once, Kylie. Please." After I started complaining, he was all, "Can we not do this while the game's on?" Then he turned the volume up and ignored me.

Fingers crossed that getting pregnant will give him a reason to treat me better...

Sure, Sunday sucked, but that's only part of why I wanted to bath bomb it up tonight. The other reason is because my muscles are all achy after finally caving and joining in on Marcus's workout session. Also, I'm just in desperate need of pampering.

Eyes still closed, I massage my sore legs one at a time, thinking back to the exercise routine we did together. I smile to myself as I replay him dancing like a goof between lunges and squat reps.

As I work my way up to my inner thigh, a carnal urge pulses between my legs. The scents, the tingling all across my body, remembering the nights when Travis used to come home from work and drill me like he did Saturday—they all contribute to my spontaneous arousal. For whatever reason, baths have a way of getting me riled up. Probably because this is usually when I'm most relaxed. And since I tend to only use that showerhead of ours for pleasure when I'm home alone and lying in the bath, I think I just associate soaking with self-stimulation...

When my finger wanders to my clit, a memory far steamier than this bathwater flickers in my mind—a flashback to a night that I haven't thought about in forever, one that I forbade myself from drudging up from my subconscious ever again.

"Ugh... Why...?" I lift my arms out of the water and rest them on the edges of the tub, unable to continue jilling-off in good conscience.

***

Knowing Travis is going to bitch about the water bill after finding out that I used all this water just for a soak, I climb out of the tub at 9:50 and drain the evidence. As I'm drying off, the front door lock thuds and I jump like a startled cat. The door opens a moment later, then there's the distinct jingle of Travis's keys before the door shuts quietly.

"Trav?" I call out.

"Hey, babe!"

I slip on the sea green robe that Travis gave me for Christmas last year. "What are you doing home so early?"

"Don't sound so excited..." he snaps back.

I just roll my eyes, pulling on my lacey panties that I'm hoping he'll tug down soon.

"If you listened to me for once, you'd remember that I had to go in early to put on a sample run for rush testing..."

I sigh. He just walked in and he's already giving me shit. "Yeah, but I thought they'd still make you work overtime."

He doesn't respond to that.

I shimmy into my leggings then slip on my socks before leaving the carpeted bedroom for the cold wooden floors. "How was your day, babe?" I say with a smile, vigorously drying off my knotted hair. "Is your experiment going to pass or whatever?" I curl up on the couch and pull the throw blanket over me.

"Today was the same as usual..." he groans annoyedly, too focused on removing his lunch container from his backpack to even look at me. "The run was passing before I left. I'm hoping I won't have to retest tomorrow because the prep was a bitch." He sets his lunch container in the sink, squirts some soap into it, then fills it with water so it can soak. Now he inspects the unplugged slow cooker as he opens the fridge.

Shit... I knew I forgot something.

"Didn't you say you were making chili today...?"

"Sorry, I... didn't feel like cooking today..." Guilt pangs in my tummy from lying.

"You've got a cushy job now where you can watch TV in your downtime and you're done working by like three or four every day... Yet you still don't want to do anything when you get home that early? Unbelievable, woman." He flashes a snide smile.

Useless, that's basically what he's saying...

"I ate over at Marcus's, so I figured you could just have my leftovers from Sunday tonight. That way I could cook tomorrow instead and have those leftovers last until Thursday," is what I say. Because responding with, "Sorry, I was watching a movie with Marcus until eight and pretty much jumped in the bath as soon as I walked in," doesn't seem like an acceptable response right now... Or ever.

"That's fine." He places the grilled chicken in the oven to reheat, because he hates microwaved meat. So does Marcus. Phone in hand, he drags his feet over to me, kisses me on top of the head like it's a chore, then flops down into his recliner, reaching for the remote and clicking on the TV after. He clicks through the DVR then puts on that Westworld HBO show I can't seem to get into.

"My day was fine. Thanks for asking," I mutter.

He side-eyes me. "Huh?"

He didn't even hear me... "Nothing." I slink back into the room.

After hanging up my robe to dry, I pull on my grey Henley sleep top then get to work blow-drying and combing my hair. By the time I return to my spot on the couch, I'm feeling petty. Why? Because he came in all snappy and now he's not even acknowledging my presence. I try getting into the show with him, but I haven't the slightest idea of what's going on. To make matters worse, I'm stuck watching this show and he's over there on his damn phone.

"Trav, can we watch something else, please?"

"No."

"But you're not even watching... You're on your phone."

"I'm listening. Nothing exciting is happening."

I roll my eyes. "I could have sworn we said we were going to try to talk more after work, but here you are coming right in and ignoring me for this boring show."

"We talked, like, all weekend, Kylie..." he snaps, pausing the show. "Is there something new you want to talk about?"

"No, but that's not the point..."

"Well, then you're just being annoying for no reason..."

I fold my arms and tilt my head. "Oh, so I'm annoying now?"

"Yes. You're being annoying... I spent all day getting talked at while I was trying to work and getting bitched at while I was at my desk. And I spent all day yapping to people. All I want to do right now is relax and watch my show in peace tonight before the internet spoils this episode for me. Is that okay?"

One of my earliest memories of my father bubbles to the forefront of my mind. I was four and it was a chilly fall evening like this one. I spent all day playing with my mom after she got back from a long day of bussing tables. Later that evening, she fell asleep watching TV with me, so I went to the living room where dear ol' dad was watching hockey while trying to finish his bottle of Evan Williams bourbon.

"Daddy, come read me a bedtime story!" I asked.

He just brushed me off.

I kept tugging at his arm, jumping up and down. "Daddy, read to me!" I begged, still tugging. "Please? Pretty please? Please!"

That's when he swatted at me, damn near knocking me over. "Stop it, girl! You're being annoying as all hell right now! Quit being a pain in my ass and go to bed, would ya?!"

I rub the back of my neck as I rise from the couch, trying to knead out the tenseness flaring around my spine. "Fine. Un-pause it. I'll just watch Netflix on my tablet."

Travis un-pauses his show the second I step into the room. Then the oven beeps and it's paused again.

His heavy steps thump into the kitchen. "Hey, did you tell Marcus you need off Friday?" Ruckus follows as he removes a plate from the cabinet.

"What's happening Friday?" I ask as I power on the tablet and crawl under the covers.

He stops at the bedroom door. "Seriously?"

I can't help but looking as annoyed as he does. "Seriously."

"It's my mom's fiftieth birthday... Everyone's going over to spend the weekend with her."

Travis's mom hates me. Well, she doesn't hate me, but she's always nagging at me. I guess she does that to everybody, including her son. It's obvious where he gets it from. She often ruins every get-together with her neediness and constant complaining. When Travis is in her company, he tends to get even more testy than normal. Needless to say, summer weekends and holidays with his family are often very stressful for me. I can only imagine how things will be this time around with him being so on edge...

I don't even want to put up with him right now, so I can't even fathom committing to a double dose of this stress. Not while we're in a rough patch.

"This weekend is the indie writer's conference in Manhattan," I say. "It starts Friday... I told Marcus I'd go with him." That's a lie. Marcus invited me last week but said my attendance wasn't mandatory. I told him I'd talk to Travis about it and let him know.

"You're not even a writer, you're an assistant..."

I arch my brow. "And he needs assistance..."

"Doing what? What can't the successful businessman do without you..."

"He needs help recruiting new authors and pitching future marketing services to self-published authors. Also, going benefits me too. There's an Authorpreneur Masterclass I'd like to take so I can help more on the business end..."

"I'm not showing up without my wife, Kylie..."

"I'm getting paid to go to New York City, network, and beef up my resume. That sounds much more enticing than dealing with your mom nitpicking everything I do for three days."

"She nitpicks everything I do too! But she's family. She became your family when you married me. You knew what you were getting into."

I sit up. "I knew what I was getting with her, but I didn't know I was going to be snapped at daily by my husband."

"I do not snap at you every day..."

"Oh, really? It's frequent enough that it sure feels like every day..." I sass.

"Well, maybe if you were better at being a wife, I wouldn't have reasons to keep getting upset..." His voice is elevated now.

I flinch like that hit to my crumbling self-esteem was a blow in the stomach. I can't take any more of this, I think as my eyes instantly flood with tears.

"Sorry I'm always such a shit wife, Travis!" I hurl a pillow at him.

"Are you seriously crying right now?!" he shouts.

Of course he couldn't just say sorry. I guess he wouldn't apologize if he meant what he said. I turn away and lay down, facing the wall as I hug a pillow. "Leave me alone please..."

"Kylie..."

"Travis, I don't feel like talking right now, okay?" I say softly, unable to keep my voice from trembling. "Go watch your show..."

He stomps over to the recliner without a word. Shortly after the show resumes, the volume goes up.

Dick...

It takes everything to force myself out of bed to shut the door. When I crawl back under the covers, I don't even put on Netflix. I wipe away my tears, grab my phone and open the conversation with Marcus.

Me: Hey, it's not too late to get another ticket to the conference, is it?

Chapter 7

Marcus

Thursday

It's 9:52 p.m. when we pull up to the front of the hotel. Like me, Kylie hates flying, so neither of us minded the nearly four-hour-long road trip. Traffic sucked leaving Boston, but it was nothing compared to the Manhattan commuter traffic that we would've put up with had we left tomorrow morning before Business for Authors Masterclass kicked off.

Before Kylie even gets the chance to gather up the items she removed from her purse, I jog around the side of the Crosstrek to open the door for her. Even though a bright smile stretches across her face, there's still something sad in her eyes—there's still something off. It's a look I've seen in the mirror so many times over the last three years. The look of someone detaching to stop the hurt. And it's bothering me that she's been like this since Tuesday and won't tell me what's wrong.

"Why thank you!" she says, adjusting the belt of her navy blue peacoat. "My boss is such a gentleman."

"You're off the clock. We're strictly friends between the hours of 4:00 p.m. and 8:00 a.m." I smirk, lifting my suitcase out of the trunk.

"Um, I didn't hear you say best before the word friends..."

It takes a little more effort to hoist up her much larger suitcase. "I'm sorry. Best friends."

She tosses her curlier than normal hair back then tilts her nose up to the sky like she's some stuck-up, native New Yorker WASP. "That's more like it..."

"Thirty seconds of breathing Midtown Manhattan air and you're already a snob," I say with a grin.

"Forgive me. Since working for my new, classy boss, I've developed a taste for a certain standard of living."

I snicker, nudging her. "Oh, whatever." I reach for the luggage she's wheeling behind her. "How about you go see if our table's ready? If it is, I'll check in and take our things up to the room while you put in a food order. And drinks. Sound good?"

"You sure? I can help you."

I wave her off. "I'm good. This place is booked, so I don't wanna risk us showing up a few seconds late if there's a chance that they'll give our table to someone else."

She rubs her stomach. "Can't argue with that." She hands over her luggage. "What are you in the mood for?"

"You know what I like," I respond as I start toward the concierge desk.

"I still don't know why you put so much faith in me!"

I turn to her. "Because I trust you!"

With her eyes squeezed shut, she grins, twirls around, then heads in the direction of New York Central restaurant. For the life of me, I can't stop myself from watching her walk away until she disappears into the crowd. Not that this is anything new. Despite my best efforts, I've been sneaking a lot of peeks lately, especially when she works out with me. And I don't just mean I can't stop staring at her ass either. Throughout the day, my gaze is constantly wandering over to her eyes, her face, her hair. As the days go by, I find myself growing more and more attracted to her, and not just physically, either...

Thankfully, there's one person ahead of me by the time I get in line for the concierge desk, and they pretty much get their key right after I stand behind them.

The man behind the counter nods. "Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Grand Hyatt. How may I help you?"

"Marcus Jones. Here to check in."

The bald man types away at the computer. "Let me guess, you're here for the Indie Fest, too?"

"That I am."

There's a gasp behind me. "Samesies!"

I glance back over my shoulder and find a beautiful, brown-skinned girl with dark hair that's draped over her shoulders and hanging down to the belt of her black wool trench coat. "Oh yeah?!" I say with a grin. "Awesome! Author or aspiring author?"

"Author, as of July!" she says, shimmying side to side excitedly.

"Well, congrats! January for me!"

"That's great! Congratulations to you, too!"

"Sir," the man behind the desk says. "May I have your license?"

I fish out my wallet. After fighting to get my ID out of the flap, I hand it over. "What's your genre?" I ask the girl.

"High fantasy with Hindi mystical elements. Think Game of Thrones but with chakra instead of magic, sultans, and Asian mythological creatures!"

"Um, that sounds frickin' amazing!"

"Thanks." She partially bows. "What's yours?"

The concierge clears his throat. "And how many keys, Mr. Jones?"

I take back my license, holding up two fingers. "Thrillers. Nothing as interesting as what you write, I'm sure." I smile, turning back to the man. "Excuse me, can you check if there are any cancelations tonight? My assistant decided to join me last minute and there were no rooms available last I checked."

"One moment," he says.

"Oh, an assistant, huh?" The girl says, standing beside me. "Wow, you must be making some bestseller money to be able to afford that!"

I shake my head. "Not bragging, but maybe I did hit Amazon bestseller in March. But it was another business venture that paid for the assistant."

"Please tell me you're giving a keynote speech or a masterclass this weekend..."

I laugh. "Nope."

"Pardon me," the man says. "I'm afraid there have not been any cancelations tonight, but there has been one for a Junior Suite tomorrow and Saturday night."

"Perfect! I'll take both nights then." I hand him my business credit card.

"And all this time, people have been telling me that authors are usually broke," the girl says. "One-hundred percent of the authors I met tonight are Bruce Wayne."

That makes me chuckle. "I'm far from Bruce Wayne."

"Here you go, sir," the concierge says, handing me a card holder stuffed with two keys. The room number is scribbled on the front.

"Thanks!" I step to the side. "Listen, I'd like to hear more about your book. I'm going to grab dinner here then go to the Lounge for drinks, if you'd like to join us."

"Senna Singh," the girl says to the concierge as she hands him her ID, turning to me after. "I would, but I'm beat. I left work and drove here all the way from Massachusetts."

"No way! I live outside of Boston."

"What?! I from Wakefield! What are the odds?"

"Slim to none."

"Seriously..."

"Well... Senna, was it?"

"Yup!" She extends her hand. "And... Marcus?"

I nod, shaking her hand. "Yup! Nice to meet you!"

"A pleasure meeting you, as well!"

"Is it too soon to suggest that we exchange contact information so we meet up at some point during the convention?"