Megan Hart - Switch

Chapter 28

Not everything is meant to last forever, no matter how

much you want it to. I'd married young. Too young. And I

was grateful we'd both figured out our mistake while we

were stil young, before we had kids, before we'd tied

ourselves together for a life and had none left after we fel

apart.

I'd married him for the right reasons. I'd divorced him for

the right reasons, too. Hadn't I?

I'm watching him, and he doesn't know it. I wish he could

feel the burn of my gaze from across the bar, that

somehow my eyes alone could make him turn, but Austin's

too busy paying attention to the game and his friends and

even that brown-haired whore shaking her tits every time

he glances at her. I can't necessarily blame him for looking.

They're like two beach bals shoved into a tiny tank top.

But I don't like to watch him looking.

It's another late night for him when he should be worried

about getting up early in the morning, and another late night

for me studying for tests I know I'l pass but don't know if

passing wil matter in the end. School's been going on a

passing wil matter in the end. School's been going on a

long time, longer than I imagined it would when I decided

to go. Money's tight and even community colege costs a

lot when you have to pay rent and buy food and pay off a

car, too.

I only stopped here because I knew if I went home and he

wasn't waiting for me I'd be furious. We'd fight and then

we'd fuck, and I'm getting tired of that. I'm tired of him

teling me what to do and making me feel like shit for doing

anything else. I'm beginning to think this whole marriage

thing was a bad idea, but after only two years I don't want

to give up. I don't want everyone to laugh behind their

hands and point and whisper. Mostly I don't want to give

him up just so Miss Big Tits and Bad Extensions can get

her claws into him.

At home I shower and toss my clothes into the hamper,

and I'm making myself a sandwich when Austin comes in.

He doesn't act drunk, but when he kisses me I taste beer.

I turn my face to give him my cheek.

"What, you don't want to kiss me? Fine."

I hate it when he sulks.

He steals half my sandwich and tries to tell me about

his day, and all I want to do is go to sleep so I can get

up early and be at the shop to make the next day's

deliveries. We need the money I'll earn. I have another

tuition payment due.

I'm not listening to him, but I'm watching his mouth

move. His lips glisten with oil from the sandwich. His

tongue swipes across them. It's late, I'm tired and

annoyed, but later when he comes to bed I think of the

swipe of his tongue on his mouth and I roll over to

face him.

It's easier to fuck him in the dark, when I can pretend

he's got a different face and so do I. When we can be

different people in a different place. I can forget I'm

supposed to be in love with him and just fuck him like

he's a stranger and I don't have to ever see him again

in the morning.

Austin did cal me, but he seemed to have meant what he

said about agreeing to just be friends. I hadn't forgotten

what it was like to hang on the phone with him for hours, in

the dark, revealing every second of the day just to have a

reason to keep talking. Our current conversations were

reason to keep talking. Our current conversations were

shorter than that, but they reminded me of back then.

Things on the Eric front were more complicated. I'd seen

him a few times since our dinner date. Another dinner, out

to the movies, walks along the river. Things like that.

Conflicting schedules had made it impossible to see him al

the time. Besides, I wasn't "that" girl. The one who took

one date and turned it into a marriage proposal.

We were moving slowly, slowly. Glaciers. And that was

fine with me. I'd seen interest flicker in his eyes, watched

him watching my mouth when I spoke. Felt his fingers

tighten in mine as we walked.

I knew he was waiting for me to make the first move, or to

be told to make one, himself. I wasn't quite ready to do

either. As Paige, I was enjoying the whole taking-it-slow

thing.

As his anonymous mistress, on the other hand, I had

complete control of his life.

Each day I sat at my kitchen table with that Chinese box

open in front of me, my pen stroking that thick, creamy

paper with the touch of a lover. I didn't come from the

writing. Not quite. But each note I wrote put me into a

state of heightened awareness of every piece of me. My

fingers, closing around the pen. My palms, caressing the

paper. The inside of my wrist, my elbow, forearm pressing

the table as I wrote. My thighs, touching beneath my skirt.

I didn't come from writing the notes, but it was almost as

good as if I had.

I told him what to wear. What to pack for lunch. He had,

at last, given up smoking. I ordered him to buy me lingerie,

and I gave him the size but alowed him to choose. I had

him send it to the post-office box I rented from a branch

close to my office. I expected something in black.

Crotchless, maybe, or at least with fishnets. The soft, baby

blue satin and lace pleased me.

I let him stroke himself to orgasm for that gift.

It was time for something more now. I wasn't sure how I

knew this, just that I did the way I knew each day when I

went in to work how to gauge Paul's mood and keep him

focused on work so he didn't hassle me about the job with

Vivian.

What frightens you?

What frightens you?

I tapped the pen against the paper, then my lips.

I want to know what makes your palms sweat but gets

you hard at the same time. What frightens you because

you want it so badly?

It wasn't a question I'd have been able to answer without a

lot of thought, but that was the point. To make him think. I

sealed the note in a matching plain envelope and ran it

down to the mailboxes. Eric was working another twelve-

hour shift and I knew he wouldn't get home until after I'd

gone to bed, but I didn't want to get up early to deliver it,

either.

I went online to pay bils and make some changes to my

Connex account. I hadn't been on it in weeks and had a

page of friend requests to approve and friends' list entries

to scrol through. Nothing terribly interesting, since the

people I knew from home were stil doing what they'd

been doing when I left.

Even so, I got sucked into watching a series of "ghost-

sighting" videos and "true alien abductions," and so I was awake when my phone hummed and a new text message

awake when my phone hummed and a new text message

came through.

I'm afraid of being owned.

Not of being "pwnd" which was something else altogether.

I sat back, the computer forgotten, my heart thundering in

my ears and my mouth tasting something like honey al at

once. It was the sweetness of anticipation. Expectation.

He was afraid of being owned.

So that's exactly what I gave him.

I found it in one of the kiosks in the center of the mal. It

sold hair barrettes of tooled leather, belts, along with

necklaces of cord and beads. And there, hanging

unobtrusively on a rack with a slew of others that didn't

even turn my head, was the bracelet.

Flat black leather about an inch wide, fastened with a

snap. It was the sort worn by teenage emo or skater boys

and could be tooled with any number of phrases or

designs.

"Help you?" The boy in skinny jeans and high-tops leaned

"Help you?" The boy in skinny jeans and high-tops leaned

around the kiosk to catch my eye.

I lifted the bracelet. "I'd like this."

He looked at me through the fringe of his long bangs.

Bangs on boys. There was a fashion statement I was

helplessly squishy over. "Want something on it? A name or

something?"

He flipped open a rack of designs to show me my choices.

I looked through rows of stylized hearts, flowers and fonts.

I touched a simple, elegant alphabet.

"I was thinking…the word slave."

That perked his interest. "For you?"

I laughed. "Oh, no."

"Sweet." He gave the word two sylables.

"You think?" My fingers stroked the stiff leather. It would circle his wrist like a cuff.

I tested it on my own and noted how the edge cut a little

into my skin when I shifted. Not enough to hurt, but I

into my skin when I shifted. Not enough to hurt, but I

knew it was there. I handed it to Emoboy, who took it

over to the machine that stamped the letters. Idly, I flipped

through the rack of designs while he fiddled with buttons

and adjusted the bracelet inside the grips holding it stil.

Then I saw it. "Wait."

He looked up, one finger on the button that would start the

machine. "Huh?"

I gestured for him to come over, and he did, and I pointed

at the picture on the menu. "I want this, instead."

He grinned, then nodded. "No problem."

It took him a minute to adjust the settings and another for

the machine to stamp the leather. When it was done, he

handed it to me with the black leather scarred into the

design I'd chosen. A rose, the stem and thorns made of

barbed wire.

Simple. Elegant. And far more subtle than the word slave,

which didn't feel right, anyway.

"Here you go." He handed me a bag with the bracelet

inside. "Enjoy it."

inside. "Enjoy it."

Enjoy wasn't exactly the word I'd have chosen, but I took

the bag with a smile. Our hands touched, and he grinned.

He knew nothing about me, but he thought he did. And I

discovered I didn't care.

I don't think there's a woman alive who doesn't understand

how the right clothes can entirely change a situation. Under

my simple summer skirt and casual T-shirt I wore the bra

and panties Eric had bought for and sent to his mistress.

The lace and satin clung to my skin and reminded me with

every step how it felt to be desirable.

Of course, none of that showed on the surface. I met him

in the lobby as had become our habit on these semi-dates,

and he greeted me with a smile and a half hug. He wore a

long-sleeved Henley shirt, but when the sleeve rode up I

saw the flat leather strap of his bracelet. The one I'd sent

him. The one that marked him as mine.

"Ready to go?" Eric held the door open for me and we

both went out into the warm spring evening air.

"Starving," I said. "I had my windows open and could

smel the funnel cakes al the way upstairs."

smel the funnel cakes al the way upstairs."

He patted his stomach. "We'l stop there first."

Al along the riverfront, stands had been set up for the first

summer festival. Some sold handmade arts and crafts,

others boasted displays from local companies. Some had

games, the prizes cheap things like water bottles

emblazoned with the names of banks and restaurants. As

summer festivals went, it was one of the less glorious, but

al that realy mattered to me was the food.

Stal after stal of greasy, delicious fair food. Corn dogs,

ice cream, French fries and vinegar to go with them. My

stomach let out a loud, obnoxious rumble as we crossed

Front Street to get to the sidewalk on the other side and

headed to the left to walk about a quarter mile to reach the

rows of booths. Music from one of the local radio stations

blared from a huge boom box set up on a trailer. Morning-

show personalities handed out T-shirts, mugs and key

chains as we passed.