Marital Bitch (Men with Badges) - By Jc Emery Page 0,30
like more. This is more than a couple of drunken friends. This is more than two teenagers fumbling through the motions after prom. This is more than a dare. This is plain, unfiltered need.
Our bodies bump and grind against one another, one of his hands dipping underneath the cotton shirt and traveling up my naked skin where he kneads my bare breast. I can barely contain myself. His hands, rough against my skin, are nothing like the hands of the men I am used to dating. They’re the hands of a man who works hard for what he has. They’re the hands of a man who takes pride in what he does. The rough, calloused skin flicks my nipple causing me to buck against him.
Feeling emboldened, I reach down for his boxers to yank them off when Brad’s house phone rings. We ignore it but our movements falter as we try to keep the rhythm going. The ringing is distracting but we do our best to block it out. The portable is across the room, sitting in its dock. It’s too far. I might combust if he moves to answer it. The ringing persists and the answering machine picks up. My mother’s voice stops us dead in our tracks.
“Colleen, Bradley… kids… I’m so sorry to distract you,” she sounds sweet as she leaves the message. Too sweet. “Especially if you’re….” and she whispers, “Having marital relations,” and I swear I hear Emily giggle in the background. “But Colleen, darling, that Michael Nate from your work. He called your father and I. He said you were supposed to be in court this morning. He’s worried about you.” I don’t hear the rest of her message.
I push Brad off me and fly out of the bed, damp with need, panting, and in search of the clock. I find it. On the nightstand on the other side of the bed, the alarm clock reads 11:57 A.M. I don’t remember having to be in court this morning, but I did have to be in the office. How in the hell did I sleep in? Why in the hell didn’t my Blackberry wake me up? What the hell is Thomas doing calling my parents? All these thoughts are combating with the one clouding my every thought. What the hell was I about to do with Brad?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
(Colleen)
I’m going to try.
IT TAKES ME approximately eleven minutes to clean up and get changed into something more acceptable than damp boxers and a wrinkled Red Sox t-shirt. All of the clothes I have with me are pretty casual, but I don’t have time to make it to my condo before going to the office.
I’m in so much trouble. So, so screwed, and not the kind I wanted to be.
I put on my white sundress that I wore the other day and rush around looking for my mobile phone. Brad comes down after using the bathroom. We haven’t spoken since my mother’s phone call. He watches me as I sift through the sofas for my mobile. I divert my attention, uneasy under his gaze. I don’t want him to tell me that being intimate is a mistake. I don’t want to be rejected. But above that, the most pressing issue is that I don’t want to be fired. Finally, I crack.
“Have you seen my phone?” I practically beg as I toss cushions aside.
“Yeah,” Brad scratches his head, yawns, and casually walks over to the kitchen. I practically leap over the discarded cushions as I race for the kitchen. Brad picks my phone up and tosses it to me. I catch it mid-sprint. The battery is dead. I run to my luggage and pull out my charger, plugging it into the nearest outlet. I wait with bated breath as it slowly comes to life.
“You want coffee?” Brad hollers over the repetitive dinging of my Blackberry’s alerts. I’m too focused to answer him. 28, 29, 30, 31… Thirty-five one text messages, eight voice mail messages, and fourteen e-mail messages; and my palms are sweaty. What have I done? First I check my text messages: one from James telling us to make him an uncle; one from Darla telling us to ignore James, he’s drunk; four from Emily telling me that we need to get together soon; and twenty five from Thomas Nate. I am so screwed.
The first message from Thomas was sent last night just after he left the party. He needed help in court this morning. The next five are