The Club, Part 1, page 1
The Club
By Clare James
Copyright © 2013 Clare James
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Stephanie Higgins. Cover imaged used under license from shutterstock.com.
Edited by Madison Seidler.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Also Available from Clare James
Chapter 1
Max has my legs in the air as he pushes into me, and I gasp for breath.
Well, this is new.
I always try to send him off on his business trips in style, but today he’s the one with all the moves. Oh my stars, he might actually get me there this time.
Please God, please deliver the O ... it’s been more than a freaking year.
“Max,” I say, without realizing it’s almost a yell.
His name echoes through the open space of our apartment, but it’s not my voice bouncing off the walls. It’s Free, our cockatoo. Free Bird. I know, completely ridiculous, but Max insisted on naming him. And Max’s romantic gestures are hard to resist—he bought the bird for me on our six-month anniversary to keep me company when he traveled. It was the same month we moved in together.
Max stares down at me, the morning light shining on his face with an expression I can’t quite understand. Pain maybe? Worry? I’m not sure what to make of it. Frankly, in the moment, I don’t care. My insides are tingling in anticipation of what he’s going to do next. Max stretches my arms over my head and locks my wrists in one of his large hands, taking his time as he rocks into me. I close my eyes at the surprisingly pleasant feeling of each movement.
It’s a goddamn revelation, and I say a silent prayer of gratitude.
Yeah, up until this precise moment, my sex life with Max has sucked balls. He knew it; I knew it. It’s just the way it is, and we’ve come to accept it because everything else in our relationship is great. Seriously great. So we deny our pissed-off libidos and go through the motions. Until this morning.
Each thrust is foreign to me. Hell, Max is foreign to me. Where has this guy been for the last year? There’s a pulling in my core, one that says he might just get me there. Yes, something is definitely off with him—in a completely delicious way.
I stare at his beautiful face: tan, chiseled, adorned with full lips. His big blue eyes close tightly now, full of concentration. My gaze travels down his strong, tight body, longing for a happy ending.
I’m climbing, climbing, legs trembling with the promise of release. He is deep and almost crazed with his movements. Then he shifts the angle, and I start to lose it.
Noooooo!
I try to turn off my mind and focus on the task at hand. I shut my eyes and go through all the scenarios that usually do the trick when I’m alone: a dirty delivery from the scrumptious UPS guy, being ravaged by the new intern at the design shop, or a gorgeous commuter taking me in the back of the ‘L’ on the way to work.
Nada.
Even my mother of all fantasies—yoga threesome—doesn’t get me there. Max has no trouble, however. He squeezes his eyes shut, grunts a few times, and rolls off me.
Shit. Fuck, fuck. Shit.
When this happened the first time, I told myself, hey no big deal. It’s all part of being in a relationship. The second time? I chalked it up to whiskey dick after too much Jesus juice at a holiday party. Once we got into the double digits, though? I started looking for an escape route.
But when I told Tia I was going to dump Max after three months, she thought I was being my typical flighty self. “You lasted longer than I thought you would.” She grinned with that knowing look covering her face.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Let’s just say you don’t have a long attention span when it comes to men. Or careers, apartments, hair color …”
“Okay, okay.” I waved my white flag. I didn’t want to hear any more. It was the same thing my parents had been telling me for years.
“It’s okay, Stevie.” Tia wrapped her arm around me. “It’s just how you are. And I love you for it.”
Of course, she was right. In the past five years I’ve had: five jobs, four apartments, six hair colors, and countless relationships that never seemed to go anywhere. It was embarrassing actually, and I didn’t want her to love me for it. I didn’t want to be that girl.
So I stuck it out with Max.
And by the time I realized our sex life was hopeless, I had already fallen in love with the shmuck. The way he could make hanging in for dinner and a movie fun; the sweet look in his eyes when I came home from work; the way he always made me feel safe and wanted. No, it wasn’t hot and heavy like I had with some guys, but it was comfort and love and security. Real grown-up stuff.
Max opens his eyes and the pain is still there. It almost kills me. This is usually the part where we slip away from each other. Where we drum up the courage to pretend there’s nothing wrong. This time, I want to be close to him—like I was for that brief moment when my orgasm stood at third base, waving me home. I want to get that connection back.
I snuggle into the crook of his neck, my favorite spot in the entire world, and run my hand along the peaks and valleys of his chest. I feel his muscles tighten under my palm. Whether it’s a good thing or not, I haven’t a clue.
“That was yummy,” I whisper, because it really was. Even without the happy ending.
Max doesn’t acknowledge my comment with words. He simply kisses the top of my head, slides off the bed, and goes into the kitchen.
Sitting up now, I have that unsettled feeling brewing in my belly. The dishes rattle as he opens and closes the cupboards, and the coffee pot gurgles to life as he prepares our breakfast—just like he always does.
But this scene feels anything but ordinary.
I throw on my ratty old robe, before going out to join him. But when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I am unexpectedly aware of how awful I look. Max always says he likes that about me—I don’t dress to impress or show off for him, and that I am completely comfortable in my own skin. This is so not the case today.
We eat breakfast in silence. Max barely glances in my direction.
“Time to shower and pack,” he says, abruptly ending a meal he’s hardly touched.
I finish my coffee and join him after he’s showered and dressed. “Can I help?” I ask. Of course I want to talk about what happened this morning. I want to know why he was all dominating and aggressive one minute and passive and quiet the next. But I know it’s too touchy of a subject, and I can’t go there. So I zip my lips and play the doting girlfriend.
“You can get me my toiletry case,” Max says with a weak smile.
I go into the bathroom and gather his toiletries for his trip, when I hear his sneezing outside the door. Poor guy. He’ll need some Claritin for his allergies. July in Chicago is miserable, and I’m sure when he gets to Cincinnati it’ll be no different. Maybe that’s what has him looking like a kicked puppy this morning.
I grab the bottle and open his toiletry bag, and that’s when I see them.
Condoms.
At least a dozen of them all linked together in a pretty row.
I stare into the bag for a minute, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Trouble is, it doesn’t make sense. We haven’t used condoms since I went on the pill. And this toiletry bag came with his new luggage set we bought last month. I let these thoughts and excuses roll in and out of my brain until his voice pulls me back.
“What’s the hold up, hon?” he asks. “Come on, I’ve got to get moving.”
When I don’t answer, he joins me in the bathroom. “What’s taking so—” He stops as his eyes reach the open bag with the row of condoms draping over the side. “Aw shit, Stevie,” he says like it’s my fault I stumbled onto his stash.
“Yeah, shit, Max,” I say to him, feeling my cheeks burn. “Care to explain?”
He shakes his head and releases a labored sigh.
Not a good sign.
“Who is she?” I ask as my stomach turns, forcing me to talk slowly, deliberately, before I throw up on his newly-polished shoes.
“Someone from the Cincinnati office.”
“Is it serious?” I make myself ask, knowing I don’t want to hear the answer. I don’t want to know any of this.
“No.” Max runs his hands through his hair. Then he admits, “I don’t know. I was trying to figure that out before I told you.”
“Do you love her?” My palms grow damp, and I bite my lip to keep it from trembling.
This is not happening.
“No, Stevie. I’ve only ever loved you.” He reaches out to me, but I recoil.
The slip of past tense isn’t lost on me, even in this state. “You have a nice way of showing it,” I spit.
“I’ve been trying—trying so hard, you have no idea.” He pounds on the bathroom counter, making me jump.
<
“And fucking someone else is helping our predicament?” I steady my shaking hands so I can pick up the row of condoms. Then I smack him with it, before launching the entire open bag at his head.
He doesn’t even try to dodge the flying debris. “I deserve that,” he says. “But I didn’t do this to hurt you. You have to believe me.” He looks around, for what I can only assume is a shovel to dig himself a deeper hole.
“Okay,” I tell him, panic lacing my voice as I watch my life crumble before my eyes. “Say no more,” I add, even though I want to beg him to stay. I don’t want him to go, knowing she will be waiting for him, whoever she is. But I know this isn’t the time for begging. Plus, I’m too numb to do anything.
“I’ll be gone by the time you get back,” I tell him without thinking. And definitely without meaning it.
I grab a suitcase from the hall closet and haul it onto the bed, waiting for him to stop me. He doesn’t. Heat rises from my chest, up my neck, and soon it becomes hard to breathe.
“I understand if that’s what you want,” he says.
Whoa, slow down. What?
I rack my brain, trying to come up with a way to undo what just happened. I don’t want to move out. I don’t want to leave Max. I can’t run away again. I want to fix it, work it out, like a grown woman would do.
“Look, I need to get to the airport, Stevie. Maybe a break will help us think through this. Find out what we really want.” He piles his stuff at the front door. “Take your time. You don’t need to rush out. But text me and let me know when you’re gone so I can have Tommy come in and feed Free.”
And you’re keeping the bird!
I will myself not to cry, but my eyes are filling, and I can hardly see. Soon, tears are spilling down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Stevie. Really. I never meant for things to end this way.”
At this point, my heart literally stops. It can’t be the end. Blood rushes to my head and the room spins. I hardly hear the door as it slams behind Max.
Once the room stops spinning, and I start breathing again, I do the ugly cry, sobbing like a three year old with the hiccups.
I roll Free’s cage into the bedroom and make sure he has food and water. “Stevie’s pretty,” he tells me, bringing a new round of tears. It was the first thing Max taught him to say.
I text Daniel in the office and tell him I’m ill. It’s not a lie; I throw up on the way to bed. Then I burrow in the covers, listening to Free’s random chatter before sleeping the day away.
Chapter 2
The next thirty-six hours are a blur of eating, drinking, and sleeping. Yes, I’m counting the hours now. When I finally get up, I immediately grab my phone and search for missed calls, missed texts, missed email.
Nothing’s been missed.
Under their own volition, my fingers begin to move across the key pad—a familiar pattern I could make in my sleep: Max’s number. My stomach clenches, and I stop mid-dial. What am I thinking? How can I call him after everything he’s done? More importantly, how can he not call to apologize? To take back everything and beg me to stay?
And that’s when I start to lose it. In my mind, he’s with the mystery woman now. He’s touching her, wanting her, pleasuring her in ways he never could with me. Because I’m cold, or frigid, or bad in bed.
He’s never made me come. Not once. And now I wonder if despite my Oscar-worthy performances, maybe he’s known all along. Lord knows that can’t be good for a man’s self-esteem.
This is fucking pathetic. I’m the one who has been stuck with a bad lay for over a year, but do you see me going out to sow my oats? No, I grin and bear it and let my battery-operated boyfriend pick up the slack in privacy like any self-respecting woman. Well, there was that one time I did it in the bathroom after he blew his load all over my ass. Classy. But after he comes, he sleeps like the dead. There’s no way he knows.
Still, here I am all alone: a twenty-four year old in bed at nine o’clock wearing worn-out Hello Kitty PJs with chocolate ice cream stains all over the front. My legs are prickly, my hair needs to be colored and conditioned, my nails are a disaster, and I swear I’ve somehow grown a muffin top overnight.
Look away, I’m hideous.
A knock rattles in my head, but with all commotion going on in there it takes me a beat to understand it’s coming from my front door. I pull my covers up over my head, willing it to stop. Then comes the yelling.
“Stevie,” a girl’s voice booms.
Tia.
“I know you’re in there, girl. Open up.”
I meet her at the door because she won’t give up until I do.
“Mother of God,” she says, assessing my pitiful condition. “What the hell happened to you?”
I open the door and she beelines to the kitchen, grabbing the vodka and two shot glasses from the freezer. Then we get comfortable on my couch and I tell her the whole story. I try to be tough, but it doesn’t work. The water works start up, and I’m a blubbering mess within minutes.
Tia goes into her planning mode. “You’ll move in with me,” she says without a second thought. “Come on, let’s pack up and get you the fuck out of here.”
“Be serious, Tia, you have a houseful already,” I say, knowing I can’t do that to her. Tia’s roommate has her boyfriend staying with them in their one-bedroom sublet. There’s no way another person could fit. Still, her offer warms me.
“But I feel responsible,” she says. “You told me things weren’t going well months ago, and I blew it off.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell her. This one is all on me.
“Okay, you don’t want to live in the freak show that is my home anyway.” She taps a finger to her temple. “I know, we’ll go to Nora’s. That’s what your big sis is for, right?” Tia reaches out, yanking on my arms to pull me up from the couch, but I can’t do it. I can’t move.
“Not yet,” I tell her. Though I’m thinking, not ever. “Daniel told me to take an extra day off because he thinks I have the flu. And I really need another day to figure this out.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Stevie,” she says, rubbing my arms.
“Max is gone all week; I have some time to work with here.”
“You sure?”
“I am,” I say to her as much as to myself.
“Okay, babe. One more day. But when I check on you tomorrow, I want you showered, packed, and ready to go.”
I nod and Tia kisses my cheek on the way out.
Surprisingly, I do feel better when she leaves. Until Free starts calling for Max in my voice. “Max, Maaaaxxx,” he mimics from the bedroom.
I grab a bottle of wine and bring Free back into the living room.
“Max is an ass,” I tell him, clinking the bottle to his cage.
He puffs out his tiny white feathers and latches onto the words. “Max is an ass,” he says over and over. And that is my soundtrack as I sit on the couch and work on my bottle of red.
It’s not long before I’m restless. I can’t handle the sound of TV or music, so I absent-mindedly flip through my magazines until a title captures my attention: “How I Got My Sexy Back in Six Easy Steps.”
Now this is something I can get behind. If there has ever been anyone in need of getting their sexy back, it’s me.
I lean back on the couch and read the list aloud:
#1—Look the part.
#2—Be assertive and confident.
#3—Get away from your normal surroundings.
#4—Flirt with a stranger.
#5—Go dancing.
#6—Have a sexual adventure.
As I read the article, one thing is glaringly true—my sexy has long left the building.
But no more.
My mind races, forming a plan. I go with it. I mean if Cosmo can’t help put my life on the right track, what can?
I finish my wine, rip the article out of the magazine, and get to work.
Chapter 3
The next morning, I’m thoroughly disgusted with myself. In the shower, I shave every last hair off my ever-loving body, do a home conditioning and color treatment on my fading blonde locks, then I paint my nails and really do it up. No shortcuts. Just because my world is falling apart, doesn’t mean I have to look like a hot mess.
