looking at me rather hopefully.
“No.” I brushed my fingers through the light hair on his mostly muscular chest, hoping to tempt him into forgetting this topic.
“Neither have I.” He lifted my hand and dropped it onto the sheets between us. “I want more, Margo. And, I think you want more, too.”
“I don’t want more.” I sat up, exasperated at this whole conversation, which I’d replayed over and over for the last several hours. “My life is perfect. Totally, perfectly perfect.”
“Is it?” His voice was oddly accusatory.
“Yes. Of course it is.”
“Funny, from what I heard, it doesn’t sound all that perfect.”
I glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Some guy from WKUP was at Jeffrey’s. Stuart, I think was his name.”
I swallowed. I should have come clean earlier. “Steward,” I said. “It’s his mother’s maiden name.”
“Doesn’t matter. He said to tell you how sorry he was.”
“For what?” I asked as innocently as I could, just in case he didn’t know what I thought he knew.
He knew.
“For your job loss.” Blue eyes bored into mine.
I paused, silently conceding a small chink in my life’s perfection. “Okay, I lost my job, but everything else is perfect, and as soon as I find a new job, it’ll be perfect again.”
“When the hell did you plan on telling me about that?” He sat up in bed, smelling vaguely of beer and cigarette smoke tinged with toothpaste.
“I planned on telling you tonight, but you threw all this on me.” When all else fails, blame someone else. “Can’t we just forget this marriage nonsense, Kevin? You don’t really want to get married. You’ve just been talking to people who happen to like it. We wouldn’t be those people.”
“Don’t you get it, Margo?” Kevin’s baby-blue eyes were pleading. “I want to take care of you.”
“I don’t need to be taken care of. I’m a grown woman.”
“Of course you do. I mean look at you.”
I glanced down at my “I Love Elvis” baby tee. “What about me?”
“Look at that.” Kevin gestured at the Elvis lamp and clock on my bedside table. “And that.” He pointed across the room at my black velvet Paint by Number portrait of Elvis. “And that.” He glowered at the blow-up doll that stood in the corner wearing the white sequined replica of Elvis’s jumpsuit I donned every year for Halloween. “You are such a child.”
He was out of his mind. How did the topic of marriage—or lack thereof—turn into “bash Margo’s Elvis collection”?
“You need a keeper, Margo. I’ve let you do your own thing, collecting all this stuff. I’ve let you play music and call it a career. ” He ground out the last word as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth, which he spat out in sarcasm. “Not that we have to worry about that any more. Maybe you can find a decent job now that you have that one out of your system.”
I sat there with my mouth hanging open. What happened to analyzing, taking over, drawing up plans? That I could have dealt with. This was just…psychotic.
Kevin waved his arms wildly, making me lean back in bed out of his reach. “I let you do what you want, whenever you want. And you continue to act like a child. Hell, you even still play with the same childhood friend.”
“Chris?” I yelped.
“Yes, Chris, ” Kevin snapped. “I mean, come on, the guy thinks skateboarding is a competitive sport. He jumps off cliffs like he’s Super Dude. He sells toys for a living.”
I finally snapped out of my shock. “Oh, and I suppose all I do is collect stuff that belonged to a dead guy and play with the radio and call it a career?”
“Yes!” Kevin flashed me a grin I wished I could punch off his face. “ Now you get it.”
I leaped out of bed before I gave in to my baser instincts. “I don’t need this,” I said. “You’ve been drinking, Kevin, and I just don’t need this crap.”
Kevin sighed and slumped onto the bed. “No, Margo, you don’t
“No.” I brushed my fingers through the light hair on his mostly muscular chest, hoping to tempt him into forgetting this topic.
“Neither have I.” He lifted my hand and dropped it onto the sheets between us. “I want more, Margo. And, I think you want more, too.”
“I don’t want more.” I sat up, exasperated at this whole conversation, which I’d replayed over and over for the last several hours. “My life is perfect. Totally, perfectly perfect.”
“Is it?” His voice was oddly accusatory.
“Yes. Of course it is.”
“Funny, from what I heard, it doesn’t sound all that perfect.”
I glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Some guy from WKUP was at Jeffrey’s. Stuart, I think was his name.”
I swallowed. I should have come clean earlier. “Steward,” I said. “It’s his mother’s maiden name.”
“Doesn’t matter. He said to tell you how sorry he was.”
“For what?” I asked as innocently as I could, just in case he didn’t know what I thought he knew.
He knew.
“For your job loss.” Blue eyes bored into mine.
I paused, silently conceding a small chink in my life’s perfection. “Okay, I lost my job, but everything else is perfect, and as soon as I find a new job, it’ll be perfect again.”
“When the hell did you plan on telling me about that?” He sat up in bed, smelling vaguely of beer and cigarette smoke tinged with toothpaste.
“I planned on telling you tonight, but you threw all this on me.” When all else fails, blame someone else. “Can’t we just forget this marriage nonsense, Kevin? You don’t really want to get married. You’ve just been talking to people who happen to like it. We wouldn’t be those people.”
“Don’t you get it, Margo?” Kevin’s baby-blue eyes were pleading. “I want to take care of you.”
“I don’t need to be taken care of. I’m a grown woman.”
“Of course you do. I mean look at you.”
I glanced down at my “I Love Elvis” baby tee. “What about me?”
“Look at that.” Kevin gestured at the Elvis lamp and clock on my bedside table. “And that.” He pointed across the room at my black velvet Paint by Number portrait of Elvis. “And that.” He glowered at the blow-up doll that stood in the corner wearing the white sequined replica of Elvis’s jumpsuit I donned every year for Halloween. “You are such a child.”
He was out of his mind. How did the topic of marriage—or lack thereof—turn into “bash Margo’s Elvis collection”?
“You need a keeper, Margo. I’ve let you do your own thing, collecting all this stuff. I’ve let you play music and call it a career. ” He ground out the last word as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth, which he spat out in sarcasm. “Not that we have to worry about that any more. Maybe you can find a decent job now that you have that one out of your system.”
I sat there with my mouth hanging open. What happened to analyzing, taking over, drawing up plans? That I could have dealt with. This was just…psychotic.
Kevin waved his arms wildly, making me lean back in bed out of his reach. “I let you do what you want, whenever you want. And you continue to act like a child. Hell, you even still play with the same childhood friend.”
“Chris?” I yelped.
“Yes, Chris, ” Kevin snapped. “I mean, come on, the guy thinks skateboarding is a competitive sport. He jumps off cliffs like he’s Super Dude. He sells toys for a living.”
I finally snapped out of my shock. “Oh, and I suppose all I do is collect stuff that belonged to a dead guy and play with the radio and call it a career?”
“Yes!” Kevin flashed me a grin I wished I could punch off his face. “ Now you get it.”
I leaped out of bed before I gave in to my baser instincts. “I don’t need this,” I said. “You’ve been drinking, Kevin, and I just don’t need this crap.”
Kevin sighed and slumped onto the bed. “No, Margo, you don’t
Similar Books
