Don't Mess With The Rock Chicks

Chapter 6

　　The agent had suggested she set up the spare room to look like a dual function zone. Possibly office, possibly bedroom. It would improve saleability she had said. The work involved in doing so was daunting. She would have to re-arrange the furniture, find a single bed or daybed she could borrow from someone…

　　“Screw that,” Emily closed the door behind her. Why should she go to the effort when Owen was not? Why should she put in the work to earn him better money in a sale? Why should she spend her suddenly incredible ample free time working for him, whilst he mucked around with his band next door, probably f-king Cordelia on his sleeping bag…

　　She was too angry to cry again. The anger was good, she told herself. She could get things done, angry. She took a notepad and pen to the kitchen and crossed off wedding venue as she programmed a reminder into her phone to check that the deposit went into the account as promised, and she started a new list to finalise her break up with Owen.

　　By the time the ugly, beaten-up cars that crowded the pretty little street began to pull away, and Owen knocked on her front door, she had ordered pizza, opened a bottle of wine, and had two lists lined up on the coffee table.

　　“Wow,” he said, shrugging out of the leather jacket as he entered. “We could use your skills for the band.”

　　“Shall we start at the top?” She was curt as she took her seat, pressing herself tightly against the arm of the couch, her knees tight and her ankle bones digging into each other, physically holding herself together as if doing so would hold her emotionally intact.

　　“Sure,” he said warily, sitting on the couch next to her, sitting close not out of desire for proximity but because it was practical in order to go through the lists with her, she knew. “You seem… mad.”

　　“Mad?” She repeated. “Why would I be mad? I have just spent twenty-two years of my life believing I loved someone and was loved back, only to find out that it was a lie, and now the future we had planned together, the future I had dreamed about, is gone, along with my best friend and my fiancé, and in his place is a stranger.”

　　“Em,” he put his arm around her shoulders, tugging her out of her tight corner and against him. The feel of him against her, the scent of his aftershave and skin, almost undid her grasp on her emotions. “I am not a stranger. I am still me.”

　　She shrugged his arm off before he broke her and picked up the list defensively. “Let’s start with the houses. This one belongs to you. That one belongs to me. You want to sell this one fine. I want to live in mine. Let’s swap back.”

　　“Em,” he protested gently, as if she were being unreasonable. “There are no furnishings in that one. It makes sense for you to stay here, where you are comfortable, and the furniture is.”

　　“The furniture can move over,” she pointed out stubbornly.

　　“And then this house will be bare for showing, which the agent says isn’t as good as having our furniture here,” there was a hint of irritability in his voice. She was being difficult, that tone said, on purpose, out of meanspirited, small-minded spite.

　　“And what happens when the house sells?”

　　He was silent for a moment. “I guess we will share, until the band begins to tour.”

　　“Not going to work for me,” she replied. “I still live a normal life with normal hours. I don’t want a band playing in my lounge room, nor your band friends coming and going.” Or to perhaps hear him f-king someone else in the spare room, having to share the kitchen and living areas with her ex-fiance’s new girlfriend… “No.”

　　“Look,” he ran his hands through his hair. “We will worry about that if it happens. Let’s not argue about something that might never be a problem.”

　　“Fine then. The credit card.”

　　He grimaced. “Yes?”

　　“I will take that on, as balance for the renovations in my house being finished.”

　　“There is just the floating floor to lay, and I am sure I can get that done,” he was relieved that she was being reasonable after all. “So, thanks.”

　　“The wedding deposits,” she said. “If I manage to get refunds, they will come to about eight grand.”

　　“Great,” he grinned. “That will be handy.”

　　It hurt that he felt so little about the cancellation of their wedding that she had to take a moment, staring at the list before her blindly, the letter incomprehensible and shifting on the page behind the liquid of unshed tears. She was not entirely sure that she could continue, for a moment. She desperately wanted not to cry during their conversation, to hold on to the anger that had fuelled her throughout the afternoon.

　　“I have transferred half the money from our joint savings account,” she managed, her throat tight and voice hoarse. “I suggest you do the same, and we will close the account.”

　　He drew in a breath. “You have really thought this through.”

　　“What did you expect me to do?” She retorted, taking a mouthful of wine, to wash away the sour taste of pain. “I will give you all of the wedding deposits, in return for the furniture and all the other bits and pieces in the house all being mine.”

　　“Fair enough.”

　　She took out the little black boxes that had meant so much, the discrete black felt hiding the promise of a future contained within, a promise that had been broken and would now never come to fruition. Little boxes, she thought, containing the pieces of her heart. An engagement ring in one and the wedding bands in the other.

　　It had hurt to remove the engagement ring. Perhaps because she had been so overwrought doing it, the ring had not wanted to come off, the finger seeming to swell around it. She had all but torn the skin trying to get it off, before spending twenty tearful minutes on the internet reading the various advice articles about removing rings that had become stuck on fingers. She had soaked her hand in ice water, crying bitter tears into the bowl, and then, with a little olive oil, had managed to remove it.

　　“I will sell these,” she said, swallowing hard. “And we can split the money. We bought them together.” A tear slipped free and wound its way down her cheek.

　　“Em,” he put his hand on her back and leaned his forehead to rest on the top of her head. “Em…”

　　She turned her face towards him out of habit, out of instinct, and he leaned down brushing his lips over hers. For a moment, he lingered, his breath on her lips, and then he closed the distance between their mouths again, his lips hot and his tongue coaxing its way into her mouth and tangling with hers, the kiss quickly building heat until she thought they would ignite under it.

　　When had they last kissed properly? she wondered. Had it really been so long she could not remember? When they had bought the house, they had barely been able to keep their hands off each other. When they had bought the couch they had f-ked on it and then spent hours making out and talking about their dreams for the future. But, somewhere along the line, between the renovations, their work, commuting, domestic chores, and all the detritus of life that passion had faded off… How had their kisses been relegated to closed mouth, polite pecks without them noticing?

　　She reached out for him, her fingers tangling in the over-grown curls of his hair, feeling the silken slip of them, the way they wrapped around her fingers, as he lifted her onto his lap, so that she straddled him. His lips travelled from hers, his stubble a pleasant masculine scratch against her skin, down the column of her neck, to the opening of her shirt, and back, and she arched into it, craving his touch, feeling his lips against her skin like a brand. There was a sense of urgency behind their touches and an edge of anger and hurt that burnt behind the desire.

　　“Owen,” it was a plea, but for what, she was not sure.

　　She heard her seam of the split of her skirt tear as he shifted so she was under him on the couch, and he shrugged, grabbing the material and shredding it to the waistband. She gasped in surprise but did not protest. The brutality of the action, the lust that drove it, made her heart race, as did the slightly feral look upon his face as he did it, as if he was discarding any politeness between them.

　　Her underwear shredded beneath his fingers, the lace giving easily, and she cried out as he tugged her to the edge of the couch and dropped to his knees, exposing her to his mouth. She arched into the stroke of his tongue against her flesh, his touch demanding and not gentle, pushing her to the boundaries of her tolerance, almost overstimulating her senses.

　　“Oh, f-k.” She loved it, loved the wildness of him, the feast of his desire, the uncompromising way he was taking what he wanted from her.

　　When had they last done this? She could not remember that either. s*x had become something structured and organised, as predictable as brushing teeth. Something that took place in the darkness in the minutes between turning out the light and sleep unless it was relegated to tomorrow because they were too tired or just could not be bothered. As her fingers closed in his hair, she realised what a shame that was.

　　He lifted over her, meeting her mouth with his. His lips were wet, and his tongue stroked against hers. He groaned, and she knew it was as much from the thought of them sharing the flavour of her between them as anything else, the wickedness of it thrilling. He reached between them to release his jeans, crying out against her lips as he lifted her hips to meet his as he thrusted into her.

　　She found his skin beneath the top she had not quite managed to strip from him, stroking along the smooth silk of his flesh, to feel his muscles bunch and relax as he pounded into her. His kisses were breathless and erratic, as his attention focussed lower. He swore, the cords of his neck and the muscles of his arms standing out as he shifted his grip and increased pace.

　　The rhythm of his body against hers, the demand of it, swept her away. She clung to him, sobbing out her moans, the sound of his flesh striking against hers a wickedly wanton percussion for the harmony of her voice.

　　They were not making love, she thought, they were f-king. But then, they had stopped making love a long time before and perhaps this was better, because at least it had colour and energy behind it. At least he could not call it beige.

　　“Yes,” he ground out between his teeth. “Yes, Emily, come for me.”

　　She did; and could not remember when the last time she had come during s*x with him was. Orgasms had become something snatched in private moments in the bathroom with her vibrator, not shared with him. Their s*x had become… obligatory. Mandatory. Mechanical.

　　He cried out as she tightened around him, and she felt the pulse of him within her before he collapsed over her heavily. His skin beneath the palm of her hands was damp with sweat, and his heartbeat erratically and heavily against his ribs as he caught his breath, his lips against the skin of her throat and his face lost in the tangle of her hair.

　　He moaned out another curse word. “Where did that come from?” He wondered, sounding as bewildered as she felt.

　　“I don’t know,” she was taken aback and a little embarrassed. “I liked it though.”

　　He laughed, a little wildly, unsteadily, as caught by surprise as she was.