“Fuck no.”
“Wear a black suit, Boss, and that soft pink tie in the closet and nice shoes, and a smile, and keep opening the door for her for the rest of your life, not just the first month or so. And when the babies come, you get up at night too. Ya hear? That’s how real men do it. You a real man or one of those mofos I’m gonna have to pop for making me trade women like packages, hm?”
“Goodbye.” I wave.
She slams the door. I lean on my kitchen counter and smile. Babies. A man’s gotta make those with his wife, and I wanna do whatever it takes to make the process of baby making fast and smooth.
3
At ten past eight, dressed in a black suit and a pale pink tie with glossy new leather shoes, showered, and drowning in cologne, I’m leaning against a red Mustang scanning the hotel’s busy lobby for my bride, checking my watch every now and then, noting the South Africans are late.
A million and one scenarios of what could’ve possibly gone wrong upstairs play out in my head. They all lead to the same scene, the one where I go to war with this organization over my bride. They better fucking deliver, because I want her.
Eight fifteen.
Brides are always late. I remember my late brother’s wedding and Olga being late to church because something happened with the veil over her face and when she tried fixing it, she broke two nails, a crisis that all the people in church had to wait for. They’re both gone now. Kappi and Olga. I gave the order.
I’m not good at business, which is why I hired Ivana. I am not good at people, particularly women, which is why my wife will have to communicate openly, clearly, and often, without fear. I am good at keeping my family at the top of the power chain by telling other people where I need them and what I need done.
In general, I don’t do the work. The work gets done for me, so I admit, I’m a bit out of my element here, though no less certain her and me are gonna work out.
I keep recalling the way she walked right up to me and traced my scar. Nobody has ever done that. Even now, outside, looking like a billionaire playboy in my suit and flashy car, people don’t meet my eyes and women measure the size of my erection behind my pants. Yeah, I’m hard. I’m gonna bang my wife tonight, and my wife is hot.
Someone opens the trunk of my car. What the fuck. A woman slams the trunk and walks past me. She wears a…a beige dress that looks like a medieval nun costume and covers all of her body. I think that’s my wife.
The woman gets into my car and bangs the door closed.
Hands on my hips, I stand by the trunk wondering what happened to the sweet girl I met this morning. I’ll have to ask her, no? Rounding the car, I scan the perimeter for my men positioned at places determined by different scenarios of what could go wrong with the handover, then nod my head, telling them the target’s on the move. Yes, my wife is a target.
Yes, I know I’m fucked up. But I wasn’t gonna stake this handover solely on Ivana’s word and ability to close a deal.
South Africans run the same kind of organization I do, and we’re all in the same shark tank just waiting for one of us to bleed so we can eat him and make a grab for the little fish the big shark left unprotected. I intend to protect my wife and not bleed in the process.
I sit behind the wheel, pop the engine, glance at her profile. She’s staring straight ahead, doing her best not to look at me. I could’ve worn my jeans and boots and looked normal instead of getting decked out and giving my men something to talk about for ages.
As I drive, I don’t enjoy the silence, either the comfortable or uncomfortable kind, and this is the latter one. “Thank you for agreeing to this. It means a lot to me,” I say, thinking I have no clue what the fuck I’m saying, why I’m saying it, or how billionaire playboy I sound.
I should really get out of this fucking suit lest it rub on me and I become the little fish who thinks he’s a shark. I can’t stand suits and billionaires who wear them when they come to me to make deals all because they don’t know how to handle whatever shit they got themselves into with drugs, gambling, and, less often but no less deadly, cartel business.
My bride keeps quiet.
Now, I can push or I can let her share the discomfort of this small space with me. I opt to just drive and make it home, let her make some moves first, see what’s going on in her pretty head. And she is pretty, the kind of beauty I’ve only seen in magazines. Classy ones, likePlayed. I likePlayed. “What kind of magazines do you read?” Obviously, no man readsPlayed. We are there for the pictures.
A slow move of her head, and she stares at me. I feel her eyes on my profile as I drive, so I side-eye her quickly before the urge to pull over and fuck her on top of the red hood overtakes me. I grip the wheel. “We have a monthly subscription,” I announce, really liking how I used “we” instead of “I” there.
After I conquer this pussy, I’m gonna pin a wordsmith medal on my forehead. Marriage already feels like hard labor. Just getting my wife to talk to me is laborious.
“You can pick any magazine you want. Paper delivery to our house. Our big decked-out house. Mm-hm.” It’s pretty obvious how little I’ve flirted or conversed with the opposite sex, and it’s pretty obvious my excellent conversational skills won’t get me laid. Still, I’m no quitter. “We also have twenty-four-sevenarmed security and men at your disposal. A maid I trust and you will like. A cook. Prime delivery?”
She snorts like a piglet. “You like having things delivered, I hear.”
I glance at her again, trying to read her while I’m driving. “We’re almost home.”
She tucks her hands under her thighs. I don’t know what to make of that. I liked her better when she smiled and touched me and didn’t fear me, though I’m unsure if fear is a factor now. She’s upset about the marriage, I believe, as if nobody consulted her over it, which I’m not surprised about. Men like us never ask for permission, and her father and brother never asked for it either. We’re used to having our way.
After we pass the security gates, and before we reach our single-story ranch-style house, I slow down so she can take in the splendor. It’s night, and the gardeners took extra special care with the lighting. The entire property is romantic, calm, with a big aquarium built on the side of the home. I like fish. They keep swimming.
My wife stares ahead.
