“Nothing to worry about, then. Carry on.”
“He’s a client, Mikhail. A rich client who brings in more rich clients I wanna keep. You put a dent in his face.”
“That’s gonna give him character.” Yakuzas have strong jaws like dragons. Big teeth and all. He’s on brand now.
Two men carry the billionaire over to me. He’s holding ice to his cheek that’s the size of a watermelon right now. I can’t see out of one eye, so I’m sure I’m looking just as hot as this dude. He extends a fisted hand. “Awesome.”
Awesome? God, I’m old. “Awesome.” I fist-bump him. “Did you get the message?”
“Got it, but nobody else will.”
I push aside the two guys holding me and crack my neck. “Bring them, then.”
They carry him away as he throws over his shoulder, “She’s not wearing a ring.”
I stare at him, and then curse because my eye starts twitching like crazy. I’m sure one of the nerves got pinched. I never bought her a ring, and what’s worse, it didn’t even cross my mind to get one.
My wife’sin the kitchen getting me ice while I sprawl on the couch, aching bones and all. I swear to God forties suck when one still feels twenty-five at heart. I am not twenty-five, and neither is my pretty wife, though she’s much closer to that small number than I.
I scoot over so she can sit, my hand immediately landing on her thigh. I grip it like the caveman I am, swiping my thumb back and forth over her smooth skin while she gently places a pack Morgan must’ve given her over my eye and holds it there, giving me one of those looks my mom used to give me when I was boy and got into trouble.
Mom used to hide me from Dad too. Under the cupboards in the kitchen. Eh, those were some good days even when they were bad, and they were never as bad as that one day when I realized my dad and brother got with the local cartel behind my back. Hence the scar. I took them both out, same place, same time.
Right in my paternal house and in front of my mother, who never forgave me for it. She lives in a small town in Russia with my aunt now. I send money. What else can I do?
“Do you train often?” my wife asks me.
“This was deliberate and arranged. I don’t train anymore, and certainly not with playboys like your boy Blake.”
“He’s not my boy, or a boy, anyway. Is there a problem?”
I grunt, squeezing her thigh, then realize if I keep touching her, I’ll want to fuck her and forget why I needed to make a pointin the first place. With no clear rules, this won’t work for me or her. I have demands, and she needs to meet them. I’ll do the same for her, so the tradeoff is how the marriage will work.
We’ve talked about nothing so far, and we can take it day by day as normal people would but I am hardly normal, so it is what it is. I have zero desire to fit into the box of what a normal husband should be or look like. I’m too big to fit into carefully crafted societal boxes, and I hope my wife doesn’t expect me to bend on this issue, because I won’t.
Sitting up, I take the ice off my face and lean my elbows on my knees. “Baby, are you a model?”
“A bikini model.”
Fuck my life. “Bikini model,” I repeat having an idea of exactly what that means, and it’s tripping my inner caveman something fierce that she had no bikini on in the centerfold. “I saw the magazine.”
“All right. Which edition?”
“Most recent one, I believe.”
“The Blake fragrance shot.”
“The what?”
“It’s a promo for his cologne. Men’s cologne. You have it in the bathroom and wore it yesterday, so it’s spreading. Woohoo!” She claps, all excited.
I’m gonna strangle Ivana, who bought that shit for me. “I have one fuck to give about that cologne. The fucking problem is the fact you had no clothes on. Where was the bikini on the bikini model?”
“The bikini was over my nipples and girly parts. It’s a seamless bikini that blends with my body.”
“I didn’t see it.”
“That’s kind of the point of it.” She’s looking at me all surprised and shit, as if my giving fucks isn’t coming across clearly to her, as if my nude wife in a magazine is perfectlynormal. Nothing about that shit is normal or regular or average to me, and my opinion should matter to her. “Why nude?” I ask.
