“I don’t give a shit!” he says, slamming his fist down on the table and making the silverware rattle.
This is not the reception I was anticipating.
After our hate-sex at the office a few weeks ago, Luka had blocked me from all the good modeling jobs with his rule that I could only do “wholesome” work. I knew I was partly to blame after the racy photo shoot I did with Mateo, but Luka’s ultimatum still pissed me off. Regardless, I worked within my husband’s parameters the best I could. So today, after getting the offer from the Happyland execs, I felt like I’d finally hit the jackpot. It was a huge campaign for the most popular theme park in the country, and a chance for me to prove myself with a big client. When I’d called Mateo earlier to tell him about it, my BFF had practically screamed with delight. I had assumed that Luka—as my manager—would have a similarly positive response, since he had surely given it his stamp of approval.
Guess I was wrong.
“The paycheck is great,” I insist, trying to squeeze some support out of him.
“I’m aware,” he says. “That’s the only reason I signed off on it. DRM isn’t exactly in a financial position where we can be turning down contracts.”
I bite back a bitter reply and continue crusading for myself. “And it’s nottotallyun-sexy. The ads are going to show a bunch of college-age people letting loose on Spring Break—to appeal to the 18–35-year-old demographic—so maybe we’ll still be able to send the message—”
“Happyland does not equal prestige or success in my book,” he says, cutting me off. “And in the future I expect more from you. Gloat when you land Chanel.”
With that, he grabs a container of pad Thai and carries it into the living room to eat in front of the TV. Well, at least that hasn’t changed. It’s his usual post-work routine.
As I sidle over to the counter between the kitchen and the living room, I watch him flip through the channels, feeling my anger rise. This is the new status quo with us. Tentative peace (fueled by slightly angry sex), where we seem to get along for brief stretches of time, and then we blow up at each other out of nowhere, which somehow always leads to us losing all our clothes and having several orgasms. And then we’re back to square one.
I can’t seem to find any footing with him anymore. I’ve done everything I can think of. I’m the perfect wife; making sure the house is clean and the fridge is stocked, that I’m usually home when he is. I play the sex kitten, eager to take him on whenever, wherever. I don’t stay out all night and I always tell him where I’m going and when I’ll get back. I get his opinion on things (opinion, not permission) and keep him in the loop with any hint of modeling jobs that might come my way. I’m legitimately trying to make him happy and be a good partner, yet nothing is working.
At the same time, I feel like I shouldn’t complain. I have a better life right now than I’d have on my own, at least in terms of finances and my living situation, and of course this is all temporary anyway. But I can’t help how pissed off I am. At so many things, most of which I can’t even name.
Sure, I love Luca’s cock, but I’m tired of only feeling his touch when he’s trying to punish me or use me as an outlet when he’s frustrated or pent-up. Not that I don’t use him the same way—but I know we’re capable of connecting on a deeper level. We’ve done it before.
“Where’s Kibs?” he asks, glancing around the room. By now, the dog has usually scrambled off his doggie bed to jump on Luka and whine for ear scratches and games of fetch.
“He’s at Emzee’s, having a playdate with Munchkin,” I tell him, grinding out my response. My husband is obviously more invested in the emotional health of our dog than in my own. “She’ll drop Mr. Kibbles back here later.”
Luka looks over. “So…are you going to just stand there and watch me eat, or do you want to come sit down?” he asks, popping the takeout container open.
I narrow my eyes. “I was just thinking that you’re being terribly dismissive of this national opportunity, considering you did nothing to land me the Maxilene account. If that’s the kind of prestige you’re after, I’d say you dropped the ball.”
He smirks disbelievingly and looks to the ceiling before returning to the news on TV.
“Nothing to say to that?” I goad him.
Pushing the food away, he turns to face me. “Maybe you’re not the best candidate for that campaign, Brooklyn. Did you ever think about that?”
“Really? Who is, then? One of the new models you’ve signed lately? I’ve seen plenty of photos of you wining and dining them all over town.”
He levels me with a hard stare. “I’m not getting into this with you. You’re being petty and exhausting and I don’t have the bandwidth right now.”
I bite my lip hard to keep the tears from coming. I hate that he brings out all the insecurities and weaknesses in me, that it’s so easy for him to compartmentalize during our arguments. I can never tell how he’s really feeling. And it bothers me even more that I have no poker face. I can feel my emotions pulling my facial muscles tight, and I know he can see it. Yet it doesn’t seem to affect his attitude toward me at all.
His indifference stabs through me.
“I’m not trying to be petty, Luka. I’m trying to build my career up with better gigs, but the restrictions you’ve put on me hold me back more than elevate me. You realize that, right?”
“You agreed to play by my rules when you signed up for this marriage.”
“Yet you look down at me for wanting to do jobs you feel are lowly, even though they’re the only offers coming my way because of the restrictionsyouset! How is this getting either of us anywhere?”
“I guess it’s not,” he says breezily.
Again with the indifference. My blood is boiling. “What do you want from me?” I ask, raising my voice. “I keep trying to make things better, yet all I ever do is fuck up in your eyes. Just tell me what you really want so I can stop guessing and getting it wrong all the time.”
Without warning he stands and stalks over to the kitchen, where I’m leaning back against the counter’s bar top. His arms box me in on either side, so I couldn’t get away if I wanted to.
