Trophy Husband (21 page)

He joins me by the games. “Would you be
impressed if I told you I built them all myself?”

My eyes open wide. I can’t believe what he
is saying. My brain is about to pop. “You built an arcade
game?”

“You make it sound like I made a time
machine out of a Delorean. It wasn’t that hard.”

“Wasn’t that hard?” I
parrot back. “How do you
make
an arcade game?”

“I dusted off an old computer, found some
source code from this non-profit development project that preserves
old arcade games, tweaked it up a bit and then built the
cabinet.”

“This is amazing. You have
some serious
skills
,” I say.

“And you haven’t even seen me surf. I can
ride some serious waves.”

“You can ride this wave,” I
say suggestively. “You can
make
this wave.” I hop up on the Qbert, and sit on the
console, my legs dangling in front of the machine. I glance down at
my skirt, and he gets the hint.

“You on my Qbert machine might possibly blow
my mind. But I’m willing to try.”

He runs his hands through my hair and kisses
me hard, as if he needs to kiss me first for foreplay or something.
But even a whisper of a kiss from him is all I need. Besides, I’ve
been ready for this since the karaoke bar.

He moves to my neck, kissing me there, then
pulls off my shirt, cupping my breasts with my bra on. He unhooks
it in seconds flat, and his tongue flicks over a nipple, then the
other one and I lean my head back and say his name, and that sound
moves him further down my body, as he kisses my belly, then pushes
up my skirt. He’s gentle as he lifts my butt and wiggles off my
underwear, careful to make sure I don’t bonk the joystick. Then he
bends lower, kissing the inside of my thighs, softly, trailing his
tongue from my knee all the way up, then darting over to the other
leg.

I am electric and fiery from every touch of
him, and I am dying to feel his mouth on me. I want to pull him
between my thighs so he can taste me, lick me, press his lips
against my warm wetness, and do all the things he said he wants to
do.

“Chris,” I moan, since he’s teasing me,
toying with me, making me want him more.

He nibbles lightly on my thigh, as his
strong hands spread my legs wider. I accidentally bump the start
button, and even though he hasn’t put a quarter in the game, the
theme music from Qbert begins. I laugh, and so does he, but then my
laugh turns into a long, low moan at the first flick of his tongue
on me. He makes this sound too, like a rumble, as he tastes how
ready I am for him. It’s like an altered state I’ve entered, and my
whole body is crackling with heat. He is magnificent, his tongue
divine as he traces delirious lines up and down my center that make
me whimper.

My noises drive him, and each sound that
tumbles from my lips makes him hungrier for me, and we become this
perfect feedback loop of wanting, and giving, and taking as I grow
wetter and hotter with every single touch. I am in heaven with him,
I am in a white-hot dream. I grip the edge of the game console as
he consumes me with his mouth, his tongue, his lips.

His mouth was tailor-made for me. He goes
down on me like he’s kissing me and devouring me at the same time,
somehow both soft and hungry in the fevered slide of his delicious
lips against my very core, driving me wild.

Then his hands slink under my thighs and he
lifts my legs onto his shoulders, draping them over his back. I
feel so completely vulnerable with him, as if I am giving myself to
him completely, but I’m not scared anymore, because he wants what I
have to give. He wants me, all of me, only me, and that’s why I’m
nearly panting as I say his name, and tell him how good it feels,
because it does, it feels good, it feels great, it feels like
everything is happening for the first time, and the best time, and
that it won’t be the last time. It’ll be the start of something
amazing with him.

Then he brings me there, and he shatters me
with an orgasm that’s as endless as it is intense. I let go of the
side of the game, and I grab his hair, his ridiculously soft hair
that slides through my fingers, and I hold onto him as I come hard,
with the kind of soundtrack that drives neighbors jealous.

Soon, when I can form words again, and when
he’s standing and looking at me with those dreamy eyes that say
everything I want, I kiss him, tasting myself on him, tasting what
he just did to me. He loops his arms around me, and I lean my head
on his chest. “That was out of this world. You know how to go down
on a girl.”

He kisses my forehead. “I know how to go
down on you because I want you. Because I can’t get enough of
you.”

“You are the best boyfriend I’ve ever
had.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

Those words feel a bit like a promise, and
that promise feels a bit like falling in love.

The afterglow lasts through Sunday as I
spend the afternoon strolling through my favorite boutiques in Noe
Valley with Hayden and Erin.

Erin prowls through a rack, then shows me an
adorable cream sweater with little pearl buttons and tiny baby blue
embroidered birds. “It’s so kitschy cute I almost can’t stand it,”
she says as she holds it against my chest. She looks at Hayden.
“She should wear this on her next date, don’t you think?”

“Definitely.” Hayden nods her approval. Then
taps her lips with her index finger, and furrows her brow. “But for
what guy?”

“JP?” Erin asks, then shakes her head.
“Nope. Chris. Wear this on your next date with Chris.”

Erin thrusts the sweater
into my hands, and I know this is the moment. This is when I should
tell them. I should let them know that the dates with Chris are
real and that the sweater could truly be for me to wear with him.
That the contest is over and I have a boyfriend rather than a
husband. And I like it that way. No, I
love
it that way.

“So, um,” I start to say, then my voice
becomes vapor.

And it hits me why. It’s not that I’m afraid
of disappointing them. They care about me more than a contest.
They’ll forgive me for lying about his age. They’ll probably even
laugh about it, and about my worries over breaking an oath that was
all fun and games. What they’ve truly wanted for me all along is to
heal from heartbreak. That’s precisely what makes me clam up. Fear
of heartbreak. Of getting hurt. Of being broken. Because there’s a
part of me that knows as soon as I give voice to what’s happening
with Chris, then I may very well have to tell them someday about it
ending. It’s as if I am trying to hold it in my hands, like a
fragile glass globe and keep it safe until it’s immune from
heartache, until it’s safe from the breaking.

So for now I stay quiet, keeping the bloom
of falling for Chris to myself through the evening, as I walk my
dog, and read a text from my boyfriend telling me that Qbert misses
me, and it’s almost enough for me to drop everything and invite him
over. But the next time I see him I know I’ll want him in every
way, and I won’t let myself go there until I’ve come clean. So I
resist, telling him instead that I’ve never enjoyed a game of Qbert
more.

Then I reach for my laptop, write out a
script for tomorrow’s show, going with the simplest admission of
all. “Thanks for your support. I’m pleased to let you know that I
found someone who makes me ridiculously happy, and because of that
the contest is over. It wouldn’t be fair to him, you, me or anyone
else to keep going because this guy has already won. He’s won my
heart.”

I exhale.

I’ve written it down. I’ve given voice to my
feelings. I’ll be putting it out there. I can do this. I can step
forward into the great unknown of a new love. Tomorrow, I’ll call
Hayden, Erin and Julia right after my shoot and before the video
goes live.

I close the computer, slide under the
covers, and scratch Ms. Pac-Man’s ears just the way she likes.

“You’re a good girl.”

* * *

The next morning as I finish my makeup,
Todd’s name flashes across my phone. My stomach tightens, but I
answer it anyway. He’s holding something over me, and I need to
know what it is.

“So about the sale of your blog to Fashion
Nation,” he begins, picking up our truncated call where we left
off. “I hate to do this, McKenna. I really hate to do this. But I
feel a little bit, what’s the word? Shafted. A little bit shafted.
Left out with the sale.”

I must get my hearing checked. I’m sure he
didn’t just say that. “You feel shafted? Well, isn’t that just the
pot calling the kettle black.”

He ignores me. “I’m only talking about
what’s fair. You made a pretty penny on that sale, and you surely
deserve most of it.” I grit my teeth as he repeats the words, “Most
of it.”

“I deserve all of it.”

“Well, I’m not so sure about that. And I’ve
been talking to some folks who think it’s a little unfair that I
didn’t receive any of the buyout money. After all, I did play an
instrumental role in the intellectual property of The Fashion
Hound. If not for me, you would probably never even have a
blog.”

He is gasoline and I am a flame. “Let me
guess. You’re not making as much money as your new wife wants to
support your family. So you’re looking to dip your fingers in my
bank account?”

He scoffs. “No. No. No. I want what’s fair.
This isn’t about money. This is about equality. That’s something
that matters a lot to you, isn’t it? You’re all about equality.
You’re going after equal treatment in your show with your little
project. I want equal treatment in the sale.”

I am fuming, twin streams of red fury pour
out of my ears, as I slam my mascara tube on the sink, only one eye
done. I am a teapot about to boil over, a geyser about to blow. “I
would rather wear baggy jeans and shapeless shirts for the rest of
my life than ever give you a cent of what you don’t deserve.”

I stab my manicured nail on the end button
and drop my phone on the chair. Then I race downstairs, and bang on
Hayden’s door, hoping to hell she hasn’t left yet for work.

She answers, dressed sharply in her lawyer
suit, a cup of coffee in one hand.

“Greg,” I say, through clenched teeth. “I
need to talk to Greg.”

“He’s leaving for work in a few, but come
in.”

I walk inside, not caring that mascara has
made it onto only one set of eyelashes, and that my face must look
oddly asymmetrical as I collapse at the kitchen table and lay out
my newest dilemma for Hayden’s business attorney husband. He nods
thoughtfully, listening carefully as I recount every detail of
Todd’s request.

“Please tell me he doesn’t have a leg to
stand on,” I say, and I’m not just begging, I’m pleading.

Greg sighs. “I’ll help you through this. You
know I will. But he has a case.”

“It never ends with him.”

Hayden sighs, as she puts a hand on my
shoulder. She says nothing. There is nothing to say. Because Todd
will stop at nothing to find new ways to rip me.

I return to my house and punch the Xbox
on-button. I fire up Guitar Hero this time and plow through a few
songs on medium, releasing my fury on the guitar and then taking
down Slash in three tries in an epic guitar battle on the medium
level.

But I still want to kick the screen, or the
console, or a brick wall, so when my phone rings again, I answer it
angrily before I even see who’s calling.

“What. Is. It. Now?”

“Hi, I’m looking for McKenna Bell,” the
man’s voice says, unperturbed. He’s not Todd, so I dial down my
anger.

“This is McKenna.”

“Hello! This is Tristan
Quinn. I’m a producer with
Helen
in the city and I wanted to see if you are
available to come on the show today.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.
The Fashion Hound
,” he
coos, saying my name with a faux-sinister accent, like I’m a campy
sixties superhero.

“For what?”

Helen
is a national daytime talk show that’s been on the air for
several years. Helen is Helen Weathers, a former actress and
comedian. Her show is topical, she interviews celebrities and
politicians, brings popular musicians on stage to perform, and
banters with the audience and guests.

“Well,” Tristan purrs into the phone, “Helen
just adores your video blog and wants to talk to you about what
makes a good Trophy Husband.”

“Oh, that’s very sweet. But I’m no longer in
the market for a –”

“–
Helen has been a fan of
your blog for some time now,” Tristan gushes. He lowers his voice.
“You know, she’s an alpha female too.”

I laugh. “I know, but–”

“And she just LOVES the idea of a Trophy
Husband so she wants you on the show to talk about traits and
qualities that make for a good Trophy Husband. You’re the leading
expert on them, she says.”

“I’m the leading expert on Trophy Husbands?
Wow, I didn’t know the world needed one.”

“Oh, I just have to tell you, I think this
idea is so fabulous. I mean, men have been doing this for years.
Why not women?”

“That was my thought initially, but I’ve
sort of had a change of–”

“–
So, how about today?
We’re over in the Dogpatch, and you’re local, so maybe you can just
motor on over and chat with Helen. We tape at eleven and the
segment will run this afternoon. And you can talk about how to
evaluate a Trophy Husband. How to assess a Trophy Husband. Like
he’s a bottle of wine, a new car, a mink coat, not that I’d ever
wear fur, obviously.”

“Uh…”

You see, I want to tell him, I’m retiring
from Trophy Husband hunting. I’m hanging up my hat. I don’t want a
trophy, I don’t want a boy toy, thank you very much. I have a
boyfriend, a delicious boyfriend, who went down on me on his Qbert
machine, who wrapped his arms around me and practically sang my
favorite song to me, who told me he wanted to go out with me from
the first day he met me. A boyfriend who doesn’t want anyone else
to have me.