Method(80)

I didn’t know how to explain I was waiting on Lucas and I didn’t want to. The worst part is, in the past we’d always kept the lines of communication open, that was our saving grace. He doesn’t want my help, my worry. He’s made it crystal clear. I’m angry and resentful he’s taken that aspect away. He’s breaking our rules by the day, leaving me uncertain of our future, of my place in his life. I don’t want to discuss my marital problems with another outsider, so I finish my wine and leave him with a forced smile. On the drive home I realize Lucas has tossed me into the same place of uncertainty I was in after I left Egypt.

It had been nearly a week since he left to sleep on set. The longer he remains quiet, the more pissed off I become.

Speeding toward the studio, I decide I’ve had enough. He’s going to talk to me. Instead of joining him on set, I wait for him in his trailer. The silence has stretched long enough. Resentment has reached its peak, and by the time he walks in, I’m fuming.

When the door opens, I’m struck by how different he looks. He’s dressed in a blue suit, his eyes tinted brown by contacts, his demeanor ice-cold. Lifeless eyes sweep me, but he doesn’t pause a single second before climbing the steps to move past me where I sit at the breakfast bench. I’m stinging with indifference as he opens the fridge eyeing the contents and overlooking me as if I’m one of his staff.

I stand. “It’s time to come home.”

“Is it?” His nose twitches in annoyance as if he’s dealing with a petulant child. “Gee, Mom, I’m having so much fun. Can’t I play just a little longer?”

His voice is unrecognizable to me, and I damn near gasp at the difference.

I’m staring at the spitting image of Nikki Rayo.

“We need to talk.”

“Nah,” he says, sweeping me again with cold eyes. “We don’t.”

“You’re breaking rules.”

His slow-building and menacing grin brings on a wave of nausea.

“You’re making a mockery out of our marriage.”

“Whatsa’ matter, sweetheart? Still mad I’m not dicking you enough?”

“Jesus. You bastard.”

He grins again and I can see by the second that coming here was a mistake. “It’s been a long day, but if you’re offering,” he says, ripping off his jacket to reveal a vest underneath. In seconds he has me pinned to the table, his mouth close as he rubs his erection along my stomach.

“Just give me something,” I plea. “We don’t do it like this. I’m worried.”

“Shut your mouth and lift your skirt or we’re done talking.”

His eyes flare with amusement as my anger bubbles over. “Fuck you.”

His chuckle has the hairs rising on the back of my neck. “This what you came for?” I’m repulsed that I’m turned on by his crudeness, but I need something, some sort of connection. Resigned that this is as close as I’m going to get to my estranged husband, I give in and trust.

“You’re not my type,” I say, my words laced with venom. “Not even close. You’re just a dumb kid playing a big man with a gun.”

“You’re really starting to agitate me.” It’s unreal—the eyes, the voice the intimidation. This man is not my husband.

“Agitate is a big word for you, isn’t it?” I say, grabbing my best weapon and hurling it at him.

With a fistful of hair in his hand, he pulls painfully. “Bitch,” he says, stealing all the breath from me, before slamming me against the table, not enough to hurt me but enough to try to scare me. I rip at his chest, his hands and fingers snatch away my panties before he rubs his engorged cock between my legs. Brown eyes flash down at me before he buries himself so deep, I scream out. He pumps furiously, eyes blazing as I rip at his hair and slap at his face and am rewarded with a sinister grin. I want him so badly, but I’m still reeling from the bite I asked for.

“Lucas,” I plea, praying for him to slow down so I can savor these precious minutes, have some semblance of connection, but he’s stripped away all the intimacy. He’s not here. Nikki is, and Nikki could give a shit about Mila Walker. He’s fully immersed, and he’s not coming back until it’s over. He jackhammers inside me savagely until he spills with a muffled groan. It only takes him seconds to gather himself and tuck his cock back into his pants. I rise, still hungry, unsated as he adjusts himself. He doesn’t help me dress, he simply grabs his script off the counter and looks back at me, unaffected as I pull my skirt down. Ignoring my stare, he reads on as if nothing ever happened. Furious, I stomp toward the door when he says behind me, “Come by anytime.”

Sobbing on the way home, I try to get a grip on what I’m feeling. What the hell did I expect? The man that just fucked me wasn’t my husband. He hadn’t hurt me, in fact, I hated that I didn’t hate it, but the lack of connection is ripping me apart. After a hot shower at home, I sink into my lounge chair with a glass of wine, praying that he’ll come home tonight, not to talk but just to sleep in our bed. An action of remorse is better than none at all. I miss him so much. We’re growing further and further apart, and he’s allowing it. That part of it I’m afraid I won’t be able to forgive him for.

“Stop it,” I say over and over. “Stop it. You are his life, and he is yours,” I repeat, batting my tears away. Every decision Lucas has ever made when it came to us has been calculated, not in manipulation but in love. It had always been that way. But I see no logic in this, no plan. He always thought through his actions, always. He’d meant that episode in that trailer to be a warning. He wasn’t there, and no amount of fight on my part was going to bring him out. I had to see this through if I wanted him back. The problem was it was getting harder and harder to want him at all.