I’d been gone a week. Just a week. Left my big, foul-mouthed, tattooed ex-con of a husband at home, thinking he’d spend the time drinking beer, watching trash TV, maybe yelling at the neighbor for mowing the lawn too slow. Nobody ever messed with him—six feet tall, scarred knuckles, a stare like a prison shank. He once made a guy piss himself just by looking at him wrong.
I missed him like hell, though. Couldn’t stop thinking about him. So I cut the trip short. No warning. Got home early that morning, quiet as a cat, ready to throw my arms around him, maybe ride him until noon. Instead, I walked into the bedroom… and stopped dead. There he was.
My man. The same one who used to call our neighbor “prissy” and “that limp-wristed twig.”
Now he was lying in bed, not a care in the world, makeup flawless, wig styled better than mine, wrapped in my best black lace set—the one I save for anniversaries. He was smiling in his sleep, like he just had the best night of his life. And tangled up around him, all smooth skin and bare limbs, was that same “wimp” neighbor, naked as the day he was born, curled around my husband like a kitten. I didn’t make a sound. Just stood there, staring, trying to make sense of it. My tough-as-nails, ex-con husband… looking like a damn pin-up girl, with a man half his size clinging to him like he was a teddy bear. What the fuck happened to him in prison? What the hell else don’t I know?
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