Keeping Up Appearances
As his head falls back against the seat, he regrets his decision to not ride back to the White House separately, alone, in the back seat of the decoy limousine. And though he had wished to be no less than fifty feet away from his wife, there had been a string of reporters, each with a camera in their hands, lined up along the drive.
They had to keep up appearances.
She's giggling— a result of having about three too many glasses of wine on an empty stomach. They're kissing, he can hear it, and then there's a moan and he makes the mistake of looking over… He isn't surprised that she's got a hand shoved down the front of his pants.
Jay groans and his brows pull together as he turns his head towards the window, making a show of his annoyance. The poor guy seemed to be more fed up with the two of them than he was this week.
"Elizabeth," he says, looking straight ahead at Jay. "There are other people besides the two of you in this car."
He hears the distinct sound of lips against skin.
"It's my turn to play."
He tries not to think back to the distant days of her teasing him as they struggled to keep their hands to themselves during the drives back to Georgetown.
"Liz." It's Blake's voice now… He's the only one allowed to call her by that nickname. He still remembers being met with a stare she saved for world dictators the evening he'd decided to try it out in spite of her newfound lover.
"He had my legs spread out in the same position for an hour last night. I could barely move my hips this morning."
For mental health purposes, he had stopped paying mind to her subtle limps a year and a half ago.
A deep laugh bubbles up from the back of her throat. "You ate me so pretty."
He tucks his chin into his shoulder. He didn't want to hear this, hear how his wife had been fucked by her dotting assistant, but he continued to hold his tongue, waiting for the day that their so-called "spark" fizzled and this midlife crisis of Elizabeth's passed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that she's bending her head down to Blake's crotch now, and Jay's had enough. He makes a fist and taps his knuckles against the partition, and a minute passes before the car comes to a slow stop.
"I draw the line at blowjobs." His hand grips the door handle. "I'd rather walk the seven blocks back."
He didn't blame him…
His wife was a maneater— Irresistible. Manipulative. Always scheming. She was like a siren with that deep voice, those long legs, and full breasts. Men (and even some women) lined up behind her, tripping over themselves just to breathe the same air. She was tight-lipped about past relationships, but he knew that she'd managed to chew up and spit out the crowned prince of Bahrain… She had men wishing they'd never met her, whether that be the male colleagues that had gotten spun up in her web of crackpot ops at the Company, loyal men like Jay that had fallen under her thumb as they had fallen under the spell of those blue eyes, or him, the scorned yet not scorned husband of hers that she had in her back pocket.
"Good luck," Jay says before closing the car door.
…He needed more than luck.