Circles
The character King and others do speak in slang. These are not grammar/spelling mistakes.
Throwing my bags into the car, I climb in behind the wheel and begin the drive home. My phone battery is already so low that I hate to waste it, but I need some kind of noise, something to distract me and drown out the chaos of my own thoughts.
The silence presses in anyway. Even the steady hum of the engine does nothing to soothe me. I know exactly what I’m heading home to, and the truth is I’m not looking forward to it. I’m not looking forward to much of anything in my life right now.
When I married at seventeen, my parents praised us as if we were the perfect couple, well-matched, enviable, blessed. My brother, on the other hand, told me I was a fool. Looking back, I wonder if he saw the truth long before I ever did.
My mother raised me to be the perfect housewife. She drilled it into me, shaping me for the role she thought I was born to play. She wanted me to marry well, to find a man with standing in the community, and in her mind she succeeded. At seventeen, I didn’t realize what was truly happening. I only knew that a man was showering me with attention, and I basked in it like a fool.
I was sixteen when I first met Edward. He was thirty, but I thought nothing of the age difference. My parents introduced us, welcoming him with open arms, so I saw no reason to question it. Everyone at college whispered with envy. I had what they wanted.
And Edward was stunning. His sharp jawline, sculpted body, and the way women’s eyes followed him everywhere made him seem larger than life. Out of all of them, he chose me, the naïve little girl who thought marriage at seventeen was a fairytale.
At first, everything felt like a dream, but slowly the reality set in. My life became a cage, a hamster ball that spun endlessly in circles with no escape, no direction, no change. There were no corners to turn, no choices to make, only the same monotonous loop again and again.
My thoughts refuse to settle, circling endlessly with me. I grab my phone, ignoring the battery warning, and crank up the music. If it dies before I make it home, so be it. The opening of “Highwayman” fills the car, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, and Kris Kristofferson, Kris Kriss, as I’ve always called him, pouring through the speakers and flooding my mind with something other than regret.
The music helps. It takes the edge off, quieting the storm just enough. But I know why the thoughts always flare worse this time of year. We’re creeping up on our ten-year wedding anniversary, and with it comes the weight of everything I’ve lost, everything I’ve given up.
A low rumble vibrates against the road, drawing my attention to the side. Motorcycles roar up next to me, and I instinctively fix my eyes forward, refusing to look. My windows are down in the heat, and I know they can hear the music. The last thing I want is to be noticed, but it’s already too late.
A sharp rap against my door makes me jump, my head snapping to the side. A wicked smile greets me. The rider leans casually, tilting his head.
“Fan of the oldies?” he asks.
I nod quickly, avoiding his gaze, though it’s impossible not to let my eyes wander over him. No jacket, no shirt, his top is thrown over the handlebars. His chest and arms are inked with dark artwork that begs to be traced, touched and worshipped. His body radiates strength, raw and unapologetic.
“Good taste,” he smirks, and I catch myself licking my lips.
“I’m King,” he adds, nodding as if daring me to challenge him.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. King? It sounds like a joke until my gaze drops to the insignia on his bike. The Cursed Kings. My stomach flips. He’s not joking. He really is their King.
The traffic light shifts, and I seize the opportunity to escape, pressing the gas and leaving him behind. Relief floods me as I glance in the mirror and watch the bikes shrink into the distance.
But he lingers in my thoughts. Everything about him screamed power and dominance. He looked like the kind of man who takes what he wants without hesitation, without permission. The kind who wouldn’t care if dinner was ready when he walked through the door because he’d already decided he’d rather devour me instead. I can almost feel the rough pull of his hand in my hair, the demanding way he’d use my mouth for his own pleasure.
Stop. That’s a whore’s job.
Edward’s voice cuts through my fantasy like a blade, sharp and scornful, and I physically flinch. My body trembles as his words echo in my head.
Regret and longing churn low in my stomach, a bitter mixture I can never seem to swallow down. My life is simple, and it will always stay simple, because Edward won’t allow me to have anything else.
Walking into the house, I follow the familiar path through to the kitchen, where Edward sits as if carved from stone, posture perfect, voice clipped as he speaks into the phone. I hang my bags on the hook by the door, already bracing myself.
“She’s here,” he says into the receiver, his tone curt and official. “I shall put her on the phone with you. She didn’t tell me anything.”
He holds the phone out, sliding it into my hand without looking at me. My eyes flick to the screen. The name burns back at me.
Miranda.
“Hello, Mother,” I say softly.
“Mazikeen! I called twice today, and you didn’t answer,” she snaps, her voice sharp and accusing.
“Mother, I didn’t ignore you. I was teaching. I only just finished class.” I remind her, though she already knows. When Edward insisted we move here, the only condition I set was that I could finally work.
“Well, I wanted to know the plan for your and Edward’s tenth anniversary. It’s an important milestone, Mazikeen. You must make sure Edward knows how much you appreciate him and everything he provides for you.”
“I know that, Mother. I haven’t forgotten. I’ll think of something,” I answer carefully.
“You’ll think of something?” Her words slice through the line. “That means you haven’t thought of anything yet. Why haven’t you?”
“Mother, we just moved here a month ago. I only started work this week. Could you give me a little time, please?” The plea slips out before I can stop it.
“Don’t you take that tone with me.” Her scolding lands like a slap.
“Darling, your mother deserves respect.” Edward rises from his chair, his cold eyes settling on me like a warning.
I swallow my frustration, forcing my voice to be calm. “I was only explaining the situation. I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful. I apologize, Mother.”
“See that you do better. I’ll call again tomorrow, and you will answer. Tell Edward I’m looking forward to our dinner together, and I trust you’ll attend this time.”
My head dips in surrender. “I’ll be there, Mother.” I had lied about feeling sick to avoid the last dinner, but I won’t get away with it again.
I hand the phone back to Edward, watching him disappear from the kitchen as he resumes his conversation with her.
Left alone, I stand motionless in the center of the room, my chest tight with the scream I don’t dare release. I barely raised my voice, barely showed any resistance, and still it was too much. They act as though I’ve committed some grave sin when all I did was ask for space.
And all for what? For this expectation that I conjure some grand celebration for our anniversary, as though Edward will notice or care. I already know his plan. lowers delivered with mechanical precision, dinner I’ll cook without thanks, and if he’s in the mood, the tired routine of missionary sex. Even that has become a rarity.
