The line at Swirlies stretches almost to the parking lot, a parade of tank tops and skirts wilting in the June humidity. Massachusetts summers hit different, like someone cranked the thermostat to 'swamp' and called it a day.
"I can practically taste the chocolate already," I say, bouncing slightly on my heels like an impatient kid. Sabrina's arm snakes around my waist, her thumb hooking into my belt loop.
"Easy there," she laughs, pulling me closer against her side. "We've still got about twenty people ahead of us."
I lean into her touch, savoring the casual intimacy. After everything that happened at that hotel last week, these normal moments feel like precious gifts. We haven't really talked about the Gabi situation since that night, not directly anyway. But sometimes I catch Sabrina watching me with this hungry, contemplative look that makes my stomach flip.
"I can't believe how long it's been since we've gotten ice cream," I say, watching a teenage girl at the front of the line receive a towering cone of something neon blue.
"I know," Sabrina sighs, her pixie cut catching the glow of Swirlies' retro neon sign. "It's just not exactly something we think about doing anymore, is it? When did we get so boring and adult?"
"Not me," I protest, feigning offense. "I still stay up late playing video games like a teenager."
Sabrina snorts, giving my waist a squeeze. "Honey, last night you crawled into bed practically hyperventilating from playing Alien Isolation. You couldn't even form complete sentences."
Heat creeps up my neck as nearby ice cream patrons glance our way. "It was the atmospheric tension," I mutter. "Very sophisticated game design."
"Sure it was," she teases, pressing a kiss to my temple. "You're such a normie guy it's actually adorable. Can't handle scary things, get all excited about cute stuff like ice cream..." She pulls me closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Remember how you squealed when you saw that puppy yesterday? I thought you were going to faint."
"God forbid a boy thinks dogs are cute."
I laugh along with her, but something twists in my chest as the line inches forward. It's funny how thoroughly she misreads me sometimes. How the Leo she knows is this manufactured version I've carefully constructed over years of reinvention.
If she could have seen me when I first arrived in this backwards world at eighteen, disoriented, terrified, but quickly realizing the opportunities. How I went from awkward virgin to the guy everyone wanted a piece of in less than a month. The way I leveraged my novelty into social currency, collecting conquests like trading cards.
After graduation, prostitution seemed like the logical next step. What better profession for a perpetually horny guy in a world where women held all the power? I figured I'd get paid to do what I was already doing for free.
God, I was so fucking naive.
Reality hit me like a falcon punch. The fantasy of being some high-end escort crumbled under the weight of possessive clients, violent pimps, and the soul-crushing repetition of surrendering my body to strangers. Heroin became my escape hatch, just a little at first, then more, until the needle was the only relationship that made sense.
"Babe? You okay?" Sabrina's voice pulls me back. We've moved up several spots in line.
I blink, forcing a smile. "Yeah, just zoned out thinking about which flavor to get."
She studies my face for a moment, then kisses my cheek. "Get whatever makes you happy."
The tenderness in her voice makes my throat tight. She has no idea that she saved my life that rainy Tuesday when I approached her outside the tech conference, offering my services with hollow eyes and track marks hidden under long sleeves. Instead of taking what I was selling, she bought me dinner. Talked to me like a person. Called me three days later to check if I was okay.
"Chocolate," I say, leaning into her solid presence beside me. "Always just chocolate plain for me."
"That's my boy," she laughs, completely unaware that every moment of domestic bliss between us exists because she once saw value in me when I couldn't see it myself.
The line moves again. We're almost at the front now, and Sabrina's already fishing her wallet from her back pocket. I watch her profile in the golden evening light, her confident stance, the way she scans the flavor board with decisive purpose.
I owe her everything. My sobriety. My life. My sanity. Maybe that's why I let her watch me fuck another woman last week. Maybe that's why I'd do it again if she asked. There's nothing I wouldn't give her, even pieces of myself I'd rather keep sacred.
"Next customers, please!" The teenage server calls, and Sabrina guides me forward with her hand at the small of my back.
"Two scoops of chocolate in a waffle cone for the gentleman," the server announces with practiced cheer, handing me my ice cream. "And one scoop of coffee, one scoop of pistachio for the lady."
Sabrina takes her cone, drops a five in the tip jar, and steers us away from the counter. The first lick of the rich chocolate hits just as hard as my old pimp.
"Good?" Sabrina asks, already working on her sophisticated flavor combo.
"So good," I mumble around another lick. "Worth the wait."
We weave through the crowded shop toward a couple of empty seats along the wall. I'm mid-lick, completely lost in chocolate bliss, when my eyes drift up and lock with a gaze I never thought I'd see again.
Time freezes. My cone tilts dangerously in my suddenly numb fingers.
Tara Voss sits at a small table near the window, her spoon halfway to her mouth, frozen in the same shock that's paralyzing me. Seven years have barely touched her, still imposing, still gorgeous, with that same long black hair cascading over broad shoulders. Those piercing red eyes widen in recognition, confusion, then something that looks dangerously like hope.
My stomach plummets through the floor. Memories flood back in a nauseating rush.
Tara's apartment with the red silk sheets. The way she'd trace my collarbone with her fingertips after sex, like she was memorizing every inch of me. How she'd pay double my rate just to keep me overnight, cooking me breakfast in nothing but an oversized t-shirt. The night she whispered "I love you" against my skin, and I felt simultaneously elated and terrified.
I was her favorite toy, her precious pet. And she was the client who made me feel human again, who saw past the product I was. But I was twenty-three, shooting up daily, spiraling into self-destruction. When she offered to save me, to get me clean, to keep me, I ran. I couldn't bear the thought of tainting her life with my mess.
So I disappeared. Changed my number. Moved towns. And when that wasn't enough, when she still managed to track me down, I fled to Lawrence and dove headfirst into the darkest chapter of my life.
I never told Sabrina about Tara. Never told her about any specific clients. Just the broad strokes of my past, enough for her to understand without drowning in the details. And She never asked.
"Tara Voss."
Sabrina's voice slices through my panic, the name dripping with unmistakable venom. I snap my head toward my wife, who's staring at Tara with narrowed eyes and a tight jaw.
Tara's spoon clatters against her dish. "No fucking way. Sabrina?"
"Fuck," I whisper, ice cream melting unnoticed down my fingers.
The universe has a sick sense of humor. Of all the ice cream shops in all the towns in all the world, I had to walk into the one where my past and present collide. And somehow, impossibly, horrifically, they already know each other.
"Well, well," Tara drawls, recovering her composure faster than either of us. She leans back in her chair, crossing those long legs that used to wrap around my waist. "Small world. I haven't seen you since High school."
Sabrina's arm tightens around my waist, her fingers digging into my hip. "I guess not. Still trying to buy friends, Voss?"
My brain short-circuits. High school? They went to high school together?
Tara's laughter cuts through the ice cream shop like a knife, sharp and mocking. "Unlike you, Hart, people actually enjoyed hanging out with me. I didn't have to pay them to pretend I was interesting."
Her eyes shift from Sabrina to me, her gaze transforming completely. The hostility melts away, replaced by something warm and predatory that makes my skin prickle with remembered intimacy.
"How are you, Leo?" she asks, her voice dropping to a silky purr that I recognize all too well.
My throat closes up. The chocolate ice cream turns to ash in my mouth. "Good," I manage to choke out, the single syllable barely audible over the cheerful shop music.
Sabrina's body stiffens beside me. I can feel her processing, connecting dots I've spent years keeping separate.
"Wait," she says slowly, her grip on my waist loosening. "You two know each other?"
Tara rises from her seat, never breaking eye contact with me. She's wearing workout clothes that showcase every powerful curve of her body, and I hate that some part of me still responds to her.
"I guess you could say we were quite fond of each other in another life," Tara says, her lips curving into a smile that holds too many secrets. "But that was a long time ago, wasn't it, Leo?"
"Yeah," I mumble, staring at my melting ice cream, wishing I could dissolve into the floor alongside it.
"Well, anyway, good to see you again, Piss Shoes..." Tara pauses, her smile turning vicious. "I mean, Sabrina. Take care."
As she brushes past us toward the exit, she holds my gaze for several heartbeats too long, her eyes promising things I've spent years trying to forget. Then she's gone.
Sabrina and I stand frozen for a moment before wordlessly making our way to the now-empty table Tara had vacated. I slide into the chair, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. Sabrina sits across from me, her ice cream forgotten in her hand.
"Piss Shoes?" I ask weakly, desperate to redirect whatever storm is brewing behind her eyes.
"Senior year. Gym class. She pissed in my sneakers," Sabrina says flatly. "Not important right now." She sets her cone down on a napkin, leaning forward. "How exactly do you know Tara Voss?"
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure Sabrina can hear it. The melting chocolate drips between my fingers, but I barely notice. Every instinct screams at me to lie, to minimize, to protect her from this ugly intersection of past and present.
But I can't. Not with Sabrina.
"She was a client," I say, the words falling like stones between us. My voice comes out steadier than I expect. "Back when I was... you know. Working."
Sabrina's expression freezes, then transforms in a way I've never seen before. Her nostrils flare slightly, and her pupils dilate so rapidly it's almost alarming.
"That bitch," she whispers, but there's something strange in her tone – a vibration that isn't quite anger. "That fucking bitch paid for you?"
I nod, watching her carefully. "She was a regular for about eight months."
"Eight months?" Sabrina's voice rises sharply, drawing glances from nearby tables. She leans forward, her face flushed. "You fucked Tara Voss for eight months?"
The venom in her voice makes me flinch, but there's something else there too, a breathlessness that I recognize from very different contexts. Her free hand has dropped below the table, and I realize with a jolt that she's pressing it against her thigh, fingers flexing rhythmically.
"It was just business," I say quietly. "It was before I met you, before I got clean."
"Did she..." Sabrina swallows hard, her eyes never leaving mine. "What did she make you do?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. I watch my wife's chest rise and fall rapidly, see the flush spreading up her neck.
"Sabrina," I whisper, leaning closer. "Are you turned on right now?"
Her eyes widen, caught. For a moment she looks like she might deny it, but then she exhales sharply.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," she admits, her voice barely audible. "I'm furious. I want to hunt her down and tear her apart. But also..." She trails off, pressing her thighs together under the table.
"The thought of her using you like that," Sabrina breathes, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that makes my skin prickle. "Of her... controlling you, paying for your body... God, it makes me want to punch something and fuck you senseless at the same time."
My ice cream drips steadily onto the table now, completely forgotten as I stare at my wife. Her confession hangs in the air between us, raw and unexpected. The jealousy in her eyes is unmistakable, but there's something darker there too.
"You're jealous and horny," I say softly, not a question but a realization.
"Of course I'm fucking jealous," Sabrina hisses, leaning closer. "That woman, my fucking high school bully, had you before I did. Paid for you. Owned pieces of you I'll never touch."
Her hand slides across the table, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising strength. The sticky chocolate between my fingers smears against her palm, but she doesn't seem to notice or care.
"Tell me," she demands, her blue eyes boring into mine. "Did she make you beg? Did she mark you up? Leave bruises where no one else could see? Did she enjoy hurting you?"
I swallow hard, trying not to remember it all. Tara's face hovering above mine, her expression intense but concerned as she checked in after each new rope knot. The way she'd trace her fingernails down my chest, leaving red lines but always asking if it was too much. How she'd stop everything if I so much as winced.
"No," I say quietly, meeting Sabrina's gaze. "She wasn't like that."
Sabrina's grip on my wrist tightens, her eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, 'wasn't like that'?"
I choose my words carefully, feeling like I'm navigating a minefield. "I mean, yes, she left marks. There were bruises sometimes, bite marks... but nothing cruel. Nothing I didn't..." I trail off, not wanting to admit I'd enjoyed it.
"Nothing you didn't what?" Sabrina presses.
"Nothing malicious," I finish lamely. I leave it at that, unwilling to dive deeper into those memories.
Sabrina's eyes somehow grow even hungrier. Her breathing has become shallow. I recognize that look, it's the same one she wore in that hotel room watching Gabi ride me. A potent cocktail of jealousy, possessiveness, and raw, undiluted lust.
"Fuck this," she growls, standing so abruptly her chair nearly topples backward. Her fingers lock tighter my wrist like a vise, sticky ice cream and all. "We're leaving. Now."
I barely have time to set my melting cone on the table before she's yanking me to my feet, pulling me through the crowded shop with single-minded determination. Startled customers jump out of our way as Sabrina bulldozes toward the exit, her grip unyielding.
"What about the ice cream?" I ask stupidly, stumbling to keep up with her long strides.
"Screw the ice cream," she hisses over her shoulder, pushing through the door into the humid evening air. "I need you inside me in the next five minutes or I'm going to lose my goddamn mind."
A thrill shoots through me despite the tension. Even in crisis, there's something intoxicating about being wanted this desperately. At least I can give her this, my body, my submission, a physical outlet for the emotional storm brewing between us.
"Okay."