Hot Tub by Thomas Morgan
He knocks on the door and asks me to come over. I say okay, because at the end of the day, what choice do I have?
I put on my flip-flops, follow him down the path, through the gate, and into the back garden. Then he shows it to me.
“So,” he says. “What d’you think? “It’s... big,” I say.
“You’re damn right it is,” he says. “It’s the biggest one they had. Bigger is always better.” He looks over at his wife. She’s standing by the backdoor, wearing a swimming costume that’s far too revealing for my liking. “Isn’t that right, love?” he says to her.
“That’s right!” his wife says to him.
This whole thing is making me incredibly uncomfortable.
“Yep,” he says to me. “What you’re looking at here is the Apex 519. It’s got 71 jets, seats up to nine people, and has its own built-in purification system. Oh, and it also has hydromassage seats. They’ll cover your back, your arms, your legs – everything.”
My god, he’s boring.
“It’s really easy to use as well,” he says. “You just switch it on like so” – he presses a few buttons and switches it on – “and you’re good to go. And all this for just under twenty grand.”
I wouldn’t expect anything less – they always have to have the best of the best.
“You and the missus are welcome to join us anytime,” he says to me. He looks over at his wife again. “Isn’t that right, love?” he says to her.
“That’s right!” she says to him.
Does this woman have any thoughts and opinions of her own?
“Okay,” I say to him. “I’ll mention it to her.” Then I make up some bullshit excuse about having to get back home so I’m there to greet the kids when they come home from school – just so I can get the hell out of here.
“No worries, bud,” he says to me. “See you later.” “Yeah,” I say. “See you.”
Not on your life, bud.
“He asked me to go round there, so I did. Then he showed it to me. I don’t know why he wanted me to see it. Actually, that’s not true. I think I might have an idea. Are you ready for this?” I say to her.
“I think so,” she says.
“Right, well, I think they might be swingers or something.” She laughs at this.
“Hear me out,” I say. “Swingers are notorious for having hot tubs. That’s where they conduct most of their... business.”
“Where do you get this stuff?” she says to me.
“I didn’t get it from anywhere,” I say. “It’s just common knowledge. I mean, why do you think the hot tub business is such a thriving industry?”
“You’re full of it,” she says to me. “Anyway, I like hot tubs. I think they’re neat.”
“Great,” I say. “I suppose you want one now.”
“I didn’t say that,” she says.
“Good, because they cost about twenty grand. At least, theirs did.”
“Don’t worry,” she says to me. “I think there might be a way for us to use one for free.”
“That’s mad!” I say to her. “We can’t do that. What if we get caught?”
“We won’t,” she says.
“How do you know that?” I say.
“I just know,” she says.
“And what about the kids? We can’t just leave them on their own.”
“They won’t move,” she says to me. “They’re out for the count. Trust me.
Everything’s going to be just fine.”
She closes the back door. She has this way of doing it without making a sound. She’s like a ninja or something. God, I love her.
We tip-toe across the gravel and go out the back gate. Then we walk down the path, open their back gate, and go into their garden. It’s just sitting there, waiting for us. To tell you the truth, I’m still not a hundred per cent sure about all of this. I think I’d rather be in my bed. A warm bed beats warm water. That’s just a fact. But I don’t mention any of this to my wife. In situations such as this, I find it’s best to keep my mouth shut and go along for the ride.
“How do you turn it on?” she says to me.
“How should I know?” I say. We both speak in whispers. “I thought he showed you earlier,” she says.
“He did,” I say. “But I wasn’t paying attention.” She lets out her breath. “I’ll do it, then,” she says.
She fiddles with the controls. Then, after a minute, the jets come on, and the water starts bubbling away. I dip my hand in the water and hold it up against one of the jets. It feels good.
“Let’s get in,” she says.
I know what I said before, but I think I was wrong – I think this is better than a warm bed. This is better than a lot of things.
“See?” she says, “I told you this would be fine. Plus, we’re not down twenty grand.” “You’re right about that,” I say to her.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this comfortable. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the side of the hot tub. This is the life – this is pure bliss.
Then all of a sudden, I hear her say, “Shit!” I open my eyes. The kitchen light is on, and someone’s in there. Is it him, or is it her? I can’t say for certain.
She turns off the jets. Everything stops. We both hide underwater. The chlorine burns my eyes, but I need to keep them open so that I can communicate with my wife.
After a few seconds, she looks at me as if to say, Is it safe? Can we come up for air? I shake my head – no – and we stay beneath the warm water. It won’t be long now.
Thomas Morgan is a writer from Worthing in West Sussex. He’s been published in Dream Catcher Magazine, STORGY, Bandit Fiction, Nymphs, and Truffle Magazine.