Sidelined

by Marquita Valentine

  “I needed you to be faithful,” I say flatly.

  “I was. I mean, physically, I didn’t let it go there because I love and respect you.” He gives me a friendly smile. “Please be understanding, sweetie. I wanted our marriage to work, but it won’t.”

  “Who in the heck is understanding about a cheater trying to make his marriage work by sleeping with his wife?” Lord. I’m not even making sense. Nothing makes sense. All I want to do is curl into a ball and never go home.

  So much for the life I had planned out in my head.

  Junior league parties.

  BBQs in the summer with our families.

  Tailgating in the fall.

  Christmas with my parents and Thanksgiving with his.

  Two kids and a dog.

  The white house with black shutters.

  We’d had it all planned out since we were in middle school. Or maybe it was me who had it all planned and he simply went along for the ride... until a flashier car came along and seduced him away.

  Why had Joe kept this from me for so long?

  And why Tiffany?

  When did it start?

  Is there something lacking in me that made him go to her?

  Oh, screw that. He’s to blame, not me.

  “You’re supposed to be my best friend. How could you throw this—us— away like all the years we were together meant nothing?” I stand, moving to the porch that is straight over the water, where all I can see is the most beautiful ocean for miles and miles. I’m vacationing in paradise, but I’m living a nightmare.

  I flex my hand, glancing down at my wedding band for a second. “How am I supposed to go back home?”

  His stupid smile turns sympathetic. “I took care of that.”

  “Everyone expects us to come back home still married.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He digs in his pocket, and pulls out a piece of paper that’s been folded several times. “Here are our new flight plans.”

  I open the paper, reading over the details. Anger and frustration bulldoze over the sadness and humiliation. “You put me in coach?”

  He holds his hands up. “Now listen, I think it’s best if—”

  “You cheap bastard.” I yank off my ring and then hurl it into the ocean as hard as I can. “Good luck getting that back.”

  “What the hell, Layton? That was my grandmother’s ring.” He strips off his shirt and kicks off his shoes before diving straight off our porch.

  “Stop lying to me!” I march back into the room. “Your mother refused to let me wear it and had a knockoff made.”

  While he swims with the fishes, I grab his things from the dresser drawers and start chucking them into the ocean as well.

  “You crazy bitch. Stop throwing my shit and calm down.”

  “Bless your heart, Joe. I am so, so sorry that I’m not calm.” I lob an entire drawer at his head, and he has to dive deep.

  He shoots to the surface, sputtering obscenities as he shouts at me over and over until an audience forms as people come out on the other bungalow porches.

  My face is red. I probably so look like a crazy bitch, but I refuse to let him dictate to me how I should react to his confession.

  “By the way, your penis is so... well, it’s adequate and the sex was marginally good, but I don’t have anything else to compare it to, so you could suck.” Okay, so I’m super bad at talking crap, and even worse at lying. “You’re a cheater, Joe, and for that alone, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  He growls at me, and then dives into the ocean to look for the stupid engagement ring that at least I know now is real. No way he’d spend that much time searching for a zirconium.

  More than a little satisfied, I pack up my things. To make myself feel better, I put my double strand of pearls back on where they belong, rubbing the diamond clasp for luck.

  The necklace might be old-fashioned, but it survived crossing an ocean, the Great Depression, and the World Wars... along with the women who wore this piece of jewelry proudly.

  If they can survive all of that, then I can endure not only being cheated on and abandoned by my husband, but also relegated to coach. But he also took the gift of my first time and made a mockery of our vows.

  That sets my blood to boiling again, and I grab his precious antique watch—one I did not see before our wedding. He was so vague about who gave it to him, and now I know why. Determination in each step, I stalk all the way outside, blowing past our porch to stand at the edge of our little Tahitian bungalow.

  “Yoo-hoo, Joe.”

  He glares at me, his hands full of clothes. “I’m busy at the moment.”

  I wave his watch in the air. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  He’s such a liar. “Then you won’t mind, if...” I pretend to let the watch fall. “Oh, I caught it. Never mind.”

  “That was a gift.” He spits out some water. “Be reasonable and put the watch down.”

  “Put it down for you? Why sugar, I’d be honored put your watch in a real special place.” I open my hand and let the watch drop. It sinks to the bottom, catching the rays of sun as it goes.

  “That wasn’t waterproof,” Joe screams.

  “Awwww. Really? You should have told me first.” I tip up my chin and toss my hair back. “Enjoy the rest of our honeymoon. I know I will.”

  To myself, I vow, “And if I can’t, at least I’ll look pretty trying,”

  Then I do what any girl in my situation would do... I call my big brother.

  UNLIKE IN THE ROMANCE novel I’m reading while waiting for my ride home from the airport, I have never, ever been secretly in love with my big brother’s best friend. I haven’t even been publicly in love with Kingston’s best friend.

  Oh, but I have loathed Aiden. Loathed him so hard that I threw a drink in his face the night I turned twenty-one after he suggested I suck on a dick instead of a lemon after my first shot of tequila.

  Such a classy guy, no?

  Aiden hasn’t always been so crude, though. When I was a little girl, he was sweet if a bit rough around the edges when he’d show up for Thanksgiving dinner or spring break. Sometimes, he’d come down in the summer to intern at my daddy’s law practice. The first time I met him, he let me take his picture and ask him a thousand questions that I wrote the answers to in my binder.

  In any case, Kingston hadn’t heard his suggestion that night, or he would have thrown Aiden out of my party and right on his tight, muscular ass.

  I’m not blind.

  Aiden is hot... too hot and too cocky for his own good. A crying shame honestly, because if he ever got over himself and acted like a human being with feelings once again, then he’d probably be married by now.

  I know most women wouldn’t dare pick up a romance after being cheated on, but for me... I need confirmation there are still men out there worth falling for. That they open doors, share their jackets, and show consideration for the heroine no matter what the two of them are going through at the time. I need love and hearts, weddings, and baby epilogues.

  Grand declarations of love.

  Hot sexy times... because let’s face it, losing one’s virginity hurts like hell, even when it’s to my supposedly caring husband while on our honeymoon.

  However, while I have loathed Aiden for saying crude and crass things, I have never hated him.

  “Sorry I’m a little late,” Kingston says, his black dress shoes coming into view. “Parking was a pain with all the renovations they’re doing.”

  Cold shame washes over me, but then I remind myself that this is my big brother and he’s here for emotional support.

  I lift my gaze from the book and almost start crying again, just from the look of concern in his dark eyes. It makes me want to become a little girl again, and ask him to beat the crap out of Joe for leaving me.

  But I’m going to keep my big-girl cards and be strong instead.

  “Told you I’d get an Uber.”

&n
bsp; “No way in hell was I going to allow you to ride home by yourself after what that bastard did. Do you need help with your stuff?”

  “Nope.” Standing, I shove my book into my purse, hoist it on my shoulder, and grab the handles of my bags, then start walking toward the exit. “Where are you parked?”

  “Not too far.” He takes my suitcase from me. “I know you can roll this yourself, but I need something to do.”

  I smile. “You always did like rescuing the girl.”

  “Right now, I want to beat the shit out of the bad guy, then cut off his dick and shove it up his—” Kingston clears his throat. “You get the picture.”

  “I want pictures. Maybe even a video to go viral. It could show me holding the knife before I castrate Joe. Do you think you could sell it to a jury as a crime of passion?”

  He smiles at me. “There’s my baby sister—bloodthirsty like all the Price women are when scorned.”

  “The Price men aren’t exactly turn-the-other-cheek followers,” I remind him.

  He wraps an arm around me and pulls me close. “It’s going to be all right, honey. Remember you said I could kick his ass in your binder, and I bought a new pair of ass kickers last night.”

  “Just don’t get arrested, okay?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Also, can I live with you? I can’t face going back home.”

  He doesn’t miss a step. “For as long as you want, kiddo.”

  That’s when I let go of all my big-girl cards, and start to sob.

  Chapter 4

  Aiden

  PRESENT DAY

  When I was a kid, my ma would take me down to the hotel my dad owned so I could spend mandatory quality time with him and so she could not only remind him that he owed her child support, but also so she could pick up some extra shifts at Patrick’s Diner.

  Cillian Aiden McHugh hosted everyone from the common wise guy to power-wielding mobsters, as well as state senators and famous actors. He’d wine and dine them. Shake their hands and kiss their wives’ cheeks while fleecing them out of their money in hotel fees.

  All this, I would watch from the security room attached to his office.

  “Did you see all those yuppies? More money than brains,” he would always say at the beginning of our dinners. Dinners that were about three courses too long for a ten-year-old. “Am I right, boy?”

  I nodded in agreement because I knew he didn’t care if I said anything, but if I disagreed, he’d backhand me... and that would cause my ma to go off on him. They’d fight, and my dad would promise my ma the moon, and things would be good for a while. Real good.

  Until they weren’t.

  Funny thing was, his obvious disdain for the wealthy didn’t stop him from trying to be like them. He styled his hair like them, wore custom-made suits like them, and even lived in their neighborhood... but no matter how hard he tried to convince them he was cut from the same cloth, he simply couldn’t get rid of the Southie that permeated his soul.

  It’s why he couldn’t marry their daughters, and why he was never invited to join their clubs. So, my old man married a college-educated tart from New Hampshire, banged the yuppies’ wives out of revenge, and developed a taste for the forbidden.

  At least, that’s how my ma put it to me.

  Camilla Maria Cicconne was good girl, the kind you took home to meet your parents, who went to Mass every Friday night, had the brains and grades to go to college... and all of sixteen when she met the smooth-talking Irishman.

  Once she got knocked up by a man who couldn’t and probably wouldn’t have married her, my ma’s conservative Italian-Catholic parents kicked her out.

  Unlike my dad, she never resented me, never made me feel like a job she was forced to do... She loved me, still does, and through everything, she’s always been my number one.

  Always will be until I meet the right woman.

  Too fucking bad that the right woman is married to another man.

  I know what my dad’s advice would be. “Tempt her, Aiden. Charm her. It’s in your blood—women can’t resist McHugh men. It’s a fucking gift... and no one would have to know.”

  But I’d know.

  I didn’t start down the path of helping Layton get her happily ever after just so I could ruin it. That’s not me, no matter how much of a reputation for being an asshole I have.

  Better an asshole than a home-wrecker.

  “Can I get you another?” The bartender points to the beer I’ve been nursing for the past hour.

  “Nah. I’m good.” I push the beer away and then moodily start to scroll through Instagram to see what kind of bullshit my publicist has posted about me. Good bullshit to be sure, but bullshit nonetheless.

  A text from Kingston pops up on my screen.

  Need your help.

  Aiden: Your cut of my paycheck not good enough?

  Kingston: I earn every penny. Get your ass to my place. ASAP.

  Well, shit. This sounds serious.

  I close out my tab and leave a tip for the bartender, then jet out of there. Kingston lives in a high-rise four blocks away. While I’m used to walking, there’s no way I’m walking half a block around here without getting recognized. There are Super Bowl rumors being spread about the Renegades. I don’t want to jinx them by getting cornered by a fan or a reporter pressing me to talk about the season.

  Don't get me wrong, I like talking to fans. Reporters not so much. The fans, I’ll always do them a solid when they ask for an autograph or want a picture. Without them, there would be no Aiden McHugh quarterback for the Raleigh Renegades.

  It takes me about ten minutes to drive to Kingston's apartment. He lives in a revitalized part of Raleigh, which in my book is code for ‘get all the poor people out so that the hipsters can move in with their coffee shops tea shops and avocado toast’.

  I can't really say much for myself since I live in a suburb protected by a gated entrance that hires a security guard who requires you to be on the guest list before you can even enter the place.

  But it gives me protection I couldn't have otherwise. It makes me feel safe when I get threatening emails or weird Instagram stalkers. Plus, my ma likes the fact that her son lives in one of those fancy neighborhoods. She likes to brag to her friends about how well I've done.

  When I arrive at Kingston's apartment, he's waiting for me at the elevator. “What took you so long?" he asks, dragging me by the arm into the kitchen.

  I shake off his grip. “Where’s the fire, chief?”

  “It’s Layton.”

  My gut twists. I don’t want to hear about Layton and her douche of a husband. Bad or good. I don’t wish them ill, but I sure as fuck don’t want to celebrate with them, either.

  “What about her?” I open the fridge and grab the nearest bottle of water, twisting off the top and shutting the door with my foot.

  “Dude, watch it.” Kingston makes a face and inspects the fridge, wiping off an invisible mark with the sleeve of his shirt. Guy is serious about his kitchen because he likes to cook. Swear to God, he once referred to it as the inner sanctum of his apartment.

  Whatever. Who am I to judge?

  I gulp down a quarter of the bottle before Kingston speaks again.

  “I need your help dynamiting her ass out of bed.”

  There’s no way in hell I’m touching LT while she’s in bed, much less out of it. “Wouldn’t that be a job for her husband?”

  Kingston grimaces. “Not when the fucker left her for the wedding planner.”

  “You’re shitting me.” White-hot anger that the motherfucker would dare hurt Layton fills me. On its heels, the sweet feeling of relief that Layton is no longer with him, along with guilt for being happy. She has to be fucking miserable. Has to be.

  “’Fraid not. Bastard left her four days into the honeymoon.” Kingston’s hands clench into fists, and he gets this look on his face. It’s one I’m intimately familiar with because I’ve seen it on myself. He wants to kill Joe, but not bef
ore hurting him first.

  I’m down with that. “What does his poor timing have to do with getting her out of bed? Shouldn’t she be in Bluebelle Hills, working for your dad or the country club?”

  “She’s been here for six weeks. Moping around, barely showering. Eating her weight in chocolate.” He scrubs his hand over his face. “I’m not opposed to most of that continuing, but I can’t bring anyone over, and before you say it, I don’t mean for hook-ups. I literally can’t entertain clients because she’ll decide to come down, see people who remind her of the wedding reception, and burst into tears. Then I have to explain... and I’m tired of explaining.”

  Six fucking weeks? How had I missed this? Oh, right. I refused to pay attention whenever her name came up. Instead, I concentrated on taking the Renegades as far as they can go. “Why not her bestie?” I ask. Layton and Paige are double trouble. What one can’t think of, the other does, and they usually end up irritating everyone around them.

  “Tried that already.” Kingston grins wryly. “Paige suggested you.”

  “Don’t I feel special and shit,” I mutter before gulping down the rest of the water. I toss the bottle into the recycling bin in the pantry. “What about Mrs. Pri—”

  “Layton refuses to see her.”

  “You guys need to stop coddling her.” Six fucking weeks. Only Layton Tallulah Price would take a six-week vacation from reality.

  “Exactly why Paige said you’re the man for the job. I can’t do it. Boone won’t either because he loves her too much.”

  If Layton’s brothers love her so much, they would drag her ass out of bed so she could watch while they pounded Joe into the ground.

  Hell, I’d help.

  You owe her.

  The hell I do.

  You made a promise to her.

  Yeah, I also said I’d marry her if Joe changed his mind, and that’s not happening.

  Do this instead, and you’ll mostly be keeping your word to help her out.

  “You owe me big.”

  “Huge. Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

  “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I head to the second floor, taking the stairs two at a time. The apartment is only three bedrooms, so I go to the one with the shut door first.