Two Wrongs: A Second Chance Romance (Trouble by Numbers Book 2)

by Donna Alam

  ‘I want to hate you. Why can’t I?’

  I try so hard not to tremble, the invisible weight of his hand now ghosting my arm. Inexplicably, I want to reach out and soothe his suffering, but I’m not that girl anymore.

  ‘But maybe I should thank you,’ he says suddenly. Fiercely. He inches closer, his lips just a kiss away. ‘But I think I’d rather choke you first.’ I almost flinch, expecting the weight of his hand even as, at the same moment, my treacherous thighs clench. We’ve toyed with this kind of stuff before but never in this vein. Never with real hate. And the sickest part yet? I yearn for this right now. I crave him, my nipples pebbling against a weight that doesn’t come as he speaks again.

  ‘This person I’ve become—this fame—the brooding and fucking. The destruction. That’s all you, baby. I suppose it’s the real me now. I fucking hate—’ His words halt mid-rambling tirade, his fingers grasping the chain I wear around my neck. ‘What the fuck is this bullshit?’ he whispers, fingering my wedding band that hangs from there.

  Stupid, stupid Ivy. I can’t believe I’m wearing it. I should’ve left it at home, but the truth is I can’t bring myself to take it off. It’s always there, slipped under my shirt, the comforting weight of it against my chest.

  I lie stock-still and barely breathing, feigning sleep, and for what? But I’ve come this far. I can’t stop now because this time, I’d surely break apart.

  Dylan doesn’t move; in fact, it hardly seems like he’s breathing himself, but then the metal chinks quite suddenly, the weight of its pendant against my skin once again.

  As he stands then stumbles away, I’m not sure if the choking sobs are his or mine.

  Chapter Nine

  Dylan

  I have the hangover from hell, and I feel like I might puke, but I’m up unreasonably early. Am I hoping to see her practising yoga by the pool? A sick puppy ready to hump her downward dog? The way I feel after finding she still technically wears her ring; I’m more likely to push her into the damn thing and put my boot on her head.

  I was so fucking sure I could do this. Watching her face as I’d told her I knew—knew that she’d lied, I’d had to leave. Put some distance between us. It was leave or put my hands around her neck. Leave or choke an explanation from her. An explanation she wasn’t prepared to give.

  I was so fucking sure I could do this.

  I can do this. She has to pay.

  I thought about bringing someone home to screw loudly in our bed. Something to make her stay a little less comfortable. I thought about it; chickened out at the last minute. I didn’t even accept Blondie’s offer of bathroom head. There’s always the risk that it’ll end up on the internet anyway.

  Stumbling into the glare of cameras outside the bar, I came home. Home; what a joke. I didn’t go looking for her—hadn’t expected her to be in that room. I’d just needed to fall into a tequila coma somewhere. I’d faltered down the hallway, bumping off the walls and into one of the bedrooms. An indiscriminate choice; I didn’t care where, so long as it wasn’t in the master suite. If I hadn’t been so drunk, I might’ve considered she’d be avoiding that room, too.

  Jesus, what a mess. I was so sure having her here would make it easier for her to break. Just my fucking luck I stumbled into the wrong room, but one step over the threshold, and it was like I was compelled. I’m beginning to think she wears some Celtic voodoo perfume or something. Orange blossom and something indefinable.

  There she lay while the dog’s growling at me like I’m not the one paying someone to live in my house and look after him. I stood mesmerised, watching her chest rise and fall, her lips gently parted, and all that dark hair fanned out on the pillow, tempting me to touch.

  Just like old times. Especially as I fell to my fucking knees.

  I almost touched her. Almost pushed my face into her—drowned myself in her.

  Almost.

  No harm, no foul, though, right? And miraculously, I’m up, showered, and sitting at the kitchen island drinking coffee and feeling vaguely human when she walks in.

  ‘Morning, dear,’ I say then catch her glare. Her reaction warms my mean ol’ heart. Fuck apathetic this time because apathetic needs to hurt. ‘Sleep well?’ I’m pretty sure she slept through my ramblings, though I still grip the top of my cup as I wait for a response.

  ‘Fair to middling.’

  I grit my teeth, the familiarity of her funny speech patterns and quirks haunting me in the daylight now. Like how she stumbles over her words and gets things ass backwards regularly.

  ‘Coffee?’ She never touches the stuff, but I feign to forget. Just like she feigns not to hear me. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask as she reaches into the pantry, her back facing me.

  ‘Looking for Nigel’s leash. He’ll need walking.’

  ‘Fuck walking the dog,’ I snap suddenly. So much for calm and collected. ‘He’s not your dog anymore and no longer your concern.’

  She releases her shoulders from up around her ears with a sharp sigh. ‘I just thought . . . never mind.’ She hangs Nigel’s lead back, closing the door.

  ‘He has a walker,’ I say gruffly, though she doesn’t deserve the knowledge of either of our day-to-day lives. If she’d cared, she would’ve stayed. She wouldn’t have lied. ‘There’s still some of your tea in the back of the cupboard.’ Fuck it; I’m not supposed to be making nice here.

  Ivy grabs a cup from the cupboard above the coffeemaker, pouring herself a cup from the pot. She rests her hip against the worktop, her gaze fixed on the garden, totally avoiding me. ‘Fell off the wagon,’ she says with a wane smile.

  ‘Chocolate, too?’ I fight against the instinct of my lips turning up. Jesus Christ, I’ll be asking about her period next.

  ‘Dylan—’

  ‘Look—’

  We both speak at once.

  ‘You go first,’ I tell her, setting my own cup down.

  ‘Why am I here?’ she asks softly, her gaze flicking my way momentarily.

  Several visceral reactions happen all at once; my gut clenches, my chest pinches, and my brows furrow. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Where’s the vitriol? The attitude? This should be where I tell her she’s royally screwed.

  ‘Sit down, Ivy.’ I unknowingly use that tone—the one she used to love bossing her around—and remarkably, she does. The metal stool grates against the tiled floor as she pulls it out. Clasping her hands around her cup in front, she tracks my movements as I pull out her divorce petition from a folder by my arm. ‘You want this finalised.’ It’s not a question, and she doesn’t answer. ‘Would you care to tell me why?’

  ‘Why we should get divorced?’

  ‘There you go again, answering a question with another of the fucking same. Just tell me the truth for once in this miserable excuse of a relationship.’

  ‘We’re not good for each other,’ she almost whispers, her eyes studying the contents of her cup.

  This isn’t going as I want it to. So cool and evasive again. I thought the months away, months of ignoring her and her bullshit papers might’ve rattled her a little. Though she chooses not to let many know, she has a temper on her like a rattlesnake. Who knew she was sly like one, too? She goes off like a volcano when pushed; tiny Ivy turning like the Hulk. And I’d know, having pushed her there once or twice. Tears. Throwing things. Doesn’t happen often, but man, the payout is like nothing else. Angry sex is fucking awesome with Ivy but not a helpful thought right now.

  ‘Ivy—’

  ‘Good morning!’

  Behind me, one of the French doors open, but I don’t turn around, my focus caught by Ivy’s response. She sits straighter, her gaze moving from her cup to the woman behind me. Not as cool as she’d like to make out, there’s more than a hint of green colouring her honey tones.

  ‘Hey, Dylan. I saw your car and thought—’ Melissa’s running shoes squeak against the tile as she halts. ‘I didn’t know you had company. My bad.’

  The perky blonde stands by my sid
e—this couldn’t have worked out better if I’d planned it myself. Ivy’s gaze sweeps over Lissa’s tiny pink running kit once more—up then down—before narrowing on me. That’s it, babe. Fucking look at me for a change. I slide my arm around her lithe waist. She won’t mind; she’s made her intentions clear numerous times. Heavy hints I’ve so far paid no mind.

  ‘Hey!’

  Melissa does this small, awkward wave as though it’ll somehow alleviate the tension in the air. Tension you could slice with a knife and serve like pie. My fingers curled around her hip, I squeeze, and her face turns to mine. From my position on this stool, we’re the same height.

  ‘Why don’t you go grab Nigel. We’ll catch up later after his walk.’

  Her eyes flare; a mixture of desire and surprise. Melissa’s hot, but she’s my dog walker, and we’ve never caught up. I’ve never gone there and never suggested I wanted to, until now. It’s not that she’s isn’t cute; it’s just too much of a pain to find someone else to walk Nigel’s woolly ass while I’m in the city where I live these days. A high-end penthouse; white walls, floors, and furniture. Sterile. And like a nut house.

  ‘Sure thing,’ she replies in her super perky L.A. way. Sometimes, this town sucks ass. Though ass sucking does have its perks; depends on which end of the bargain you want to be. Sucker or suckee.

  Fuck, looks like I’ll be hiring a new dog walker soon.

  As Lissa grabs his lead, Nigel lumbers into the room. Usually more than happy to let her fuss and coo, he shows no interest today. Instead, he plants his square snout on Ivy’s lap. My jaw clenches when her gaze moves from my face to concentrate on stroking his head.

  There’s an awkward moment when Lissa needs to fasten the lead to the collar; it yields no result when she calls Nigel over to her.

  ‘Excuse me. Sorry,’ she murmurs, though from Ivy, not a word is uttered in response. Just as well, I think, because as they leave, my wife’s eyes rise to me again.

  Finally. No more of this hiding bullshit; her gaze is bright and angry, and right now, she looks like she wants to lean across the island, slide her hand to the back of my neck, and pull hard . . .

  . . . smashing my face into the marble slab.

  The thought makes me smile, and my smile seems to make her more mad.

  Maybe now we’re getting someplace.

  It all reminds me of this one time at a bar when a girl came onto me. It was before this mad fame hit. I didn’t do anything, didn’t encourage her or brush her off. I didn’t need to because, in no time, Ivy was winding her way around me and sliding her fingers into my hair. To anyone looking on, she was this dark, sensuous thing, staking a claim on her man. And she was, but not remotely with that come fuck me, baby intent. Even with her tits squashed up against me and her breathy voice in my ear, I swear I felt the shift in the air as she leaned in, taking my head with both hands. She looked square into my eyes and whispered I was working my way to a Glasgow kiss. Excited? Fuck, yeah; I was rock hard and also a little terrified. She kissed me full on the lips—a long, passionate kiss—smiling sort of secretly as she pulled away. A Glasgow kiss sounded great—I imagined all kinds of things. It wasn’t until later I learned to be kissed Glasgow style wasn’t a treat. She’d just threatened to slam her cranium into mine; to head-butt me.

  Sweet, mild Ivy has her jealous side. And I loved it. And I love how she’s looking at me like she wants to hurt me, ‘cause at least she’s looking, right?

  ‘How many,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ she asks, a line drawn between her brows. A line I inexplicably want to reach out and smooth away with my thumb.

  ‘How many women do you think I’ve screwed since you left?’

  She flinches then grates out, ‘How the fuck am I supposed to know?’ She’s still watching me, and that she’s swearing is a good sign. ‘I don’t even care—’

  ‘Darlin’, play along. We’ll both guess. Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never thought about me or asked yourself who I’m fucking these days. I know I’ve thought of you.’ Tortured myself with images of Ivy and another man. Men, even. ‘But I guess it’s easier for me. I have a lot more material to work with, seeing as how you already set the scene for me.’

  Set it so fucking well.

  ‘You’re such a conceited arsehole.’ She pushes away from the island, the feet of the stool punishing against the tile, but the sound isn’t as bad as when it topples. The clang is almost deafening, but she isn’t waiting around.

  I spin in my seat, catching her arm as she brushes by.

  ‘And you’re a cunt.’ My fingers are punishing even though my voice is calm.

  ‘Suck my dick, Dylan,’ she spits.

  ‘I do suck lady dick pretty well, as you know. And I’ve had plenty since you left.’

  ‘Good to know,’ she says, stepping into me, almost between my splayed knees. ‘Because I wouldn’t fuck you with someone else’s dick these days.’

  ‘Come on,’ I goad. ‘How many men have you fucked since you left?’

  ‘That has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘I’m still your husband, babe. Like it or not. You think you can hurt me any more than you already have? Not gonna happen. Want me to go first?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘No?’ I watch her pissed gaze, trying to ascertain her overriding emotion. I see anger and fear, but something else is also lurking there. Pain? ‘Sit the fuck down.’ I loosen her arm, pushing her a little ways. ‘You tell me how many, and maybe I won’t say. How about that?’

  She doesn’t return to her seat, not that I expect her to, her gaze no longer for me, but over my shoulder somewhere.

  ‘You’re making no sense.’

  ‘No? I want to know how big of a slut my wife is, and clearly, you don’t care enough to want to know about me.’ I tilt my head sideways in an echo of our mutt. ‘Or maybe you don’t want to know ‘cause it’ll hurt. Play the game, babe.’

  Because I want it to hurt. Again. And again.

  ‘You’re perverse.’

  ‘Just the way you like me, right? Look.’ I tap the papers again with my index finger, drawing her attention there. ‘Fuck enquiring minds. Gotta make sure the ink dries for the right reason.’

  ‘You saw all the evidence you need,’ she says through gritted teeth, her gaze slipping back to me and away again. If looks could kill . . . ‘We were both there.’

  ‘Maybe I doubt my own eyes,’ I say, in an echo of the words she used on me. ‘I’d had a lot to drink, and as I recall, you never once said you’d fucked the guy.’

  ‘Never said?’ she repeats warily, sliding her hands into the pockets of her pants. Loose navy pants, a tight tank, and flip-flops. Beach chic; her long dark hair pinned to her head in a messy knot, the curve of her neck exposed, delicate and fine-boned.

  She looks like she belongs in a café on some beachfront—the kind of girl who wears Ugg boots and oversized sweaters that expose too much shoulder in the cold. What you see with Ivy isn’t at all what you get; Ugg boots are unethical, and meat is a sin unless we’re talking about what’s between my legs. Or at least, she used to be. Despite the cool and calm outward appearance, my wife is incendiary. You just have to know how to get her there. That fucking hair. I want to bury my nose in it. Pull out the pins or whatever the fuck’s keeping it in place. Run my fingers through it—grab it at the base of her skull and pull her head back until she’s staring at me.

  Just. Fucking. Look. At. Me.

  ‘You never once said, Dylan, I fucked up. I went out and had a little too much to drink and brought a guy home to our bed.’ She flinches. I smile. ‘Not once did you actually admit it; not then and not after.’ Not in the days following when I ranted and raved. Days I tortured myself and her. Evenings spent unwisely. Imprudently. Recklessly. Intermittently drunk then high before coming home to start the cycle again. Home. What a joke. And all the while I raged, she hedged. I can see that now.

  ‘I was wasted. We ended up in bed. I didn’t do
it to hurt you, and I’m sorry.’

  Those are, what I’d call, the bare facts. As in, they’re barely factual.

  We had a party at the end of the shoot. She didn’t want to go, and we fought; she’d been in a strange mood the whole week—fuck knows why. But I needed her there, and she wanted to stay in the suite and sulk.

  I told her she could please herself. My needs be damned.

  I went. She followed. We got wrecked—separately. We were like planets orbiting that evening and destined for a collision in hindsight. I lost track of her, lost in the fugue of euphoria and a drunken vibe. Then later, my mood softened, sap that I am. I tried to put myself in her position. I went to look for her, but she hadn’t gone back to the suite. She also wasn’t answering her phone.

  Short story, real late—or real early, depending on your take of things—I caught a limo home. And there she was, near naked and sprawled across our bed. She was alone, but she’d had a man there; he’d left his shirt hanging in the bathroom. Who leaves without their fucking shirt?

  I’d always thought myself a natural brawler, but right then, I was nothing but a fucking cripple. And she was the cause.

  ‘So you’re sorry. You’re sorry? Yeah, well, so am I.’ My voice gets louder, and I shove my fists in my pockets to stop from putting them around her neck. ‘I’m so fucking sorry,’ I roar, ‘that you left me for a lie. You fucking left—threw it all away. And for what?’ She opens her mouth, but I’m not ready to hear her talk. ‘The asshole is fucking gay.’

  So I’ve lived imprudently.

  So I’ve fucked my way through half of L.A. since she left.

  So I fought and got drunk and made lots of nasty new friends.

  So I did all those things just to block her out.

  I’m also a masochist because I made it my business to find out who she went home with—a grip from the movie I was working on. I wasn’t sure what to do with the information, short of beating him into non-existence. I thought about it plenty—how could I contrive to hurt him without anyone knowing how much I hurt. And then he appeared on my latest set. The guy didn’t know who the fuck I was, beyond being Dylan Duffy, and was equally perplexed when I got up in his face.