by Nesly Clerge
The woman looked at Dr. Moore then away. In a small voice, she said, “Thank you.”
Dr. Moore noted the avoidance, the hesitancy demonstrated by the woman to receive or believe what she’d heard. “If my comment made you uncomfortable, I apologize.”
“It’s fine. I’m not used to compliments, is all.”
Such behavior and its frequent origins were familiar, more common than they should be. Dr. Moore opened the book and poised her pen over the first blank page. “What name should I use?”
“Chelsea. I saw one of your interviews on TV. I got your book just before coming here. After hearing you speak, I’m eager to read it and see what else you have to say.”
“Just curious about the topic in general, or do you have a more personal interest?”
The short-skirted woman started to speak then stopped when Chelsea glared at her. “This is my friend Penelope. She’s also eager to read what you wrote.”
Dr. Moore nodded at Penelope and said, “You’re getting approving glances from the men and daggers from the women.”
Penelope smirked. “You’d think they’d never seen breasts before. By the looks of this group, the men should get out more and the women should get makeovers.”
Chelsea’s complexion turned ruddy. “Starting with me.”
“Oh, Chels. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“The truth is the truth. Right, Dr. Moore? Who better to tell you than your best friend.”
Dr. Moore shifted her gaze from Penelope to Chelsea. “Sometimes, what we call truth is only a perception, or prejudice, in the eye of the beholder.”
Chelsea patted her hips. “Or too obvious to miss.” She held out her hand for her book. “We don’t want to hold you up. The line for your autograph is starting again. I just want to say that I … Never mind. Let’s go, Pen.”
“I want my book signed.”
Dr. Moore scribbled her name in the book then watched the two women leave, Penelope’s head high and proud as she swished toward the door, while Chelsea kept her eyes aimed downward. Only one of them was conscious of her deep-seated insecurity. Very few people were willing to admit the truth to others or to themselves.
Especially about themselves.
CHAPTER 3
“Nothing is more painful than being disappointed by the one person you thought would never hurt you.” Chelsea Hall turned the page of the novel she was reading in bed and said, “He must have been through an agonizing time in his life.”
Garrett Hall kept his focus on his iPad. “Sorry. What did you say?”
Chelsea rolled her eyes and adjusted the pillow behind her back. “Someone, at some time, must have crushed him emotionally.”
“Who?”
“Luke Thompson.”
“Don’t know him.”
“Of course not. He’s the author of this novel.” She turned the book to display the front cover.
Garrett gave the book an insubstantial glance. “You know I never read fiction. It’s fabrication, Chels. No reason for you to get so caught up in—” Garrett’s cell phone buzzed and vibrated on the nightstand. He snatched the phone up and read the name on the screen.
Chelsea wrinkled her brow. “Who’s contacting you at this time?”
“I’m on call at the hospital tonight. Remember?”
Chelsea closed the novel and cradled it to her chest. “This is getting ridiculous. You might even say unbelievable. I feel like telling them to hound someone else for a change.”
“Here.” He shoved his phone at her. “Call the hospital back. Ruin my career or cost some person his or her life.”
Chelsea waved him off in a dismissive fashion, but not before she noted the name on the phone registered as Dr. Jacobs.
Garrett hid his satisfaction. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Gotta get ready to go in, babe.”
Chelsea scooched under the covers and turned on the television. “It’s just that you’re always working late or being called in. More than you used to be, or ought to be.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “Should I be worried?”
Garrett sighed his exasperation, palmed his phone, and left the bed. He knew his wife well: It wasn’t his hours at work she referred to. At the doorway of the master bathroom, he turned and said, “Do you have a better suggestion about how I can pay for this extravagant lifestyle you enjoy?”
Her silence was expected, gratifying. He smiled, but not in amusement. “That’s what I thought. These late nights and extra hours pay for this small mansion and everything else you couldn’t live without. If there are no more complaints, I’ll get ready and go do the job I’m paid to do.”
He closed the arched double doors of the bathroom then crossed the gleaming marble floor. Matching peach marble continued up the walls and in the shower large enough for four, as well as encased the Jacuzzi. He had to hand it to Chelsea: The exquisite décor in this room and throughout the house was her doing. Sure, he appreciated it, but she’d never have settled for anything less. Nor would he. He never settled for anything less than what he wanted. Why should he?
Garrett sent a text stating he’d be leaving in several minutes. He stripped and admired his toned body in the mirror that spanned one wall then prepped his face and razor. The blade was almost to his skin when the reply to his text message came, asking where he wanted to meet. He put the razor down and typed Same as last night.
Quickie or can you stay a while?
I’ll call when on my way.
Garrett put the phone down and placed the razor to his cheek. Chelsea screamed his name, and he cursed as the blade nicked his skin. He left the blood to trail into the white foam on his face, ignored the sting of the menthol and opened the double doors.
CHAPTER 4
Chelsea huddled in the middle of the bed, her gaze fixed on the TV screen. No fire. No blood spilling but his.
“What the hell, Chels? I cut myself when you shrieked.”
She pointed at the TV. “Sorry, but I knew you’d want to see this. It’s a special about Frederick Starks. I remember seeing this film clip of when he was being taken to prison after his trial, looking arrogant even then.”
“Starks was—is—innocent.”
“He was guilty, and you know it. He should never have beaten that poor woman’s husband into a coma. Especially not in front of her children.”
Garrett grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. A few minutes into the special he pressed the power button and tossed the remote onto the bed. The screen contracted to dark.
“I was watching that.” Chelsea scooped up the remote but left the TV off.
“It’s bullshit,” Garrett said. “They’re only interested in sensationalism, not the truth.”
Chelsea tightened her grip on the remote. “But we know the whole truth, don’t we?”
“You know damn well he went after Ozy Hessinger in self-defense. The man intended to knife him. What those media assholes don’t know about Starks is something I do: He’s the type of guy who’d give you the shirt off his back, if you needed it. He doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him.”
“He nearly killed a man. And for the most hypocritical reason of all. He deserves what he got.”
“You don’t know all that I know about what he’s been through.”
“You’re defending him because he was your partner-in-crime. You know the saying, “Birds of a foul feather cheat on their wives together.”
“That’s enough, Chelsea.”
“I met Kayla Starks socially several times and heard her side of the story. If anyone understands what she went through, I do.”
“We agreed not to talk about that time ever again. But, you know damn well, if it wasn’t for Starks lining me up with his team of lawyers, I’d have lost my license.”
“We could have found someone just as hawkish and less costly. The thousands those high-priced lawyers charged came out of our pockets, not his.”
“You mean my pockets.”
“I h
ate when you say that. It’s unfair. We agreed it was best I give up practicing law to stay home and take care of Kimberlie. Yes, you pay the bills, but I look after our daughter and manage our home, and I do it mostly alone. If you don’t value the contribution I make to …” Chelsea’s chin quivered. She turned away.
Garrett stared up at the ceiling and sighed. “I’m sorry. Of course I value all you do. I’m in a rush, so wasn’t thinking straight.”
“This isn’t the only time you weren’t thinking straight.”
Garrett threw his hands up. “You won’t stop with the needling, will you?”
“Your free time is supposed to be spent here, with us, with me, not screwing around.”
“For the thousandth time, I’m not screwing around. And, I’m not having this discussion with you yet again. Definitely not now. They’re waiting for me at the hospital. I need to take a quick shower before going in. You’re holding me up.”
Chelsea followed him into the bathroom. “Do men think about their wives when they’re screwing other women? Did you think about me? About Kimberlie?”
“I’m way more than damn tired of hearing this broken record. What happened is in the past. Leave it there.”
“Last year, Garrett, not years ago. You think I can simply erase from memory that you had sex with that slutty nurse? You’d like me to forget. You want me to act like it never happened. Clean slate and all that. Then you could convince yourself that you’re guilt-free. That my pain doesn’t exist. That I don’t wonder if you compare me to her, and that I lose.”
“How is our relationship ever going to heal if you keep bringing up my mistake?”
“Mistake? What a modest word for what you did.”
“You’re not only not ready to let it go, you haven’t gotten your fill yet of punishing me. I understand you’re upset that I have to go in, but I don’t want this nonsense of yours to escalate into an argument. I don’t have the time or the energy for it.”
“You never have the time.”
“Forget this. I’ll shower downstairs. Otherwise, I’ll run later than I already am.”
Garrett slid his arms into his robe and slipped his phone into a pocket. He grabbed a pair of scrubs, underwear, keys, his wallet, and headed downstairs. He needed distance between him and her accusations.
He got that this wasn’t easy for her, but these emotional outbursts were annoying as hell. And getting old fast.
It wasn’t his intention to hurt her. But he couldn’t seem to help himself: His one great weakness was women. He’d managed to hide his behavior from her until last year, but then she’d found out. Well, there was also the time before that one. He had to be more careful, or he risked losing everything.
Chelsea listened for the downstairs bathroom door to close. A debate went on inside her about whether or not to reach out to Richard. He’d said he was always available for her. She dialed her brother-in-law’s number. “Is it okay to call you now? Can you talk?”
CHAPTER 5
Garrett rested both hands on the lavatory countertop and stared disapprovingly at himself in the gilded mirror. “You’re a disappointment, son.”
He shook off disparaging himself, finished shaving with a fresh razor he kept stashed in a drawer then got into the shower, letting the steaming water sting his skin. It wasn’t required that the water be that hot to act as some version of spiritual cleansing. It was that every part of his body had to be all but sanitized. He never knew where Dr. Jacobs’ tongue would travel.
Of course he realized he asked a lot of Chelsea, particularly because he knew if circumstances were reversed, he wouldn’t be able to handle it. Kayla Starks’s rampant cheating was well known in their circles, a fact that had crushed Frederick Starks.
That wasn’t the worst blow she’d dealt her husband. As Starks’s attending physician, he’d found himself unexpectedly thrust right into the middle of that couple’s intrigue. What a shitty task it had been to confirm to Starks that his son Blake wasn’t his, a thirteen-year deception brought to a gut-wrenching halt. Had Starks not needed a blood transfusion recently, he’d never have had the heart ripped out of him by that revelation. He’d still be blind to the truth.
Thank God Chelsea respected their marriage too much to ever cheat. Kimberlie was his, without a doubt. She’d inherited his ebony eyes and dark curly hair, the latter for which she jokingly chastised him. Had he desired to have another child, he was certain the parentage would have been guaranteed, as well.
His promise to never betray Chelsea again after his last infraction, had been broken almost as soon as he’d uttered the words to her. It was far easier to say the words than to follow through.
His phone buzzed again with a reminder of the anticipated rendezvous.
Did you leave yet?
See you in thirty-five.
CHAPTER 6
It took twenty desire-filled minutes and a heavy foot on the accelerator for Garrett to drive from his home in Waltham to Brookline. The birthplace of one of America’s most beloved presidents, whose extramarital activities were well known, seemed an appropriate location for his trysts. And far enough away so that no one who knew him or his family would see him or his car and report his whereabouts to Chelsea.
He sped alongside Olmsted Park, not as famous as Central Park in Manhattan, but still worthy of admiration. When his assignations happened during daylight hours, he took time to give the park its due.
After driving another two miles, Garrett turned his Porsche into the parking lot of the five-star hotel and waited. Minutes later, the car he watched for backed into the space next to his. The woman got out of her car. She flicked her wavy blond hair from her shoulders and smiled at him. Darkness hid the deep blue of her eyes, but the fire in them was evident. She knew how to handle herself. And him.
The woman held up a hand, indicating he was to wait before leaving his car. He complied. She turned in a slow circle, modeling the prize of her body under the second-skin mini. She caressed her breasts then slid her hands to her slim waist and along her hips, turned and bent over just far enough for him to see the only thing between him and euphoria was the flimsy silken sheath she wore.
Her confidence in her sexuality was enticing, his erection demanding. The woman ran her tongue over her rouged top lip then gave her bottom a slap. His expression in response made her laugh. She had him where and how she wanted him. But turnabout was fair play, as the saying went. As soon as he got her into the room, he’d turn her every which way. Or maybe he’d tie her up.
Garrett grabbed the several silk ties and jacket he kept in his backseat for just this reason and got out. He pressed her against her car, bumped his erection against the mound between her thighs for a few seconds then backed away. They beeped their cars locked and made their way to the lobby, his jacket draped strategically in front of him.
CHAPTER 7
The man in the dark navy suit looked up from behind the reception desk. “Good evening, Dr. Hall. How are we this evening?” As usual, he didn’t wait for a reply and kept his eyes respectfully averted from the woman, as he did in regard to any of the women who accompanied his favorite customer.
Garrett handed the night manager his credit card, which was scanned and returned, once again paying for the Presidential Suite reserved by the week, every week, as it had been for at least the six years the night manager had been employed there. The exchange was made of the key to the suite and five hundred-dollar bills for the manager’s complicity.
Garrett and the woman moved at a hurried pace to the elevator, silent except for the click of the woman’s heels on the faux granite beneath them.
He pressed the button for the top floor. The door eased closed. He pulled her to him. Cupped one of her breasts. Squeezed. Trailed his finger over the nipple responding to his touch. “You’re one sexy woman.” He pinched the nipple. “Like thimbles. Or gumdrops.” He pursed his lips and made sucking noises.
She laughed and pushed him away.
&n
bsp; The elevator stopped. At the door to the suite, Garrett slid the key into the slot.
The woman slid her dress over her head.
No way to suppress the hunger he felt at the sight of her nakedness or his admiration for her boldness. He opened the door and let her enter before him.
She tossed her dress onto the nearest chair and sauntered forward in her heels. Stopped and turned, placing her feet shoulder-width apart. Watching him, she trailed her hand down her abdomen, stroked what he called her sweet spot. “Nothing like a fresh wax for your ride, don’t you agree?” She laughed as Garrett, wide-eyed, licked his lips. “Maybe next time, I’ll let you shave me.”
Garrett drew in a breath, threw the bolt on the door and his jacket and ties atop her dress. Forget delaying gratification. He’d save the ties for round two.
It took only seconds to reach her, to grab her bottom with both hands and pull her against him. “Everything about you is luscious. And don’t you just know it.”
Mouths consumed lips and tongues.
She dragged his scrub shirt over his head.
He yanked his scrub pants and underwear off.
Lifted her so that her legs wrapped around his waist.
Carried her to the bed.
Dived into his need.
CHAPTER 8
The red digits on the scale stopped at one ninety-nine. Chelsea shuddered. It was the highest number yet, and way over what her five-foot, six-inch frame was meant to support.
Naked in front of the mirrored bathroom wall, she turned to the right, straightened her posture, and attempted to suck in her belly. Hands placed above her breasts, she pulled the skin upward. Neither effort produced enough of a difference to satisfy her.
Kimberlie was fifteen now. The excuse of reticent baby-weight expired long ago. Garrett had ceased his subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle, suggestions about how she might lose the weight. With unfounded determination, which she considered a waste of money, he continued to pay membership for her at an exclusive women’s health club, despite knowing she had justifications at the ready, if asked, as to why she couldn’t make it there. Neither of them had mentioned her lack of attendance for over two years. What was the point?