“Sweet tits?” The pitch in my voice is almost shrieking it’s so loud. “Did you just call me, ‘sweet tits’?” I’m crying tears by the time I sit up, mirroring his opposite position of mine towards the head of the patio chair, and I tuck the tails of my robe between my legs to hide anything my boy shorts may not be.
All of which, I do completely without awkward pause or hesitation while maintaining our conversation. “That’s definitely a first. I must say. My cheating asshole husband has certainly never referred to me or my tits as being sweet.” My laughing and joking, however is interrupted by my phone whistling, notifying me of a text.
“Well, as sweet as they may be. I still need you paying attention. Just because your tits are sweet and you’re sitting the way I asked you to— like a good little girl, by the way—doesn’t mean you can check out mid-convo and start texting Mary or God forbid, sexting Liam. Shit—“ I see his head duck in my peripheral, and I glance up at him.
Whatever he’s rambling isn’t registering. Whatever has fallen out of his mouth from the moment my eyes first read the text, has fallen on deaf ears.
“Sorry, I almost threw up in my mouth thinking about it,” he jokes. Jokes.
But we’re past joking. I’m past joking.
My entire LIFE is so far past JOKING that I don’t know if I’ll ever fucking joke again.
What’d he say?
I briefly remember wondering, thinking maybe whatever Rhett had to say could possibly fix this. Correct it. Make it stop, make it go away.
Make it SOMETHING.
Make it nothing.
“It’s Wednesday.” I interrupt whatever the hell it is he’s blabbering and he stops and just stares for a second before narrowing his eyes on mine and nodding, as if to acknowledge that yes, it is indeed Wednesday.
“You’re running. You always run? Even on the days you go to the office? Even on the days you work with Liam?”
I ask the important questions as simply as possible.
And he answers, simply nodding.
“Th-The monitoring—err, surveillance, was…did you have any reason to see if his side of the house was being monitored too? Or w-was it just—“
“Just yours. Most of the files must’ve been on whatever hard drives they took out when they cleaned it out that first night, though. I haven’t seen any. Not of your side, or any of his.”
“Okay,” I whisper. Thinking.
I keep looking back at my phone and rereading Liam’s words.
Why? Dear, God. Why?
I clear my throat and ask the question I don’t want the answer to, begging him to lie to me with my eyes, I know it. “Today’s your birthday?”
His expression is completely void for twelve seconds before he speaks, “Yes.”
“Because my husband just text me.”
I spit. I’m pissed.
I want to know how much, if not all, does he know about this. I want to know when I got dragged into it. I want to know WHAT THE FUCK Liam is thinking, and what the hell kind of MINDFUCK black hole, fifty eleventh dimension, worm hole I have slipped into where normal people and sanity no longer frequent.
I gather every bit of courage and every ounce of pissed I possess, and I open my mouth before slamming every word I want to deliver, completely below the belt:
“And apparently, because my husband got your, what? Ex-girlfriend? Pregnant, which just so happens to also be Travis’ little sister, that means you get me for your birthday. There’s a celebration planned and half of New York has been invited, per old man,” I make air quotes, “Jackson’s request. Apparently, he’s just being told his long lost adoptive son has been released from prison. Loyal as he is, even after all these years and all the reasons you shouldn’t be. And it’s his birthday to boot.” I fake smile and clap like a Barbie or a cheerleader.
Yaasss!!!! Because I’m so mature.
I throw my cell phone at his face, but miss as it hits his chest then flops to the pillow top chair we were just laughing and joking on.
I stand, tightening my robe as tight as possible before tying the sash into a knot, “Here. You read it. Let me know if I’m fucking reading it wrong. And by the way, my mother will be here shortly. Apparently,” And I know, I know—hell I physically cringe the third time I say it, apparently. But I’m pissed! And when I’m pissed I can’t think, and when I can’t think, I can’t plan my next move or words. “When my husband decides to really fuck me, he really runs with it. I mean he drives it straight past fucked. He mind fucks. With an audience!” The last part is screamed so loud I’m certain only dogs heard it. But I don’t care.
My heart’s broken.
I spin and stumble. I try to straighten and step forward in my attempt to flee and it sends me falling over the chaise lounge Rhett and I were sitting on’s opposite half, but thankfully, he’s there and I don’t face plant into anything. Again.
“Thank you,” I mutter as I stand and storm the rest of the way into the house before making a bee line for Liam’s, or I guess, now my side of the house.
Before I’ve even reached the stairs the tears are streaming with no signs of stopping any time soon. And by the time I barrel into the master suite, I’m a sobbing hot mess.
His text was clear if nothing else.
Crystal clear.
But in his defense, or offense, however you look at it, he really didn’t have any other option. I mean, my response is limited and matters none.
Sure, money wise, I’ll be fine. I’ll be set, that’s certain.
But what about our history?
And what about his text?
I feel the hard door’s coldness seep through my thin robe and shiver, but still I slide down it until I’m sitting on the cold marble floor of the bathroom. I huddle there in my little hole, thinking back to his text and I shudder harder against a different brand of cold that settles in around me.
It’s the same damn brand of cold I experienced after I lost the baby.
Same fucking ice cold. Bone cold.
And it gets colder and colder with every remembered word:
Lexy, I’ve been gone for reason. Reasons I’ll never be able to explain to you. I will say this, and not because you earned it. But because I earned the right to say it. I’ve accidentally fallen in love. And somewhere in doing so, we made a family. One I’ve decided to choose over you. Maybe this is why that God of yours never blessed you with a child, or us. Maybe it’s because he or she knew I’d be needed somewhere else soon. I don’t know what to tell you.
I have received your texts. And I’ve considered each one as an individual, I hope that wasn’t too presumptive of me. And I’d like to hit the high notes. First, I know you’ll miss me, baby girl. And I know this is going to hurt. But I’m here for you. And this will work if you want it to. Secondly, don’t worry yourself about the surveillance, it was totally for your safety, I can assure you. And thirdly, I know you haven’t mentioned him, but I am still keeping tabs on the house and YOU, I hope things are kept cordial between the two of you. At least until I’m able to announce mine and Summer’s engagement and share our news about becoming first time parents.
Ask your boyfriend whose wife he’s getting for his birthday, sweet tits.
Go ahead. I can’t wait to hear your reaction.
Nor yours when he informs you of the celebration his long lost god-father, Old man Jackson has prepared for the event tonight.
I do hope to see you there, baby girl. And I’d like to remind you to remember to mind your manners.
I’ve assured your mother will be there shortly with our little Mary to help you get ready. So if Rhett won’t escort your socially retarded inept self to the party, I’m sure you’ll find your mother still loves you enough to.
From now, on the other side.
—Liam
The other side?
Shit.
Does he think he’s freaking Adele?
“Shit,” I mutter, remembering the part about my mother.
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I need to text her. Hell, she’s called a hundred times today, now I know why.
I guess I was distracted.
I slowly stand before making my way through the dark bathroom and turn on the water in the closet sized shower stall, then light candle after candle.
I’m normally a bath person. I like soaking.
I like relaxing, breathing.
I like the silence.
I plug my iPhone into the Bose speaker system and press play on my playlist, positively blaring Lightening Crashes by Live.
The first chords tear through the echoing marble room and chill bumps race out across my naked skin.
Then the bass thrums though the room.
I walk from the shower to the mirror and brace myself with my hands on the countertops before looking back at myself in the mirrors reflection.
You know, to check and make sure. Reality bites sometimes so hard that a reality check is needed.
I know, I thought I was done learning new shit too.
“This is really happening?” I ask my reflection. Almost whispering, as if I can’t believe it either.
Then I nod.
Because I don’t know what to do.
I look myself up and down, completely bare as the day I was born, and I wonder what I did wrong.
My heart constricts tighter in my chest as the question ricochets through my conscience.
What the hell did I do wrong? Did I age bad? Am I aging bad? I stay fit, I run.
I try not to nag.
What’d I do wrong?
Defeat weighs heavy on my shoulders and they slump before I turn and slowly walk from the mirror and into the shower.
Once the still freezing cold water hits my skin, the sob that’s been lodged in my throat since I took my eyes off myself in the mirror releases, tearing its way out and the tears mix with the slowly warming water.
God I didn’t know it hurt this bad. I never thought it’d feel like such…agony. It’s fucking agony having a broken heart.
Having a broken heart is like having broken ribs. You look fine on the outside, but on the inside every breath is almost an impossibility.
The tears come for I don’t know how long. Long enough for my fingertips and toes to prune and the water to turn scalding hot.
I’ve just evened out my breathing and actually began bathing by lathering soap into my bath sponge when the bathroom door slams. Then less than a second later, I’m frozen, listening for a second sound, one hand half way to my shoulder ready to scrub away the morning, when suddenly I’m being slammed up against the wall and all of my space is being invaded by Rhett fucking Bennett in all of his long, tall glory.
His face stops, for the second time this week, less than an inch away from mine.
He’s still fully clothed. I’m not.
His hair is getting wetter with every passing second. Wetter, and heavier and falling into his face, sticking to it in rivulets of water streaming down, mixing with it. When he blinks, his lash sprinkle drops upward.
My hands fist, gripping his sweatshirt, his sopping wet hoodie sweatshirt. And I dunno, maybe I’m bracing myself? Stopping myself? From what?
Falling.
His are cupping my face when he finally speaks. “Fuck yeah you read it right. And fuck no I don’t know anything about it. So what? It’s my birthday. So what? Old man Jackson is throwing me a party. Yeah, I knew about it. I’ve known about it. All week. Just like you’ve known you were married to a cheating asshole. But let’s you and I stick to the facts, shall we? It’s my fucking party, and you need a date. Text your husband back, and tell him to fuck off. I’ll be on the balcony at eight to pick you up—“ He hesitates, and mouths goddammit, before continuing, “And your mother, too. I don’t want to do this anymore than you do, so together, we’ll get through it. Together we’ll do it.” He narrows his eyes. “Get dressed. Get beautiful. Don’t wear any damn pale, drab colors either. If you can’t do colors, I get that, wear black. But no pale pink or fucking khaki.” He coughs and turns his head, then squeezes his eyes shut before facing me and opening them again. After he pins me with those dark brown orbs, he clears his throat again, then goes serious. “I must’ve been out of my fucking mind thinking I could storm in here, with you in water and not a stitch of clothing—which I hadn’t calculated that into my equations by the way— say what I needed to say and not get out of here, out of your presence, without at least a ninety percenter.”
As fast as he’s there and his words are said, he’s even faster when he’s done speaking and gone.
I reach out and turn the water off to listen better, then run my fingers over my wet hair to squeeze some of the water out.
“Hello?” I quietly ask.
I haven’t heard the door close or creak. Then again, this house is so new, I doubt it would creak.
Then I hear the door creak.
“Just answer yes or no, we’ll work out the rest as it comes, are you going to be on the balcony? Is three hours enough time? Or not enough? Just…put me out of my misery, are you going to be on the balcony, Lexy?”
I don’t even have to think about the answer, I just say it.
“Yes. I’ll be on the balcony, Rhett.”
Then I hear the door creak before I hear it close.
My decision, once made, was quickly executed. I seriously doubt Lexy even realizes how quickly we were divorced once I made the decision last week. And unbeknownst to her, she’s been divorced since the day before yesterday. And she’s been fine. I’m sure it’ll sting her pride for a bit, but she’s tough. She’ll brush herself off and get back up.
I’m certain of it.
It didn’t take me long after Summer moved her things into the penthouse and situated herself into my life to make my decision. Not long at all.
And now with Lexy out of the way, all I have to do is stomach tonight.
I swallow the lump lodged in my throat.
It’s been lodged there since Travis and I had lunch on Monday.
I remember wondering why Rhett Bennett looked so smug as he walked out of the Italian bistro that afternoon.
And now I know why.
He’d just left Travis’ table where he’d been informed that my mistress, the Jackson princess, was carrying my child and my penance to him was my innocent by-stander wife. At his birthday party celebration.
Like Lexy would hand Rhett the time of day.
She’s scared to death of him. I’ve heard the audio from the common areas of the house, she sounds like a scared kitten. She just as soon piss herself before showing any claws or teeth.
She may talk big with her friend Mary on the phone or Gigi, but mother’s and best friend’s are easy to talk big to. It’s another thing entirely to walk the walk.
And Rhett Bennett is too much for Lexy Mayer Dean.
Believe me, I speak from experience, I know my wife.
“Was that the ex-wife that texted?”
Ex-wife. Shit, I keep forgetting.
I look over the back of the couch to where Summer’s playing something originally by Bach on the piano. “I don’t know. I text her and set my phone down in my study. I don’t care what her reply is. I’ve already spoke to Father. The lawyers have already started the proceedings, she’ll be compensated. More than compensated. It’s almost highway robbery, but my father loves her. And apparently so did my mother, though she never met her. Victoria had her will set up a certain way—even though she never laid eyes on my first wife, she made sure whoever it was that won that title would be taken care of, even after death and marriage.” I shrug. “My family is insane, I’m still learning.”
“Huh.” That’s all she says though, for the longest.
And it irks the hell out of me. “Huh?” I ask. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The keys make a foreboding sound when her fingers still on them. “It means exactly what it sounds like it means. Huh. Had I felt it needed further elaboration, I would have elaborated.”
Without any further explanation, she slams the piano shut and storms from the room, leaving me at a complete loss.
“What’d I say this time?” I ask her retreating back, but she doesn’t turn back around and respond.
I should probably go after her. I should probably try and talk to her, see if communication will help.
Then again, I think, isn’t it a little early in the relationship to be needing communication? Shouldn’t we just be fucking?
And why is she even talking?
Because she’s a working woman. A businesswoman.
Summer and Lexy are nothing alike. Nothing. Where Lexy is meek and timid, Summer is loud and unabashed.
And I’m quickly learning that while that may be fun to play with…it isn’t as exciting to settle with. It’s exhausting. Almost to the point of being nauseating.
Up. Then Down. Pissed. Then hot and bothered and at my feet in the perfect sub stance the next.
What? And I’m supposed to believe that it’s caused by her pregnancy? Ha! That’s an excuse, nothing more.
I know crazy when I see it.
And I recognized it all over Summer Jackson, the moment we met. Bumping straws, headed for the same line of coke.
Shit.
Have I made the wrong decision?
Shit.
I don’t like that Summer has me pinned where she wants me. I don’t like it when my hand is forced. Nor do I appreciate when things aren’t in my control.
And right now, the growing sense of uncontrolled chaos is nipping at my sanity.
HARD.
I stand abruptly from the couch I was sitting on and head towards my study. I make a bee line to the top desk drawer, slip out the mirror with pre-cut lines already railed out, and retrieve my silver straw from the drawer beside it.
Five seconds later I’m squeezing my nares together and swallowing the bitter taste out of my mouth, when my cell rings, notifying me of a text.
It could be from any number of people, even at this hour. But I’m willing to bet it’s either Lexy or Drake.
Lexy responding to the text I just sent her, cauterizing our once happy life together. Or Drake, with word about our boy, Bennett.
The night I left the bar after only sharing half of a drink with my new associate, I sent Drake a text telling him to dig up everything he could on Mr. Rhett Bennett.
Mind F*ck Page 14