by K T Morrison
Backstage Pass
Chelsea Hates Libby
KT Morrison
Contents
About the Author
Also by KT Morrison
I. Hot Tub Time Machine
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
II. Ragna-Rock
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
III. Dorchester
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
IV. Shout
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
V. Home Girl
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
VI. Half-Truths
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
VII. Brand New Day
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
VIII. Chaos
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Afterword
About the Author
KT Morrison writes stories about women who fall in love with sexy men who aren’t their husband, and loving relationships that go too far—couples who open a mysterious door, then struggle to get it closed as trouble pushes through the threshold.
Visit My Website!
ktmorrison.com
Also by KT Morrison
SERIES
Landlord
Obsessed
The Cayman Proxy
Separate Schools
Keely
Six Weeks In Winter
EPIC NOVELS
Cherry Blossoms
Maggie
Learning Lessons
Happy Endings
NOVELS
Going A Little Too Far
Pool Party
Après Ski
Rachel’s Truth
NOVELLAS
Watching Natalie Cheat
Watching Natalie Again
Inconceivable
Mary’s Pledge
One Night Only (as Becky Haze)
ANTHOLOGIES
The Taken Anthology
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
Models on cover are meant for illustrative purposes only.
All characters are over the age of eighteen.
This book takes place in Canada where recreational use of cannabis is legal.
BACKSTAGE PASS
A Chelsea Hates Libby Serial Novella
Chelsea Hates Libby #2 of 3
42,500 words
First Edition. May 30, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 KT Morrison
Written by KT Morrison
Cover by KT Morrison
Part 1
Hot Tub Time Machine
Tuesday, July 2
1
The enormity of his guilt—its sheer abundance—weighed like a tangible force across his shoulders. He carried the hurt in his face too. He could read it in his own expression, standing in the front hallway now with his hands on the dresser studying his sallow face in the mirror. The bags under his eyes weren’t imaginary. A fingertip pressed to the pad under each eye’s lid blanched a sickly moon that slowly returned dark again.
Last Saturday evening was spent doing the stuff of teenage fantasies. He was a selfish son of a bitch if there ever was one. Indulging himself like that, knowing there was a price to pay. Didn’t he care about Libby? Didn’t he love her? He did. More than anything.
Then why would he betray her?
“Any minute now,” Libby called down, coming to the top of the stairs before darting back into their bathroom again.
“That’s my line,” he shouted back, lifting his tone with good humor. Putting on the act. Heavy as his heart was, he wouldn’t let Libby know. What’s wrong, Ben? What’s hurting you?... And he had no resolve; he’d be blubbering the truth to her in a moment. Gushing his hurt, flushing his pain and anguish to her, forever damaging her heart, her trust. And she would leave him...
He shouted up the stairwell: “I’m going to have a nap on the couch, wake me when you come down.” The mock laughter held up his voice again in a charade of glee.
“Ha, ha,” Libby pronounced, still in the bathroom.
Now he put his back to the hallway wall, hands in the pockets of his shorts, head back and resting, chin turned up, waiting to see his sweet and innocent wife come down.
There was a dinner tonight for four at the home of their old friend Chelsea. Just a sit down with their new neighbors, one of whom they grew up with. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until you looked under the hood. There was a devious engine humming under there. It rumbled and roared, and who knew what fuel it burned, but it just might take them to the glorious destination of absolution. It was costly. If Finn could somehow cast a magic spell over his bashful and demure wife, the next step toward Ben’s salvation was infidelity. On his wife’s part. Libby would have to surrender herself to another man. Would that save him? It was such a crazy gamble.
It was moot. It is moot! Moot! he shouted to himself. There was no way Libby would fall for any charm that Finn had. Libby wasn’t like that. The idea that Finn could encourage her out of the path of their marriage was crazy. It would never happen.
And when Libby didn’t do it, he would have to tell her the truth. He couldn’t carry this weight much longer. His legs weren’t strong enough. Those legs were strong enough—and stupid enough—to carry him down the street last weekend so he could cheat his way into this awful position...
Upstairs, he could hear lights being flicked off and the fabric sounds of his wife swishing about in a hurry. Libby wasn’t one to dawdle in the bathroom. Not like most women he knew, Libby was quick and efficient in her ablutions. She didn’t wear makeup, she kept her hair conservatively cut and easy to maintain. No perfume except for her Secret baby powder deodorant. Her jewelry was sedate. Wedding ring and engagement ring. One ring on the middle of her other finger that was a gift for her graduation from her grandparents. Small, almost unnoticeable gold studs in her ears. That was Libby. But ever since Chelsea had come around, it seemed to conjure up some more of that high school unsureness in his wife. Wearing the lipstick the other day. Not even confident enough to pull it off...
“Coming, coming, coming,” Libby called out as footsteps came to the stairs again. She was revealed to him in descension: first her ankles and calves, then her knees, up her thighs as she bounced down the steps. The first thing that struck him was the sway of her bosom. Libby wore tight and restrictive—sensible—undergarments. Her bra sets came with protective straps and cups that kept all her lady equipment tucked into place. But she wasn’t going braless. The only thing that could come to him was that she had bought a new bra. That thought was overtaken as he saw his wife come down with a new haircut, lipstick, and a smoky eye. It befuddled him. “What is...?”
She hopped down with her bare feet on the hallway floor, came close and hip checked him so she could lean her back on the wall beside him. “What’s what?”
“You
look beautiful.”
She tried to purse her lips and he could see her physically restrain herself from doing it, her eyes turning up so her mouth could soften—Lib reminding herself not to muss her lipstick. Now her elastic brow curved up in question. “Is it okay?”
“Your makeup...?”
“Is it?” Her voice was a whisper.
“You’re always beautiful, Libby. But right now you are unbelievable...”
The stiffness melted out of her neck and shoulders, and those lips that had wanted to purse to a slim line pulled to a smile now. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said.
“Because you’re wearing makeup?”
“Getting made up is weird,” she said, putting one forearm across to clutch her opposite arm, covering her breasts.
“It’s Chelsea?”
“Is what Chelsea?”
“Why you wanted to start trying makeup?”
“I guess,” she said, eyes sinking down to the right.
“You know you’re ten times more beautiful,” he said, turning to face her, touching her hand where it crossed over her upper arm.
She smiled, but couldn’t look at him still. He just watched her pretty profile, cute little upturned nose and the way the crimson on her lips strengthened their plump curl.
“Really beautiful,” he said.
She smirked. “You’re going too far,” she said.
“I mean it,” he said, tugging on her arm so she would face him. He made to move closer like he would kiss her.
She put up a hand between them, said, “Don’t. I’m wearing lipstick.”
“See why I like you without lipstick?” he said in mock reproach as he stood now and folded his arms, looking up and down her body.
She rolled her eyes and smiled bashfully. “Which shoes should I wear?” she said, looking down and wriggling toes for both of them.
“We’re just going to Chelsea’s for dinner, what are you thinking—heels?”
“What heels do I own, Ben?”
“I don’t know, maybe you’ve been out shopping? Didn’t you buy a new bra...?”
Now she crossed the other arm over her chest. “How can you tell?”
“I can just tell,” he said, smiling.
She looked cross. “It’s under my clothes,” she said with a curious sneer.
“I know everything about you,” he told her, dipping in for a kiss but this time descending to plant it on the curve of her soft, fair shoulder. She patted his cheek as he stood and was surprised to see the hump of a nipple against her turquoise blouse. His eyes darted away before she caught him looking. The mortification would have sent her dashing upstairs to put on a sweatshirt.
2
After they walked through their lively beach neighborhood, they were greeted at the Slades’ door by Chelsea. With a tea towel in her hands, she leaned one shoulder against the door jamb and gave them a big smile. She wore a flirty white tank top and jean shorts that were cut higher than Libby would ever wear.
“Well, if it isn’t the Todds,” she said, “perfect timing, come on in...”
Ben ushered Libby ahead of him, and she stepped in the foyer. She gave the cordial head-winding-a-crescent, admiring the place, saying, “I love your home.”
Chelsea said, “Aw, thanks, Lib, we’re not quite as lived in yet as we’d like, it takes some time—I’m sure you know... Take off your shoes, guys, come to the kitchen and we’ll go out back...”
Libby pried off the canvas sling-backs she’d chosen, and he kicked off his moccasins.
Chelsea’s back was to them, and Libby turned to say something secretly to him, her face bright, her eyes shifted to the right, her open mouth preparing to whisper something to him. That was when Finn appeared in the archway from the kitchen, saying, “Look at this... Ben and Libby...”
Libby jolted and whipped around to see him. And there, Ben witnessed his wife’s face brighten in an alarming way. The plump curl of her smiling lips, the happy sparkle in her eye... It hit him hard and fast. The makeup she wore was for Finn...
Not for Chelsea at all. Shows how well he knew girls. Here he was thinking Lib was intimidated by their confident and aggressive female friend, but the whole time maybe Finn was right when he told Chelsea: Libby has a crush on me...
The undulating wave that hit him next was surprising. It made his knees dip. The wave lifted and raised him up in a swell where he could see everything then dipped him low, making his stomach sink and showing him nothing but black. A burst of happiness, a joy that he would be saved; maybe Libby did have a crush on Finn, maybe this crazy thing could work; then pushing him higher, showing him and his wife revived, renewed, maybe embarking on a more sexual lifestyle than he ever bargained for; then pushing him down deep, showing him the truth... Libby would have sex with another man. The intimacy he shared would be dashed on the rocks. She’d only ever been with one man, and that was you. Then it would no longer be. And worse still, yet somehow equally classifiable in the golden-hued sunshine wave-crest: Libby’s face as she shared intimacy with a man that wasn’t him... Libby on her back, her familiar legs locked around the hips of someone they hardly knew. What would Finn do to Libby?
A turgid arousal sank his underwear, and he tilted his pelvis forward before his bulge would show. Starry black bewilderment twirled behind his eyes like a disco ball’s glittering reflection. He hated it; he loved it; he would kill to prevent it; he would die to have it; he deserved it; he deserved punishment; he would enjoy it...
Now he put a hand on his hip and couldn’t hide a look of pain on his face. Anyone seeing him would recognize a patient entering the first stages of appendicitis. But all his pain was psychic. But was it pain? He was instantly twofold—torn in two; the urge to grab Libby’s wrist and march her out of here took hold... He would shove her down on the couch in their living room and bare his soul to her. He would supplicate at her feet and beg forgiveness. He would renew himself to her, pledge his ever-dying love and he would mean it. Then there was another Ben who loved her equally as the one who would show her the truth, only this one carefully cradled her in his arms as he marched her to the edge of a volcano where he would cast his young virgin sacrifice as a sacrament and pledge to the gods that ruled him. He would die a thousand deaths for sacrificing someone he loved in this way, but the gods’ boon and fortune would be received in heavenly glory, and ultimately he would be rebuilt alongside her...
“—what’s your problem?”
It was Chelsea, close to him, rubbing her hands to dry them inside the tea towel, eyeing him sly and sidelong. He fidgeted with his belt, looked around now, realizing he’d been in a fog. It was just him and Chelsea in the hall, but he could see Finn and Libby with their backs to them walking through the kitchen.
Chelsea said, “You look a little woozy.”
“I am,” he said, brushing at his shirt front. His eyes were unfocused, but aimed toward his wife and his friend’s husband in the kitchen together.
“Something tells me you thought you saw something,” Chelsea said now.
“No,” he murmured.
Now Finn and Libby emerged in the dining room by the doors that led out to the deck.
Chelsea shouted, “Why don’t you give Lib a tour of the place first, Finn.”
“Yeah,” Finn said, putting his hands in the pockets of his fleecy shorts. He wore a black concert T-shirt, Gothic letters of a band Ben had never heard of across the front. The sleeves had been cut off and you could see the divot of where his pronounced shoulder muscles curved to meet his biceps. “Sure, so, Lib, you got a nickel?”
Libby looked confused. “A nickel?”
Finn laughed and stroked her arm. “It’s the nickel tour, Libby. I need the nickel...”
Finn’s hand touching Libby’s skin was like a static shock in Ben’s psyche. Though he stayed standing, inside he crumpled.
Now Libby patted at her skirt pockets, miming the quest for a nickel. “No nickel,” she said.
“This
one’s on me,” Finn said and laughed. Libby laughed too. Finn held out his hand to her and said, “But now you owe me...”
Libby gave Finn one of her quirky You’re going to get it faces, then slapped her little palm in Finn’s. Finn’s fingers closed around hers, and he led her through the living room. As they passed, Libby said, “You coming, Ben?”
“You’re already familiar with the place,” Chelsea whispered and his face pinched into a harrow. Libby didn’t catch it, looking around behind her now as they passed, waiting for an answer from him.
Chelsea said, “Ben gave me the tour of your place, now it’s your turn,” and she waved them off with the back of her hand. Finn led her upstairs...
3
On Chelsea’s back deck, just the two of them standing by the glass patio table, Ben’s eyes wouldn’t come away from the black maw of the open sliding glass doors, waiting to see two figures loom in the kitchen; Finn and Libby. To Chelsea now, he said, “They’re up there so long, how big is your second-floor?”