Текст книги "Heartbreaker"

Автор книги: Cole Saint Jaimes

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

NINE

AIDAN

I need to get my dick wet.

When I first moved back to Chicago, I hated it. Hated the cold. Hated the memories of an unhappy childhood that seemed to be lurking around every single corner, ready to fuck me up without warning.

But as time slipped by, I actually began to appreciate the beauty of the city. I never thought I’d say I looked forward to winter here, but eventually I began to relish wrapping up warm, the smoke steaming on my breath as I hurried through the streets. I began to love the food. Lincoln Park Zoo. The Adler Conservatory. Grant Park. But, most importantly, I began to love the people.

The line between rich and poor is stark in this town, and yet the people without money tend to be some of the happiest. The ones who really appreciate life. I’ve found joy in donning a t-shirt and jeans and doing community work in some of the rougher neighborhoods. The life stories people will tell you are insane, and yet they’ll laugh them off afterward and say they’re better because of their experiences.

And I love the women.

I’ve always had a sexual appetite. In Hawaii, the girls I fucked were usually tourists—women who were around for a week or two, who could never really ask too much of me. Not that I’m relationship shy. I’m just particular. Sex, for me, is a practice in trust. I know what I like, and what I like can be intimidating to some people.

Not all women are comfortable with being tied up.

Not all women are comfortable with being spanked.

Not all women are okay with being gagged and bound.

Not all women are cool with being teased and manipulated and brought to the edge of orgasm over and over again for hours at a time.

But, then again, there are women who are okay with all of those things, and somehow they always seem to gravitate towards me. It’s been months since I’ve fucked anyone, though. I’ve had a few regular contacts I’ve kept close ties with since I moved back here, however I haven’t wanted them of late. I’ve been dreaming. Seriously fucking weird that some dreams have kept my dick in my pants, but it’s true. These have been the most intense dreams I’ve ever experienced, highly sexual in nature, and they’ve all featured one woman. The one woman I can’t have.

Maybe I just like torturing myself. That could easily be it. I know I shouldn’t want this woman, ergo she’s all I can think about. If she knew the dark, nasty things I’ve been doing to her in my head, she would probably try and slit my throat.

When I woke up this morning, my sheets were full of semen and my head was pounding from lack of oxygen. Even in my sleep, I hold my breath when I’m coming. How fucking messed up is that?

I try to put the girl out of my head as I shower and get myself ready for work. Instead, I find myself thinking of Alex. I’ve often wondered if, given the choice, my brother would rather be alive, or would he rather be dead and have me stuck here running this company. Him dying really was the only way to get me back here, crammed inside a suit, itching to break out every single damn day. If Alex didn’t make it into Heaven and was instead cast into the fiery pits of hell, I’m betting he’d rather stay there than come back to Earth to relieve me of this responsibility. That really would be an Alex Callahan-sized fuck you.

That might seem like yet more hyperbole, but bear with me. The antagonizing relationship Alex and I shared was far more than a simple case of sibling rivalry. Basically, he never forgave me for what went down when we were teenagers. Sure, if you were to ask him, he’d say it was all water under the bridge. That would be a lie, though. He still hated me for what happened, and did until the day he died.

So seeing me here—if he’s capable of it, wherever he is now—is probably giving him a great deal of pleasure. He’s probably quite happy that I’m back in Chicago, doing exactly what he wanted me to be doing.

I don’t wake up late. I don’t spend my days on the beach anymore. My tan has faded to almost nothing. I could take a vacation, but that siren song would be irresistible. I’d probably disappear to some remote island forever. No, these days I get up early, sometimes just as the sun is beginning to rise. I might work out first, or I might just stand at the kitchen counter and drink a cup of coffee before quickly showering and dressing myself in the exact same corporate clothing I always shunned.

If I pass a mirror, I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. The reflection doesn’t register as anyone I know, or would like to know. I am the man my father always wanted me to be, and yet he’s not alive to see it. Or perhaps he’s watching from the afterlife and getting a big kick out of it. His corporation, his legacy, didn’t end up run into the ground with me at the helm; it’s thrived, making me one of the richest men in the country. Forget Hawaii, forget spending long days on the beach, out on the ocean. Now, I live in a landlocked state where the biggest body of water is a lake (albeit a rather large one) and I get up every morning and put on a monkey suit.

I’m not exactly sure what happened. After the funeral service for my family, I fully intended to sell the company, dismantle the fucking thing, hack it up and sell it off in bits to whoever would take it, and then hightail it back to Hawaii. I didn’t give a fuck. Let the Callahan Corporation crash and burn for all I cared. Not like there aren’t plenty of other corporate conglomerates that could have taken over right where my father and brother left off.

But that’s not what went down. I got to know my father’s employees. I realized I was responsible for the livelihoods of well over four hundred people, and if I turned my back on the business, their positions would be meaningless. Someone else would take over and start making cut backs, and jobs would be the first thing to go.

And then there was the need to make a point, too. That was the part I never expected. I was given something I didn’t want, yet somehow it became something that I had to succeed at. I wanted to prove to Arturo, to my father’s and Alex’s associates, to my dead mother, even, that I could do this. That I hadn’t been spending my time teaching people how to surf and been a beach bum because I wasn’t capable of making it in the corporate world.

I was doing that because I loved it. And this…I found myself doing this because, no matter how much I hated it, it was the right thing to do.

The city’s barely even awake by the time I’m at work, standing in my office, looking out the south-facing window over the high rises and the pillars of steam rising from the sidewalk. From this window I like to watch people walking on the sidewalk below, watch people going about their daily lives, sitting in their office, diligently working. And I wonder about those people, I wonder what their lives are like, and if they’re doing what makes them happy or if they’re doing what they feel is required of them, even if they hate it.

Behind me, the email alert chimes on my laptop. Another email. I should figure out how to disable that fucking thing. The messages are constant, most from people I don’t even know wanting money, wanting approval, wanting my goddamn soul. It’s dizzying how much attention people will pay you for public appearances when you’re suddenly worth a lot of money, when you suddenly find yourself in a position of power. It makes you realize how fake most people are. Nothing about me has changed, and yet suddenly I’m meant to be someone of great importance. No one would have looked twice at me if I’d stayed in Hawaii and was still a beach bum.

Eventually, I make my way back to my desk. Sitting down in front of the computer, I slide my hand over the mouse pad, activating the screen. Five years ago, as my screensaver I uploaded a picture of one of my best friends nailing a pipe, the water the most crazy color of blue, arcing over his head as he grinned straight at the camera. At me. I’d been right there with him, sitting in that wave. That I’d even managed to snap off the image was a complete fluke. I got rolled while he rode the thing out. Afterwards we’d gotten blind drunk and fucked some tourists from the mainland to celebrate.

It took me all of four months to change the screensaver to corporate, plain blue. It just depressed the ever-loving shit out of me to look at it, to see the pure joy and adrenalin on my friend’s face, and to not be able to experience it for myself anymore. I shake my head, turning my attention to other things.

Email. I’m meant to be focusing on my email. Clicking on the desktop icon, I scroll from the bottom up, making sure to reply to people in the order in which the messages came through. I’m about to click on the first message when my eyes catch on something closer to the top of the screen. A name. Her name. The girl from my dreams.

“What the fuck?”

 Essie Floyd. 

I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a part of me that’s been waiting for her to email, or call, or to get in touch. Just drop back into my life somehow. It’s been a remote hope, one of those things you keep tucked safely away in the back of your mind that you tell yourself is probably never going to happen, and that it would be for the best if it didn’t.

And yet, here it is, happening. After all this time, she’s reaching out.

I start reading.

Mr. Callahan, 

My name is Essie Floyd. I’ve been working at Mendel, Goldstein & Hofstadter for several years now, but I’ve never had the pleasure of directly working for you until now. Mr. Goldstein has been shifting around some of the internal roles at the firm, and he’s got me doing a few bits and pieces for the Callahan Corporation. I found some forms this morning that are dated from February three years ago. They’re annotated for your signature, but it seems that they haven’t been signed yet. I was wondering if I could bring them by your office?

Regards, 

Essie Floyd 

I read the message again. And then I read it one more time. What on earth is she up to? Essie may not realize it, but I know perfectly well who she is. She’s the sister of Vaughn Floyd, the guy who lost his life when my brother fell asleep at the wheel. Suddenly finding myself the head of Callahan Corporation has afforded me some luxuries that I wouldn’t normally have had. Such as: keeping an eye on Essie all these years. Not me, personally, of course. I’ve got a few people—Arturo used to be one of them—who have kept an eye on her. I’m sure there were much more qualified applicants to the legal secretary job at M, G & H, but when I got word that Essie had applied, I made sure she was hired. Because while I was living thousands of miles away from the family I lost, Essie, as I found out later, was very close to her brother. They’d been living together in some shitty apartment, her waitressing at a little café, him working two jobs, one as a delivery truck driver the other as a bike mechanic. Neither of them were earning much. It wasn’t difficult to surmise that the two of them depended on each other. Had been from a young age. I frequently tried to imagine my own brother and I having a relationship like that and the idea of it seemed laughable.

It probably sounds psychotic that I’ve been keeping an eye on a woman like this, someone I don’t even know, but I couldn’t help myself.

That day, the day of the funerals, I saw her across the cemetery. We made eye contact and that was it. I felt like I was falling face first down a dark, bottomless hole and I was never going to climb the hell back out again. She hated me. I could see it so plainly on her face. She fucking hated me, and that awful expression she wore burned its way into my brain. I haven’t been able to shake it since. I made a decision that I was going to make her life better somehow right there and then. I was going to make sure she didn’t suffer any further if I could prevent it.

Much like staying here and running the business, it’s not something that I necessarily want to be doing, but I feel I have to. Perhaps because I wanted to apologize, even though I wasn’t the one who was driving. Perhaps it was because I could relate—we both lost our entire families that day.

I look back to the computer screen and hit reply.

Essie, 

Thank you for your due diligence. I’d be very pleased if you could bring the documents by for me to sign. Three years is a long time to have paperwork incomplete. 

I will be free tomorrow afternoon, should this suit you. 

Regards, 

A. Callahan. 

I hit send, and my fingertips feel like they’re sweating. What the hell is wrong with me? I shouldn’t be engaging with this girl. Not really. While my investigators have been keeping an eye on her, they’ve witnessed too many disturbing incidences to count. Binge drinking. Minor drug addiction. The guys that go in and out of her apartment haven’t exactly been stand up members of society. I stopped wanting to know about that part after a while. I had my guys monitor her, make sure she was safe, but I didn’t want to know every time she took a new guy home with her. It made me feel….I don’t know. It made me feel shitty, for some reason. The door knocks, thankfully drawing me away from thoughts of Essie fucking other guys. “Come in.”

It opens, and Bridget’s blonde head appears. “Morning, Mr. Callahan,” she says brightly, stepping into the room.

I minimize the open email on my desktop. “Hey.” I’ve stopped telling her that she can call me Aidan. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I do, she’s still going to refer to me as Mr. Callahan. Makes me feel like my fucking father.

The granddaughter of my father’s good friend and former colleague, Jens Nordahl, Bridget’s a rangy, eager-faced girl of twenty-two. I think Jens and his family are hoping she’ll be the one to make me settle down. I’m not even entirely sure what her official job title here is; if I had to guess I’d say she’s my executive assistant’s assistant. Seeing as I inherited Gloria, my father’s ancient E.A., it’s good to have some younger energy around.

And she does have a killer rack.

“How are you?” she asks. “Do you need any coffee?”

“No, I’m all set. Thank you, though.”

“Okay.” She looks mildly disappointed. “Are you hungry? Is there anything else I could get you?”

“I’m fine, Bridget. Thank you.”

She stands there smiling, waiting for some instruction, anything that she can do for me. She’s a good-looking girl with an elegantly featured face. Most men would give their right nut to be in the position where this young pretty thing is all but begging for the chance to service them. I could say, “Well, Bridge, actually, I’d like us to play a little game. It’s called Army. We’re gonna go over to that couch. I’m gonna sit down, and you’re blow the hell out of me,” and she’d be more than happy to oblige. With a mouth like hers, I get the feeling she’d be really good at Army. 

But she makes me uneasy. She’s my employee, and things would go badly if I started shitting where I eat. Plus I don’t want to hurt her. She’s so eager, so desperate to make me smile and compliment her, say something to prove that I actually do like her. She’s not a bad girl. She’ll meet some guy and make him very happy, but that guy isn’t going to be me. The only thing that makes me happy these days is Oxy.

“All right then,” she says finally. She wrings her hands together. “Oh! I knew there was another reason that I came in here. My dad wanted me to ask you if you were available this Friday. It’s my grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary and we’re having a surprise party for them. It’d be really great if you could be there.” She’s got that starry look in her eyes. “Can you imagine being married for fifty years? And they’ve always been so happy together.”

I smile. “That’s a wonderful accomplishment,” I say. “And certainly something to be celebrated. But to be perfectly honest, I can’t imagine being married at all.”

She looks crestfallen, like she’s secretly already been planning our wedding day. She recovers quickly, though. “Can I tell my father that you’ll be there? It really would mean a lot. To him, but also to my grandfather.”

I’ve had to do a lot of these sorts of things over the years—be there at events and functions, the ambassador for my dead family. Talk about the sorts of things my father or brother might, reminisce about other occasions and events that I wasn’t even there for. Just the sort of shit I’ll have to do at this fiftieth wedding anniversary surprise party.

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

After Bridget leaves, I find the folder I keep within another folder on my desktop, and I open it. I named it backups, but that’s not what it is. It’s photographs and some basic information about Essie. I look at the pictures. In a way, there’s a part of me that feels as though I know her. These aren’t photos a hired PI took of her; they’re photos she put up on Facebook, though she deleted her account after a few months, not long after she started working at the law firm, actually. The first thought that occurred to me when I saw her profile picture was that she looked a lot like Hannah. In fact, they could be sisters. And of course, why the hell wouldn’t she look like Hannah? The universe is just that fucked. My brother kills Essie’s brother, and then Essie ends up looking like the spitting image of the girl both me and my brother fell in love with.

 If neither of us had met Hannah, would things have been different between Alex and me? They certainly would’ve turned out differently for Hannah. Back then, I hadn’t actually thought about Hannah in a while. Too painful. But seeing Essie brought back so many memories. If Alex were alive, I knew he’d say the same thing: That chick looks just like the girlfriend you stole from me.

TEN 

ESSIE

The Mendel, Goldstein and Hofstadter law offices take up the whole twelfth floor of the Holbrook Building. None of the admins have their own office. The main space is a large room where our cubicles and desks are set up. Each lawyer’s assistant has the desk closest to her lawyer’s door, while we legal secretaries are grouped toward the middle of the room. I’m the closest to the entrance, which means I also play sometime receptionist, too.

I’m sitting at my desk, going over the dossier I’ve prepped and plan to show Aidan Callahan—when and if he gets back to me. I keep checking my email, but no response yet. To anyone walking by, it would appear that I’m very busy, very engrossed in the papers I have before me. I’m sure it appears this way to Brandon Lukeman, one of our clients who’s just stepped out of the elevator.

He stands there with his hands in his pockets, alternating glances between me and his feet. He clears his throat. I look up.

“Hi, Brandon,” I say. At the acknowledgement, he comes right over to my desk. I close the file folder and slide it into a drawer. “How are you this morning?”

Brandon’s a client hiring one of our a junior associates on a limited assistance basis. He kind of reminds me of Vaughn, both in looks and demeanor. I don’t know if he’s picked up on this or not—maybe I’ve smiled once or twice too often at him—but I think over the past few weeks he’s developed a crush on me.

“Hey, Ess,” he says. “I’ve got a meeting with Alicia. I’m a little early, though.”

“I’ll let her know you’re here. You can have a seat if you want.”

He smiles but doesn’t make any move to go sit down.

“Are you holding up okay?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s not easy. I just want to do what’s best for Trish, but Lindsay’s making that really difficult. I don’t want to have to do any of this, but she’s on the war path.”

Trish is his five-year-old daughter. I nod sympathetically. Most of our clients here are corporate, but Alicia Barrett also handles family law. I see my fair share of divorces and child custody cases. No way will I ever get married. No way will I ever have children with someone. There’s just way too much risk, way too much that could go wrong.

Brandon got burned so badly by his ex, it’s a wonder he’s not sworn off women for life. “Hey. I’m really sorry,” I tell him. And I mean it. He’s a good guy.

“Thanks, sweetheart. I really appreciate how nice you’ve been.” His face is starting to get red. “Actually…I know this probably isn’t the time or the place, but…I was wondering if you might like to go out and get coffee some time?” He says this last part in a rush, his eyes glued to his feet.

Before I can answer, Alicia appears in her office doorway, eyes quickly scanning between the two of us. “Hey, Brandon. Ready when you are, okay?” She shoots me a warning glance—keep your hands to yourself, Floyd—and then vanishes back into her office.

Brandon knows him leaning into my cubicle, flirting horrendously has just scored me a black mark with Alicia. He winces, straightening up and pulling his suit jacket down. “Sorry, sweetheart. Like I said. Wrong time, wrong place, I guess.” He doesn’t push for an answer from me. He’s even redder than before, even more embarrassed. Poor guy. I should just put him out of his misery and tell him I don’t think it would be appropriate, given the dynamic between us. That’s exactly what Alicia’s going to tell me when she comes by to ream me out later on, after all. Brandon must be able to sense it coming, though; he backs toward Alicia’s office, holding his hands up.

“Don’t break my heart just yet, Ess. Maybe wait ‘til after I find out how much I’m losing in the divorce first.” He winks, and then he’s gone.

Maybe in another life, buddy. 

I’m about to get my Callahan dossier out again, but instead I decide to check my email. My heart speeds up when I see Aidan’s finally written me back.

I take a deep breath before I open the message. I suddenly find I’m doubting myself. What the hell am I going to do if this works? What the hell am I going to do if it doesn’t? What’s my life going to look like when I don’t have a purpose?

 I sit there and read the message from Aidan several times.

Essie, 

Thank you for your due diligence. I’d be very pleased if you could bring the documents by for me to sign. Three years is a long time to have paperwork incomplete. 

I will be free tomorrow afternoon, should this suit you. 

Regards, 

A. Callahan. 

I’m a little surprised that he agreed to meet so readily. But then again, why wouldn’t he? It’s a totally plausible reason for me to request a meeting. And even if he had his suspicions and wanted to check up on me, all he’d need to do is call Goldstein and he’d tell him yes, I do work here. It’s not too far of a stretch of the imagination that I would have found some erroneous files and needed them checking off. My boss would potentially be irritated that I hadn’t handed them straight over to him, but it wouldn’t raise any red flags.

Still, I don’t tell anyone I’m meeting Callahan. The girls that work at Mendel, Goldstein & Hofstadter would freak out if they knew. Everyone with a heartbeat and a vaguely functional uterus is totally in love with the guy. And I get it—he’s a billionaire, he’s the boss, and he’s gorgeous. Many of the girls gush about how generous he is, how he doesn’t just see through people but acts like he actually gives a shit. None of that matters to me. He could be Mahatma Gandhi and I wouldn’t care. Wouldn’t deviate. Wouldn’t change my mind about him. To me, he’s still the devil incarnate.

I hit reply and write a message back.

Noon is good. I’ll see you then. 

I hit send then sit there for a few minutes, thinking. It’s happening. The ball is rolling. This is for you, Vaughn, I think.

******

I leave at lunchtime and go meet Julia at a little café near the yoga studio she teaches at. I think Julia and I are friends because we’re opposites in every way imaginable. She’s tall and blonde. She’s about the kindest person you could ever meet, and she believes in the ultimate power of forgiveness. Somehow, our relationship works, though. It has for the past four years.

Julia’s already inside with a mug of herbal tea. She’s wearing her yoga pants and a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt—the poster child of good health and well-being. Next to her, I have no doubt that I look pinched and uptight.

“What’s going on with you?” she says after I sit down with my cup of coffee. “You look very excited about something.”

I take a sip of my coffee, which I drink black. I don’t particularly like the taste of it, but it keeps me on edge. I need that. “Nope. No excitement here. I’m exhausted,” I lie.

“You really should work less. Come to one of my classes this weekend. The gentle stretching class, even. You’d be amazed how much better you’ll feel.” She leans forward and scrutinizes my face. “But you’re lying to me. You are excited about something, Ess. You meet someone?” Her eyes light up. She’s been number one cheerleader when it comes to the idea of me in a stable, long-term relationship, and not participating in one night stands or friend-with-benefits situations.

“No. I haven’t met anyone.”

“Well…what then? I have a hunch. Don’t feed me another line, or I’ll mess up your chakras even more.” Thing is, Julia’s hunches are never wrong. We both know it. I don’t want to tell her about Aidan, though. Not yet, anyway. Probably not ever—I know how much she’ll disapprove. She’ll beg me to come to her yoga classes or get a Reiki treatment. Have me signing up for one of those remote weeklong retreats, where you’re meant to concentrate on healing every single hurt you’ve ever had.

One of the girls behind the counter calls Julia’s name, and she leaves to collect her salad. They call my name a few minutes later and I go collect the BLT club I ordered. I’ve just picked up the plate and I’m turning away from the counter when a woman steps directly in front of me, barely an inch of space between us.

“Whoa, excuse me.” I make a move to step around her but she steps with me. I look more closely at her face; she’s no one I recognize. “Is there a problem?”

We’re about the same height, so when she steps right up to me, closing the gap between us, her steely eyes are at the same level as mine. “There is a problem,” she says. “I know who you are.”

Over her shoulder, I see Julia looking at us, worried. A few people at nearby tables have also stopped their conversations and are watching.

“Um. Awesome? I’m sorry, but I—.”

“My name is Ellen Campbell.”

I stare at her. “That’s not ringing any bells.”

She sneers. “Let’s try it this way then: I’m Mrs. Matthew Campbell.”

It takes a few seconds, but then it clicks. Ah. Matt Campbell. We’ve slept together a few times. He’s an investment guy at the bank across the street from the law offices. It was strictly sex—he said his wife just wasn’t interested in doing it anymore. He also told me that he and his wife were separated because of that fact.

“Sometimes, I just want to get laid,” he told me. “A good old-fashioned fucking. But for my wife to get in the mood, it was a week-long preparation. Take her out for dinner. Buy her something nice. Go see a movie or a play or go hear someone do a reading. It couldn’t just be sex. It’s like it was my reward for enduring all that other shit. But sometimes I just didn’t want to deal with all that. Sometimes, I just wanted to fuck. She didn’t understand that. She just didn’t get it, so I left. Was it wrong of me to just want to be spontaneous every once in a while?”

“Of course not,” I’d said. “Spontaneous sex is the the only kind I have.”

We’d had a few marathon sessions at his place. He’d even managed to make me come a couple of times, which was saying something. It was fun, but nothing more. Or at least for me, it wasn’t. “My wife never made me feel even half as good as you do,” he’d said the last time. “When can I see you again?”

There was something different in his tone then, and I knew a line had been crossed. I get it—when someone makes you feel good, it’s difficult not to associate those feelings with that person, and to think they’re now responsible for making you feel that way. I could’ve been anyone, though. Or rather, anyone could have made him feel that way. His wife could have. She just had certain criteria that needed to be met first, criteria that he was unwilling to meet, and therefore they’d gone their separate ways.

 I stopped returning his texts, his calls, ignored the emails, didn’t go into the bank. That was a couple of months ago, and I haven’t heard from him in at least three weeks. I figured he’d got the message. But now, with his wife staring me down, I’m not so sure. It’s clear he’s lied to me. No ex-wife would be this mad about her ex getting laid. No, this is current wife territory. I don’t know what to say. I may be a crazy person who wants to ruin a man, but I’m not a monster. I’ve always drawn the line at screwing married men.

“He told me you’d left him,” I say, keeping my voice level. “He told me you weren’t together anymore.”

Matt’s wife blinks at me, her face a mask of hardened emotion. She doesn’t believe me. Doesn’t want to believe me. Women are always ready to castrate their husbands when they discover they’ve been cheating on them, but if they find out who the woman is? That’s even better. That’s another person to scream and yell at. Occasionally, a woman will choose to believe their husbands were seduced by some slutty temptress, and that the whole thing is the other woman’s fault. That way they can flip out, slash all of his shirts with a pair of dressmaker’s scissors, go key the woman’s car, and then let their man move back into the house after he solemnly promises never to do it again.

Yeah, right. 

Either way, I have no idea what the hell I’m meant to do. She’s caught me completely off guard. Do I apologize for what I’ve done and assure her she’s the one her husband loves? How did she find out it was me, anyway? And Matt, that lying motherfucker…

“It was just sex,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? How many times was it, anyway?”

“A few.”

“Where? Where did you do it?”

“Does it matter?”

Her eyes flash in anger. “You’re goddamn right it matters. Did you do it in my home? In my bed?”