Текст книги "Tryst"
Автор книги: S. L. Jennings
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Epilogue
It’s been 9 months, 3 weeks, and 5 days since I saw her last.
9 months, 3 weeks, and 5 days since I hit rock bottom.
The police and press labeled it an accident—an unintended devastating tragedy—but I know the truth. Shit, pretty hard to ignore when it’s all I can fucking think about when I’m not on stage or in rehearsals.
I’ve worn the guilt every day since, cloaked in shame and anger and pain. I fucked up . . . fucked up so bad that I ended up almost killing her. And while I’m still learning how to forgive myself for that day, I’m not ever sure I can forgive myself for falling in love with her. Sordid shit aside, I love Heidi—loved Heidi. And that was my biggest mistake of all.
So here I am, nursing a beer in a damn near deserted hotel bar in the most romantic city in the world. The band just killed it at one of our most incredible venues to date, and while they’re all out wreaking havoc on the streets of Paris, I’m pathetically alone, licking old, scabbed-over wounds. For one, it’s better for my recovery, and healthier for me both physically and mentally.
See, the booze and the drugs weren’t my issue. I don’t even know if sex was either. It’s just . . . me. I have what people would say is an addictive personality. I chase highs of all varieties. I drank because it masked my pain and got me outta my head. I drugged because it made me forget the bad shit and elevated my state of mind to another plane. And I fucked because, plain and simple, it felt fucking good. Sex was my biggest issue, by far. So much so, that it was threatening the future of the band. Let’s be honest, pussy is easy to come by when you’re an international rock star. But the more I indulged, the more I wanted. And the more I had, the emptier I felt. So I tried to bury it with more, desperately searching to fill that fucking canyon inside me. When it started affecting the music, I tried to self-medicate. And when that didn’t help, I was instructed to seek “professional” help. For a minute, I thought that shit was even helping.
Until Heidi.
Heidi was an addiction all on her own. Funny that I called her H, although I never had an itch for heroine. However, she wasn’t drugs or booze or even sex to me. She was every fucking vice rolled into a never-ending joint and sprinkled with candy-flavored crack. I knew it when I saw her, long before I had her . . . before her husband had coerced me into fucking her. He said it was like using Methadone. Having her would staunch the need for random hookups until I could successfully kick the habit altogether. She wouldn’t be the real thing. Except . . . she was so much more.
Loving her wasn’t part of the plan. Shit, neither was losing her. But I knew that if I didn’t let her go cold turkey, neither one of us would recover.
So here I am. Exactly where I was before. Hollow. Hurting. But this time, I’m surviving. I owe it to the guys too. I owe it to myself. And I owe it to Heidi. If she could overcome the horror of that day, I could learn to control my dick.
The television over the bar is broadcasting some news channel that’s obviously all in French. A photo of some random Kardashian pops up that requires no translation. The groan from the Parisian woman a few stools down, the only other patron in the bar, says it all.
“No wonder they all hate us,” she mutters without so much as a hint of a European accent before sipping her wine. The shock must be written all over my face because she casts a quick glance in my direction and apologizes.
“No, it’s cool, it’s just . . . you’re American,” I reply with a little too much awe in my voice. Hell, she even has the nerve to have a little southern twang.
“I am. As are you.” She smiles, shaking her head. “Of course they see just a tiny glimpse into our culture and think we’re all like that. I just wish that glimpse had nothing to do with sex tapes or selfies or publicity stunts.”
I simply smile back and nod, merely grateful for a little taste of home.
“After the year I just had, I’m pretty much done with all things attention-seeking,” she continues. “Again, sorry. I’m just rambling now. Please, let me buy you another beer for disrupting your evening. It’s just nice to be able to speak English without feeling like an ignorant moron.”
“Not necessary,” I assure her. “I know how you feel. It’s been months since I was on U.S. soil.”
“Months? Extended vacation?”
I shrug, not really knowing what to say. Of course, I have an alias with a whole backstory when I want anonymity, but I don’t get the vibe that this girl is a crazy. For one, she’s alone in an empty bar like me, watching news she can’t understand. Plus she’s dressed modestly in something a Sunday school teacher would wear.
“I’m a musician,” I offer. “We’re on tour.”
“Oh, that’s interesting. What do you play?” she asks, seeming genuinely interested without coming off as overly eager. She doesn’t know who I am, which honestly is pretty fucking great. In her eyes, that I now see are a glimmering emerald green, I’m not some self-destructive rocker.
“Just about everything. And I sing lead.”
She nods appreciatively, and smiles, those green eyes sparkling with admiration. “Wow. That’s exciting. Anything I may have heard? You’ll have to forgive me . . . I’m not really up-to-date on current musicians. Honestly, my last rock and roll purchase was Soundgarden in high school, and the reverend, aka my father, was furious about it.”
I stifle a laugh, because she’s sorta fucking adorable. I find her cluelessness endearing . . . refreshing even. I’m surrounded with people that only really put up with my bullshit because they think my name means something or they want to carry out some stupid rock star fantasy. And to be in the presence of someone that could give a fuck less about any of that, yet wants to talk to me anyway, almost makes me feel . . . I don’t know . . . normal? Like an actual fucking person for a change, instead of an icon or a conquest to brag to her girlfriends about.
She blushes scarlet and shakes her head before shielding her face with her hands. “Oh God, I must sound pathetic, huh? And I’ve offended you. Forgive me. Please . . . just ignore me. I promise to shut up now.”
I don’t know what prompts me to abandon my bar stool in exchange for one closer to hers, but I do. And soon I’m smiling at her . . . like seriously fucking smiling with teeth and shit.
“You’re not pathetic, and you didn’t offend me. Not at all.”
When she lifts her face from her palms, those bright green eyes widen with shock at my proximity. Shit. I didn’t mean to scare her, but it felt stupid to keep hollering across the bar.
“I didn’t?” she asks, her voice timid.
“No. Not at all. I know what it’s like to grow up in a deeply religious family. Preacher’s kid here too. Baptist.” I nod.
“Yikes.” She grins, loosening up a bit. “So you know all about the evils of secular music. Apparently, the devil was a guitar player.”
“Really? I thought he was a drummer.”
We share an easy laugh. The kinda laugh that you have when you’re genuinely having a good time. When Green-eyes lifts her champagne flute to her rose-painted lips and polishes off the bubbly, I offer to buy her another.
“I shouldn’t. That’s probably enough celebrating for me.”
“Celebrating?” I look around the empty bar, wondering if I missed something.
She nods, mindlessly tracing the lip of the glass with a blush-painted fingertip. “As of this afternoon, my divorce is final. I never thought I’d have the guts to do it. My ex-husband . . . his family . . . they’ve got money and clout and power. And I endured a lot just to live in that shadow. But not anymore. Not ever again. So in the spirit of independence, I decided to hop on a plane to Paris by myself. Which honestly . . . ?”
“Yeah?” I urge, captivated by every word that falls from her lips. They’re fuller than I expected. Shit, her mouth is almost X-rated.
“It really sucks.” She tips her head back and laughs with delight. I study the sound, draw it inside me. It rings of newfound happiness. It sounds like freedom.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she adds, once she’s calmed down, “Paris is a gorgeous city. And while I don’t miss my ex or my old life at all, experiencing all this beauty alone is depressing. I’ve been here half a dozen times, but I never just got to be here . . . no plan, no schedule. Just me. And I’m just not that interesting, if you couldn’t tell from my rambling.”
“No, I feel the same way. About being lonely in the city, not about you.”
My words give her pause, and I mentally kick myself for going too far. Shit, I’m out of practice. I’m rusty as fuck. But am I really even trying to go there with this chick? I don’t want to feed her any bullshit lines or anything like that. I just like talking to her. It’s been so long since anyone’s actually talked to me with the intention of just interacting. Not trying to gauge my mind-set to ensure I’m not spiraling or using. This stranger is the closest I’ve been to anyone since . . .
“Doesn’t feel so lonely right now.” She smiles at me before shaking her head as if she can’t believe she just said that. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . weird. This is the most fun I’ve had since I got here. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
I shrug. “Well, I guess I’ll be ridiculous too. This is the most fun I’ve had . . . in a long time.”
She gives me another sweet smile and extends her hand. “Well, it’s nice to meet you kindred, ridiculous stranger in a bar.”
I take her soft hand in mine and fight the urge to bring it to my lips. “You too. I’m Ransom Reed.”
“Ransom.” She grins like the very sound of the syllables on her tongue pleases her. “I like that. I’m Lorinda. Lorinda Cosgrove. Well, formerly Cosgrove. Old habits die hard, eh?”
“Yeah, some of them,” I reply, flashing her a wink. “Usually the ones that are bad for you.”
“Do you have many bad habits, Mr. Reed?” she flirts back, her smile radiating warmth and solitude. I just want to sit here and bask in the feel of it on my skin.
“I used to,” I answer truthfully, still cradling her hand in my grasp. I gently brush the top of her knuckles with my thumb. “Not anymore.”
Acknowledgments
FIRST AND FOREMOST, I have to thank my family for allowing me the space and time to create my eighth novel. Writing and publishing is a team effort, and if it weren’t for their patience and motivation, I never would have made it through this. There is nothing I could ever write that could fully express how much I love and appreciate you all.
To my readers—Never could I have imagined that there would be people from different parts of the globe, reading something I created. In these words, although fictional, I have shared a piece of myself with you. Thank you for allowing me to do so. Thank you for your undying support and love. The posts, the comments, the emails . . . you all are incredible.
To my blogger friends—I truly appreciate all the hard work and dedication you put toward your love for books. I know sometimes it is a thankless task, but I am saying to all of you right now, THANK YOU. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Without you, this book community would be nothing. Extra special shout out to Milasy, Lisa, Celesha, Michelle, Kiki, Tiffany, Debbie, Ali, Yaya, Grace, Michelle (ADBL), Jennifer M., Jesey, Trish, Jessie, Christine, Jennifer W., Ana, Tammy, Lisa, Jodi, Denise, Angie L., Vilma, Angie M., Jessica, Miri . . . seriously, I could do this all day. I am so grateful to know and respect each and every one of you.
To my author friends—Your support and encouragement have carried me through this journey, and have motivated me to keep writing, even when I was overcome with doubt. I want to thank Gail McHugh, Claire Contreras, Emmy Montes, Mia Asher, Rebecca Shea, Corinne Michaels, Tillie Cole, A. L. Jackson, Jessica Prince, Leylah Attar, Mary Elizabeth, S. L. Scott, Trudy Stiles, C. D. Reiss, K. Bromberg, Elle Chardou, and so many more for being the amazing talents that you are. Sometimes all it took was just a quick text or message from you to inspire me to keep going.
To Mo, my rock, my ace—I honestly don’t know what I would do without you. You have been an angel to me, and the best book bestie a girl could ask for. Thank you for rocking with me this far!
To the JFJ Girls, who are some of the sweetest, more supportive women I’ve ever known—I’m so amazed everyday that I am lucky enough to have you all in my corner. Shanta, Jennifer D., Sofia, Louisa, Andrea, Alicia, Julie, L. J., Sandy, Jennifer N., Sharon, Kara, Shannon, Nasha, Toni, Samantha, Lesley, Cheri, Reyna, Martha, all of you . . . Thank you so much for your amazing dedication and love.
To The BBFTalkers—You girls are balls to the wall amazing! Big, sloppy kisses to you all!
To my amazing editor, Tessa, who manages to be both badass and sweet at the same time, thank you for taking a chance on me. Thank you for believing in my words and in my stories.
Also, huge thanks to Elle, who allowed me to pester her with endless questions and pics of hot guys. Research, right?
Much gratitude for my entire team at HarperCollins, who endured my indecisiveness with cover design, release dates, marketing, etc. It’s been a pleasure to work with you all.
To Rebecca Friedman, my incredible agent—Thank you for recognizing my dreams, and helping me to make them a reality.
To anyone I may have missed—Thank you. Please understand that while you may have slipped my mind, you are surely in my heart.
Xoxo,
S
Teaser
Keep reading for a peek at
the New York Times bestseller,
TAINT,
the first sexual education novel
from S.L. Jennings
Right now, you’re probably asking yourself two things:
Who am I? And, what the hell are you doing here?
Let’s start with the most obvious question, shall we?
You’re here, ladies, because you can’t f*ck.
Oh, stop it. Don’t cringe. No one under the age of eighty clutches their pearls. You might as well get used to it, because for the next six weeks, you’re going to hear that word a lot. And you’re going to say it a lot. Go ahead, try it out on your tongue. F*ck. F***ck.
Ok, good. Now where were we?
If you enrolled yourself in this program then you are wholly aware that you’re a lousy lay. Good for you. Admitting it is half the battle. For those of you who have been sent here by your husband or significant other, dry your tears and get over it. You’ve been given a gift, ladies. The gift of mind-blowing, wall-climbing, multiple-orgasm-inducing sex. You have the opportunity to f*ck like a porn star. And I guarantee that you will when I’m done with you.
And who am I?
Well, for the next six weeks, I will be your lover, your teacher, your best friend, and your worst enemy. Your every-f*cking-thing. I’m the one who is going to save your relationship and your sex life.
I am Justice Drake.
And I turn housewives into whores.
Now . . . who’s first?
DAY ONE is always fucking exasperating.
The tears. The glassy-eyed looks of confusion as they try to piece together where their vapid relationships went wrong. The stupid, incessant questions about how I could possibly live up to my word and earn every cent of the small fortunes their husbands have paid to send them here.
Sit there and shut up, honey. One of us is a professional. Now, if I need help making a fucking sandwich or getting a wine stain out of a linen tablecloth, I’ll ask for your opinion. Otherwise, shut those powder-pink lips and look pretty.
That’s all they’re good for—looking pretty. Shopping. Primping. Taking care of disgusting, snotty-nosed spawn.
Stepford wives. Trophies. High-class, well-bred prostitutes.
They seem perfect in every way. Beautiful, intelligent, graceful. The perfect accessory for the man who has it all.
Except for one thing.
They’re as dull as lukewarm dishwater once you get them on their perfectly postured backs.
As they say, looks can be deceiving. Sexy does not equate to good sex. More often than not, this theory holds true. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be in business. And let me tell you, business is good. Very good.
I take a sip of water as I scan the varied expressions of shock and horror that typically follow my usual first-day speech. This class is larger than the last, but I’m not surprised. It’s the end of the summer—a season when wearing less clothing is socially acceptable. Husbands’ eyes have strayed, and so have their dicks. And in an effort to save their picture-fucking-perfect marriages, some have commissioned me, in hopes that by some miracle, I can make their husbands look at them like they see more than a well-groomed melee of coiffed hair, veneers, and filler. Others weren’t as lucky to be in the know, having been sent here by their loving benefactors like summer camp castaways. They actually thought they were coming to a spa. Silly, clueless girls.
A slender hand goes up, and I nod toward the young, waif-thin brunette who’s shaking like a leaf in her floral Prada frock. It’s ugly as shit, and makes her look like a middle-aged bag lady. She reminds me of one of those half-twit wives from Mad Men. Not the hot secretary—the one that just sat her ass at home, eating bonbons in front of her black-and-white television set while her husband screwed everything that moved.
“So . . . what exactly do you do? Are you, like, a teacher or something?” she asks, just above a whisper.
“More like a consultant. You all share a very serious issue and I hope to . . . guide you toward some techniques that may improve your situation.”
“What situation?”
Holy fuck. Testing, testing. Is this thing on, or has Botox already begun to corrode her brain cells?
I smile tightly through the aggravation. Patience is key in my profession. Most days, I feel more like an overworked, underpaid day-care provider than a . . . lifestyle . . . coach. Same, same.
“I thought I explained the situation, Mrs.”—I squint at the file in front of me, matching her face to the name—“Cosgrove.”
Lorinda Cosgrove. As in Cos-Mart, the place where you can go shopping for honey buns, cheap lingerie, and a nine-millimeter at 3 A.M. while wearing cutoff booty shorts and Crocs. No lie, there are websites dedicated to these train wrecks. Google that shit.
“Yes, I am aware of your assessment, as crude as it is. However, what do you expect to achieve?”
I shake my head marginally. There’s one in every class. One that doesn’t want to accept the ugly truth staring her in the face. Even though she’s read the manual, signed the contracts, and undergone all the necessary briefings before arriving, she still can’t grasp her reality—flashing bright, neon arrows toward her dried-up vagina. Good thing I have no qualms about reminding her.
“You suck at sex,” I deadpan, my expression blank. Audible gasps escape from almost every collagen-plumped lip, yet I continue to drive my point home. “You don’t satisfy your husband sexually, which is why he wants to cheat on you, if he hasn’t already. You may be a fantastic wife, mother, homemaker, whatever, but you are a lousy lover. And that trumps all.”
Lorinda clutches her chest with a shaky, manicured hand. The woman sitting next to her, a heavier-set, forty-something housewife—whose husband’s midlife crisis, and his love of barely legal debutantes, have turned their marriage into a media circus—steadies her with a motherly squeeze on the shoulder. Aw, how sweet.
“And that goes for all of you,” I say, casting my glance around the room. “You’re here because you know you’re about to lose the one thing you’ve worked your pretty little asses off for—your man. You love the lifestyle you live, and instead of licking your wounds and moving on, you’d rather fix your broken marriage. And I’m here to help you.”
“But how?”
A slow, sardonic smile unfurls across my face. “I’m going to teach you how to fuck your husband.”
More gasps. More pearl clutching. Even a few shrieks of My word!
“But that’s not . . .” Lorinda screeches above the flurry of discontent. “Not proper. Not dignified.”
And there it is.
It’s the reason why her husband, Lane Cosgrove, likes to bend his pretty blond secretary over his desk and fuck her senseless while she calls him “Daddy.” He has a thing for anal—giving and taking it. His secretary keeps a strap-on in the locked file cabinet beside her desk for Thursday nights. Lane always works late on Thursdays, leaving Lorinda to her usual book-club meeting, women’s Bible study, wine tasting, etc., etc. Nothing Lane does on Thursdays is “proper.” Letting his secretary probe him with a ten-inch dildo while his mouth is stuffed with her panties to muffle his cries is anything but dignified. And he knows it. That’s why Lorinda can’t satisfy his needs. And letting your very rich and powerful husband leave home sexually unsatisfied is like giving him a loaded gun. Sooner or later, he’s going to pop off a few rounds.
On cue, my head of concierge services, Diane, enters, followed by several members of my staff. Time to move this little welcoming party right along before any more tears are shed.
“Ladies, if you think that you do not need this program and have ended up here by some mistake, please feel free to leave. Our drivers are prepared to take you straight to the airport, and you will be given a full refund. We just ask that you honor the nondisclosure agreements you and your spouses have signed.”
No one makes a move to stand, so I continue. “If you would like to stay and learn how to improve your sex lives and, ultimately, your relationships, our staff will show you to your rooms. You will find that they are fully equipped with en suite facilities and amenities, plus we have a twenty-four-hour chef and staff at your disposal. The property also houses a state-of-the-art fitness center, spa, and salon for all your personal needs. Comfort is key here. Welcome to Oasis, ladies. We want you to consider this your home for the next six weeks of instruction.”
Eleven sets of eyes stare back at me, waiting for the first command. No one wants to be the first to jump out of her seat, arms flailing as she screams, Pick me! Pick me! Teach me, I want to learn! They all want this; they all want to know the secrets of marital bliss. And they know everything I’ve said is true.
Each and every one of these women knows that someone else is fucking their husband because she herself doesn’t know how to do it herself.
And deep down, I feel for them. Hell, I even sympathize with them. They made it their life’s goal to meet and marry someone who would catapult them from their mediocre backgrounds and send them flying to the comforts of wealth and luxury.
It’s a regular Pretty Woman syndrome. They go from lying on their backs for lavish gifts or some inconsequential promise of commitment in the form of a cheap, dime-store diamond ring, to more jewels than they even have limbs to wear them on. But what these ladies fail to realize is that whatever they had to do to nab their Richard Gere, they have to do that—and more—to keep him.
The staff ushers the women up to their private rooms, leaving me alone in the great room just as the Arizona sun begins to set, slowly sliding down the azure sky. It morphs into a life-size canvas of ombré oranges, pinks, blues, and purples, the breathtaking view not sullied by towering buildings or jigsaw highways. Oasis is tucked far away from civilization, away from paparazzi, designer bullshit, and reality television.
This is my favorite part of the day—when gravity pulls that scorching, desert sun above, coaxing it into the outstretched, jagged arms of mountains and cacti. Even the most tortured souls seek comfort and solitude.
I make my way across the courtyard toward the guesthouse. I own all the property, but I don’t sleep in the main house. There’s a level of privacy and professionalism that I must uphold, and being locked in a secluded mansion with eleven women can be . . . difficult. My business is sex. I instruct sex. I live and breathe sex. And I need it, just like their duplicitous husbands.
So thanks to my don’t-shit-where-you-eat policy, I endure six, sexless weeks during instruction, only sating my sexual appetite between the four courses I host per year. Even then, I’m discreet. Being any other way just isn’t profitable in my line of work.
After letting the shower rinse away the day’s aggravation, I dress and head to the dining room for dinner. The ladies trickle in one by one, quietly taking seats around the grand table. They’re all still here. Eleven women desperate to reconnect with the men they hope to be tied to until death. The men that promised to move heaven and earth in exchange for their promise of commitment. The men who have broken their vows in order to sate sexual deviancies and feed their egos.
The women are silent as we’re served the first course. Hardly anyone touches the starter of foie gras, elaborately dressed with poached apple in a fig reduction. Not even the scrape of silver against china echoes through the vast space.
I chew slowly, surveying the eleven, perfectly poised women from the head of the table. All are determined to avoid eye contact as they pretend to nibble their appetizers and numb their nerves with wine.
“So . . .” I start, drawing their reluctant eyes. “When was the last time any of you masturbated?”
A symphony of coughs and gasps coaxes my mouth into a satisfied grin. This group should be fun.
“Excuse me?” one sneers, after downing her red wine. A server moves to grace her with a refill of velvety courage, knowing she’ll need it.
“Did I stutter? Or do you not know what it means to masturbate?”
“What? I know what”—she cringes, flustered, and shakes her head in embarrassment—“. . . masturbating is. Why do you feel the need to ask such crude, inappropriate questions?”
I examine the striking redhead still glaring at me, her cherry lips tight with irritation. Her too large, almost animated eyes narrow in abhorrence, burning right through me with unspoken judgment. Even with her face twisted into a scowl, she’s stunning. Not overly done up or glamorous. She’s old Hollywood beautiful, yet there’s something fresh and simple about her.
I frown, because that type of beauty is too much for this place. Yet it’s not enough for the world that she lives in.
Allison Elliot-Carr. Daughter of Richard Elliot, owner and CEO of one of the largest investment banks in the world. Her husband, Evan Carr, is a trust-fund baby from an influential, political family, and Allison’s father’s golden boy. He’s also a pretty boy, a philandering bastard with no qualms about fucking anything in Manolos from Miami to Manhattan. Of course, that tidbit of information is not publicized. It’s my job to know these things. To get inside their heads. To expose their darkest secrets and make them confront them with unrelenting honesty.
Allison purses her lips and shakes her head, her mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “You like this, don’t you? Humiliating us? Making us feel flawed and defective? As if we are the cause of our less-than-perfect marriages? We’re responsible for the way the tabloids rip us to shreds? You don’t know me. You don’t know any of us. Yet you think you can help us? Please. I call that bullshit.”
I set down my silverware and dab my mouth with a linen napkin before giving her a knowing smirk. “Bullshit?”
“Yeah, complete bullshit. I mean, who the hell do you think you are?”
A smile slowly spreads my lips. I imagine licking my chops as a lion would before devouring a graceful, delicate gazelle. “I am Justice Drake,” I state smugly without apology. It’s a promise and an omen, gift-wrapped in two little words.
“Well, Justice Drake . . . you, my friend, are a bullshit artist. You know nothing about our situations. There’s no magic, cure-all remedy for our marriages. But you wouldn’t know that because you don’t know a damn thing about us. You’re not a part of our world. Hell, you probably do your research on Page Six or TMZ.” With a wave of Thoroughbred arrogance, she settles back into her chair and sips her red wine, her blue, doe eyes trained on my impassive features.
Mimicking her actions, I ease back into my own seat and steeple my fingers under my chin, elbows propped on the arms of the high-backed chair. A beat passes as my gaze delves into hers, unearthing traces of pain, embarrassment, and anger—feelings she’s been taught to hide in the face of the public. Still, no amount of MAC or Maybelline can mask the undeniable hell etched into her ivory skin.
“Allison Elliot-Carr, wife of Evan Winston Carr and daughter to Richard and Melinda Elliot. Graduated from Columbia with a degree in business and finance in 2009, though your true passion is philanthropy, and you spend your free time working with various charities and nonprofits. You pledged Kappa Delta Nu sophomore year, where you met Evan, a senior, legacy member, and president of your brother fraternity. You were exclusive to Evan throughout college, and during Christmas of 2008, he proposed in front of both your families at your parents’ winter estate in Aspen. You were wed the following summer in New York City and honeymooned in the Caribbean. You hate spiders and scary movies, and think sweater vests should be outlawed. You can’t function without Starbucks, have a borderline unhealthy addiction to Friends reruns, and you eat ice cream daily. Mint chocolate chip is your current drug of choice, I believe. And according to the tabloids, your husband is sleeping with your best friend, and charming the panties off half of the Upper East Side. Plus you two haven’t fucked in months. But that’s just a little something I didn’t pick up from Page Six.” I lift an amused brow and lean forward, taking in her horrified expression. “Shall I go on?”
The deafening silence swells and becomes uncomfortably dense, painfully pressing into my temples and crushing my skull, serving as punishment for my questionable conscience’s failure to intervene. Allison’s eyes mist with tears, transforming into an endless blue ocean of hurt. I don’t care. I shouldn’t care.
“Well,” she croaks, her mouth dry and her wineglass empty. “Congratulations, asshole. You know how to navigate Wikipedia.” And as graceful as the elegant gazelle she was bred to be, she slides her chair back and stands, head held high, and glides out of the room.
