Authors: Bridget Lang
The next three months fly by in a haze of happiness. I have never had a man treat me so well. Hell, I’ve never had
anyone
treat me so well. My coworkers are the perfect balance of jealous and impressed, and I’ve had plenty of them ask to come over just to catch a glimpse of my handsome husband.
The money is nice, too, and the house is excellent. Plus, the fact that I don’t have to worry about Aaron is amazing. But the best thing of all, truly, is Jett. Our marriage started off as a fake, but it took us very little time to realize that we each fill a space in the other that was hollow and empty and had been for long time.
Yes, I’ve fallen head over heels for my husband.
It turns out that Jett is so much kinder and goofier than I ever expected, and I think he was surprised when he found that I actually have a decent sense of humor. Somehow, overnight almost, he went from being the guy trying to help me out to being a real, honest-to-God husband. I am so damn happy that I sometimes have to suppress a giggle or two at work so my coworkers don’t think I’ve gone completely bat-shit crazy. We click so well that it doesn’t even matter that we skipped the dating stage. I am entirely his, and he is entirely mine.
Right now it’s NFL offseason, and offseason conditioning hasn’t started yet which means two things. One, Jett is at home waiting for me, and two, I have to concentrate on not getting a speeding ticket. I ease up slightly on the gas pedal. I used to dread going home at the end of the workday, but now, a few short months later, it’s all I can think about in the afternoon.
I picture Jett at home fixing dinner, wearing that goofy apron that always gets a giggle or two out of me, an episode of a show we both like on the DVR, and an ice cold beer ready and waiting for me. My husband likes to spoil me. Often all of these things are abandoned until we after a quick but passionate roll in the sheets… or the floor, couch, kitchen table…
“Hey, Jett!” I call, rushing through the door. “I’m home.”
No response. The massive house gives nothing but silence.
“Jett?” I creep through the hallways, a niggling thought at the back of my head has me wonder if Jett has some sort of surprise planned. It would be just like him. Something feels off, though. I make my way towards the bedroom hoping my husband’s in there waiting for me in his b-day suit. I push the bedroom door open.
“Jett?”
The scene in front of me stops me cold. I feel hypothermic, my legs too frozen to move, my blood turned to ice.
On the bed, our bed, Jett is in his underwear snoring softly. His arm is thrown over a slender, leggy blonde wearing heavy makeup and nothing else. She slowly opens her eyes. As soon as she sees me, she sits up abruptly, her massive fake breasts barely jiggling as she does.
“Jett,” she shouts.
Jett moans something and groggily rolls his head, but doesn’t fully awaken.
“Jett,” the blonde is louder now and nudges him hard in the ribs with her elbow.
Jett raises his head, props himself on his elbows and looks as though he’s trying to focus.
“Claire?” His words are slurred. Is he drunk? A ridiculous grin slowly spreads across his face. I want to slap him- slap the grin right off him. I want to claw out his eyes and spit on his bloody face. If I could get my feet to move from this spot.
“What? What’s wrong? Claire?”
He turns to the blonde beside him. “Jesus Christ!”
“You son of a bitch,” I hiss shaking with rage. “How could you?”
“It’s not what it looks like, I swear,” he says quickly. He tries to stand, but stumbles and sits back down on the bed. “I don’t know this woman.”
“Excuse me?” the woman whines. She stands, and shows just how long and shapely her tan legs are. “You said you told her. You said you officially left her.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jett looks confused, and I have to give him credit, he’s doing a damn fine acting job. “Claire, I’m serious -”
“Save it,” I snap. My entire body is trembling now. I curse the tears that I now feel streaming down my face. I wish to hell he didn’t have the satisfaction of seeing me cry. “I should have known. I knew before we started this whole ridiculous sham that you were a bad idea, I should have listened to my gut instinct. A tiger doesn’t change his stripes.”
“But Claire…”
“Fuck you.” I slam the door behind me and hurry down the stairs bleary eyed from the damn tears that he doesn’t deserve. I hear him coming after me - he even manages to weakly grasp my arm a few times - but I shake him off easily.
“Claire, please don’t do this. I love you!”
As I cross the threshold of the front door, I turn to give him a final glare and immediately wish I hadn’t. He looks so pathetic standing there in his boxer briefs, his blue eyes pleading, his broad shoulders slumped. He looks sorrowful, anguished, defeated. A twinge tugs hard at my heartstrings. I almost want to wrap my arms around him and assure him that everything will be okay and all is forgiven.
Fuck that
. I am done being taken advantage of. Done letting men hurt me and wipe their feet on me like I’m a doormat. How ironic that the man who taught me that I’m too good to allow myself to be mistreated is the one who has hurt me the most.
“I don’t ever want to see you again. Ever,” I snarl, and I slam the door behind me.
I’m proud that I am able to contain myself until I’m in my car and halfway down the street before I fall apart so hard I have to pull over. I wrap my arms around my middle unable to contain the wails and wracking sobs that shake my body.
Chapter 8 CLAIRE
Knock, knock, knock.
Two months have passed since my heart was shattered into tiny shards. I have been doing the best I can to put one foot in front of the other and try to piece together a normal life for myself. Whatever normal is.
The first few weeks were crazy. I went straight to a hotel hoping for anonymity; it might have worked if Blonde Bimbette hadn’t run right to the media with her story. I’m not sure what exactly her story is because I avoid tabloids, newspapers, TV and anything else that might flash a picture of myself, Jett or Blondie Boobs like I’d avoid the plague. I only know that once her story was out, I had reporters following me everywhere.
I rented myself a small apartment, and refused every cent of the money that Jett tried incessantly to give me. I did accept the gift of a body guard for the first few weeks until the paparazzi lost interest and somebody else’s gut-ripping heartache was the gossip of the day. Slowly but steadily, day by day I’m trying to learn to survive without Jett. I look around at my tiny apartment hastily and carelessly furnished with thrift store finds. It’s not the mansion I’d been in, but it’s okay.
Except for all the door-knocking.
Visitors are a constant. Almost daily, without fail, there is a knock on my door from somebody new. At first it had been Jett, until the third time I opened the door to his hangdog face and dumped a bowl of chocolate ice cream all over his nice, pressed shirt. That’s when he realized what ‘
stay the fuck away from me’
really means.
Now, it’s delivery people of all sorts- fruit baskets, chocolates, flowers, singing telegrams, and even a singing strippergram, which set me off so badly I think my shrieking may have broken the poor guy’s eardrums. At the very least it certainly traumatized him for future jobs. Jett has been going through every trick in the book to try to get me to talk to him, but I won’t budge. There’s no point. I will never be able to forget the sight that greeted me the fateful afternoon I swung open our bedroom door to find him and Busty Bimbo. No, what good would talking do? It could only serve to dig the knife deeper into my gut.
I’m not ever going back.
Knock, knock, knock.
I open the door to a young, nervous-looking woman with black curls and flawless brown skin. “Look,” I say, holding up a hand before she starts talking, “Whatever it is, I’m not interested. I don’t care if he’s sent me a literal boatload of puppies and kittens, I’m not taking him back.”
The woman frowns. “Excuse me?”
“It may sound crazy to his star struck fans,” I continue, “but I really just can’t deal with him. I’m in no great hurry to file for divorce, but between you and me, that’s a forgone conclusion. I mean, everybody knows what happened. I’m certainly not going back.”
“Ohhhh,” the woman says softly, a look of recognition dawning. “No, no, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to talk to you about Aaron Belson.”
My stomach drops. Aaron? Why the hell would she want to talk to me about Aaron? Surely Aaron wasn’t trying to win me back too. I’d heard through the grapevine that he’d moved on and found himself a new punching bag.
The woman looks over my shoulder at my sparse apartment. “May I come in?” she asks gently.
“Please do.” I step aside and lead her to the small living room area of my studio apartment. I’m suddenly wondering if Aaron landed himself in lockup again and sent this poor woman to beg bail money from me. Maybe he’s unaware that just because I’m still married to Jett doesn’t mean I have access to his bank account.
“What’s wrong with Aaron now?” I ask.
“Well, nothing’s wrong with him,” she says bitterly, “and that’s the problem. My name is Nina Childs. I started dating Aaron right after you left, and well… things have gotten…” she turned her head to hide the tears starting to fill her eyes, but I saw them. I had been exactly where this woman was and I could read her like a book.
“They’ve gotten bad,” I finish quietly.
“Yes. To put it mildly.”
“Did he hit you?”
Nina looks down at her hands. “Yes. But the problem is, no one believes me because I didn’t report it right away. My lawyer thought we’d have a better case if I was able to find other women to testify as a character witnesses. I’ve tracked down a couple women but neither are willing. I can’t say I blame them, really. They’re both afraid to open a can of worms that might bring Aaron back into their lives. You’re my last hope, but I also figured you’d be the perfect person. I know how much he put you through.”
“You do?”
“Well, sure. I think a lot of people have put two and two together and figured out the truth. I had my suspicions, but it wasn’t until Aaron admitted it all to me one night when he was drunk.” She shakes her head, and looks at me sadly. “I knew he was an asshole, but I still can’t believe he made you believe your husband cheated on you.”
I frown. “Made me believe… What are you talking about? My husband
did
cheat on me.”
Nina’s eyes widen. “You don’t know?” Her fingers fly to cover her open mouth. “Oh goodness, I thought you’d realized it by now. I knew from the tabloids that you and your husband were estranged but I thought maybe you split up over something else. I didn’t realize you didn’t know the truth.”
“Truth?” My stomach is doing somersaults. A burning sensation starts in my chest and radiates to my extremities as scorching anger pulses through me. I can feel my cheeks reddening with the coming outrage and for once, it seems to be directed at the right person.
“That girl, the blonde, was an old friend of Aarons,” Nina confesses. She must see the fire in my eyes, because she gradually scoots farther away from me. “She’s a porn star now. Aaron paid her to drug Lang at the publicity shoot that morning, then take him home and wait in bed with him until you came home to find them. I don’t know what he hoped to gain from the whole thing. Maybe he thought you’d come running back to him. Maybe he just wanted revenge for the fact that you left him.”
“So that whole thing was just a scam? It was all set up by Aaron?”
“Yeah.” Nina is chewing her bottom lip. “I’m so sorry. I really am.”
I stride to the door and snatch my coat off the hook. “Sorry to rush you out of here,” I say, thrusting an arm through the sleeve and crouching to lace up my boots, “but I really need to find my husband.”
“Sure, I understand.” Nina stands and eyes me apologetically. “I just need to know - will you testify?”
I smirk and narrow my eyes at her. “I’ll testify,” I assure her. “You’re damn right I’ll testify.”
“Would someone
please
get the fucking door?” I bellow. I’m busy in the kitchen making burgers for my ungrateful brothers, and the doorbell is driving me out of my mind.
“Cade, get off your ass and do something.”
Cade sighs. “Fine, yeah.” He tosses his phone down and saunters out of the kitchen. I hear the door open, followed quickly by Cade’s voice saying, “Aw, shit.”
“What’s wrong?” I call, but I’m met with silence.
For Christ’s sake, that kid can’t do fucking anything right. Even answering the door is some fucking chore for him.
I know I’m being too harsh on Cade, but I can’t seem to control myself anymore. I’ve been in a shitty mood for two months straight. Ever since I woke up to Sexual Harassment Barbie.
Ever since Claire left.
I’d spent most of my time that wasn’t devoted to training and work sitting in my house and brooding. At first, I tried to drink until I felt numb, but I could never get numb enough. I knew better than to frequent clubs, or return to my previous lifestyle, and even if I didn’t, Larry was there to constantly remind me.
I’m aware that I’m in a depressive slump, but I’ve been trying desperately to pull myself out of it. I arranged for my brothers to start coming around once a week for dinner, and even Larry and his kids came by a couple times to break bread.
Not my best idea ever, maybe. They kind of hurt more than they help sometimes. After all, they really liked Claire, everyone did, and even though they don’t say it aloud, no one believes that I woke up naked in bed with a stranger. Hell, if I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t believe myself either.
I flip the final burger patty onto a plate with the rest. Cade hasn’t returned, and I can’t hear a peep from the front foyer. Cade damn well better not be talking to a reporter. At first they were everywhere, and I had to have security monitor the front gate. After a few weeks, when nothing much happened (as in no naked chicks- no chicks at all actually), the media dwindled, and I cut back on security. I know the paparazzi, though and there are those who are nothing if not unethical. They’ll climb fences, twist words, use telephoto lenses.
I growl in frustration, and toss of my apron, the apron I bought to make Clair giggle that says “Rub My Meat” on the front. I storm to the foyer.
“Fuck’s sake, Cade, what’s wrong?” The moment I appear, Cade turns and looks at me with a sheepish grin, then ducks away into the living room, and I find myself face to face with my wife.
“Claire,” I whisper. She smiles coyly and a tingle rushes through my entire body. My limbs suddenly feel like jello.
“Hi, Jett.”
She looks thin, like she’s lost some weight, and there are dark circles under her eyes, but she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. There’s so much I want to say to her right now. I want to tell her that I’ve missed her. Hell, I want to tell her that her leaving feels as though my hearts been hacked out of my chest with a chainsaw. I want to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry that even though nothing happened that night with Bimbo Barbie, I’m sorry for ever being the kind of man that would make her suspect something might have. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to hurt her and everything I’ll ever do in the future, and that if only she’ll let me, I’ll promise to spend every second of my life devoted to her and never, ever give her a reason to doubt me ever again.
“It’s… been a while,” I say dumbly.
“It has,” she agrees. “One might say it’s been too long.”
“Yeah. Yeah, one could say that.”
She takes a step towards me, pushing her hair behind her ear. I want to touch her, to hold her, but I’m afraid to do anything to scare her off or make her leave. A pink tinge creeps up her cheeks.
“One might also say that your wife was unfair to you,” she states, “and that perhaps your wife should have given you the benefit of the doubt and believed in you, or at least heard you out.”
“Do you think one would be right about that?” I ask, my heart is racing in my chest. Is she saying what I think she’s saying?
“Yes. One would definitely be correct about that,” she replies. Her eyes fill with tears. “Especially after your wife found out that her ex-boyfriend set up the whole thing just to punish her for leaving him.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. I can’t stop the huge shit-eating grin from spreading over my face. “One could say that my wife’s ex-boyfriend is a real shitstain.”
“Yeah.” Claire is grinning slightly now, too. “Your wife should have known better, she was a real bitch to you.”
“Hey, don’t talk about my wife that way,” I scold her softly.
Claire smiles gently, and a lone tear trails down her cheek. “I miss you, Jett.”
I wipe her tear away with my thumb, “I miss you too. So, so much, Claire.”
“I know. I got the cards.”
We both laugh.
“Think you can forgive me?” she asks, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
I pull her towards me and wrap my arms around her. We settle against each other, content in the feeling of our bodies side by side once again. I kiss her forehead and sigh happily.
“There’s nothing to forgive, beautiful. I just want my wife back” I tilt her chin up and press my lips to hers.
How could I hold a grudge against the woman I live and breathe for?
THE END