Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Miller finally broke the stalemate. We’d both done our best to not discuss the elephant in the room, the one sitting at the bar laughing it up with the sexy bartender. Because she was. She was everything I wasn’t: cheerful, sexy, uninhibited.
Miller glanced over his shoulder, at my new husband who looked like he was enjoying himself going by the looks of his shoulders shaking with laughter. “No job is worth being humiliated by an overbearing fuckboy.”
One look at my friend and I knew there was no getting out of this discussion. And a lie was not going to cut it here. Miller was too perceptive.
“The company line or the real answer?” When Miller didn’t speak, I exhaled and continued, “Remember what it was like for you before you met Paul?”
“Mmm,” he said, nodding. “There was a hole in my life.”
“I’ve always felt that way…always.” Nervously, I splayed my hands on the table top, an old trick I’d often used to keep from fidgeting. “I don’t know how to feel any other way and I guess I wanted to try.”
Reaching across the table, he squeezed my hand which had been lying as flat and motionless as my face. “You can do a lot better than that asshole.”
I glanced up and caught Scott watching us from over his shoulder. He tipped his beer bottle at me and turned back around. He didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he was.
“I could do a lot worse too.”
Scott
I rolled down the window of the shitty Ford I kept for the ranch hands. God did I miss my brand-new Ram 1500. I missed my house too. And I sure as fuck missed my mattress. Time to face the fact that I might’ve been torturing myself more than I’d inflicted any pain on her. Lack of heat or hot water hadn’t sent her packing. Neither had the sleeping arrangements. Or my demeanor, for that matter. She was winning, I had to grudgingly admit to myself. Sydney Evans was made of tougher stuff than I was. Sydney Blackstone, I meant. Damn, that still sounded strange.
A storm was approaching and not just the metaphorical kind. The air had bite to it and was as crisp as the gunmetal gray, late afternoon sky.
I felt bad. I shouldn’t. I argued with myself that I owed her nothing. Zero. Zilch. And yet I couldn’t help feeling a nagging sense of shame for getting caught having a good time with Misty.
A meeting with one of my biggest clients had run overtime. Last winter we lost a couple thousand head of cattle to the bitter freeze and I was forced to raise prices. The client had to be finessed. After the meeting, I swung into the Handle Bar for a quick bite to eat, and Misty happened to be working the lunch shift. Pure coincidence. She never worked lunch. And even though there was absolutely nothing going on between us––nor would there ever be again––it still felt somewhat…wrong.
But, hey, more than likely Sydney didn’t give two shits whom I kept company with. She’d even offered to draw up a pro bono NDA as I recall. Meditating on that seriously pissed me off. Who would’ve ever thought that the idea of an open marriage would piss me off? Not me. That’s life, I guess. You never stop learning.
It turns out I was a lot more conventional than I thought I was, the blame resting entirely on my parents’ shoulders. I didn’t agree with them on much, but their marriage was something to be admired. They were a team, partners-in-crime, loyal to each other above all and anyone else. Even their children. I was a married man now and whether that was by choice or not didn’t factor. I felt married down to the marrow of my bones. The thought of cheating on my wife turned my stomach. The thought of her cheating on me made me want to break things, specifically the other guy’s skull.
In the distance, a flash of color caught my eye. The image sharpened into a familiar pair of red running tights and my foot fell heavier on the accelerator, an unfamiliar proprietary feeling rising up. Go figure.
I pulled a U-turn when I passed her and coasted alongside, the pickup keeping pace as she jogged with her earbuds in. Rolling the window down, I waited a bit, determined she was going to purposely ignore me, and decided I didn’t like being ignored. “Can you please turn down the music?”
No answer. She refused to acknowledge my presence. Nor did her brisk jog break rhythm. Interesting. Maybe she wasn’t as down with my extracurricular activities as she’d suggested. Warmth spread in my chest.
“What are you doing?” I tried again.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”