Obsessed.
Then released the tape of us fucking to show that I was capable of hurting her further than she’d ever appreciate. I wasn’therDylan anymore. I was some other kind of hell. I wanted her to know I meant business. And that my business was severance. I needed to be done with her. But right now, I want things I shouldn’t. I want to hurt those things myself, and I feel anything but cool.
I’ve been kidding my fucking self.
Point: My mouth is dry.
I take a mouthful from my glass.
Point: My skin feels pierced by a million hot pins.
I feed a finger into the neck of my shirt, pulling it away from my skin.
My jaw aches, heat creeping up my chest as I force myself to watch the freak show.
A freak show of my making. Bodies dancing to my tune.
Point: My eyes won’t move from my near naked wife.
Her body is almost rigid, and I hate myself for feeling any sort of sympathy for her distress. She looks like she wants to push him bodily away—erase the feel of him from her palms by rubbing them against the bed.
I get no satisfaction from that.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!Why didn’t I factor in my reactions to this travesty? Blinded by so much hurt and anger, I gave no thought to how being in the room would feel. Maybe that’s not true. I was convinced I’d feel vindicated. Victorious. I thought I’d feel triumph, not pain.
Yet it hurts to watch Ivy’s distress.
A better man would stop this, but I’m not him, that better man. I have no choice. I need this to happen—for our ties to be severed irrevocably. Ineed this.To move on. Because it’s clear I haven’t. And by her reactions, it could be that neither of us has.
It was easier when I didn’t know—easier when I thought she was an unfaithful whore. And even though it makes not one ounce of sense, I get no satisfaction from being wrong.
Out of all the men at that fucking party, she finds a gay one to take her home.
Why couldn’t she have done it right—broke my heart cleanly instead of leaving it fractured and leaking hate?
That fucking girl. It was easier when I thought she was a slut. Easier when I tried to convince myself she’d moved on in Scotland. Until she confirmed my worst nightmare; no one else had been inside her since.
I can’t say the same. I’ve fucked my way through LA. I don’t like who I’ve become, and I can’t even say it was fun while it lasted. I blame her for that, too.
When this is done—when she’s done—I’m gone. Moving on and moving away. I can’t stay in this room, or the place that was our home, for a moment more than necessary because the scent of her assaults my memories, sucking me back in time. To kissing her our first time. To fucking in our bed. To hating her so much, I could’ve wrapped my hands around her neck.
I’m angry, not jealous, I tell myself. This is a fucking of my bidding, even if she wasn’t supposed to go through with it. Not without some persuading, at least, to provide me with the satisfaction of putting her there. I’d thought the moment someone tried to kiss her, slide her a little tongue, she’d be out. I thought she’d beg for mercy. Appeal to the husband in me.
I flex my fingers as the bastard begins sucking on her neck.I must keep calm.Remember I’m here to punish. Not protect.
Punish myself, maybe.
I run my tongue over my teeth because I can smell her; smell her perfume. The lotion she rubs on her legs, and the shit she sprays in her hair. Her scent—that unique mixture of sweetness and sex—coats the inside of my mouth and drips down the back of my throat like the nectar from between her legs.
But it’s not me who gets to fuck her now; that was never my plan. Why the hell can’t my body get on board? Why, after everything, do I crave to taste her myself?
The fucker’s fingers are tight on her nipples, and he’s all slick fucking tongue. Breaths begin to heave from her chest in small bursts. My stomach along with it.Heaving. Lurching. The bourbon threatening a comeback appearance—a one-night-only kind of deal.
The gods of revenge are cruel because not only can I smell her, but I also smell him. Fucktard’s cloying cologne and beer, I think. His hand grasps her hip, plucking the tiny string of her panties. Is that what comes next? They come off then he comes? She comes? What if he wants to eat her out? Is that the kind of fleshy recompense I want to watch?
She sees me watching, and before I can wonder what’s apparent on my face, she’s grabbing him. Rubbing herself against him like she’s a cat and he’s the thing she suddenly needs to scratch that itch. Like she’s so into him. Like she’s desperate.
Ivy lifts her head, honey eyes burning, her lip curled back. Before it’s even a thought in her head, I know what she’s going to say.
