Dr. Bartholomew Shaw’s office
“My wife is cheating on me.”
Bartholomew chokes on the tea he’s been drinking; the spray projects three feet out of his mouth and covers the top of his desk.
“It’s been going on for over two months, ” I continue, ignoring his frantic wheezing.
“Are”—he tries to suck air into his lungs, but breaks out into another coughing fit instead—“are you sure?”
“Yes. She’s been seeing him at a private club every Saturday night.”
“Um…still? As in, present tense? And…her lover…remains alive?”
I nod.
“But, I assume, you’re planning on unaliving him soon?”
“No.”
“Slicing him into a thousand small strips while keeping him conscious, then?”
I shake my head.
“Nailing him to a wall and watching him starve to death?”
“Nope,” I growl. “I can’t do a thing to the son of a bitch.”
“Oh, shit.” Barty’s jaw hits the floor. “She’s cheating on you with the don?”
“She’s not cheating on me with the fucking don!” I snarl. “It’s me!”
If I weren’t pissed as hell, doc’s shocked expression would be hilarious.
“I don’t…uh…I’m not sure I’m following, Adriano.”
I yank my glasses off and pinch the bridge of my nose.
It takes about twenty minutes to bring Bartholomew fully up to speed. I tell him everything, including how it all started at the Annex. He listens without interrupting; his bushy eyebrows hitting his hairline every once in a while, and his eyes flaring wide as he chews on the yellow pencil in his hand.
I’m not sure why I’m explaining this to him now when I never had the inclination to share my clandestine meetings with Iris with him before. Maybe I’m losing my fucking mind. Going insane because I spend the entire week feigning indifference before I can finally put my hands on my own wife for one night. Seeing her daily but not touching her…is slowly killing me. This morning, I nearly tackled her when she came down for breakfast. I would have fucked her on the table if it wasn’t for the damn dog. I. Am. Turning. Into. A. Lunatic. And getting worse every fucking day.
“So, I’m the guy my wife has been seeing in secret,” I finish in a growl. “We’ve been fucking like rabbits every Saturday night, but she has no idea it’s me.”
Barty gapes at me; the pencil still in his mouth, chewed up to a misshapen stump. Charcoal is smeared all around his lips,and that, in combination with his wild white hair, makes him look like he, not I, belongs on the shrink’s sofa. He watches me in silence for a beat, then bursts out laughing.
“My apologies,” he snorts, his body shaking as he chuckles. “I know this is completely unprofessional, but I just can’t—”
“I fail to see what’s so damn funny.”
“You”—he hiccups—“are jealous of yourself. This is priceless!”
“You don’t get it, Bartholomew.” I grip the armrest on the sofa with enough strength to make the wood creak. “She thinks I’m someone else!”
“Then why don’t you just tell her the truth? You can stop being a walking hard-on the other six days of the week and actually have a real relationship with your wife.”
Pulling my wallet from my pocket, I take out a few hundred-dollar bills and drop them on the side table beside me. “I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
