My phone keeps pulling my attention, sitting dark on the end table in front of me. I pick it up, opening up Miles’ text. I take another swig as I read it over and over again.
Miles:
Hey, how are you?
Simple. Thoughtful. Kind. Sweet.
Everything Franklin isn’t. I can’t remember the last time he called or texted me just to see how I’m doing, knowing my job is far more stressful than his.
I shouldn’t think that way, and for so many reasons but mostly because I don’t know Miles or what his intentions are. Yes, Ihave a husband and that is something that should also stop me, but it’s hard to take this marriage seriously when Franklin doesn’t. What’s the point? What am I fighting for? Why can’t I just let go?
I don’t want to fight for the rest of my life, and I’m starting to think that if I stay with Franklin, that’s all my life will be.
Another swig, this time it goes down smoother, the warmth settling in my belly. A couple more swigs and I’m calmer. Relaxed.
Enough to type out a text to Miles—a simpleyou up?But I quickly delete it and put my phone down. I force my eyes to the TV, idly sipping from the liquor bottle as I try to figure out what is on that might be a good distraction.
Franklin would have a fit if he knew I was drinking straight from the bottle.
Miles would drink it with me.
Stop doing that.
“Just stop,” I whisper to myself.
One more swig gives me the courage—if you can even call it that—to pick up my phone and send that text.
Me:
You up?
It’s almost nine here, meaning it’s almost twelve am there. He has work tomorrow, so it’s likely he’s in bed. He doesn’t seem like the type to stay up late. But I get a text back right away, which sends a small thrill through me.
Miles:
Yep.
Are you?
Wait, of course you are.
You texted me
LOL
I narrow my eyes, watching the texts flood in.
Me:
Are you drunk?
Miles:
Very muvh yes.
I chuckle and take another sip as a photo comes through. I tap on it, making it full screen, and my dick thickens immediately.
“Fuck,” I mutter, leaning back against the couch to take in the photo of Miles who looks like some sexy 90s heartthrob model in a tight sheer shirt and slacks. He’s smirking, eyes on the phone as he snaps the photo in a bathroom mirror. It’s a single bathroom, spacious, like he’s somewhere fancy. Plenty of places look like that in Chicago, so he could be anywhere.
