Page 32 of Stud

I lowered my voice. “How long has she been in there?”

“Too long. He’ll have her out before Mrs. Linkletter arrives. You can loiter here.”

I forced a stiff smile and positioned myself near an abstract painting. My attempt to camouflage with the décor was unsuccessful. The gray-on-gray hallway and glassed-in offices exuded strength and dignity, two qualities seeping out of me by the nanosecond. Guilt weighed on my conscience. Culpability thickened my throat.

I was part of this deceit. Not the ringleader, but I eased the sting of Dean’s betrayals with special gifts, false promises of devotion toward the mistress and his wife.

Belly roiling, I pulled out my phone and focused on my crossword app:

Seven-letter word for a disloyal person.

I’m pretty sure the answer was: A-I-N-S-L-E-Y, not traitor.

Another reminder of how far off I was from truly fulfilling my resolution. I may have been working at a Habitat build and had asked Felipe for donations, but there was no avoiding my continued contribution to the world’s cesspool. Rachel’s life hadn’t turned around overnight. She quit her job right away, but things hadn’t fallen into place until she’d made tough choices, enrolling in school months later. That’s when her life had shot from “fine” to ticker-tape parade.

Which meant I needed to do more. Work harder. Find a way to shed my scaly clients in favor of the Felipes of the world. Not just for my resolution. Because this feeling, like raw sewage churned in my gut, didn’t hold a candle to the swoopiness volunteering instilled. Leaving my folks to scrounge for mortgage payments on their own wasn’t optional. My brother worked hard selling cars, but it didn’t afford him enough to chip in.

I would make changes in my job. They just wouldn’t happen quickly.

So lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed the furious clickety-clack of stilettos or Cindy’s mumbled, “Fucking Christ,” until it was too late. I glanced up to find myself in the middle of a showdown. The mistress sauntered down the hall to my left…and Mrs. Linkletter strutted toward her on my right. Their collision was a matter of time, especially with the determination on the mistress’s face.

Fucking Christ was right.

Sally Linkletter looked like a stereotypical Sally: curly blond hair, thin face, pointed features. Proper. Innocent. We’d met a handful of times, and she’d always been nice to me. The mistress was her polar opposite, all bright red lips and ombre-dyed hair, talons for nails. I plastered myself against the wall as Sally’s attention flickered to me, her sweet smile the exact opposite of what her expression should be.

Oh God.

The mistress marched straight for her. “He’s leaving you. He promised me he’s ending it. So get ready for a divorce, because he loves me.”

She shouldered past Sally, the angry clack, clack, clack of her heels as damaging as a spray of bullets. Mrs. Linkletter pressed her hand over her heart, caving forward. Dean peeled out of his office. He enveloped his wife, soothing her, going on about a crazy client who had it in for him. Somehow he guided her behind closed doors, not before her first tear slipped out.

My phone shook in my hands.

I’d been Sally once—duped, deceived, humiliated. Except my mortifying revelation had involved more show than tell.

Brandon and I had talked about moving in together, but I’d held out. The permanence of it was a big deal, and I wanted to be sure. Then he seemed to hesitate, too. In hindsight, I think I’d done it out of insecurity. I’d sensed him slipping away. Either way, I showed up at his place with my terminated lease. I’d stewed over it for weeks and decided Brandon was it for me. That moving in together would bring us closer. That we’d get married and have kids and ride off into the sunset.

On that particular rainy day, I’d also decided to use his spare key and surprise him wearing nothing but a white bustier, thong, and garters. I’d dropped my trench coat at the front door and walked toward his bedroom, where I’d planned to strike a sexy pose for when he came home.

My first clue my world was about to cave in was the grunting coming from behind his door. His “Yeah, baby, yeah” was horrifyingly familiar, but it was the feminine “God, yes, Brandon” that turned my knees to slush. Shaking, I nudged his door open…and froze. I watched the two of them fucking, unable to look away. My terminated lease shook in my fisted hand, my lingerie pure humiliation. He was on top, each thrust a nail hammered in my heart. My throat constricted. My eyes burned. Then I screamed. Nothing specific, just an ear-splitting shriek.

Mortified, I grabbed my coat and tore out of the place. The second I hit the street, tears streaked my cheeks thicker than the rain plastering my hair. My stomach curled in on itself. I convulsed in shivery spasms, my skimpy attire barely covered by my trench coat. I wanted to disappear. Dissolve into the puddles collecting at my feet.

Now I ached for Sally, could feel the sting of disgrace that had seeped into my skin when in her position, and yet here I was, at the center of someone else’s emotional hurricane.

If my parents weren’t in the picture, I’d march into Dean’s office and toss his wife’s gift at his nuts. Cease being a pawn in this despicable game. He’d had me engrave Sally’s bracelet with the word Forever. All to keep his public life intact. (Insert devil emoji here.) He placated the mistress with lies. She’d knowingly fallen for a married man. Now Sally knew the extent of his deception, unless she chose to accept his lies.

She might realize I’d helped him.

“Why don’t I drop this off for you?” Cindy removed the gift from my clenched hand. The white box was now dented. “I’ll give it to him when she leaves, tell him you couldn’t wait.”

I managed a few unsteady breaths. “I’d appreciate it.”

Cindy really was a top-notch assistant.

Two hours into volunteering the next day, I was still off my game. The Mistress Encounter had undermined my concentration, and I kept expecting Anton to show up.

Then there was the Owen Issue. Upon seeing him this morning, he’d offered me nothing but a polite wave. He didn’t make a move to stop and chat, when all I wanted was to confide in him. Talk through my financial options and ways I could build my client list, while shedding the diabolical assholes currently crowding my roster. I could have called Gwen or Rachel, but Owen used to work in finance. He had experience.