Page 38 of Dirty Rotten Cheating Husband

“We’re going to be very busy,” I said. “I’m too busy to put on a bra, either. I’m afraid you’ll have to see my nipples, and we all know you cannot handle that.”

Something flashed in his eyes, but he said evenly, “Give me another chance, Clementine.”

“Why should I give you another chance?” I asked indignantly. “Just because you jerked off to me doing yoga?”

“No,” Grayson said, a muscle in his throat moving as he swallowed convulsively. “Because if you give me a chance I will treat you better and love you harder than anybody else ever could. I will be the best husband. You want babies? I want them too, Clementine. Let’s have one right now.”

“Oh, Grayson,” I said impatiently, getting up from the table because I could not stand how he looked at me, how his eyes followed every move I made.

“If you want to come then let’s go,” I added bitchily. “No slacking and no stopping to jerk off either.”

“I will endeavor to control myself,” he said, getting up from the table, his movements always so smooth and easy even for such a big man.

He’d change his mind once he experienced one single solitary practice, I thought, so I put my sunglasses on and got to work.

But Grayson was annoyingly calm and helpful, accompanying me on every single errand all day long.

He waited patiently at the alterations shop, agreed to grocery store sushi without a twitch of an eye, picked up some stage props, juggled coffee cups.

By the time we arrived at the theater, the place full of dozens of small children and a few local long-time actors arguing over who had been cast as the Gnome King, I was sure Grayson would roll over and admitted defeat. But he didn’t.

Now I didn’t have any actual experience directing a play, but there absolutely hadn’t been anyone else within 30 miles willing to do it.

“What can I do to help you?” Grayson asked as we listened to the sounds of children hitting each other with the sticks that were supposed to make up the Enchanted Tree.

He stood in front of me, waiting patiently, his big arms crossed across his chest. He was wearing a polo shirt and dark slacks today, and it was impossible not to notice the thick muscles in his arms, the way even the slightest twitch of a tendon emphasized his physical power.

“I don’t allow anyone in here unless they’re actually in the play,” I said.

“What roles are still available?” Grayson asked.

I attempted to stifle my shock.

“You. . .want to be in this community theater play entitled Springtime in the Giggles Meadow?”

“Yes, I do,” he said. “I told you I want another chance, Clementine. I’m willing to do anything to show you I’m sorry. And I’m going to take every opportunity I can to show you how much I care about you.”

“Well, there’s only one position left,” I said, inventing quickly. “And that’s The Fairy Frogmother. You’d have to wear a frog costume with a pink tutu and wave a wand. And there’s a little dance,” I added, when he continued to look at me with those piercing blue eyes. “And a little song involving the words tra-la-la.”

“What are the other lyrics?” he asked.

“Fuck you, Grayson!” I shot at him.

“Those are the lyrics?”

“No, they aren’t the lyrics!” I said, feeling my temper fray. “I mean fuck you specifically, Agent Bentley.”

“Anytime,” Grayson said, his big hand closing around my waist, drawing me closer so that I was pressed against his thighs. “I want you, Clementine. I want you as mine forever this time.”

I wiggled out of his arms.

This was not going the way I had expected it to.

“You can help me manage the chorus,” I said.

We didn’t have a very big town, and this play had been written by my absent director, with music and lyrics by Liam, and was mostly staffed by a few diehard amateur thespians and many deeply uninterested delinquent children, who were required to do summer school.

There were some 10-12 year old boys from St. John’s Military Prep Academy who had been nothing but trouble.

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