Page 290 of Rage

But then came the lying, the cheating, the drugs.

Oh god, thedrugs.

I’d spent an hour holed up in my vanity carefully applying layers of colour corrector so it would look just right to avoid suffering the embarrassment of a black eye during game day press, only for Charlie to show up absolutely wired to the field. One moment of indiscretion and he’d outed himself as a cokehead in front of every news publication in the state, along with anyone with a fucking camera phone.

I could handle whatever the Herald had to say, but watching my husband ruining my life in meme format every time I opened TikTok? Honestly, I deserved a medal for not killing him sooner.

It wasn’t a surprise when the call came. It didn’t do for a star athlete to be a known drug user. What kind of message did it send the kids?

Goodbye NFL.

Goodbye to the American Dream.

Goodbye, the comfort I’d become accustomed to thanks to that big fat footballer paycheck.

Not that Charlie didn’t have family money, loads of those pretty boy NFL jerkoffs did, but that wasn’treallythe point.

The point was, I’d married Charlie Beaumont, the NFL star, the running back, the all-American guy. And what I got wasan ungrateful loser who couldn’t stand by his wife during her infertility issues.

A man who wasted my early twenties on ski trips and a fuckload of mid-range prostitutes.

I wasn’t mad at the girls, a John was a John. And for a high-profile, good-looking man like Charlie? It was easy to want to take on the business.

Shame about his performance though. That guy couldn’t find the clitoris if it lit up like Rudolph’s bright red, shiny nose.

His mistress on the other hand?

Yeah, that was something else altogether.

That’s what landed me here.

Well, other than the fact that I needed an airtight alibi about exactly where I’d been tonight, and with whom.

Down the bar, my unknowing accomplice and best friend, Selene, was chatting with a couple of guys in crisp button-down shirts. She always had atype,it just looked a little different when we were slamming wine coolers out of the back of her dad’s Grand Camino.

Rich. Successful. And major fucking douchebags.

Unfortunately, It was a taste we shared.

The plan tonight was simple enough… I sat here at the bar, perfectly visible to every camera phone that wanted to take a picture, on my third margarita and carefully considering what lucky dickhead was going to spend the rest of the night with me.

No NDA required. Howscandalous.

Bonus points if they were good-looking. But hey, a girl couldn’t be too picky when it came to a quick and dirty alibi solidifying one-night stand.

Down the bar, the first contestant on ‘will I be sleeping with you so that the cops don’t think I murdered my husband’, a man in what I guessed was his early forties with grey threading thesides of his just on this side of too long, curly hair, was making yetanotherattempt to catch my eye.

Ideally, I’d never fuck another man as long as I lived—much less one with ten years plus on me—but this was Florida, and there wasn’t exactly a plethora of options when it came to queer people willing to come up to you in the middle of a bar.

Fuckingappearances.

I couldn’t exactly be seen going into a gay club. It would pose too many questions. Would seem too unusual.

No, instead I came out with Selene tonight, her dark hair falling over her shoulder in a silken, black sheet. She was the type of woman that men liked. Successful, but not so much so that she was intimidating. Funny, but not so talkative they couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Fit, with all the right wrappings—nails constantly done, eyelashes artfully glued into place, and just enough filler that her lips were even, not so much that it was terribly obvious she’d had work done.

Then, there were the tattoos. An ample amount of black and grey coated most of her visible skin. Dangerous, but in a way that was palatable. Especially since she didn’t want a commitment.

I’d always been too quick with the commitment. Married at twenty-three! What the hell was I thinking?

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