Page 61 of Rebound

By now, she knows the answer to that is a solid no. She won’t be able to manipulate me ever again. She may have signed with Freddie Kemp, but he doesn’t scare me. Tomorrow, I will sit down with Drake, and we will come up with a strategy. This will hurt him too. The bitch doesn’t know what she’s let herself in for. We’ll destroy her in exactly the same way she planned to destroy me. I will fucking ruin her the way she’s ruined me. Well, not exactly the same way, given that she’s torn my fucking heart to shreds. Her lack of heart makes it impossible to do the same, but I can and will ruin the only thing she cares about—her reputation. Freddie Kemp might be a shark, but he’s never come up against Nathan and Drake before, and they will eat him for fucking breakfast.

This is exactly what we hoped to avoid—all-out warfare. At least it’s what I hoped to avoid—she was pretending to my face while plotting with Freddie in private this whole time. Keeping me pussy blind so I wouldn’t see it coming.

I’m back at the townhouse now, filled with anger and welcoming it. Anger is better than what came before. Give me good old-fashioned rage over heartbreak every damn day.

I strip down to workout shorts and a T-shirt and head to the gym in the basement, needing to punch some shit. Once my hands are wrapped, I start with the speed bag. I build up power until it’s a blur in front of me, then move onto the heavyweight punching bag that hangs from the ceiling. I put my gloves on and lay into it. Every blow I land comes with a satisfying thud, and I work up a healthy sweat. Eventually, though, even that isn’t enough.

Fuck it. I tug my gloves off and throw them to the floor. I need to feel some real pain.

Twenty minutes later, I’m done. I sink to the concrete and pour half a bottle of water straight over my head. I’m sweating hard, my face feels like someone took a blowtorch to it, and my lungs are bursting.

I swallow down the rest of the water and look at my hands. My knuckles are scraped and bloody, my fingers swollen and red. That was fucking stupid, but I needed it. I needed the distraction of the physical, because the emotional is threatening to knock me out. I clamber to my feet and notice my back is still sore from that stupid ballet bullshit last night. Jesus fuck. Was it really only last night? It seems impossible that so much changed so quickly. How long was she going to keep up this charade, anyway? The legal process would have shown her true colors before much longer. Maybe she and that fucker Freddie Kemp were planning a big reveal. Who knows—it’s pointless trying to figure it out.

I take the world’s hottest shower, torturing myself with the spray on its most punishing setting and then change it to freezing cold. It’s the only way I know to keep my mind off her. Even now, my bastard memory is messing with me, flooding me with images of her in the shower at the Greenwich Village place. I fucked her in there the last time we met, with her long legs wrapped around my back, her ass in my hands. She came so hard around my cock, screaming my name, her eyes fluttering and rolling. The water flowing off her slender shoulders and cascading over her rigid nipples… Fuck!

My hand is on my dick, and despite the icy water, I’m still hard for her. I still want her. I’m nothing but a goddamn animal.

She used that against me, and I hate that I was such an easy mark. I hate that despite it all, my stupid, soft heart is still in pieces. I dry myself off, throw on sweats, and pour another Scotch. I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t stop thinking about her, about what she’s done. My thoughts are ricocheting around my head like a pinball on acid. I have too many fucking feelings, and I don’t know where to put them all. I also have too many fucking questions and no way to answer them.

Unless… It’s only ten o’clock. Too early for me to try to sleep, and I don’t want to be around my family. Nathan agreed to keep this whole situation quiet for now. The last thing I need is pity or more questions. Worse, the subtle sense of I-told-you-so that I will imagine is there even if it’s not.

I genuinely believed Amber and I were finding our way back to each other, and I wanted it so much. Each time I saw her during our “affair,” my feelings for her deepened. I witnessed her opening up and softening, and I watched myself open up right alongside her. Tonight, I planned to lay it all on the line for her—ask her to come back, promise her the world, give her my whole heart.

I still don’t understand why she felt the need to pretend and deceive. Except I suppose I do. She made her feelings about my family very clear. Apart from Drake, she cannot stand them, and vice versa. Over the years, that attitude has hardened inside her, made her bitter. It’s like scar tissue, hidden beneath the surface. She saw a chance to strike back, to screw them over the way she thinks they screwed her over, and she seized it. Fuck, maybe I’ve got it all wrong. It could have been good old-fashioned greed. I clearly don’t know my wife as well as I thought I did, so why would I think I could figure out her motivations on my own? There is only one person who can provide the answers I seek.

I’m self-aware enough to know I’m looking for an excuse to see her one last time before things get nasty, but I need this. I need to look her in the eyes and call her out. Only then will I be able to fully turn my back on her.

I bangon Amber’s door with my fist, ignoring the doorbell with its dreamcatcher hanging over the buzzer, twirling in the wind. There’s no answer, and I bang again. I realize as I stand here that I haven’t really thought this through—she might not be home. For all I know, she’s found herself a new man already. My breath freezes in my lungs, and I slam both fists on the wooden door.

Finally, lights come on inside the house, and I hear footsteps on the stairs. If she has found another man and he’s here with her, I won’t be fucking responsible for my actions.

“Hey, asshole!” someone shouts from behind me. It’s the voice of a two-pack-a-day smoker, full of gravel. “Shut the fuck up. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

I turn around to see a vicious-looking old crone glaring out at me. Fuck, this must be the famous Mrs. Katzberg, the woman Drake thinks is former Special Forces. At only five feet tall, she still manages to be terrifying. Before I can respond, Amber opens the door, and I turn back, coming face-to-face with my wife. She doesn’t look like a monster, but clichés are clichés for a reason—looks really can be deceiving.

“Amber, hon, you okay?” Mrs. Katzberg shouts. “You want me to call the cops or shoot him in the ass?” I have no doubt she’s the kind who keeps a handgun next to her dentures, and I prepare to hit the ground.

“That’s all right, Mrs. K,” Amber calls back. “I appreciate it though. You go on and get back to sleep. I’ll come by tomorrow so you can give me that recipe we talked about.”

“All right, dear. You know how to reach me.” This last part seems pointed, a threat, and as I turn to watch her close the door, the look that old woman sends my way has my balls crawling up inside my body. Jesus. If I still gave a fuck about Amber’s safety, I would be sufficiently reassured by the presence of the vigilant battleax across the street.

Shivering in only a T-shirt that ends at mid-thigh, Amber glares up at me. That’s my fucking Ramones T-shirt from a million years ago. “I thought you said you threw that in the trash.”

“Yeah. Well. I lied. You’d better come in or Mrs. K will have a fit. She wasn’t joking. She has a Mossberg shotgun in there.”

She walks away without another word, and I follow her into the small house. Someone has been painting, and the smell of cocoa is in the air. The space is chintzy and cute, definitely the domain of women. I try to imagine a heartless, scheming bitch living here and struggle to make the two halves fit.

She leans against the kitchen counter, and I work hard at not noticing the legs. Or the hard nipples. Or the deliciously mussed-up hair.

“What do you want, Elijah?” There’s no aggression in her tone. None of her signature frost either. She simply sounds sad and tired.

I look at her face, really look at it, and see how pale she is. Her eyes are red rimmed, and there are dark circles forming underneath. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so broken, and I fight the urge to comfort her. “I want to know when you were going to tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Fuck it, Amber, you know what.”

She rubs at her eyes again and sighs. “Elijah, it’s late, and I’m too tired for this. I can’t play these games with you anymore. It’s sick and it’s cruel. So just ask what you want to ask and leave me in peace.”

---