Page 4 of Trashy Foreplay

“I guess I fucked myself in that hotel room, right?”

With a long-suffering sigh that could rival my mom’s, he steps onto the front stoop. “I didn’t want it to come to this. You’re great at your job. You’ll have a new one in no time. I’ll give you a good recommendation.”

I gape at him, floored by his attitude. By noon today all eleven hundred people in Whiskey Flats will hear of my transgression.

They’ll call me a slut.

The pearl clutchers will stone my reputation to a bloody pulp.

But Perry? Well, he’s a man, and everyone knows how men are. They’ll look the other way when it comes to him, but not me. Hell no. Nobody will dare hire me until long after this scandal simmers down.

“Be realistic,” he says, obviously taking my silence for resistance. “My wife won’t have you working for me.”

“Then I guess you have nothing to worry about. Consider this my resignation.” I slam the door in his face, and a few seconds later my ringtone goes off in the bedroom. The chorus of “It’s the End of the World As We Know It” by R.E.M. filters down the hall.

Great. My mother.

I stomp back to the bedroom, most definitelynotfeeling fine.

In fact, as that song loops its emotional destruction, Mom’s call going unanswered, I feel the walls close in. My chest grows tight with panic, because even though Chris is gone, his presence is inescapable.

In the apartment we shared for three years. In the town where we grew up together. Suddenly, everything takes on new meaning, and I see memories through the acute haze of pain. I won’t be able to glance at the burger joint down the street without remembering all the times we hung out there, chomping away at the biggest fucking burgers you’ll ever find. And the sight of the old theater where we gorged on cheap movies as teens will slice me open to the bone, leaving me exposed and bleeding.

Until Perry, Chris was my first. My one and only.

How did we lose our way? In the midst of arguments, tears, and too many “breaks” to count, we somehow drifted apart.

My cell falls silent, and I stand frozen as a feeling I’ve never experienced before rises inside me. I know I won’t be able to escape that, either.

For the first time in twenty-two years, I want to runaway.

No, Ineedto.

I pick up my cell and dial Lesley in Seattle.

2. You Poleaxed Me at Hello - Cash

I’d recognize the small of that back anywhere. If the familiar curves of her tight little body doesn’t clue me in, the tramp stamp at the base of her spine sure as hell does. It’s a simple inscription of the word “love” inked into her skin with sprawling strokes. She got the tattoo when she was sixteen to spite her father.

I still remember when I saw that ink for the first time. She’d worn a skimpy bikini that day on her sweet sixteen, no doubt displaying her rebellion for her father to see. He noticed it, all right. Saw her as nothing but a disobedient young girl.

Not me. She’d stepped out of her family’s pool, water dripping down tanned skin as those tiny pieces of red material emphasized curves too sexy to belong to a young girl, and that was the moment I saw her as more than the daughter of my father’s best friend.

The memory rips through me, and no matter how many times I tell myself to stop torturing my eyes, I can’t stop staring at the photo on my phone. I have no idea who sent it to me, but the visual makes me want to burn the image to ashes. She’s straddling some faceless guy’s lap, obviously naked, and he has his arms snaked around her. Anyone with two eyes can see they’re fucking. I can’t make out his face, which just pisses me off more.

A text message flashes across the screen, and I ignore it as a monotone voice comes through the speaker overhead, announcing final boarding for flight 291 to Seattle. Instead of heading for the gate, I battle with myself in the men’s room. My palms are a sweaty mess at the thought of getting on that plane while this relentless rage courses through me.

I don’t like flying.

Truth is, I despise giving up that kind of control—the kind that leaves one vulnerable to other people’s errors. But since I stepped up as CEO of MontBlake, hopping on a plane several times a month has become the norm. I’m a hands-on guy, detail-oriented, and no way in hell was I prepared to trust anyone else to see the Denver project through to the end. CEO or not, my first love will always be architecture.

Too bad I didn’t account for my wife turning into a cheating bitch. A pang of guilt knifes through me at thinking of her in such derogatory terms, but it’s short-lived. Maybe if I’d seen her betrayal coming, I’d be more equipped to handle the anger boiling in my gut.

All I want to do now is smash my fist through a wall. Any wall will do, even the grimy one in this bathroom. Hell, the grime on the tile doesn’t even bother me, nor does the thought of broken and bleeding knuckles. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and only the fact that I’m standing in an airport bathroom stops me. This day will surely go down in history as the shittiest day of my life, and I’m not up for going to jail on top of it.

Besides, I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

At this late hour, the restroom isn’t overly crowded. A few men come and go, shooting me sideway glances, but I’m too busy pacing as I imagine the upcoming confrontation with Monica to pay them much attention. However, the reflection of the crazed man in the mirror gives me pause. This stranger looks like me, with familiar gray eyes and dark hair. Rage, hurt, and betrayal play across his face, and I shouldn’t be taken aback, but I am. This guy looks like a tool, ragged around the edges and older than twenty-nine.

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