Page 80 of False Start
I stand there frozen to the spot as Priscilla sits between my husband’s legs and bobs her head up and down on his dick. His eyes are closed, her back to me, and neither of them notice me or the foyer light.
I’m sleeping. I’m dreaming. This isn’t happening, and yet, I can’t stop watching or stop my heart from shattering into a million pieces in my chest. And if this all isn’t bad enough, Bryant’s hand is on top of her head encouraging her up and down his shaft. He’s just as into the act as her.
“Fuck,” he moans. “Suck my cock, baby. Good girl.” He throws an arm over his eyes and shoves her face down hard into his lap. “I’m coming. Drink it up, girl.”
The choking sound that leaves me, as chest pains simultaneously rip through, has Bryant opening his eyes. Priscilla either didn’t hear me or doesn’t care and she continues to slurp and gag all over him. Bryant’s green eyes are unfocused and bloodshot as he lazily searches the room. Before his eyes land on me, they close again and he relaxes as he enjoys his orgasm in another woman’s mouth.
Somewhere in this world, another woman is feeling my pain right now. She’s discovering the man she loves doesn’t love her in return, or at least not enough to remain sober and faithful. She’s just found out the person she thought she’d spend the rest of her life with is now an era—one of those people meant to spend more than one season in her life, but they’re not there forever.
My soul suddenly feels empty as rage courses through my veins, replacing any rational thoughts in my head. I take a few steps to the center of the foyer where a large round table sits. In the middle of the table sets a huge, beautiful arrangement Bryant has brought in every few weeks. The crystal vase he insisted they rest in, costs more than most people’s salary of a few months. It’s a waste of money in my opinion. I remove the long-stemmed flowers and toss them to my left. The soft foliage doesn’t make a sound as it hits the floor, but the vase is another story.
Beyond the couch where Bryant sits are gorgeous floor-to-ceiling windows, and I can’t think of a better place for the vase to be. I might be a woman. I might not have ever played professional football, but I’m a fucking Hale. I reach back with the large vase in my hand and throw it like a rocket as hard as I can at the massive windows behind them. Large sheets of glass shatter and fall like rain. The resulting sound is louder than I imagined it would be. It’s actually quite deafening, and I can’t find it in me to flinch or give one fuck about anything but the anger I want to use to set the motherfucking house on fire.
Bryant and Priscilla disengage and cover their heads as glass skitters across the marble floor of the living room and into the foyer past where I stand. With bare feet, I walk across the shards of glass until I reach Priscilla cowering in front of Bryant. My husband looks up at me with shock in his eyes that morphs into absolute horror as I reach down and grab Priscilla by the back of the hair and escort her to the front door.
“Let go, you crazy bitch!” She says as she claws at my hand.
I twist harder and cause her neck to bend at an unnatural angle, and I hold her that way until we reach the front door of the mansion. I open the door, yank her back for good measure, and whisper in her ear, “If I ever see you again, I’ll snap your neck in two. Now fuck off.” And I push her through the door and slam it behind her.
Bryant is swaying in the middle of the living room looking across the way at me. Shock and guilt are clearly written across his face. “Baby,” he singsongs.
I hold my hand up to stop him. “Don’t.”
“Is not what it wooks wike,” he slurs and almost falls over when he holds a finger in the air.
This is not the man I fell in love with. The man I fell in love with would never do this to me or us. He would never compromise what we have for a fucking blow job. How far the mighty has fallen.
“I watched you come in her mouth,” I tell him. “So save your bullshit for somebody else. And put your dick back in your pants. You make me fucking sick.” I turn for the stairs and walk back across the glass.
“Your feet!” he yells as he stumbles trying to put himself back in his pants.
“You’re yelling about my feet with your dick hanging out of your pants? You’re standing here talking to me about my fucking feet when your dick is still wet from another woman? You don’t give a shit about my feet!”
I feel every slice in the bottom of my feet, but shards are everywhere and can’t be avoided. Besides the pain is nothing compared to pain in my heart. I need to get far away from him before I do something stupid. I need to leave this place and figure out how to breathe again before I completely fall apart. I rush up the stairs, take my nightgown off and begin digging through our closet for clothes. I lock myself behind our bathroom door and pick the glass out of my feet before I dress.
Bryant knocks at the door and slurs, “Baby. We need to talk.” We don’t need to talk. I’m done talking. He did the unthinkable. “Z!!! Are you okay in there?”
No. I’m dying, slowly dying inside. Soon, there’ll be nothing left of me, and I’ll wither away until I’m numb and dead inside. I stand in front of the double vanity and watch the tears silently cascade down my face, one after the other.
A thud sounds against the door and then another and another before the door comes crashing down into our large bathroom. Bryant stands on the other side swaying from side to side, disheveled and out of breath. “You didn’t say anything!” He shouts and I can barely make out his thick drunk words. “There’s blood all over the fucking house. I didn’t know if you were okay or not. Fuck!” He pulls at his hair and grunts in frustration.
I walk past him and slip my shoes on outside the door.
“Baby,” he says and reaches for me.
I wrench my arm away from him which nearly knocks him over he’s so drunk. “Don’t you dare fucking touch me! Never again!”
“You don’t mean that.”
I leave our room and take the grand staircase two steps at a time. I need to leave here and get away from him before I hurt him.
“Zhanna. What are you doing?” He asks as I round the corner of the kitchen and pick up my purse from the bar.
I dig through the contents of my large blue hobo bag in search of my keys to no avail. ,”Where the fuck are they?” I murmur.
“Coach.”
“No!” I scream at the top of my lungs and throw my purse at him. “Don’t you dare call me that!”
