A man willing to cheat on his wife isn’t going to give a shit about protecting her. I shudder, nausea welling, my mouth filling with saliva at the idea of him fucking some random whorebare, and then coming home to me…to ourkids.
I needed to go get tested as soon as possible.
Just another indignity to lay at his goddamn door.
Sleep doesn’t come easily, which isn’t wholly surprising. I spend the hours imagining what would be the most satisfying object in the house to smack Christopher around with.
A frying pan is a little cliché, and I don’t have the upper body strength for a chair to do enough damage. I’ve seen a movie or two where a woman stabs someone with the heel of her stiletto, but I’d probably need to get the jump on him. It would be poetic if I used the brass paperweight in his home office, though. It’s bulky, ugly assin, but would almost definitely leave a dent in his thick skull.
I jump when his alarm peals in the morning, my eyes gritty from lack of sleep. He groans, rolling out of bed and disappearing into the bathroom, and I take the opportunity to escape, heading downstairs on quiet feet.
I’m scrambling some eggs when light steps catch my attention. I look over my shoulder, finding Mase stumbling into the room, his dark hair flopping into his eyes, and pillow creases still pressed into his cheek.
“Morning, baby,” I greet as he comes over and cuddles into my side. I take a subtle sniff of his hair—not sneaky enough, though.
He cottons on to what I’m doing, pushing me away with an embarrassed groan. “Mom!”
I gently swat his hip. “It’s my right as your mother. Sit. Toast is almost done. You want any bacon?”
“No, thanks.” I pour him a glass of orange juice while he sits at the island, eyeing me. Mase opens his mouth just as Christopher comes into the kitchen, fixing his tie, and he slams his mouth shut, glaring down at the counter in mutinous silence.
“Morning, honey,” Christopher greets cheerfully, pressing a kiss to my cheek on the way to the coffee machine. “Morning, son.” He glances at Mase before looking around. “Where’s Ginny?”
I put our son’s breakfast in front of him, shaking my head with a smile when he starts shoveling it in at speed.
“Easy, tiger. It’s not going anywhere,” I tell him, before saying to Christopher, “She’s still asleep.”
My husband frowns, checking the gold-encrustedwatch I got him for his birthday last year. “Shouldn’t she be up? School starts soon.”
Mase looks up at that, gaping at his father. “She broke herarm.”
Christopher’s eyes widen before he clears his throat. “I know that. School is important?—”
“I don’t think a day off will hurt her,” I say gently, flashing a warning look in Mase’s direction. “I’ll stop in and see her teachers. Get any work they might have for her.”
“Good, good.” Christopher’s brows draw low before he brushes past the fact that he seems to have forgotten we spent the better part of the afternoon at the hospital yesterday.Probably because he fucked a screw loose when he got back to the office.“You’re going to school, though.” He looks pointedly at Mase.
I clear my throat, grabbing my coffee as our son heaves out a sigh. “Yeah, well, Jacob and I are going for pizza after baseball practice. His dad is the coach and said he would take us.” He looks up, watching his father for a reaction, but Christopher’s frown only deepens.
“Oh.”
“I already cleared it with Mom,” he adds hurriedly, shooting me a desperate look.
“Harrison was very kind to offer, and said he would drop Mase off afterward,” I confirm, and our son’s shoulders slump in relief, but there’s a hurt deep in his navy-blue eyes that he tries to hide by ducking his head.
Christopher’s lips flatten, his expression unreadable. “Let me know how practice goes.”
Mase frowns right before a sly gleam creeps into his stare. “Sure. I’ll call Gail and book an appointment.”
I cough to hide my laugh. Those are words I threw at Christopher in an argument weeks ago. I didn’t realizeMase was even around when I said it, but hearing it out of his mouth now…
My husband looks dumbfounded, and I hide behind the rim of my mug before he sees my amusement. He turns to glare at me, clearly blaming me for Mase’s attitude.
“Go get dressed,” I tell Mase when he finishes his breakfast. “Don’t want to be late, hm?”
His stare bounces between us, before he lifts a shoulder, sending one last glare at his father and stalking from the room. As soon as he’s gone, Christopher faces me, hands propped on his hips.
“What the hell was that about?” he demands. “Since when does he talk to me like that?”
