“Sean?” I call out, my words escaping on a shaky breath, but there’s no response.
My legs feel weak, my hands shaking as I make my way down the long hallway. The silence of the house is nearly deafening now, and worry stabs me in the chest.
The sounds were initially startling, but the silence is even worse. I stop to listen, to see if I hear anything more.
Closing my eyes, I wait. The house is only filled with its usual sounds: the heat running, the hum of the vents blowing, and I almost laugh at how completely ridiculous it was that I thought my husband was here with another woman.
I call out his name again, and this time, someone echoes my call. What seemed to be a dream, something fabricated in my mind, becomes all too real.
“Sean, fuck!” the voice yells, high-pitched and desperate. I take the stairs two at a time, knowing that what I’m about to walk in on will confirm my worst fears. What I’ve long heard rumors about, even if I tried to ignore them.
Before I even reach the bedroom, before I even see it with my own eyes, I hear the sound of flesh slapping. Each grunt and groan is louder and unmistakable.
I don’t even have to open the door to the bedroom—the bedroom I share with my husband—because it’s already open, and the scene unfolding in front of me makes my stomach churn. Bile rises up in my throat, and I will myself not to puke right here in front of this mess.
Grabbing the door frame, I hold myself up, afraid I might collapse as my knees go weak, my head a hazy, foggy disaster. I feel like I’m floating, and for a moment, I wonder if this is a dream—a nightmare, actually.
But it isn’t. This is my fucking reality right now.
My gasp is so loud that the woman who is currently under my husband hears it. Peering over Sean’s shoulder, she makes eye contact with me. Crystal blue eyes stare back at me, a stark contrast to my deep brown ones.
She pales instantly, her legs wrapped around him, falling to the sides, but he keeps pounding into her, unaware.
It feels like I stand here forever, watching this unfold in front of me. Sean’s naked back is marred with jagged red lines, undoubtedly from her neon pink stiletto nails that seem more fitting for a stripper than the typical groupie Sean would go for. But I guess I have no idea what his type is. It’s certainly not his own wife.
Groupies are everywhere when your husband is a rock star, but I always pushed those thoughts to the side, tried to ignore them because he chose me. He married me, not them, but it’s obvious that’s who this woman is.
The woman and my eyes are locked, and as much as I want to look away, I can’t. It’s like a trainwreck. You hear that saying a lot, but now it holds a totally different meaning for me.
This is a trainwreck, and it’s my life.
She slaps him on the back, wiggling from under him, but again, that idiot doesn’t realize what’s happening, and disgustingly, he growls out, “You want it rough, baby? Wanna play like you’re trying to get away from me?”
My face screws up into a nauseated scowl, and for a split second, I think I might vomit. Right here in the doorway of our bedroom, on the luxury white carpet that I used to say felt like rabbit fur under my feet. Now it feels like it’s on fire.
And then she shrieks out, the world catching up to her. Her scream vibrates my chest and bounces off the walls of the room.
“You told me she was working late!”
That’s what she says, and it plays over and over again in my head.
Sean whips around but doesn’t pull himself from inside her body. His dick is firmly rooted inside her vagina as his eyes go wide, taking me in.
“Qu…” he stutters, not even able to get my entire name out of his mouth. To be honest, I’m shocked he even remembers my name with how far he’s wedged inside this woman.
“What the fuck?” I scream, and while I have a million other things I’d love to say, this is all I’m able to get out, stupid and clichéd. My emotions get the better of me, and the tears spill like rivers. I hate that I’m crying in front of him, in front of her. Letting them see me this way makes me sick.
“Quinn, baby,” Sean now croons, and if I felt like I was going to puke before, it has nothing on this. “It was a mistake. An accident.”
“An accident?” the blue-eyed groupie hisses. “So was it an accident the last twenty times we did this?” There’s an insulted tinge to her words, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Twenty times?
I don’t think Sean and I have done it twenty times in the last year, and certainly not to the extent I saw just now. She was moaning like a porn star, mouth open, hips moving, blonde hair splayed around her like a fucking halo. But she’s no angel.
If I’m being honest, I’ve never even had an orgasm with him, not a single one, and that thought hits me as the memory of him thrusting into her invades my brain again.
“Quinn, baby, let me explain,” he coos, and all it makes me want to do is punch him in the throat. I hate the sound of his voice and the way he says my name.
