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I mean, he made even Ethan Hawke look frugal. But he was burning out. Constantly strung out and finding no one who wanted to fuck his coked up limp dick, he began to do more and more drugs. He got busted a few times with massive amounts of cocaine possession. The busts were so big that the authorities wondered how he was even still alive.
They stopped wondering six months ago when his body went into a cocaine-induced overdose and he was found dead outside of his 3rd Avenue apartment building.
He died poor. And alone.
I never learned how he found out about Robert until Cheryl approached me a few weeks after the Times Square matchup.
“I hope you know I had nothing to do with Robert and his untimely ending,” she told me.
I looked at her, not believing her at first.
“His wife was inches away from killing him,” she continued. “And when I first went out there, it was mainly to do research and see what we could do to pay him off or
scare him.”
I think I was a bit relieved when she told me this, but still a bit curious.
“Sure, we were probably going to scare him,” Cheryl continued. “Like have him wake up with a dead horse head in his bed like the Godfather or something,” she said.
I remember nodding, you know? As if this was the most normal thing in the world.
“But apparently my visit actually pushed her over the edge,” Cheryl told me. “The constant years of lying and cheating must have taken their toll on the poor woman because literally one hour after I left, he came home and she killed him.”
“So you didn't kill Robert?” I asked, too happy to express myself.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad that Robert is gone. But if it were because of me, I would have felt really horrible.
“No, but I helped her bury the body,” Cheryl said to me with a deadpan stare. “And if push came to shove, and I had to defend myself, there would be no question.”
I remember thinking maybe that was the best I could hope for.
And maybe to never fuck with Cheryl. Ever.
So that took care of Simon. And Robert. Now, a year later from when the whole thing started I think I’ve turned a page in my life. That I’ve moved on.
I look up at Ethan, who’s staring at me and smirking as he looks at me, contented and sitting on the sofa.
“So,” I say, looking up at him. “I think since you interrupted my little session, you might be owing me something."
“I thought we were waiting till the wedding?” he asks me, deadpanning.
I pout. He’s right of course. Six months ago, as I was approaching my last trimester, Ethan proposed to me.
He told me he wanted to make an honest woman out of me before we got married.
I told him yes. I mean, come on, right? Why would I have doubts about marrying the man I love.
But I also told him I wanted to wait.
I wanted our daughter to be born first. And then have her at our wedding. I wanted to share the happiest day of my life with everyone that I loved, you know?
Plus, get a chance to work off all the pounds so I could still turn heads.
“You’re right,” I pout. Three weeks ago, we told each other that we’d re-virginize ourselves and not have sex till our wedding night.
The only problem is, our wedding is still another seven days away.
I know, stop rolling your eyes, hun. You’re probably asking yourself what’s seven days without sex, huh?
