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The curses keep flying out of me as I tear off the cover of Bailey's most prized possession. His Tesla Roadster.
"All the things I did for you…"
My eyes dart about, searching for—"Ah, perfect."
I yank the hammer off the wall rack and pound it against my fist as I size up the vehicle.
Where to begin?
The doors, perhaps, for all those times I ignored the voice in the back of my head trying to warn me that something wasn't right about Bailey. Why didn't I listen? Instead, I tried to convince myself that since we were good as friends, we'd be better as more, even when signs of incompatibility were there right from the start.
Or maybe I should mess up the hood for the time he whisked me away to escape the brutal Virginian winter. Or at least, that's what he told me he was doing. Turns out Bailey had booked us into an LGBT resort where clothing was optional. And so were our marriage vows, apparently.
He pressured me into a threesome situation I never should have agreed to. But I did. Even though it went against every instinct I had.Come on, babe. Just this once. It's my biggest fantasy. Eventually, I caved. Like I always did with him. I didso many thingsto make him happy.
I gave up my life and friends and family in Australia and moved countries to be with him. I stopped eating meat and became vegan for him. I got fucked by another dude because he wanted it.
And it was never enough.
Or, wait, no. I've got it. I heave myself onto the hood and in three steps, I'm standing on the roof of the car.
The windows. I am going to smash every single motherfucking window for the day he came back from a work trip to San Fran, and I discovered he was cheating on me.
As an IT project manager, Bailey often traveled for work, so we implemented a five-day rule. If he was ever away for longer than five days, as soon as he got home, we'd have sex and spend the rest of the day together.
When he got back from a two-week trip to California, I could tell something was up. He seemed distracted from the moment he came home, and the sex was…flat. As soon as we were done, he got up, showered, then said he needed to check his emails in the study down the hall.
I stayed in bed, trying to figure out what was going on. If I was just imagining things, or if something was actually wrong. Like always, I found excuses to justify his bad behavior.He was tired from working so much. His flight had been delayed. He was still on West Coast time.
And then his watch dinged on the bedside table.
Now, his watch, his phone, his laptop werealwaysgoing off with notifications. That's how it is in his line of work. He's always on.
In the three-and-a-half years we were together, I never once picked up any of his devices and read any of his messages. That's an invasion of privacy and not my style at all.
But that day, lying alone in our bed with his load slowly trickling out of my ass after he'd basically fled the room after fucking me, somethingcompelledme to reach over. To pick the watch up. To read the message that had just come through.
For a guy who works in IT and specializes in cybersecurity, you'd think Bailey would've known better than to not password-protect his watch.
What can I say?Smart watch. Dumb husband.My friend Fulton reckons I should put that on a T-shirt. Maybe I will one day.
The message was from someone called Kaleb.
We didn't know any Kalebs, did we?It could be a work colleague, or someone he took a meeting with, my ever-optimistic subconscious tried to assure me.
But even my subconscious had nothing as I blinked at what I assumed was Kaleb's muscular leg lifted into the air, showing off his hard cock and puckered hole.
I backtracked out of that message and saw text chain after text chain from a whole bunch of guys we didn't know. At least,Ididn't. My husband seemed to have very intimate knowledge of every single one of them.
So, yep. I've decided. That's what I'm gonna do. Bust the windows of his most prized possession as payback for all the guys—plural, couldn't wrangle an exact number out of Bailey—he fucked while we were together.
I crouch down onto my knees, lift the hammer overhead, and am about to slam it into the front windshield when a deep voice yells, "Stop!"
I don’t recognize the voice right away.
It doesn't belong to Bailey. He's more of achange the locks on our house, pack my bags, and leave them out the front of our house with a sticky notekind of coward—er, I mean guy; no, I do mean coward.
And it isn't any of the vets I work with at the Vet Shop Boys clinic. Seriously, those guys are the only reason I've been able to get through these last six months. Without them, I would've fallen to pieces. They're fucking legends. Each and every one of them, their partners, too.
