Colette springs up, pushing out of the bed with a scoff. “Excuse me? Your house?” Fury sparks her eyes. “Your house, Griffin? Are you really going to try and call this your house?” Her laugh is hoarse.

“Yes, Colette. I work. I pay the bills. I’m the reason you’re wearing all that expensive shit, driving a fucking Mercedes that I paid off. So yes, my fucking house.”

She laughs so sardonically it makes my skin crawl.

Pointing a finger, she says, “Now that… that is funny, hun. I guess you have completely forgotten the only reason you can now pay those bills. If you hadn’t met me you’d be nowhere, just like your father.”

My heart sinks when she mentions him. My father, a good man that basically slaved just to keep a roof over mine, my mother’s, and my younger brother’s head.

He died six years ago. Heart attack.

I swallow thickly, allowing my arms to sag at my sides. Colette looks my way, and I expect sympathy after her statement. I don’t receive that.

Instead, she goes on, still slinging shit my way. “You are just so fucking careless now, Griffin. If I call, all you have to do is answer. I know you work—I get it—but I think I’m a little more important than that job. Don’t you think? I mean”—she huffs a laugh—“we have more than enough money to relax for a while—maybe even retire early.”

“I’m only thirty-two, Colette. I’m not retiring. Not when I can keep stacking my money.”

She blows a breath. “You know, sometimes I think you work just to escape being home. To be away from me. And if that is the case then by all means keep working, but don’t expect me to keep playing the good wife everyone expects me to be.”

She folds her arms, leaning back against the headboard.

I’m in a state—a place where if I say something now it will only ruin everything, but if I stay in here and don’t speak, I’ll blow up inside.

I can’t deal with either right now.

I’m too drunk, and I know I’ll say something wrong. I just know it.

So I rush for the closet, yanking down some attire for tomorrow, some pajamas for tonight. Then I go to the bathroom, taking out my body wash, razors, and shaving cream.

When I walk back out of the bathroom, Colette is sitting up again, watching me collect my shit.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” I snap back. I go for the bedroom door and swing it open, but before I’m gone I turn and say, “You know, Colette, you say you play the good wife, but I don’t see a single trace of goodness within you anymore. You can pretend you’re playing it, but either way you’re doing a terrible fucking job at it. I try every damn day to please you. To put a smile on your face. Make you the happiest woman on earth. You’d just rather be an ungrateful bitch and turn down everything I do rather than accept it and be happy that I put forth the effort. Fuck, why can’t you just let it go already? Why can’t you just fucking move on from the past?”

And then I’m gone, slamming the door behind me and hearing a sharp gasp pass by her lips.

I take up the guestroom. The queen-sized bed will do for the night. I shower up, lathering my body in soap.

Fuck, I feel defeated. What am I doing wrong? Why can’t shit be the same with us anymore?

All I want is the best for Colette. All I want is for her to be happy. We were happy once. Why can’t we go back to that? I mean, I know a lot of shit went down—things that were my fault—but it’s been years. Why hasn’t she forgiven me for it yet?

My forehead drops on the marble wall of the shower. Water streams through my hair, down my chest and back. My face feels smothered with warmth, but it feels good.

With my eyes squeezed tight, I try and imagine Colette and all her naked glory.

‘The woman has a banging body, even though her mind and heart is a little ugly.

I imagine those perky pink nipples, her face when I finally get to ramming my cock deep inside her. Only… it doesn’t work this time.

As I pump I can’t feel myself getting hard enough because all I can hear are her negative words. All I can think of is how we truly are failing as a couple.

All I can think about is how I almost got a taste of someone else… Angelina.

Fuck.

Blue eyes appear in my imagination, and I stroke harder. My cock hardens in my hands, the veins bulging as I imagine those aqua irises looking up at me while sucking me dry.

Lapping her tongue around my balls, flicking it across my tip. I shudder as I start to reach the brink. My body locks, palm against the wall, and all I can hear is her calling me Mr. Boyd in that sweet little voice.

She wanted my cock so bad she could taste it, and I wanted a mouthful of her pussy so much I was almost willing to completely demolish my marriage to make that happen.

“Fuck,” I bite out, stroking faster, harder, until finally I explode in my hand, squirting all over the fucking shower wall. “Goddamn,” I groan, pressing the side of my face on the marble.

God, it’s been so long since I’ve cum. So fucking long. I pant, breathing raggedly as I keep my eyes shut, still rubbing the head of my cock, releasing every drop of cum.

I can’t believe myself, but it’s the pure imagination of Angelina who has just brought out my release.

It’s her with her lips wrapped around the head of my cock, telling me to relax and to just enjoy the feel. The feel of her, right before she comes up to sit on top of my lap, allowing me to sink deep inside what I know is an eager, wet pussy.

Young pussy.

Sweet pussy.

I groan, finally letting myself go. I wash up again, cleaning my cum off the wall before getting out. When I’m in bed, I skim through my tablet and see stock numbers have gone back up.

Good.

That’s good for us.

Quarter definitely has nothing to worry about now. They made the right decision.

Placing my tablet on the nightstand, I flip on my side, and shut my eyes. I fall asleep while remembering the chime of her laughter, her smile—those fucking eyes.

God, those eyes have the power to make a man kill someone if it comes down to it.

I know I shouldn’t fall asleep with another woman on my mind, but I can’t help myself. Maybe I should hire a suitable lawyer and file for divorce. Find a fucking way out of this shithole.

There’s no point in being miserable anymore. Why are we still together if we aren’t happy? We’ve tried—I’ve tried, year after year, but its only getting worse.

If I file, I can do whatever the hell I want.

Like fuck the shit out Angelina in my office whenever I’m in the mood and not worry about what Colette will think if she ever found out.

I can’t do it though—the divorce, I mean.

There’s a lot on the line for us. Her father is part of the reason of my success. I am forever indebted to that man. It’s unfortunate, but he saw my potential. He saw that I could be a great resource and he ran with it.

And now I owe him my life.

I owe him for being the reason I can pay for Mom’s oncology bills.

I owe him because if it weren’t for him I wouldn’t have been able to bail my baby brother out of jail for stupidly dealing drugs. I wouldn’t be able to pay for his rehab care.

I’d honestly be nowhere if I hadn’t met Colette and her father on that ferry in New York that late winter night. Absolutely no fucking where.

FIVE

Angelina

It’s a good thing I didn’t book my flight for 11 AM last night because I receive a call from Griffin at 9 AM.

“I know you have other things to do,” he says when I answer the phone, “but would you like to fly out to San Diego with me? I think Quarter would appreciate seeing a member from Stratford and Clark too… preferably a Clark.”