Page 73 of When the Smoke Clears

“Fuck, yes. Use me, baby. Let me see you explode all over my cock.” His words coupled with him pressing hard against my clit cause me to shatter. I tuck my head against him and he murmurs, “So fucking good,” and the sexiest grunt ever fills my ears as his head falls to my shoulder and he finds his release. His fingers dig into me and I’m lost in his heavy breaths, the heat of his exhales against my skin.

As our breathing and heartbeats calm, I pull his face to mine, kissing him hard. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Anything.” He kisses me back.

“I’m not very good at sharing.”

His responding laugh is the best sound I’ve ever heard. I grin proudly at him.

Chapter 25

Stephanie

Ittakesthreeglassesof wine and talking myself into it for days before I work up the nerve to check Alan’s phone. I wait for him to fall asleep before me. Nearly an hour passes before his breathing becomes even and slow. I ease out of bed and round to his side. His phone lies on the side table, locked. Slowly, and with enough ringing in my ears that it may wake him, I slide his phone under his limp hand for a fingerprint.

The screen comes to life and my heart nearly barrels out of my chest. Rushing into the closet on quiet toes, I slip the door closed. If he catches me using my phone to take photos of his contacts, it’s not going to end well.

I’ve never gone through someone else’s phone, but his messages, or lack thereof, are concerning. While my own recent conversations include Randi, Maci, Mother, Alan, committee members, the dentist, bill reminders, and random others, Alan’s are scant. My own name and two other women.

After videoing the messages in record speed, I place the phone back on the bedside table. The box for the security system is in our closet, and I’m able to clear the last few minutes of camera footage before slipping back into bed. Thankfully, though there is a camera in the bedroom, there isn’t one in the bathroom or closet that I need to worry about.

I don’t fall asleep for hours. Between wanting to investigate the messages and worrying that he’ll find out what I’ve done and I won’t actually wake up, it’s the early hours of the morning before my body relaxes.

Even when I do finally fall asleep, every little sound wakes me. As soon as Alan stirs in the bed, I get up for the day.

He dresses in a dark suit, similar to what he wore to Mother’s funeral. He’s still not told me about Colt’s death.

“You look nice.” I run my hand down the soft lapel.

He grips my wrist firmly in one hand. “I’ll handle you after I get back.”

Handle. He hasn’t handled my needs more than a handful of times, accidentally at that, since we’ve been married. Although, given the circumstances, I’m not sure if that’s what he means in this instance.

Pressing my lips out in a soft pout, I nod. “I’m surprised you have a meeting so soon after getting home.”

He never does—something else I’ve observed. He’s a creature of habit.

He grunts a response but eyes me over the top of his glasses rim studiously. His brown eyes never did anything for me. Not like the sparkle of James’ green. I drop my gaze and turn away. The least interested I seem, the better.

I mill around the house, tidying up things that don’t need tidying and staring at the pages of a book I’m not reading, until he finally leaves. He’s in a terrible mood and doesn’t acknowledge me before he goes.

The moment his Mercedes leaves the drive, I hurry up the stairs to retrieve my phone and shut off the cameras. I’ve never done it before, because I had nothing to hide, but I’ve watched him enough times to know how. My frantic heartbeat is almost deafening.

The last time I remember packing this quickly was when James and I eloped.

I choose the largest suitcase and fill it with as many items as I can shove in, including the things I just relocated from Mother’s, before grabbing my purse, phone charger, and a file of important documents from a filing cabinet in the office. I’d be surprised if ten minutes go by between Alan leaving and when I hurry out to my car. I don’t stop again until I’m at the halfway mark between our house in Dallas and Bull Creek.

I stop at a ridiculously large, busy gas station. Alan and I never stop here. Tucking my car in an inside lane in the middle of the melee, I set the gas to pumping and take my phone with me to the tiny, fenced dog area, sitting on a bench under a tree.

My hands shake as I pull up the photo of Kathryn’s number. This could all be a wild goose chase.

Does star sixty-seven still make a number private? I try it anyway when I call.

Her voice is poised, demure, when she answers. “Hello?”

She sounds like me. Is it her natural tone, or an affected one?

“Hello?” Her voice is louder the second time.

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