Page 68 of Intoxicated
Chapter 22
CHER
“Are you sure about this?” I lower my voice to a hush. I don’t need any of the people around me hearing what has me so upset. “Are you sure that’s him?”
“Oh, that’s him.”
I ease my grip on the wicker chair I’m sitting in, as if that’s enough to save my palms now. Across from me, Stella the PI tucks away her photographical evidence of Jason Rothchild leaving Drew’s office. That isn’t the look of a guy who has been told he’s getting his money back. That’ssmug smug smuggity smugall over my ex-boyfriend’s visage, and it’s taking a healthy dose of reality to keep from slapping a photograph.
“I didn’t ask you to do this,” I remind Stella. Indeed, I haven’t. She did all the work I needed from her when she looked into Drew’s identity. To say that I wasn’t expecting a phone call from her this morning, urgently asking me to meet her at a café around the corner from her office, is an understatement. I could only imagine what she had to present to me. Obviously, it was about Drew, but could I anticipate that he was still working for Jason?
Yes, I could, actually.
I’ve had a hunch this whole time. Do you think I keep jumping into bed with Drew while assuming he’s pure of intention? Hardly! There may be a mutual sexual attraction between us, but it ends in the bedroom. Actually, it’s more accurate to say it ends with his cum all over me (and all up in me) but I’m trying not to think about that right now.
According to the time stamps on these photos, Jason left Drew’s office shortly after I sent myboyfriendthose photos. Very art school, I know, but part of my amusement comes from making him think about me so much that he shortly loses his damned mind. There’s something erotic about knowing you control a man’s orgasm from hundreds of miles away. Plus… it’s fun to take tasteful nude photos sometimes. What?
Now I know he’s probably sharing them with Jason. God only knows who else. It’s not like I didn’t already have seeds of doubt planted in my head, but those seeds are growing at a pace I can’t keep up with, and my skull is about to fracture. Nice to know that all those hot moments we shared reallywereempty. Jesus. All that grunting, sweating, and daring one another to push themselves a little bit farther in the bedroom was nothing but a toxic game. Like I didn’t know. I always went to bed with Drew knowing that it probably wasn’t good for me. But itfeltso good. Physically, I mean. It’s a rare guy who can fuck you like that without making you legit fear for your life. I was taking all I could get while I’m still young and elastic. Call me again in ten years when the soreness has settled in and I can barely ride cowgirl, let alone get piledriven in the ass for ten minutes.
Stella closes the folder from whence the photos came. “No, you didn’t ask me to go checking up on him, but I was in Seattle on other business yesterday and decided to drop by. I know you’ve still been seeing him, so thought it might be good to do a quick follow up. I apparently showed up at the right time.”
Apparently! “Do I have to pay you for this? How do you know I’m still seeing him?”
She shrugs. “I see and hear a lot of things around this town. It’s sort of my job. Yet if it wasn’t the private investigating, it would be some other part of my past. When you’ve done undercover work as long as I have, some things are instinct.”
“I suppose.” I’m still not paying her for this.
“I thought you should know.” Stella gets up, leaving behind her iced coffee. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Let me know if you need anything.”
I’m left alone at this blasted café, where happy couples, families, and BFFs are out on dates and having the fucking time of their lives. There are a million dogs tied to table legs and hiding beneath chairs. It’s one of the first really warm days of the season, and I’m on the brink of a meltdown.
“We need to talk,”I text Drew.“About Jason Rothchild.”
He’s not going to respond. Or, if he does, he’ll quickly change the subject to my tits.
No good will come from this.
***
It’s eight at night and I’ve barely heard from Drew. We had a little spat over text, I left him a nasty voice mail, and now I’m back to hating his guts. Suppose you could say I’m stewing in my self-governed misery once more.
