Page 2 of All the Forbidden Things
I’d fallen for Whitney the moment we had our first conversation at a mutual friend’s party in the Hollywood Hills.
I’d convinced her to join me on the band's six-month tour of the States.
She’d agreed.
Three months in, she told me she was pregnant.
Two days later, we were married in Vegas.
I’d wanted to do right by her and our baby. I was thirty-eight. It was time to grow up. Time for the public to see me in a different light. I wanted to be on the front of newspapers and magazines because of something good, something beautiful. Not as the fucked-up headline-grabbing rock star who’d spent more than one spell in rehab drying out, had been involved in hotel bar fights, scandalous hook-ups with older, married women . . . Oh, and let’s not forget the time I passed out on stage and ended up with twelve stitches in my head and a concussion that lead to cancelling and rescheduling three shows.
For the sake of our baby, I wanted to change.
I thought we were doing okay, still falling in love as we stumbled through our new roles as husband and wife and, now, as parents. But by the way Whit had been so closed off from me these past months, the fact she hadn’t let me touch her since her second trimester, and by the way her narrowed eyes coldly rake over me now, I know that we’re done. I know before she speaks she’s going to tell me she’s leaving. I’m just not sure what she’s going to leave me with.
Did she want my money? My homes? Cars?
She could have it all. Every penny I’d made up until that point, she could have the lot, as long as she didn’t take away my access to our daughter. That, that I would hire the best lawyers in the country, in the whole fucking world, to fight her for.
Whitney continues to look me over, and despite knowing this is likely the end of us, my cock twitches as her eyes scope my body. It’s been four months since we had sex. Four months since her mouth or hands were on me for anything other than a kiss, and even those have been fleeting and rare. So, yeah, standing here virtually naked while my wife’s eyes roam my body has me getting hard. Even when her pale-green eyes meet mine with a look that tells me everything I need to know, even then, my dick remains interested.
“I’m leaving you,” she tells me calmly. “I’ve come to collect some clothes and some personal things, and I’m moving out.”
And there it is.
I knew it was coming but hearing her say the words steals the breath from my lungs. My legs want to buckle, but I fight to stay upright. Tears burn the backs of my eyes, and I repeatedly blink to keep them at bay. Convinced I’m about to vomit, I rapidly swallow the bile rising around the knot of emotion in my throat.
“Max?” Whitney’s voice snaps.
“What?”
“Before I go, we need to talk.”
I give a small laugh and shake my head. Hands on hips, I clear my throat and ask, “About what, Whit? You’re leaving me, what else is there?”
I feel a little off balance. I’ve been in relationships that ended before, obviously, but I’ve never been present when it happened. I’ve either been out when they’ve grabbed everything of value and left me, or I’ve been so drunk, stoned, or coked-up that I’ve no recollection of the moment I was dumped or who did the dumping.
“I’m leaving you; do you not think that warrants a damned discussion?”
Ignoring her, I move from the spot I stopped at when first entering the room, and head towards our walk-in wardrobe, dropping my towel as I go.
“Max?”
“I heard you, Whit. You’re leaving me, what’s to discuss?” I turn back to face her as I talk.
Totally naked.
Semi-hard.
Zero fucks left to give.
“Here’s the wardrobe.” I point behind me. “Your clothes are in it. Take the fucking lot and don’t come back.”
I turn and continue to make my way back into the vast space, which houses our clothes, shoes, and accessories. Whitney’s dressing table, chair, and mirror, as well as all of the make-up, lotions, potions, and products she slathers herself in daily in her pitiful attempts to fight the ageing process takes up almost half the space, and I stare at it all while trying to gain some kind of composure.
I didn’t realise how desperately she feared growing older until we moved in together. Whit has this strange idea that to remain relevant and popular, she needs the public to think of her as young. She always wants to be seen at the trendiest clubs and attending concerts of the latest bands. I'd been there, done it all. Most of the band's fans were over thirty, just like we are. I have nothing to prove to anyone. Whitney’s need to portray a younger persona had been about the only bone of contention in our relationship, and an indirect result of that is her love affair with plastic surgery, Botox, and whatever else she has pumped into her face on a regular basis.
I stare now at the evidence of her insecurities and feel like swiping everything from her dressing table to the ground, stamping on it all and grinding it into the hardwood floor, but what good would that do? She’d still be leaving, and I’dstillbe left to pick up the pieces. Besides, the noise might wake Layla, and she is my main priority right now.
