Page 164 of Pucking Wild

I flip through the next few photos. Yep, Ryan and I on our date. The photos are grainy, like they were taken outside through the glass. We’re talking, laughing as I’m leaning in over the table. The photos display a casual intimacy, a comfort.

I want to be sick. It’s such a violation.

I glance up sharply, looking around the small office. The photographer brought these here. He dropped them off. He was in this space. He likely watched and waited until I left to go on our coffee run, then brought the box up to Cheryl, posing as a delivery guy. My resolve hardens as I make a mental note.Install cameras.I’ll pay for them myself if I have to, but first thing Monday morning, I am putting a camera up in this office pointed right at the door.

I keep flipping through the stack in my hands.

Photos of us walking down the boardwalk, arm in arm. It’s night, the photos are dark, difficult to see anything. More photos of us at the beach, these in daylight. Ryan stands next to me, looking down at me like I’m his reason, while Ranger John explains how to stake out a nest mound. Fuck, there are children in these photos.

“Oh my god,” I say again, hands shaking as I drop the photos to my desk and grab out the next stack.

Ryan and I in the kitchen, taken through the back glass. The creeper got everything. Us arguing, kissing, the shedding of our clothes, us fucking against the counter. Ryan on his knees beneath me, my head tipped back in ecstasy. They’re all grainy, the zoom fighting the glare of the glass and the dim lighting, but you can see everything.

I feel numb. This man with the camera watchedeverything. Every moment Ryan and I shared in that kitchen, our walls crumbling, hearts colliding. He witnessed it all. He photographed it all. And he gave all the photos to Troy in exchange for money.

I drop the photos to the desk, and they scatter. Some slide off the edge, tumbling to the floor. I look around for two seconds before I snatch up my wastepaper basket and retch into it. My heart is pounding, pulse racing. I gasp for air, retching again, hands still shaking.

When nothing comes up, I drop the basket to the floor, turning my attention back to the mess on my desk. “Come on.” I dive inside the box with both hands, looking for something. Anything. Some heinous note with more cutting words, a list of demands, an envelope with a drop point for where he wants me to leave his blood money.

Because these photos aren’t for nothing. They can’t be. Troy wants me to know he has them. Why? Proof of an affair? He already had that with the other photos. I don’t doubt he can use his power and position to twist HR into firing me. He didn’t need more proof. So why do this? Why have these photos taken? Why have me followed?

“Fuck,” I cry, tipping all the photos out onto the desk. There’s nothing else in the box. No note. No demands.

And that’s when it hits me. I know exactly what he wants. And he knows this was the only way to get it. I pick up my phone off my desk, hating myself for walking right into his trap. But this is bigger than me now. These photos are proof of that.

Dialing the number I know by heart, I lift the phone to my ear and wait. The phone rings once, twice. Then it connects.

“This is Troy Owens,” comes his voice, deep and smooth through the phone.

Hearing his voice renders me silent. I open my mouth, but no words escape me.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Taking a deep breath, I dive in. “You have to stop.”

He sighs into the phone. “Tess. I was wondering when you’d finally call.”

“You have to stop,” I repeat, my gaze scanning over the mess of photos littering my desk.

“I’m assuming you got my note.”

“If by ‘note’ you mean this heinous box of photos, then yes. You had no right, Troy. This is harassment. And there are children in some of these photos, families—”

“I hadeveryright to document evidence of my wife having an affair,” he counters. “And those aren’t even the only photos I have as evidence.”

“Fine. So, you have what you need, then. Divorce me. Take everything, and let’s be done with it,” I say. “I won’t contest. You can name any terms. You want my 401k? Have it. The Reds season tickets? They’re yours. I don’t even like baseball. I faked it for ten fucking years, much like how I faked most of my orgasms—”

He laughs into the phone, the sound cold and biting. “You think I did all this to divorce you faster? How are you not getting this? I don’t want a divorce, Tess. That was never in the cards for me. You’ve been pushing the divorce, not me. For years, it’s been your answer to everything. Too afraid to fight, too afraid to find the solution together. God, you’re like a broken fucking record.”

“No, what’s broken is this marriage,” I cry. “Beyond repair!”

“Nothing is ever so broken that it can’t be mended,” he retorts, and I can practically hear his mother’s calm, calculated voice in the words.

“You’re delusional. Troy, I amnevercoming back to you. I’ve moved on. Don’t believe me? Just look at the photos your creepy friend took for you. Those smiles? They’re genuine, Troy. Those orgasms he gave me in the kitchen? All real. Every one. And he gets me there so easily. I’ve never come so hard or so fast in my fucking life—”

“If you really cared about this asshole, you would have been more careful,” he taunts. “You would have steered well clear of him. But you’ve always been a stupid—”

“What are you talking about?” I cry, cutting him off.

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