Stitches

“I’m gonna take Ashley to Palm Springs.”

My gaze deadens. He notices and looks vaguely annoyed with me, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

Well, shit.

I can’t let him take the little slut to Palm Springs, thinking everything is just fine. He shouldn’t waste another dime on that dumb bitch, let alone give her a vacation. He should divorce her ass and let her work at the club in earnest.

Well, no, not our club. But let her make her own way in the world and stop sponging off him.

I shoot a glance at the door. He left it open when he came inside. “Can you shut that? We need to talk.”

Griff frowns, but he falls back a few steps and closes the door to my office. He crosses the room and takes a seat on the other side of my desk, regarding me seriously. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s something I need to… I was reviewing the security footage last night and I saw something I shouldn’t have.”

“What do you mean? Someone skimming again?”

I shake my head. “Nah, nothing like that.” I don’t know how to tell my best friend I saw his wife fucking someone else. I don’t know how you hear something like that. Not when you’re not expecting it, at least. If he at least had suspicions, that would be one thing, but he hasn’t told me about it if he does. Maybe I can give him a hint. Call “timber!” before I chop down a tree and crush his fucking marriage.

“Then what?” he asks.

I lean back in my chair. “How are things with you and Ashley lately?”

He frowns—confused, like he doesn’t see what that has to do with what we were just talking about. “Things are… fine, I guess. You know, a little stale. That happens to normal folks,” he adds, rolling his eyes at me. “I thought a few days away from everything might be nice.”

“Yeah, she leads such a stressful life,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“What is your problem with her lately?” he demands, scowling at me. “Moira stays home and you take care of the finances; you don’t have a problem with that.”

“Of course I don’t.”

“So, why are you being snide about me spending money on my wife?”

“She fucked someone else.”

He blinks, then looks surprised. Not crushed, just surprised. “How the hell did you find out about that?”

Now I’m the one scowling. “What? You knew? Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”

“What do you mean, why didn’t I say anything? Why would I say anything? It was a long fucking time ago. You went off on your honeymoon. You want me to call you up in Rome to cry on your shoulder because my wife got drunk and let someone else fuck her?”

“Rome? My—” I halt, trying to keep up. He’s not talking about right now. He’s not talking about the other time I know about, either.

She cheated a third time.

At least. If she cheated three times, I bet she cheated more than that. She’s not a weak bitch who makes mistakes; she’s a serial offender.

“Aw, fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my temples and closing my eyes. “Griff, no. I don’t mean… I didn’t know about that. Friday night. At the club.”

His face sort of freezes. His expression doesn’t change, he just stares at me, like if he stares long enough, this moment will expire and we can pretend it never happened.

We can’t do that, though. Maybe he’s willing to forgive the stupid whore, but I’m not. He’s not wasting his life on this cheating parasite. Fuck that.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, leaning forward and holding his gaze. “It was tactless, the way I told you. I can do better than that. I just can’t stand seeing you waste another minute on this bitch.”

“Watch it,” he says, but it’s an old instinct to defend her. I assume he’s just used to it, not that he means it. Why would he defend her?

“Just calling a spade a spade,” I inform him.