The Marriage Rival

“Slow on the comeback. Must be losing your game, Cooper.” Sergio pulled his wallet out, casually opened the flap, and counted his money. “You wish you had a dick as big as mine. Everyone knows Italians are better lovers. But hey, I’ll put my money where my mouth is. One hundred bucks and bets are my mouth will be on her sweet pussy within the month.”

I laughed unwillingly. “One hundred bucks? I blow that on lunch. Five hundred bucks, and I land there before the end of the week."

“You think you can fuck Ice Queen before the end of the week?” Sergio turned to Russ, they both laughed in unison. “Game on. Best five hundred bucks I’ll ever earn.”

Fuck. What had I done?

I may have been able to get any woman I wanted, but Presley Malone was in a different league. My forbidden fantasy since the day I stepped into this office. She hated me, that much was clear, flaunting her stupid engagement ring like it was some sort of prize.

But now I had free reign.

The ante had been upped, and no way in hell would Sergio get his dirty little hands on her.

The Ice Queen would soon be mine.

One

Haden

The dictionary defines a jerk as a contemptibly foolish person.

That’s being nice.

And nice isn’t something I do.

Give me something in return, and maybe I can play nice.

You see, guys like me, we don’t just exist because we play by the rules. I run Lantern Publishing, one of the largest publishing groups on the West Coast. Holding the position of Publisher means I have responsibilities. Shareholders invest their money into company stock, aiming for a return on their investment. It is my duty to ensure we perform, and our numbers have surpassed the previous year’s due to an organizational restructure and cost-cutting in a few departments.

Okay, so sometimes I play the nice boss, you know, just to get those fuckers to haul ass and meet deadlines. I throw in some perks, make it look like I care when, in reality, my ass is always on the line, and I have targets to meet. Come crying to me one more time about your personal shit, and you’re out the fucking door.

Where I clearly fail at being nice is at home, according to my wife, Presley. And all those times she promises me some sweet pussy, but what a disappointment that turns out to be.

I got what I wanted from life because I don’t give a damn.

About anyone or anything.

All right, I’ll admit that’s a bit harsh.

I’m not that jerk anymore.

I’m a father. A role model to my four-year-old son, Masen. This kid is my life. I wouldn’t exist without him. He’s a mini-me in every way—something that drives Presley ridiculously insane.

Oh, and I’m married to a bitch.

I still want to have fun. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I’m only in my early thirties. I’ve passed the twenties and still have a wild animal inside of me ready to be unleashed. This life is not for me. Dinner parties on Friday nights and yoga on a Saturday morning. I saw a brochure on our kitchen table the other morning to join some scrapbooking club. I have no fucking idea what scrapbooking is, but it sounds like the most annoying thing ever.

I’m bored, and I need a new challenge. Something to keep me occupied.

Our office is one giant playground. I dubbed myself the school bully, and the bitch is my target. It’s her own fault, though. Before her, I’d never met a woman so fucking uptight you would need a whole army to pull the giant stick out of her ass.

But what a fucking ass.

Perky, with that round bounce which makes a terrific sound when you slap it with your palm. Fuck, my dick is hard just thinking about it.

But that is beside the point. Way beside the point.

Actually, no—that is the point.