Black Lies

Ugh. Why couldn’t she have been a normal twenty-one-year-old drunk girl who succumbed to the sexy doctor with the big c**k and fancy home? She was dating a yard boy for heaven’s sake, one who was flighty and irresponsible and MIA half the time. This should have been easy; I should have won. Good thing I didn’t need her mistake. I only needed the illusion of one.

I restarted the footage and watched again, taking screenshots of the moments that mattered. Then, I reviewed them all, confidence feeding through me. Yes. I had enough. And that was without even seeing Don’s images.

I sent an email to my graphic designer, attaching the images. Don’s email popped up and I forwarded that also. The designer would know what to do, which ones to pick. Would have a proof ready for me by Saturday morning. The same morning Brant and I would leave for Hawaii. I’d review the proof, then fly to the island. Give the boys a week to work and have everything set up by the time I returned. I closed my laptop and waddled to the bathroom. Unwrapped my feet and rinsed off the moisture mask.

Then I crawled into bed with a content heart and feet that smelled of cucumber.

Soon. Soon, everything would be fixed. Soon, Lee would be fully mine.

The weapon of my plan—the newspaper proof—was beautiful. I scrolled down the long image, checking the title, date, side copy that framed either side of our deceit. All legitimate. All accurate. Should she feel the need to check on the publication, she’d find what she should. What I’ve placed in easy reach for her hands. The center of the page, the main event, right under the headline, that was the beauty of the proof. In giant letters across the top:

AREA SURGEON’S WIFE FILES FOR DIVORCE AMID CHEATING SCANDAL

Photos. Crisp black and whites, one a respectable newspaper wouldn’t print but in this lie, spoke louder than any words ever could:

Molly and Marcus. At the Ginger. His hand on her leg, his mouth to her ear, a smile I’d seen her use with Lee screaming from the page, her features easily recognizable.

Molly and Marcus. In his car, her mouth on his, the press of her hand silhouetted in the window.

Molly and Marcus. In my living room. On my couch. The zoomed-in photo only showed her bare back, leaning over him, his eyes burning up at her.

Molly and Marcus. My favorite. His hands digging into her back, her mouth at his neck, his head back, eyes closed. The crop made it look like he was inside her, getting the ride of his life, no person would believe anything differently.

The copy was short, beneath the photos, a paragraph that no eyes would ever see except for the ones that mattered.

One of our city’s most respected cardiologists received divorce papers today in what could be the ending of a five-year union. The good doctor, whose wife has had him under surveillance after past incidents of cheating, was captured in the following incriminating photos with an unidentified young woman. No word yet on how long their dalliance has been going on. The majority of the photos received were inappropriate to print. For questions and comments, please email Don Insit at [email protected]

/* */ or call 213-323-9811.

The page looked stunning, the photos leapt from it in a manner that you couldn’t help but stare. He would stare. She would stare. He would accuse. She would object or confess. And either way, they would be done. I replied to the email, approving the work, then called Don. Gushed my thanks and verified the plan. He’d print two copies of the full-length newspaper spread. Next week I’d replace the day’s cover sheet with this one. Stick it on her front step with a nasty note, in a place that Lee would be sure to see it. Let them both pour over the photos together. Then stand back, and reap the rewards of my labor.

Flawless. Intelligent. I gave myself an awkward pat on the back and hung up with Don. Then I moved, yanking out a bag, and pulling open drawers. Wheels up in two hours, but I didn’t need to pack much. Our Hawaiian closets were full, the bathrooms and kitchens stocked by a staff expecting our arrival. My toothbrush and laptop, not much else was needed. I threw a few paperbacks in my bag, along with a new lingerie set Brant hadn’t yet seen. I texted Jillian to make sure Brant was around and ready, then I headed for the shower.

Chapter 32

I feasted on Brant with an urgency that surprised us both, dropping to my knees in the plane, his mouth dropping when I yanked at his zipper and pulled out his cock. “Here?” he whispered, the sound sinking into a groan when I took him soft in my mouth. Hardening. Against my tongue, the push of blood vessels expanding the size of him, filling fast, the gag of my throat as I had to pull off to accommodate him. The push of his hands on the back of my head, stopping me, needing me. I gripped his suited thighs and sucked him. Harder, needier, than I ever had. God, I loved this man. God, I wanted him. All of him. I wanted him to look at me and see no other woman. I wanted to be his wife and have his babies, and for none of them, or us, or him to be broken. I wanted the impossible, and I took this instant instead.

He whispered my name, his legs shuddered beneath my hands, and his hands guided my head. Urgently, the thrust of him in my mouth. “Don’t stop.” The beg on his mouth. “Yes baby.” The sign that he was close.

And then.

Breakdown. His hand tangling in my hair, the hard thrust up and up, into my throat, one hand fumbling for and grabbing onto the armrest as he moaned my name and shot down my throat, my mouth working, sucking the cum from him, up and down and up and down, and then he pulled me off. Drug me by my hair until I was in his lap, his c**k out against my thigh, still twitching, still wet from me. He held me in his arms, kissed the taste of him from my mouth, and whispered his love against the top of my head.

I loved this man.

With my whole heart.

I needed him.

He completed me.

I closed my eyes, curled into his chest, and felt the wrap of his arms around me.

I lay in our bed, the whip of the fan above me, and stared at the ring. Nestled in a dark blue box, the glint of its diamond brilliant, even in the dark. He had pulled it out hours before. As we ate on the roof deck, the wash of the ocean our backdrop to dinner, champagne cooling the heat of our food. He did the whole thing again, getting down on one knee and presenting the ring.

“You won’t give up,” I scolded him.

“I’ll never give up on us.”

“Me neither,” I promised him, leaning forward and pressing my lips against his head. “Me neither.”

I wanted the ring. Wanted the title. Wanted the forever. I gently worked the ring loose and held it, setting the box on the nightstand. Rolling the platinum setting in my fingers, the unique diamond stone glinting at me. Blue, a color I had never seen on a diamond. Not too large. Two to three perfect, unmarred carats. Flawless. It would be the only thing in our union unflawed and honest, with nothing to hide. It didn’t deserve us. It deserved an innocent bride marrying a man with nothing in his eyes but love. But maybe those were the couples who got the imperfect, thousand-dollar Zales specials. Maybe the perfect, priceless diamonds were reserved for trophy wives and cheating husbands. Trust fund babies with mistresses on the side. People like me. And Brant. Maybe this diamond evened out our deficiencies with a few carats of retaliating perfection. I slid the diamond on, the fit perfect, the glow of it warm against my skin. I rolled, ran my hand along the back of Brant, his tan skin the perfect backdrop to the diamond I would never wear. Then I leaned forward, kissed his skin, and curled up against his warmth, the weight of the ring comforting. I closed my eyes and dreamt of perfection.