I shook my head and moved past her, ignoring the fact that she whispered “stupid bitch” under her breath. I was supposed to return to the gallery room and watch the other performers, but I needed a break.
I slipped past the sliding doors to the other side of the room and stepped into the gallery’s bistro. It was much quieter on this side, and the people sitting at the tables seemed to be preoccupied with conversations not centered on ballet.
“Miss?” A tuxedoed waiter stepped in front of me with a tray. “Would you be interested in a complimentary glass of champagne?”
“Two please.”
He raised his eyebrow, but handed me two glasses anyway.
With no grace whatsoever, I tossed one back, then the other—licking the rims to make sure I didn’t miss a drop.
“Where’s your bar?” I asked.
“Our bar? I don’t think the patrons of the art gallery are permitted to—”
“Please don’t make me ask again.”
He pointed to the other side of the room where a few smokers were sitting, and I walked toward them.
“What can I get for you tonight, Miss?” The bartender smiled as I approached. “Would you like to try one of our house specials?”
“Can any of those help me forget about sleeping with a married man?”
The smile on his face faded and he set out three shot glasses, filling them with what I could only hope was the strongest liquor in the house.
I slid my credit card across the counter and downed the first one in seconds—shutting my eyes as the burning sensation crawled down my throat. I held the next one against my lips, but I suddenly heard a familiar laugh.
It was low and gravelly, and I’d heard it a million times before.
I turned around and spotted Andrew sitting at a table with a woman who was nothis wife. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was pretty. Very, very pretty: Auburn hair with blond highlights, deep green eyes, and perky breasts that were too perfect to be natural.
She was rubbing him on his shoulder and giggling every ten seconds.
Andrew seemed undaunted by her affection, and as he signaled for the check, I could only assume how their night would end.
I tried to turn away—to act like seeing him with someone else wasn’t affecting me, but I couldn’t help it.
His date was now leaning over the table—purposely putting more of her cleavage on display, and whispering words that were hard to read. As she playfully licked her lips and stroked his chin with her fingertips, I realized I couldn’t take it anymore.
Subject: SERIOUSLY?!
Are you really on a date right now with someone who isn’t your wife?! It’s bad enough that you’re a cheating and lying philanderer, but are you really that much of a sex addict?
—Aubrey
His response came within seconds.
Subject: Re: SERIOUSLY?!
I’m really on a date right now with someone who’s not going to leave third degree burns on my dick. And I’m not a sex addict, I’m a pussy addict. There’s a difference.
—Andrew
Subject: Re: Re: SERIOUSLY?!
You are a disgusting and vile asshole, and I honestly regret ever sleeping with you.
—Aubrey
No response.
I watched as he looked down at his phone and raised his eyebrow. He turned around in his chair—slowly scanning the room until he found me.
His eyes widened the second they met mine, and his lips slowly parted. His gaze traveled up and down my body, and I could practically feel him undressing me.
There was suddenly no one else in the room but the two of us and I could tell that he wanted me to come to him—right here, right now. I felt my body responding to his stares, felt my nipples hardening as he dragged his tongue against his lips.
I swallowed as I looked him over, realizing that I’d pictured his hair entirely wrong in my dreams this week. I’d finger fucked myself for hours on end last night—using his face and the memories of his voice for inspiration, and seeing him in person only made me want to feel his cock inside of me again.
I leaned forward, wanting to go to him, but my tunnel vision started to clear and I saw that we weren’t alone in this room.
Far from it.
His date’s perfectly manicured hand found its way to his chin, and turned his head away.
I followed suit and asked for two more drinks. I gulped them both and when I looked over my shoulder, I saw that Andrew was staring in my direction with undeniable want in his eyes.
I forced a smile and opened my mouth very slowly, mouthing, “Fuck. You.” before leaving. I snatched a handful of mints from a random waiter’s tray and rushed back toward the gallery.
I was halfway there when I felt my phone vibrating. An email.
Subject: Meet me in the bathroom.
NOW.
—Andrew
I turned off my phone and continued walking toward the gallery doors—damn near running. I reached the lobby, but someone grabbed my arm and pulled me across the room.
Andrew.
I tried to jerk away, but he tightened his hold and looked back at me—giving me a ‘Don’t Fuck with Me’ look as the people around us whispered.
He pulled me into a bathroom and locked the door, narrowing his eyes at me. “You think I’m disgusting?”
“ Extremely.” I stepped back. “I’ve lost what little respect I had for you and if you even tryto put your hands on me, I’ll scream.”
“I don’t doubt that.” A trace of a smile grazed his lips, but it didn’t stay. “You haven’t shown up to work for four straight days. You think just because I fucked you that I won’t fire you?”
“I don’t give a fuck whether you fire me or not! Have you ever thought about whyI haven’t shown up to work?”
“Incompetence?”
“You’re fucking married! Married! How could you—” I shook my head as he closed the gap between us. “How could you leave that part out?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “And for the record...I’m not technically married, Aubrey.”
“I’m not technically stupid, Andrew.”
“You’re making it very difficult to talk to you right now...” His lips were nearly brushing against mine.
“That’s because you’re not making any fucking sense.” I freed myself from his grasp and headed for the door, but he grabbed me by my shoulders and slammed me against the wall.
“It’s a contested divorce,” he hissed. “If you were a reallawyer I’m sure I wouldn’t have to explain what the hell that term means, but since you’re not—”
“It means that you’re still legally married. It means that if you die before the papers go through, that your wife—which is what she is, will still be entitled to everything you ever owned. It means that you’re a LIAR! A fucking liar, who is apparently exempt from his own stupid and ineffectual rules!”
“I filed.” He gritted through his teeth. “She refused to sign, and there’s a lot of complicated shit that I’ll never feel like discussing, but we’ve been separated and out of touch for over six years. Six. Years.”
I shrugged and tried to put on my best poker face, ignoring the fact that my heart was skipping every other beat as he wiped my tears away with his thumb.
“I’ve never lied to you, Aubrey,” he said sternly. “You asked me before if I’d ever lied to you and that answer is still the same. I don’t talk about my life before Durham with anyone, but yes, I did once have a wife and she showed up to my office on her own. I didn’t call her, I never will, and I haven’t called her since I left New York. Our case is extremely complicated and I prefer not to think about it.”