5. Miranda
5
MIRANDA
T he cable I severed to save me from needing to crawl between Roy’s legs to unplug the ancient camcorder sits between his shaky thighs more prominently than his shriveled dick.
He knows what this footage means.
It is my ticket to freedom.
As Roy’s whines ramp up, his mumbles more sobs than pleas for forgiveness, I stuff my arms into the openings of my trench coat. The evidence of a marriage incapable of reconciliation is scattered around me, as undeniable as the droplets of cum dripping down my thighs.
Once I’ve tightened my coat around the teddy making me feel invincible, I search for my purse and phone. I swore I’d left them near the entry of the primary suite, but they are nowhere to be found.
A gun, though. There’s one of them.
Panic hits me, and for a moment, a sense of disappointment.
Having Roy taken care of would be easier than playing him at a game he’s perfected over the past twenty-plus years, but I don’t think I’ll ever see murder as the solution to any predicament.
With that in mind, I dump the gun onto the side table concealing my purse and phone before I grab my things and head for the door. My steps are firm and resolute.
The hallway is eerily quiet, the click of my heels against the polished floor the only sound.
I don’t look back when I spy the man I rode the elevator with earlier a couple of doors down. I can’t. He’ll see my flushed face and think I duped my pimp out of a hefty payday.
The elevator ride to the lobby feels like an eternity, but I keep my head high, refusing to let the heaviness of my somewhat betrayal weigh heavily on my chest.
Roy cheated first, and can you really call it cheating when the mashup occurred after being served divorce papers?
As I step into the lobby, a cool blast of air from an overhead air-conditioning unit hits my face, giving welcomed relief to my blemished cheeks.
I walk through the foyer, acting oblivious as to the cause of the hotel receptionist’s sympathetic smile.
I felt pathetic two hours ago, but those thoughts have now vanished, along with years of sexual frustration.
Outside, the city is alive and bustling, a similar resemblance to the feelings settling over me. I pause for a moment, taking it all in. This is the fresh start I’ve been seeking for the past fourteen years, and it is all thanks to him, Nero, the man across the street who’s eyeballing me like my hair isn’t a mess and my mascara isn’t giving me raccoon eyes.
Like earlier, something in his gaze sets my skin on fire. It is a mix of admiration and disappointment, like he’d rather I be carrying Roy’s testicles than the camcorder that will set me free, but that he also believes the injustice is only temporary.
The reminder of how greatly he built my courage with one exchange fuels my willpower. I lift my chin, determined to face whatever comes next with dignity and respect.
This is my life, and I’m taking it back.
* * *
My determination wilts like a picked flower on a windowsill only days later. I seize the damn bolts on the bed, but no amount of muscle will budge them.
This is the bed featured numerous times in the surveillance images circling Roy’s bloodied feet, the one sullied by Roy and his mistress. I couldn’t sleep on it even if I wanted to, but with the bolts refusing to budge, I may not have a choice.
The only other room in my home seconds as Roy’s home office, and the sofa, although sexy, with big shiny buttons and leather trim, is horribly uncomfortable.
My back has been screaming all weekend.
When a third attempt on the bolt holding together the bulky wooden frame of the bed we purchased within days of returning from our honeymoon is fruitless, I blow a wayward hair out of my eye and slump onto the floor.
The wooden floorboards are as cold as the ice cream I am denying myself of since I’ve forgotten Roy no longer has a say on what I do and do not eat.
I’ve had to hide anything above a zero-calorie rating for years, so it will take more than a couple of days to remember I no longer need to justify my food intake to a man who was meant to love me, warts and all.
“You’re such an idiot,” I chastise myself after recalling how perfectly slim Roy’s surveillance camera partner was.
Her bones didn’t hold an ounce of fat, and she was at least a decade younger than me.
I’d have to diet on lettuce only for a year to get close to her standard of the perfect figure.
I would have started days ago if my body weren’t still humming in the aftermath of multiple orgasms. I didn’t feel gross while standing across from Nero with my trench coat one dangerous flap from a nipple slip.
He made me feel my weight in gold, and I’ve yet to come down from the orgasmic high.
The reminder of my past few days of flightiness sees me dumping my pink wrench into the tool kit I purchased when the furnace needed servicing and clambering to the kitchen.
I rarely bake when I’m home. Roy’s unapproving glares always overcooked the goodies he was adamant I should never consume.
But with the locks changed an hour after I returned from the hotel, and Tempy old enough to face the injustice of an oven cranking out heat for hours while living in the middle of a desert, I pull condiments out of my pantry and refrigerator before dragging over my KitchenAid freestanding mixer.
The past few days have been eye-opening, and not necessarily in a bad way. I’ve taken some time to reflect, collect evidence of Roy’s philandering and seemingly allergic reaction to paying his share of our bills, and seek the assistance of a divorce attorney.
It’s been good. I’m finding my feet relatively fast and am hopeful the stability I’ve discovered with single life continues on a relatively smooth track.
In a matter of hours, my kitchen switches from spotlessly clean to overrun with baked goods.
Baking is as natural as breathing for me. It was my first love. I wanted to open a bakery, but Roy steered me toward event catering instead. He said events such as weddings and bar mitzvahs attract a surcharge bakers would cream their pants to earn in a week, and that I’d be less tempted to sample the merchandise when surrounded by brides vying to fit into their size-zero dresses and mothers wanting to top the MILF rankings for their neighborhood.
I huff before loading ingredients from memory into the stainless-steel mixing bowl attached to the KitchenAid for the umpteenth time this afternoon.
I’m so used to catering for an audience that I triple the quantities without thinking. My small oven isn’t handling the excess. It’s been chugging along all afternoon, but it feels good to cook for happiness again instead of it seeming like a chore.
I splash a little Japanese whisky and yuzu into my current mix before taking a swig out of the almost empty bottle. It’s sour enough to add a husky giggle to my words when I answer Tempy’s silent reprimand with words. “It could be worse. I could have paired it with tequila.”
When she remains staring with her adorable head slanted, I chug down another mouthful of yuzu before adding an extra dollop to the batter whirling around the bowl.
I’m on the cusp of tipsy with barely two sips, so you can imagine how bad my dizziness becomes when my doorbell rings.
Tempy is up on her feet in an instant, barking excitedly and racing for the door.
Panic swirls inside me for half a second before I straighten the rod in my spine by rolling back my shoulders.
Roy’s betrayal didn’t break me.
It made me stronger.
Furthermore, Tempy can’t stand Roy. She growled when he forgot his keys and needed to knock. However, she’s so excited right now she looks on the verge of making a mess on my recently mopped floor.
My strength has grown so stupendously over the past three days that I almost pull the door from the hinges when I yank it open.
“If you’ve finally come for your things, you’re too late. I already donated them. A charity worker is collecting them first thing tomorrow morning.” My sentence ends with a hiccup, my body as equally nervous as it is excited when I realize the person standing on the other side of the door isn’t my cheating, low-life, soon-to-be ex. It is the man I am confident can make me forget him with nothing but a smirk. “Nero… Um. Hello.”
While opening the door, wordlessly welcoming him into my home, I give my head a stern talking to. I’m not a blubbering underage idiot with no life experience. I am an independent woman… who could come just by looking at this man’s deliriously handsome face.
Jesus, Mir. Get a grip!
After swishing my tongue around to encourage some wetness for the fire in my throat, I say, “Come in. Please.”
I bite back a moan when he accepts my offer. He smells delicious, his scent a mixture of danger and tranquility. It is stronger than the goodies I’ve been baking over the past several hours and has me suddenly starving.
“That’s Tempy,” I introduce when she pops up on her hind legs to welcome Nero with half a dozen spins and paw waves. “She’s a little starved of attention.”
A deliciously immoral shiver rolls down my spine when Nero laughs while dragging his hand over Tempy’s head. He tickles under her chin with his chunky tattooed fingers, making my skin slick with envy.
I squeeze my thighs together while recalling how wonderous his fingers are, now too feeling starved of attention I had no clue I craved so desperately until now.