Chapter 10
Mila
I hover in the hallway, trying to catch any of the boys’ conversation that might give me a clue as to what’s going on. The knot of dread I felt in my belly now fills every part of me. And I already know that I’m not going to like whatever it is Frankie has to tell me.
When I enter the kitchen, Frankie’s sliding a glass onto the island in front of where I was sitting earlier. It’s large and round, like a fishbowl, filled with crushed ice, orange liquid, and two slices of fresh orange. If I had to describe a summer’s day as a drink, this would be it.
Sam has moved to sit on the stool beside mine, which he pulls out as I approach. “Thank you,” I tell him as I lean in and kiss him on the cheek.
We haven’t yet discussed what happened earlier between us. I’m not even sure we should just yet. I think we both need time to process, because what we did, it wasn’t fucking. There were feelings involved on both our parts, I’m pretty sure.
Leaning across the island, Frankie places a long, stainless-steel straw into my drink. I raise my brows as I look his way in the hope he’ll tell me what it is.
He understands my non-verbal cue, and the realisation that he does causes a ripple of something inexplicable to roll through me.
“Blood orange gin, Mediterranean tonic,” Frankie says as I take my seat.
“No drugs?” I question factiously.
“Not yet. They come later when we do,” he says with a quirk of his brows.
“I think I’m good for the rest of the day.” I turn and give Sam a wink, unsure of what it is exactly I’m trying to achieve by winding Frankie up.
“We’ll see,” he replies, and I know now that my aim is to wipe the cocky smugness from his face.
“Mila, before Scott’s party, did you ever Google me or my club? Did you ever search on your phone, tablet, or laptop anything about three-ways? Anything at all like that?”
Heat travels up from my belly, scorching a path over my chest and cheeks, all while my blood runs cold. I take a long sip of my drink through the straw. My head spins instantly, but I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol, lack of food, or Frankie’s question.
“Why?” I whisper.
“Answer the question, and I’ll explain.”
I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. Almost everything I researched we did last weekend anyway. Almost.
“I don’t have a tablet.”
Like a teenage girl, Frankie gives me an eyeroll because he knows, we all know, I’m stalling.
“I… yes, on my phone, I looked up the club. I may have also looked at some very specific porn,” I quietly admit.
“Pornhub?” Sam questions beside me.
I nod. He holds his palm up for a high five. I use my good hand and don’t leave him hanging.
“He knew,” Frankie interrupts our exchange. “My invite to Scott’s party wasn’t as random as I thought. He knew you’d Googled me, knew what you’d been watching. He knew there was no way I’d turn up for anything celebrating his father unless it was to watch him burn at the stake, so he told me he had some potential business contacts attending. He knows we’re looking to expand and told me there were a couple of his dad’s mates who might be interested in investing.”
“Who?” I question, not able to think of a single one of Scott’s cronies who’d want their name listed as an investor of a sex club.
“There were none. He got me there to set us up.”
“Us?”
“You and me.”
Despite feeling sick, and despite feeling like my world is tilting sideways, I take another long pull on my drink.
“I don’t understand.”
“Logan thought if he threw us together, you’d reach out in some way.’
“I did,” I blurt, panic now setting in as I wonder what all this is leading to.
“I know, but I didn’t tell him that.”
“Did he ask?”
“In a roundabout sort of way. He called me the Monday after the party, apologised again for the potential investors not showing, and casually asked what we’d been talking about. I told him nothing much, just a general yarn about nothing. Then he asked to meet up as he had a proposition for me.”
My eyeballs feel like they’re shaking. Everything in my peripheral vision moves and I have to keep blinking to focus. I’ve never felt anything like it.
“Did you meet?” I ask, the level of nausea I’m now feeling making my mouth water.
“Yeah, on the Wednesday after the party.”
I can barely breathe. Sam must notice my panic because he twists towards me, one arm sliding across the back of my stool to rest on my shoulders, the other into my lap where his large hand gives my thigh a gentle squeeze.
“What was the proposal?”
“That I capture footage… video, photos, whatever, of you being fucked by two men, whether I be involved or not; he didn’t care. He just needed the evidence for the divorce petition he’ll eventually serve you with.”
That’s the moment my hearing becomes affected, and all I can hear is a loud, deep buzzing for a few seconds. My eyes water, but I’m not crying. It’s shock or fear causing the reaction. I think.
I don’t know.
Right now, I don’t know anything.
“He told me you’ve had multiple affairs since you’ve been married. You spent his money on your lovers, and he just needed evidence of the kind of person you really are so a judge won’t rule favourably on your part when he divorces you. He told me he was worried you’d go after the business.”
“We have a prenup,” I wail pathetically.
“I’m aware of that now,” Frankie states as he leans into his palms on the counter. “He lied to me, Mila—convinced me you are a lying, conniving bitch who’s been having multiple affairs. If I could get him proof of your infidelity, he would invest heavily in our expansion project.”
Despite the bile rising up from my belly, my mouth has gone dry. Somehow, I still manage to get my words out. “You made the deal? You set me up…” The first a question. The second a statement. “You set me up,” I repeat. I close my eyes in the hope it’ll make everything stop spinning. It doesn’t, and I have to quickly slide off the stool and move around to the sink to vomit.
Sam’s right there with me, rubbing my back, holding my hair out of the way. Resting my forearms on the counter surrounding the sink, I attempt to compose myself. Despite feeling cold, I feel sweat trickle down my back. Sam runs the tap. Luckily my stomach’s empty, so it’s just the gin I’ve brought up. He hands me a bottle of water, and as I straighten to take it, my eyelids feel heavy, and my legs buckle beneath me.
It takes three attempts,but I finally manage to drag my eyelids apart. My limbs still feel heavy, but the spinning has stopped. Now it just feels like everything is gently swaying instead. Sam comes into focus, and my brain starts to piece together where I am and why.
A pain shoots through my temple, and I wince. Sam brushes my hair away from my face, and we make eye contact.
“That was fucking scary. You okay?” he asks as he leans in and kisses my forehead.
“What happened?” I attempt to sit up.
Sam helps, then adjusts the cushions behind my back. I’m on the sofa, with a chunky, hand-knitted, woollen throw over me. I consider asking him where he got it because that’s just how discombobulated I am right now, but forming the words feels like too much effort.
As Sam sits back on the edge of the sofa next to me, I see Frankie over his shoulder. He’s leaning against the timber partition between the sliding glass doors. He’s lost the jacket to his suit, and his shirt sleeves are now rolled up, exposing his forearms, which are folded across his chest. His long legs are crossed at the ankles. He’s devastatingly handsome, all dark, brooding, and mean looking, and sadness washes over me at his betrayal. I stupidly thought this man was my friend—an ally. Instead, he’s been complicit in making sure I’m about to be truly fucked by my husband in our apparently imminent divorce proceedings.
“Did he drug me?” I ask Sam with a chin tilt towards Frankie.
“Mila…” Frankie sighs out my name as he takes a step towards me.
“Don’t come near me,” I order, holding up my palm.
“No,” Sam interjects. “He didn’t drug you. You’ve had a big week. A lot’s gone on, and I think with the hit to your head, stitches, a broken wrist, and pain killers, the alcohol hit you a little harder than you were expecting.”
“He hit me! His betrayal is what I wasn’t expecting.”
“You need to hear him out. I’m not defending him, but you need to listen to what he has to say. I’m gonna make you another girly tea and something to eat. Getting the up-close inspection that I did of the contents of your stomach, I’m gathering there wasn’t a lot in there before you vomited. Now there’ll be even less.”
He leans in and kisses the top of my head, and I watch him move back to the kitchen before I narrow my eyes on Frankie, who’s standing in the middle of the room with his hands buried in the pockets of his suit trousers.
My heart sinks into the depths of my empty belly as the reality of my situation washes over me again. I don’t know if the absolute disappointment and abject fear I’m feeling are written on my face, but I watch on as Frankie takes me in, closes his eyes, lets out a breath, and rakes his fingers through his dark hair. When he opens them again, I notice how dark the green is today. Maybe it’s the lighting, maybe it’s his mood, personality, or the weight of his betrayal? I don’t know. My thoughts are random and scattered, and I’ve no idea what kind of turn my life might be about to take next because I certainly wasn’t expecting this one when I woke up this morning.
“You up for listening to the rest of what I’ve got to tell you?”
“Sure. Come drive another nail into the coffin of my dead existence. Come crush my soul some more. It’s my favourite thing.”
Frankie doesn’t reply. Instead, he pulls a chair from the dining table—they match the stools, I note, meaning these boys either have great taste or fantastic interior designers—and positions it in front of where I’m sitting propped in the corner of the sofa.
“You remember everything I told you earlier?” he asks as he sits.
“You set me up and sold me out so you could expand your empire.”
“No. I didn’t. I told you that’s what he was offering.”
“Semantics but continue.”
Sam approaches with a tea for me and a bourbon for Frankie. Smiling up at him, I mouth a thank you and wrap my hands around the mug, allowing the warmth to seep into me.
“My first thought was to punch him when he made the offer. I… we own a sex club. Confidentiality is possibly the most important aspect, rule, condition, whatever you want to call it, of our business, but Logan was asking me to compromise that, my business, my livelihood, to set you up. I’m now wondering if that was on purpose. You know our history: what his dad attempted with my mum, what his thoughts are of her and me, our ethnicity. I think he wanted me to supply him with evidence of your infidelity, then he’d let our clientele know where he’d obtained that information, ruining mine and the club’s reputation in the process.”
“Knowing Logan and Scott, that’s highly likely, and I wouldn’t be surprised if then—as he would already be an investor—he’d swoop in and save”—I use air quotes around the word—“your club’s arse at a massively deflated price.”
“She’s good,” Sam says from the kitchen, where he’s making something in an air fryer.
He cooks, I note. He cooks and has great taste in furniture and throws. That relatively unimportant piece of information brings a disproportionate amount of joy right at this moment.
“I did some digging.” Frankie’s eyes roam over my face. He pauses before nodding, as if a decision has been made. “I have ways and means, people and contacts. I did some digging on Logan and found out he’d already approached a couple of our other investors. Where I fucked up is that I didn’t do any digging on you.”
“Me?” I question.
“Yeah. When we spoke at Scott’s party, you told me you were bored, that Logan wanted to start a family, but you wanted one final bit of fun before you settled into that way of life. If you remember, you told me you wanted one final chance to live out your fantasy of being fucked by two men at the same time.”
My cheeks burn as I stare down into my tea, but I nod anyway. “I remember,” I admit.
“Well, I took your wording the wrong way. When you said ‘final chance’ I took it as meaning you’d done it before, but this would be the last time before having a baby?—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I meant that I was about to start a family, so this was my final chance at doing something like that because once I have kids, I would never do something like that.” I feel so out of my depth, my words are a little jumbled as I attempt to defend myself. “I know I did what I did last weekend, but that was the first time. Believe what you will, but I’d never been unfaithful until then.”
“I know. I know that now. Like I said, I fucked up. I’m sorry.”
I have no response as we silently stare at each other for a few seconds.
“I told Logan I’d think about it, but instead, and like I said, I did some digging. I just had a feeling in my gut, and when you reached out and told me you’d be in the city for the weekend, and could we set something up, it kind of validated what Logan had told me about you. I don’t know why I believed him on that, but I focused my investigations solely on him and what he was attempting to achieve. Just the day after we made our arrangements, Logan contacted me and confirmed you’d be in town. He asked if I could find a way of meeting up with you to gather some evidence. I told him I’d see what I could do.”
“So, hang on. Even though you didn’t plan on doing what Logan asked, you still agreed to meet me? Why? What would be the point if you weren’t going to play his game? Am I missing something?”
Frankie turns to look at Sam before looking back at me. He laces his fingers together and presses them palm down onto the top of his head. He lets out such a hard breath, his lips rattle together.
“If you didn’t hate me before, you’re really gonna hate me now.”
“What?” I close my eyes because the room, once again, tilts.
“I was going to take videos, photos, whatever, of me fucking you, Sam fucking you, both of us fucking you.”
“And do what with them?” My voice sounds flat, defeated, as I wait for him to deliver his next blow.
“I’d show them to Logan. Show him how much I’d enjoyed his wife; how willing and compliant you’d been. How wet we’d made you. How loudly you’d begged us to give you what he couldn’t. I hadn’t thought much further than that. I just wanted the opportunity to finally have one up on him.”
I nod my head because I don’t know how else to respond. My nose tingles, and I fucking hate how irrelevant, how unimportant my entire existence is to the Walsh family.
“You were going to use me,” I whisper around the lump in my throat. “I’d just be collateral damage in your family feud.”
Now my tears are real, and they fall—man, do they fall. My nose runs, and tears drip from my chin. I thought I was strong, but right at this moment, I feel truly broken.
“I thought you were just a money grabbing little whore.”
“What changed?” I ask with a shrug.
“You turning up at my place. Almost shy, definitely vulnerable. Then telling us about the way you lived your life, the way those fuckers treated you… I knew I’d been lied to. I was thrown. I liked you, Mila. I liked you when we chatted at the party. I really liked you when you showed up at my place. I dostill. I like you. I was intrigued. I know it was wrong, but I didn’t want to turn you away. I also didn’t have the balls to admit the real reason I’d invited you.”
“Does… Does he know? Did you do it? Film me, show him the footage? Are there photos?” I feel like a six-year-old as my lips tremble together when I attempt to talk through tears.
“No. No, I didn’t do any of that. He called me Saturday arvo when you were with your mum. I told him I’d reached out, but you’d turned me down—said you were in town to see your mum, but maybe next time you were visiting with him, we could all catch up for dinner. I made it sound like you weren’t interested in anything like what he was trying to set you up for.”
“Gee, thanks,” I tell him sarcastically, wiping angrily at the moisture streaming from my eyes, but actually feeling some degree of relief… hope, even.
He shrugs, not even attempting a response. I look past him to where Sam’s sitting on a stool that he’s turned to face our way. His arms are crossed over his chest, his long, jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him. He’s eyes are on me, his face set but giving nothing away as to what he’s feeling.
The air fryer dings, and he stands.
These two men are polar opposites in their looks and personas, but both as equally, devastatingly gorgeous. I wonder at what stage Sam knew what Frankie had planned for me, but before I get the chance to ask, another thought pops into my head, and my mouth rushes ahead of me.
“He was there.” I voice my thoughts out loud, my mind racing as I attempt to not only process all the information being thrown my way, but the realisation of what my husband was up to that weekend.
“What?” Frankie asks, those dark brows of his pulled down in a frown.
“Logan. He was there in the city somewhere. I don’t know. He told me he was on a golfing weekend but didn’t elaborate on where. When I got to my mum’s Sunday morning, he was there.”
“With your mum?”
“Yeah, they own the facility. Walsh Holdings, they own it, but that’s the first time I’ve ever known him to go there.”
Sam slides a toasted sandwich in front of me. I lift the top slice to see it’s a turkey melt. My level of devastation decreases, and a spark of warmth finds its way to my broken heart. I smile and look up at him.
“Are you not even a little bit embarrassed by your level of stalker?”
“Nope,” he says with his customary wink. “Now, shut the fuck up and eat it.”
“Charming,” I reply before taking a bite.
Frankie looks between us, his brows, once again, pulled down into a frown. I’m beginning to think this is their usual position, as everything apparently makes him scowl this way.
“Turkey melt is my go-to. I may have posted pics on my Insta. Stalker Sam over there has been doing what you failed to,” I explain.
I watch Sam’s lip tip into a smile as he sits back on the stool. My eyes slide to Frankie, and I want to believe the way he’s looking at me right now means he’s sorry, but he hid his plans behind a similar mask so well last weekend, I don’t know if I’ll ever fully trust him again.
“Tell her the rest,” Sam says.
“There’s more? Can I not just enjoy my toastie before you deliver your next blow?”
“Of course,” Frankie replies. “Did I get one of them?” he asks, turning to Sam.
“You think you deserve one?”
“Fuck off being a dick. I’ll make my fucking own.”
“No. You’ll finish telling Mila everything first. Then you can eat.”
Frankie’s green eyes meet mine, and I shrug. “Dude, don’t look at me for backup. I’m contemplating all the ways I might end your life given the opportunity, because right now, the flowers just aren’t even making a dent in the lengths you need to go to before getting any kind of forgiveness from me.”
“You really are a fucking ball buster, Mils. I should’ve just served you up to Logan on a plate and been done with you,” he calls as he heads out to the walk-in pantry, returning with a bag of veggie chips, and a tub of harissa spiced hummus. He sets his snack down on the island beside Sam, opens everything up, and tucks in. Sam joins him.
I finish eating my sandwich, loving the fact that, despite the tension, we still have the banter. This—whatever it is that’s happening between the three of us—is something I’ve never before experienced in my life. People that actually get me.
The food has made me feel somewhat better. The room has stopped tilting at least, but I still have the knot of dread in my belly, right along with my sandwich and tea as I wait to hear whatever the fuck else is about to be thrown my way.
Swinging my legs from the sofa, I take a moment before I attempt to stand. In a single moment, Sam is at my side, taking the plate from my hand. He hands it off to Frankie, who’s right behind him, still chewing on a mouthful of chips.
“I’m okay,” I announce.
“You went down hard earlier,” Sam says. “If I hadn’t caught you, you would’ve cracked your head and added even more bruises.”
He holds out a hand, I take it and pull myself up. I immediately feel a little dizzy so I don’t complain when he wraps his arm around me and pulls me into his side.
“Where we going?” he asks.
“The bathroom. Do you have a toothbrush I could use? Turkey melt and up chuck aren’t conducive to fresh breath.”
“Top drawer. Abby, my cleaning girl, usually keeps all the guest bathrooms stocked.”
“You have a lot of guests?” I ask, blatantly meaning ‘do you bring many women back here?’
“If by guests you mean women, hook ups, none, zero. This place is my escape. The only people who know about it are my parents, my sister, her husband and kids, Frankie, and now you. My family often stay for weekends whether I’m here or not, and I like to keep the cupboards stocked in case they forget anything.” He pauses at the bathroom door.
“I’m good from here,” I tell him. “You can go.”
“You’re still a little unsteady. I’ll wait.”
“Don’t listen.”
“Not promising anything,” he replies with a gentle slap to my arse.
I rush through everything I need to do, singing The Goo Goo Dolls’ “Iris” in my head to block out the manic thoughts currently rioting through my brain. If I let them in, I’m worried they’ll overwhelm me, and I’ll pass out like a pussy again.
Sam’s leaning one shoulder against the wall beside the door when I open it.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much,” I reply before he leads us back to the family room and kitchen.
“Where to?”
“The bench. At least we can all sit and chat together up there,” I say, noting the flowers are now in a vase sitting on the corner of the bench. They look stunning and very much remind me of the three of us. “And I’ll be close enough to belt our old mate with my cast if I feel the need.”
“Less of the old,” Frankie says, obviously aware that it’s him I’m likely to want to wallop.
Sam helps me up onto a stool, and both the boys go around to the other side. I take a handful of the veggie chips and dip them one at a time into the hummus. I’ve barely eaten a thing all week, and now, despite the tension, I’m ravenous.
Frankie collects three bottles of water from the fridge and places them in front of us. With both of them standing on the other side, I feel like it’s me against them, and I don’t like it, but I don’t voice my thoughts. I’ve gone through most of my life alone and lonely. Why should my wild venture into what I thought was a potential three-way affair be any different? The irony of being married to one man, having an affair with two others, and still feeling lonely isn’t lost on me, but my fight not to smile is obliterated by Frankie’s next words.
“Logan wasn’t playing golf last weekend, Mila. He was at the club both Friday and Saturday night. He’s been a regular for years.”
My hand goes to my mouth, and I close my eyes. Keeping them open is too much. I can’t process what my eyes are taking in along with the information I’ve just been given. The room doesn’t spin this time, but there’s a loud humming in my ears, or is it in my head? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
“I stood at Scott’s party, took in all the people living their dull little lives, and thought about how bored I was, and how I never wanted to be like them,” I eventually say.
I look between each of them as I reach for the bottle of water with my bad hand and attempt to unscrew it with my good. Sam leans across the bench, takes it from me, unscrews the lid, and hands it back. I take a sip. I’m not thirsty. I just sip the water because…
“And all this time, I’ve been living in an alternative reality. My perception of the truth is…” I can’t think of the right words. “This is so fucking fucked up,” I say while letting out a long breath. “Right, I’m sitting comfortably. Tell me everything.” I make my voice loud, strong, authoritative, even though that is very much not what I’m feeling.