The Reluctant Hero

1

Ipecac

Amanda

This is the first date night we’ve had in months. An actual date with dinner, real conversation, and a few glasses of wine. I feel happy for the first time in a while. Relaxed by the wine and the subtle good vibes coming from him. He has an air of anticipation about him, and for once, I’m in the mood for sex.

Marriage to Justin Blake has been a rough road. He was born wealthy and has the expectations that come with it. I can’t even remember all of the things I changed about myself to become the wife he expects at his side for functions. The politeness and biting my tongue with a smile. Sometimes, the stress of simply being his wife gets overwhelming. Crushing.

Those are thoughts for another day. Tonight has been perfect. It’s like we’re dating again instead of being married for six years and struggling to rekindle our spark. We found it tonight.

Justin parks the car in our driveway and takes a deep breath, blowing it out in a dramatic fashion. His fingers drum on the steering wheel with nerves. This is almost exactly like our first date.

“What’s wrong?” I laugh easily as I watch him. My hand is on the handle of the door, but something about this night makes me want to wait for him and see if he’ll open it for me like he used to.

“Nothing,” he laughs sheepishly and gets out of the car. He opens my door for me. He hasn’t done that for a while, either.

That’s it. We are sooo having sex tonight.

The walk up the driveway is quiet. We murmur to each other as if we’re telling secrets, but no one else is there. Maybe I had a little too much wine.

He tosses his coat over the back of the couch and goes up the stairs. The sly smirk he gives me over his shoulder makes a grin curve up and stay on my lips. He’s getting something ready up there, and I’m supposed to wait down here to be called up. With how he’s been acting tonight, I’m more than willing to wait. Maybe this night will end with a few kinkier options.

I kick off my low heels by the couch and dig my toes into the plush carpet. Everything feels good right now. A light drunken buzz of pleasant sensation that amplifies everything I touch. I’m already excited, impatiently waiting for him to call me up the stairs. Maybe I should just pounce on him instead.

His tailored jacket slowly slides off the back of the couch and thumps to the floor.

I laugh softly and pick it up. I’m just folding it over my arm to carry up with me when his phone slides out of a pocket and drops again. I wince and crouch to grab it. He has an expensive cover that boasts unbreakable glass, but I have had my doubts ever since he got it.

I’m impressed to see the screen isn’t broken.

The text that comes up as the screen moves is less impressive.

The feeling of dread that washes over me snaps my light buzz in half. A pressure grips my chest, and it feels like I’m holding my breath even though I’m panting with pain. I feel faint. My stomach rolls and churns as I have the sudden feeling I’m about to be sick.

I have to look again. I’ve had more wine than usual. Maybe I misread it. How, I don’t know. Maybe I’m hallucinating. I force myself to look again.

Annette Linser: When are you coming over to wreck this pussy?

Nope. Not an illusion.

Annette Linser. My husband is fucking my boss .

I hurry to the downstairs bathroom, shut, and lock the door. My weak legs finally give out on me. I drop to the icy tiles, bruising my ass. That pain is overshadowed by the agony in my chest.

For a second, I’m caught in a whirlpool of pain. Tears cascade silently down my cheeks. And then anger starts to burn to life inside me.

I need to know how far this goes. Now. No weakness. I won’t allow that anymore.

His phone is easy to unlock. The egotistical asshole uses his own birthday as a passcode. That red flag waved right in my face and I glossed over it because I love him.

Right now, all I can see is how stupid I was to fall for him. I can count the red flags later.

Scrolling through their messages is agonizing. Months’ worth of flirting that turns into sexting quickly. Then plans to meet up at a hotel, and the resulting ten out of ten rankings they give each other.

My hands are numb when the phone slides out of my hands. I stare into space in the half bathroom while he putters around in the bedroom above me. As if he’s innocent.

Anger strikes again. No, not anger. That’s too mild a word for it.

This is rage . Something that’s taking over my mind and body. Wrapping me soul deep in barbed wire I don’t want to escape from, despite the pain. My heart begins to race. My whole body shakes as my jaw clenches, gnashing my teeth to the point of pain.

“Sweetheart, I’m ready up here.”

The muffled sound of his voice has me standing up with the phone safely cradled against my belly. I can feel tears spilling over my cheeks, but I keep laughing. Not loud but enough that I think distantly I’ve lost it . Then that thought is buried under rage, too.

“Just a second,” I call out in a wild voice that shakes.

Just a second. After six years and some change of marriage, it took just a second to rip my world apart.

I’m going to return the favor.

My hands seem steady as I unlock the door, swinging the portal wide with a self-assurance fueled by adrenaline.

I pace around the couch, exit the living room, and stop at the base of the stairs. He’s standing on the second-floor landing, looking down at me. His body is relaxed, his smile sly still. Then he sees my return maniacal grin, and his expression falters.

“Sweetheart?” He asks cautiously. His pet name for me.

I wonder what he calls her ?

“What’s up, Fucker?” I ask, laughter spilling out of my throat.

The voice of my mother interrupts my thoughts.

“Language, Amanda. Don’t let people see you acting less than a lady.”

It’s overlapped by my retired marine father quickly.

“If any boy hurts you , I want you to make sure dentures are the only option for solid food for the rest of his fucking life, Amanda.”

I know which voice I’m listening to. Sorry mom.

“What’s wrong?” His mellow voice is tight with concern now. He’s walking to the head of the stairs.

“Not much,” I give him an exaggerated shrug and hold up his phone.

When he sees it, he pauses. His eyes slowly move from it to me. I’m expecting dread to rise. Panic. Sadness, maybe.

Instead, he looks impatient .

That eye-rolling look will break me later. I know it. But right now, I’m out of control with rage and ready to let it loose.

“Do you think this case is really breakproof?” I ask innocently and shake the phone.

“Amanda,” he takes the first step, his voice dropping into a warning I’m no longer listening to. Gone are the days when I bow my head, sigh, and give in to make him happy. Not tonight. Never again.

“I’ve always wanted to test it,” I laugh. It’s starting to sound hysterical.

My arm rears back, my feet sliding into position as if I’m a professional athlete, and I release it as hard as I can. I was aiming at him, but I have to face even more facts. Even without the wine, my throwing skills are at the same athletic prowess of a panda. Surprisingly, the launch over the stairs is beautiful. I feel like a cross between a baseball star and a football quarterback. I’m waiting for it to crack against the wall. Instead, it disappears from my sight and keeps going until I hear glass shattering. The house alarm goes off, and my eyes widen in shock.

I missed him, but I scored for the win.

The childish instinct to run for it before the cops come knocks my brain sideways. Within a split second, I have my purse and car keys in hand. Then I’m at the car door and dropping inside.

The tires squeal as I take off with no idea where I’m going.