Chapter 13 Jake
Jake
Why?”
Rachel had squeaked out that question so innocently, as if there were no reason why he would prefer his life without her in it. And he hadn’t responded, because what kind of response was there to really give?
The truth? That every day with her was a reminder that he’d failed? That he couldn’t provide for himself, much less a family? That everywhere they went, people saw him as Rachel Redden’s kept husband—the guy who’d started and tanked his business on her dime?
His grandfather’s words echoed, almost every single day, in his head.
“Wish I had a sugar mommy like you do.” He’d said it with that shit-eating grin, standing right there in the garage Jake had been so proud of.
He’d poured his soul into that place, only to watch Rachel systematically dismantle his confidence with her “helpful suggestions” and incessant questions and an insistence on having a weekly profitability review meeting, right there in the glass meeting area, where everyone could see her pick his reports apart.
And she’d meant well. That was the worst part.
She genuinely thought she was helping, thought her involvement made her a supportive wife.
She didn’t understand that every time she questioned a parts order or suggested a “more efficient” scheduling system, she was telling him—and everyone who worked there—that he didn’t know shit.
The garage had been his chance to prove he wasn’t just living off her money, and she’d ruined it.
Maybe not intentionally, but the result was the same.
And now? Now he was that guy. The one who didn’t work. The one who had to ask his wife before buying a new truck. The one people whispered about at the country club—“Must be nice, marrying into money.”
And Jules. Jules had been in his ear for eighteen months now to leave Rachel, feeding him line after line about how much happier she could make him.
Sure, Jules wasn’t gonna win any beauty pageants, but to be honest, her little librarian look .
. . the oversize sweaters, the big glasses, the orthopedic-looking shoes .
. . they were like taping a ruler to his dick and took him right back to high school and the insane crush he had on Mrs. Plant.
Fucking Jules was like giving in to every high school fantasy he’d ever had, dipped in an extra helping of dirty, given that she was Rachel’s best friend.
Should that have made it hotter? No. But it did.
And Jules gave him something Rachel didn’t. Praise. She trailed around after him like he was a god, all gooey eyes and breathless smiles. All he had to do was wink at her, and her panties combusted inside those thick gray leggings.
It was nice. Would it be in six months? A year?
Probably not. More likely, he’d get tired and bored with her. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like Jules would rat him out, not with her own involvement in the crime. Hell, it was practically her idea. She was the one who came up with the idea for him to gift Rachel with a weekend at the spa.
Jake went through the rear garden gate and took one final look at the dark woods that occupied the back area of their lot.
Rachel was right; the well was hard to see.
How she fell in a hole twice in one week was anyone’s guess, but that was Rachel for you.
They often joked that she had three left feet, she tripped over them so often.
Once she got up from a fancy dinner in Pasadena, tripped over the leg of the table, fell onto the neighboring table, and in attempting to stand up, slipped on a piece of food and took out the hostess stand.
She didn’t let it faze her, though. She burst out laughing, and her laugh was contagious. Everyone started in. She bought a bottle of wine for every table in the place, and everyone started clapping when they left at the end of the night.
The memory gave him pause, because it wasn’t like it hadn’t been fun, at times, being with Rachel.
For all her griping and nagging, she was a sweet girl.
Didn’t take herself too seriously. Snorted when she laughed.
Cried at almost any movie. Tightfisted as shit, but see two kids at a lemonade stand and she was dropping a hundred-dollar bill in their jar.
Same with panhandlers and homeless people.
Last Thanksgiving, she’d made him work a buffet in the park, where they spent four hours filling plates and handing out blankets and clothes. She hired three barbers and got two doctors to work pro bono, giving checkups and medicine.
He had dreaded the charity event. There had been a 49ers game that day, and this had cut into the beginning of it, but it actually had been pretty cool.
She’d been wearing these cute little overalls, with her hair back in a braid, and she’d smiled at him while he’d been at the serving line, scooping out mashed potatoes onto the paper plates and .
. . And maybe this was wrong, leaving her down there in a well to die.
Not maybe. Definitely. Having the guy take care of her had felt a lot different.
Jake wasn’t even going to be in the same city.
It would be like one moment he had a wife, and one he didn’t, and the guy promised that it would be quick and painless.
Just one shot to the head. She wouldn’t even know it had happened.
But this, this was way worse. She’d freeze to death or drown, and both of those options sucked. This was a girl who used her Mercedes’ seat heater in August and wore a sweatshirt to bed. She hated the cold. She was a pretty good swimmer, but was that necessarily a good thing?
Jake went straight to the liquor cabinet in the wet bar and pulled a bottle of Van Winkle off the top shelf, then took an expensive swig directly from the bottle.
Wincing against the burn, he looked at the clock: 8:11 p.m.
What had she said? That she’d pay him $1 million if he pulled her out? Had she meant it? Or would she renege as soon as she was out of there?
He didn’t know, but it seemed like a big risk either way.