Chapter Two #5
She holds my eyes a little longer than she needs to, the gray going soft in a way that's going to follow me straight to Stacy's house and ruin every fucking plan I had for the evening.
Then she gives me a small, crooked smile.
“Goodnight, Jackson.”
Her heels click down the hall until I can't hear them anymore, and my office becomes just an office again.
I sink into my chair and drag a hand down my face.
Maybe I need the bourbon before Stacy. Maybe I need several bourbons and no Stacy, because going over there while my head is still full of Rose feels like using one woman to burn another one out of my system, and Stacy deserves better than that even if our arrangement has never pretended to be anything more than exactly that.
Fuck.
This is the math of my life lately. A wife I don't want, a woman I can't have and a booty call I'm suddenly developing a conscience about.
Fantastic.
“Your wife's headed up to your office, Mr. Jackson.”
Emily's voice crackles over the intercom and murders the first thirty seconds of peace I've had all day in cold blood.
“Thanks, Emily.”
Here we fucking go.
Hate is a strong word, and I've spent enough time testing whether it's too strong for what I feel about the woman I'm married to.
It isn't.
I've checked from every angle available to me, and the finding remains consistent.
I hate my wife.
The closer the click of her stilettos gets, the tighter my hands curl, some old reflex they've developed after three years of this shit.
“Marcus. You're not answering your phone.”
And there she is, filling the door the same way she fills the rest of my life: uninvited, expensive and impossible to get out from behind.
“Because I've been working all day, Elyse. What a novel fucking concept. Work.” I don't look up from my desk. “Why are you in my building?”
“It's not your building.” She walks in without being invited because she lives to make my life a living hell. “It belongs to that smoking-hot best friend of yours. You're just a peasant with a nice office in his world, sweetheart. Don't forget it.”
Manslaughter.
I let myself sit in the idea for a second.
Rose is a very good lawyer. She'd find an angle, work it down to something with a small number on the end, and I'd be out in a couple of years with a clean slate and a full night's sleep.
Unfortunately, the windows in here are thick. Double-glazed, some executive-grade nonsense Bennet insisted on. I'd have to crack one first with something heavy before tossing Elyse through it, and that's the kind of premeditation that ruins an otherwise defensible case.
Pity. It's the planning that gets you every time.
“Are you even listening to me, Marcus?”
She snaps her fingers. Her actual fingers. In the actual fucking air.
I slowly look up.
“Do that again, Elyse. Go ahead. Snap them.”
Her hand drops instead. Smart girl.
“Daddy said I could get an increase on my allowance. I'm going out tonight, and I need at least ten thousand.”
I laugh out loud. That is the whole of our marriage in a sentence.
Daddy said.
The man owns the leash on both of us and occasionally lets his daughter hold the slack.
“What?”
“The last time you had five thousand dollars to blow in one night, you nearly got arrested and came a lot closer to overdosing than you seem to remember. I'm the one who got you out of that mess before it made the papers, so no. What in God's name do you need ten grand for tonight?”
Her face twists. “It's my money, Marcus.”
“Then perhaps you should've demonstrated at some point that you can be trusted with it.”
“You're just the conservator. Daddy said I could have it.”
Just the conservator.
Like it's a title I applied for.
Frank handed me control of Elyse's finances right along with the marriage because chaining me to his daughter wasn't enough. I also needed to be responsible for making sure she didn't blow through enough money and cocaine to end up dead somewhere before the five years were over.
And the best part?
She fucking hates me for it.
As though this is how I dreamed of spending my thirties.
Her voice starts climbing, and I glance toward the open office door. The last thing I need on the worst PR week we've had in years is Elyse broadcasting the state of our marriage three floors away from the boardroom.
“Lower your voice.”
“Don't tell me what to—”
“Cut the shit, Elyse.”
My head falls back against my chair for a second while I take a beat. I just don't have another fight in me today. Maybe she’ll get enough blow tonight to finish the fucking job.
I stand and reach for my bag.
“Hear me on this, Elyse.” I round the desk and stop in front of her. “You get into any trouble tonight, any at all, and I swear to fuck I will leave you in whatever cell you end up in and go home and sleep like a baby. I don't care what Daddy says.”
I pitch the last two words into the same spoiled little whine she's been using since she walked in.
Her eyes narrow.
“There's a version of this where I stop catching you,” I tell her. “And you're a lot closer to it than you think.”
For once, she doesn't have an immediate comeback.
Thank fuck, because I am so fucking tired of catching people today.