Dirty Forever (The Dirty Suburbs Book 8)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  “Brittany Delany is a run-of-the-mill whore!” Sammie finally spits out.

  Isla snorts under her breath. “More like a run-of-the-train whore.” She immediately looks guilty. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say.” I titter. Isla is very spiritual and she gives herself a hard time whenever she has a mean girl moment.

  “If the shoe fits…” Sammie grunts. “I think that every guy on the football team fooled around with her at some point during senior year.” Isla nods in reluctant agreement.

  My chest tightens. “Was Daniel on the football team?” I ask hesitantly. I already know the answer to that question. He was the goddamned captain of the football team.

  Sammie waves a wrist dismissively. “Don’t go getting upset,” she tells me. “My brother would never choose that stick figure over you. Look at her – skeleton in stilettos.”

  I glance over at Brittany one more time. She’s flirting with the guy at the cash register. He looks around surreptitiously before sliding her some extra walnuts for her chia pudding. Yup – she’s exactly the type of woman most men go for.

  The bitter taste of jealousy rises up to my chest as thoughts of that girl with my husband whirl into my mind.

  Chapter 14

  Daniel

  "Hey man - I'm gonna have to cut you off."

  I tear my eyes away from the screen of my phone and glare up at the Friday night bartender. "Why?” I mutter, reaching blindly across the counter for my fifth – or is it my sixth? – beer. “I'm not causing any trouble."

  He arches a bushy brow. "You've been sitting there for the past two hours, watching cooking videos and grumbling under your breath, looking like you're about to go on a killing spree. You're scaring away my other customers. And I need my tips tonight."

  I’m not too drunk to realize how pathetic I am right now but – gosh – can a fellow just wallow in peace?

  I don’t need this guy on my back. I’ve got clients bothering me, my partners at the firm are bothering me, my own brain is bothering me. Reminding me of the softness of Grace’s body when she slammed right into me at the hospital that day, of the tenderness in her voice as I watched her put Sebastian to sleep the other night. These thoughts run on loop in my mind, plaguing me.

  Even the fucking internet is harassing me. For the past week, YouTube has been recommending that I watch Grace's videos. It seems that she's started a cooking channel where she prances around my kitchen looking cute and licking wooden spatulas and making my favorite foods. Watching this is a cruel and unusual form of torture.

  Fuck me.

  My girl is pretty. And her ass looks round and sweet at the back of that frilly white apron. An adorable little laugh spills out of her mouth when she drops a spoon into her mixing bowl, causing a cloud of flour to rise into the air before settling on her cheek. The melody of her giggles makes my chest tighten. I keep re-watching that clip.

  Don’t worry. I didn’t jerk off to the videos.

  Jerking off to the sexy amateur videos of our lovemaking is one thing. Jerking off to cooking videos is completely different. It’s weird. Even I have my limits.

  Anyway, I tried making her microwave frittata recipe because I was starving and it looked damn delicious. But I just ended up with a bowl full of dried-out vegetables stuck under a glob of runny egg…So I ate a can of tuna instead.

  As I said, fuck me.

  A strange brand of guilt singed my bones as I sat in my lonely apartment and watched her videos. I found myself silently asking if maybe our relationship had been holding her back all these years. I mean – while we were together, she took care of the house and the baby and she claimed that that was fulfilling for her. But then, we break up and next thing you know, she has a successful cooking channel and she looks happy.

  When we'd fight about our marriage and its disintegration, she'd blame it on my working too much but it always felt like there was something more, some other little piece of the story she wasn't sharing with me. I feel like, as her husband, I should have made it my mission to understand her, to figure out what was going on inside her pretty, little head. I failed to do that and look at me now.

  Anyway, I was driving myself crazy, sitting alone in that damp room wondering what exactly caused my wife to push me away. After a while, I knew I had to get out of that shoebox apartment because I couldn't breathe. And the guy next door seemed determined to fuck his girlfriend right through the thin wall partitioning off our apartments.

  Yay, Viagra!

  Now I'm here at Flynn and Murray's Irish Pub, drinking and longing for the good old days – before the baby, before the wedding, before the all-consuming law career – when Friday night meant protesting as Grace chose a Lifetime movie before crawling into bed in nothing but my t-shirt. Inevitably, I'd be inside of her twenty minutes later and she'd be moaning my name, making faces and sounds that pushed me over the edge. She’s a homebody, always preferred to stay home than spend a night on the town, and with a pussy like hers, I usually didn’t complain.

  God, I miss my girl.

  My body is powerfully aware of the fact that I haven’t fucked her since our son was born. Thirteen long months. It’s strange, but Sebastian popped into the world and all the intimacy in my marriage dissipated like that flour cloud. I don’t resent my son. This isn’t his fault. It was up to me and Grace to keep our family together and we failed so hard.

  The barman is still watching me. I don’t have the stomach to go back to my studio apartment just yet so I stick my phone into my pocket and throw up my hands appeasingly. “You happy now?”

  He holds my gaze for a long moment like he still doesn’t trust me to behave. Finally, a customer at the other end of the bar calls out for his attention. He jabs his pointer and middle fingers at his eyes before aiming those same fingers in my direction. “I’ve got my eyes on you.”

  “I’m cool,” I insist before he finally walks away with reluctance in his movements.

  I’m stilling here, minding my own business, trying to figure out how the hell my family fell apart on my watch when a slim blonde shimmies onto the bar stool next to me. I don’t pay her any mind because I’m wallowing, dammit. Besides, I’d probably be pretty shitty at flirting, anyway. It’s been years since I’ve flirted with a woman at a bar.

  But then, she says my name. “Daniel? Daniel Trotten?”

  Rotating my head in her direction requires entirely too much energy.

  She takes in my uninterested expression and giggles. The sound is high-pitched and forced. She’s trying to come across as coy but there’s nothing innocent about her. My gaze floats over her tawny face. I can’t figure out if her complexion is the result of a botched encounter with a bottle of spray tan or if it’s the remnants of childhood jaundice rearing its ugly head.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks.

  I just hike a brow in response.

  She snaps her wrist and her fingers flit across her cleavage. “It’s me – Brittany. Brittany Delaney.”

  I mentally thumb through the rolodex in my sluggish brain. So many names, so many faces in there. From old clients to people I’ve battled against in court to girls I fucked in high sch—

  Wait…

  “Brittany Delaney?”

  She titters again. “I was starting to worry that you’d forgotten me, sweetie.”

  Yeah – this chick.

  She was a sexual pioneer at Reyfield High, generously distributing paper copies of her nude selfies by hand long before mobile data on cellphones even hit the mass market. A pioneer, I tell you.

  Fucking Brittany Delaney was almost a rite of passage in senior year. I may have hooked up with her once – twice, max – but it must not have been noteworthy because right now, I can’t even come up with a visual to jog my memory.

  That was how many years ago?

  She’s acting like it all happened just yesterday as she leans in my direction, causing the stiff silicone balloons on her chest to struggle against the neckline
of her shirt. “So, how you been, Danny?”

  “Good,” I say flatly. I’m not about to have a deep existential conversation with this woman. I’m not in the mood to stroll down memory lane – or any other lane for that matter – with her.

  She doesn’t take the hint. “Well, I’ve been good, too. Been in Hollywood. You may have heard. I’m an actor now.” She says it like I’m supposed to be impressed.

  I grunt, taking another swallow of my beer.

  She keeps on blabbering. “Yes, I’ll be in town for a few more weeks. I have a role in this production that’s filming down on the Wilkinson farm, down by the river. I’m sure you’ve seen it. It’s called A Maiden Fond of Mischief. It’s got this Pride and Prejudice vibe to it. Pretty popular on Netflix.”

  Sighing heavily, I angle my body away from her. “Good for you.”

  She’s dead-set on keeping the conversation going.

  "I just heard you and your wife are getting divorced. So sad." She fake-pouts those inflated lips and bats her lash extensions. "Are you dating anyone?" She grates her nails along the inside of my wrist.

  A tingle runs across my skin and I blink a few times, trying to keep my good sense. How many beers have I had? This isn't what I want. She isn't what I want but it feels good to have a woman's hands on me.

  When I don't answer, she brings her stool nearer. She smells like an array of chemicals – cigarette smoke, hairspray and perfume with a note of window cleaner. Still when she leans close and whispers, "You look like you could use a woman’s touch", I hear myself saying, "Yes."

  She licks her lips. “Listen – I’m gonna be blunt with you. Do you want some pussy? Do you wanna fuck tonight, Daniel?”

  The room starts to spin and reckless words tumble out of my mouth. “Yeah, I wanna fuck.”

  Chapter 15

  Grace

  Who the hell is at my door at 11:34 p.m.?

  I peep out the side window and see a familiar car parked crookedly in my driveway, bumper hanging over the edge of the sidewalk. My heart slaps around in my chest as I tie the sash of my robe around my waist. I breathe in a shallow breath and unlock the front door. With a clammy hand, I pull it open.

  My husband steps inside.

  "Daniel..." I say carefully. "What are you doing here?"

  He is literally the last person I expected to see here right now. Isla texted me about fifteen minutes ago from Flynn and Murray's where she's having a drink with her fiancé, Reuben. She told me that she just saw Daniel at the bar with that Brittany Delaney chick all over him. I didn't cry. I worked hard to keep those tears inside. I just resigned myself to the fact that my husband was about to fuck another woman tonight. I have no right to be upset. I'm the one who filed for divorce.

  Yet somehow, here he is. Standing in front of me, reeking of hops and bad decisions.

  He's a sexy disheveled mess – the first three buttons of his shirt undone, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He stands in the foyer taking a superhero stance; hands fisted on his hips, feet shoulder width apart, head held high. The fabric of his unbuttoned jacket fans out around him like a cape.

  "I'm here to make love to you," he announces, slurring his words.

  Seriously? I shake my head. Unbelievable!

  "Did you drive here?” I scowl as I examine his face. “You're drunk!"

  He ignores my interrogation. "I want you, Grace."

  The hard-on pressing against the front of his pants confirms…that is the truth!

  I roll my eyes.

  I admit that I've had my fair share of daydreams about Daniel showing up here to sweep me off my feet. It was never like this. He’s drunk and incoherent. A hot mess.

  I turn away, sighing as I pad into the kitchen. "I'm gonna make you some tea.”

  Dragging his feet, he follows after me. “Didn’t you hear me, Grace? I’m telling you that I want you tonight. I want to make love to you.”

  I flick the switch on the electric kettle and the water begins to boil. “You are not the man I fell in love with. The man I married. I look at you, and I don’t know who the hell you are.”

  Tilting his head to the side, he gives me an impish, bewildered look. “So…I’ll take that as a ‘no’?”

  “You’re being an idiot right now,” I hiss, folding my arms across my chest and shaking my head. I ignore the fact that my body is warming up with desire.

  Yes, I do want him to make love to me. But not like this. He isn’t even thinking straight in his inebriated condition. As much as I want him, I can’t stoop that low. “You think that you can just waltz in here after all these months, tell me that you’re horny and we just fall into bed together? That’s not how this works, Daniel.”

  He stands in the doorway. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you. Why aren’t you taking this seriously?” He seems genuinely perplexed and frustrated.

  “Well, mainly because you’re drunk and you probably won’t remember any of this in the morning.”

  “I’m not drunk,” he says dismissively. “Maybe a little…loose. But definitely not drunk.”

  I stare at him incredulously. “Daniel – you’re hammered.”

  Shaking his head, he scoffs and limps a few inches forward. “I think I’d know it if I were hammered.”

  God, why is he so combative all the time?

  "Do you always have to win every fight?" I growl.

  He stumbles a little then props a hip up against the stove. "Having my wife in my arms tonight is the only 'win' I'm looking for. Does that make me such a bad guy?"

  I pause and look into his eyes. Under all those gallons of liquid stupidity, I catch a glimpse of the man I love. He’s standing there vulnerable and needy. The part of me that’s longing for him as much as he’s longing for me, begins to act up, prodding me to give in. But what good would that do either of us? Drunken sex will only dig this hole deeper.

  Needing to get away from him before I do something stupid, I slam the cup of tea onto the counter and march right past him. "I'm too tired for this crap. I'm going to bed."

  Abandoning the tea on the counter, he stumbles after me and plops down on the couch in the living room.

  "That big, warm bed...” he calls after me. “I didn't buy it so you could lie in it all night and cry yourself to sleep. I bought it so I could fuck you. Make your toes curl. Make your spine curve off the mattress. Make you claw at the sheets."

  Facing away from him, I squeeze my eyes shut as his words crawl down my spine, settling between my thighs like a whisper against my aroused flesh. I have to remind myself that he's drunk. He may want me right this minute but he'll wake up in the morning, hating me as much as he usually does and we'll be right back at square one.

  Before I even reach the stairs, the sound of his snores fills the room. I spin around and watch him, lying on the couch with one arm hanging off, lips slightly parted.

  What a handsome mess.

  I run a hand over my stomach, well aware that he got drunk at the bar but he didn’t take some random woman back to his apartment. He came home to his wife when he could have easily had a wild night with someone else. He’s handsome and successful and charming as hell. There must have been a line of women waiting for his moment of weakness so they could have their chance with him. But he came home to me.

  I briefly consider calling Keeland to come and get his best friend but I quickly decide against it. He looks so damn peaceful. In a bat-shit crazy kind of way. I’ll let my husband spend the night in his house on his own couch.

  Tiptoeing across the room, I grab the quilt from the arm of the recliner and drape it over him. I flick off the lights and go up to my room.

  It isn't until I'm at the top of the staircase that I realize...I'm wearing a smile on my face.

  Chapter 16

  Daniel

  The first thought that creeps into my sluggish brain the next morning is, I really hope it's Saturday. I really hope it's Saturday.

  There's a dull throb pulsating
throughout my entire body, intensifying behind my eyes. My head weighs a thousand pounds. My first attempt to move my arms is futile, causing me to wonder momentarily if I’m encased in cement. Sure feels like it.

  With much effort, I shove my hand into my pocket and pull out my phone to check the date.

  Oh, thank God. It’s Saturday...

  Wait...

  Holy fuck – it's Saturday!

  I have to get to the office. I'm meeting with Prescott at 9:30 to strategize for the Shinewell appeal. Plus I have to work out some final details in this human trafficking case that I’m assisting the FBI with. My secretary is probably already at her desk typing up the notes I dictated yesterday.