Aced

by K. Bromberg

  That’s exactly why I’ve been telling him I’m perfectly fine to go to my checkups without him so he doesn’t hear Dr. Steele tell me I need to start taking it easier. And maybe that’s why I answer right away, so he thinks everything is okay instead of the actual throbbing in my rapidly swelling toes and ankles.

  “Rylee Donavan?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?” I try to place the female voice on the other end of the line but come up empty.

  “This is Casey at TMZ and—”

  “How’d you get my number?” I ask, cutting off the tabloid reporter, my guard instantly up.

  “We’d like to know if the tip we received is true and how you’re dealing with it all?”

  Curiosity and unease meld into a ball of discord. I stutter a response I know I shouldn’t even ask. “Wh . . . what are you talking about?”

  “The video proving your husband’s infidelity.”

  And it’s like my ears don’t hear what she says over the roar of disbelief and flash of hurt that burns in my chest. “Video?” And I reiterate the word more to myself, lost in my own world of upset than to her.

  “The sex tape.”

  I know it’s not possible but I gasp and stop breathing all at the same time. I disconnect the call instantly. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. I struggle to catch my breath. Luckily I’m turning off on Broadbeach because my thoughts are so scattered and the adrenaline is pumping so fast that my hands are shaking.

  Normally I don’t let bullshit like this get to me—after all I am married to a man who was once known as one of the racing world’s top playboys.

  Colton wouldn’t do that to me. He loves me. He loves us. We’re each other’s world.

  And yet despite knowing this, something about the phone call unnerves me. Staggers me. Resonates in my ears when it shouldn’t.

  How did they have my number? What video is she talking about?

  I’m too close to the house to call and even if I wanted to, I don’t think my fingers are steady enough to push the right buttons.

  Calm down, Rylee. It’s all I can tell myself because this isn’t the first rumor that has been spread about Colton and whatever hot woman he’s been in the same vicinity as. But it’s the first time I’ve been sought out to give a response before I knew anything about the scandal.

  When the gates on the driveway shut behind me, I sigh, equal parts relief and anxiety, and scramble out of the car as fast as my pregnant body can. When Sammy opens the front door before I even put my key in the lock, I know way more than a purported rumor from TMZ is going on.

  Even worse, he just nods at me without saying a word and steps outside closing the door behind him so Colton and I are alone. Not a good sign at all.

  “Colton?” I call his name as I drop my purse on the table before following the sound of his voice in the office. So many things run through my head as I cross the short distance and none of them are welcome. I’m ready to barrel into the room and demand answers regarding the rumored cheating that the rational part of my brain knows must be wrong.

  “They’re fucking crazy if they think I’m going to believe them,” Colton asserts, fist pounding against the desk. My feet falter and my demands die on my lips when I see him: back to me, broad shoulders framed against the window, head hung down, body visibly tense. The scene beyond him of the ocean is serene but in just the instant I’ve been in the room, I know Colton is anything but.

  The sight of him physically upset like this isn’t normal. It throws me for a second and makes me fear the phone call I received might just be real. The uncertainty I felt in the car comes back with a vengeance, vibrating through my body in a flash of heat and wave of dizziness. The words I was determined to say when I saw Colton are lost to worry as I try to wrap my head around the sudden assault to my perfectly imperfect world.

  “I don’t care what you think you’re seeing, CJ, it’s not fucking possible. Zip. Zero. Zilch.” Anger vibrates off him and slams around the room’s walls as he listens to his lawyer on the other end of the line. Leaning against the doorjamb, I attempt to steady myself, my emotions caught in turmoil as I try to read into the conversation without knowing any additional information. “I don’t need a fucking road map . . . What you don’t get though is that I’ve never even put myself in the situation where someone could even imply such bullshit!”

  He hangs his head and blows out a breath as CJ talks and as much as I want him to get off the phone and tell me what in the hell is going on, I also want him to carry on his conversation without him knowing I’m home. I need to hear the non-sugarcoated version I’m sure he’ll give me. Hearing Colton without a filter will allow me to believe the extensive explanations I’m going to need to hear the minute he gets off the phone.

  “You’re not fucking listening to me,” he grits out exasperated. “They can Photoshop it however they want. It’s NOT true! Guys like me only get one chance at this shit. I got my chance. I got my Rylee. Why in the hell would I fuck that up?” His words are barked out with spite to prove whatever point he’s making and yet they weave around my heart and squeeze tight because the way he says it—like it’s the simplest truth in the world—only helps fortify so many things: my belief in how my husband feels about me, that the rumor is pure bullshit on a slow gossip news day, I’m going to have to thicken my skin to weather whatever storm is bearing down on us.

  “Fuckin’ A! Do you . . .?” Colton’s words trail off as he turns around and sees me leaning against the doorjamb, one hand on my belly, the other covering my mouth. Our eyes lock, uncertainty passing between us as my name falls from his mouth in a hushed whisper. “Ry . . .” And even if I didn’t know whatever was going on was bad, the etched lines on his face and taut carriage confirmed it. “I want to see the entire thing. Not just the ten-second snippet you have. If they want their money, CJ, they’ll show me their bargaining chip now, won’t they?” He walks toward me, gaze never wavering despite the worry it holds.

  When he reaches me, he pulls me into him without saying another word and wraps his arms around my shoulders, burying his head in the curve of my neck despite the phone still at his ear.

  And this show of emotion freaks me out. My heart thunders. My stomach churns. My eyes close as I absorb his familiarity and try to hold on to it as best as I can. Because if he’s worried, then I know I’m going to be freaked.

  “I’m at my computer. I’ll be waiting for the email.” I hear the clatter of his iPhone as he tosses it on the table beside us moments before he gathers me tighter into him. My hands are on his back, my lips against his neck, his all-familiar scent in my nose, and yet it suddenly feels like so very much is different.

  We stand like this for several moments despite the anxiety rioting through my soul as I let him breathe me in because I fear what he’s going to say when he lets go. Is he going to apologize? Confess to something I don’t want to hear that will shatter our ideal little world?

  “Just tell me,” I finally breathe out, my chest aching with worry and fear. His body tenses as he grabs my shoulders and leans back to look at me, the reporter’s words repeating in my mind.

  “Ry . . .” My name falls from his mouth again and as much as I want to beg him to say something besides it, I’m also almost afraid to. I welcome the silence but hope for some noise. “Someone is claiming to have a video.”

  “So it’s true,” I state, trying to keep my voice void of emotion as tears immediately sting the backs of my eyes. And when I’m afraid they’re going to leak over, I close my eyes and shake my head, as if I can rid my mind of the bad dream I feel is sucking us in its clutches.

  “What’s true?” he demands.

  “The phone call.” It’s all I say, purposely trying to draw a reaction from him so he has to explain what’s going on.

  “Phone call? What in the fucking hell are you talking about, Ry?” He takes a step back and runs a hand through his hair as he leans a hip against the desk behind him.

  “I th
ink you need to be the one to start explaining, Colton, because I’m a little freaked out. Something’s going on here and I should have found out from you . . . not from TMZ calling to ask me if I’d like to make a statement about the rumored video proving my husband cheated on me!” I yell, hands flailing, voice escalating. The disbelief I want to feel doesn’t feel so certain anymore when his jaw falls lax and hands grip the edges of the desk.

  He blinks his eyes a few times, hurt I don’t understand flashing in them, as he digests what I’ve said before shaking his head. “Fucking Christ, Ry. You actually believed I’d cheat on you?” The shock on his face staggers me—unfettered disbelief I’d even consider his infidelity to be true—and knocks me from my momentary lapse. I can see the man in front of me, feel his love for me, and know I’m crazy for even considering it.

  “I didn’t know what to think,” I whisper, my confession hanging in the air between us. And then his words to CJ hit my ears again, and I know I was wrong to even let the idea find any kind of purchase in my conscience. I shift so I can sit down, my body as tired as my head all of the sudden.

  “Someone is trying to blackmail us.”

  “What?” I’d laugh at the ludicrous claim if I weren’t sitting here right now, sick to my stomach. “Who?”

  Colton shakes his head. “CJ doesn’t know who for sure. He, she, they are hiding behind a lawyer right now.” So many questions race through my mind as I wait for him to continue.

  “Blackmail is illegal, isn’t it?” I ask, wondering how someone could be hiding behind a lawyer and do this.

  Colton emits a self-deprecating laugh that gives me no comfort and only results in making me feel stupid for asking. “Money in exchange for an item they claim is mine is considered a transaction,” he states using his fingers to make quotation marks over the last word, which leads me to believe this is something he has argued about with CJ. Just as I’m about to ask more, he says something that makes my ears buzz and changes the direction of my thoughts. “They say they have a video of me having sex with another woman.”

  And even though I knew as much from my short-lived conversation with TMZ, I still suck in an audible breath when I hear him say the words and automatically start shaking my head as I try to reject them. Everything I know I should say or ask is stuck in my throat because as much as I believe him, why is dread sifting through my body weighing every part of me down?

  Dread. Curiosity. Unease. All three swirl in an eddy of discord as I try to process this.

  I can tell my lack of a response makes Colton worry. He steps forward and then steps back. Antsy and irritated. “Do you doubt me?” he asks, voice rising in pitch with each word. I don’t answer him. I’m too inside my own head, too overwhelmed by every single thing about this.

  “No.” I mouth the word, unable to find my voice.

  “Don’t you ever doubt my love for you!” I jump as his voice thunders through the room; his palm hits the desk to reinforce the words. And I can see he immediately regrets the reaction by the fisting of his hands and how his head falls back to try and rein in his anger. When he lifts his head back up, he meets my eyes with a determination I’ve never seen before. “Ry, I swear on the life of this baby that I have not so much as touched, kissed, or anythinged another woman, let alone put myself in a position to be videotaped having sex with them.”

  I force a swallow down my throat. I believe him. Have no doubt. And yet . . . “I want to see it,” I say with more certainty than I feel.

  “You walked in just as the full video came across to CJ. He’s emailing it to me.” He scrunches his nose momentarily and in that instant I can see how worried he is about this. And not about the existence of a tape, but more so what this is going to do to me. To us. “You don’t need to see it.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need to do, Colton. If you didn’t do anything, then it shouldn’t be an issue, right?” I slowly stand and walk over to the desk so I can sit at the computer while Colton remains with his hips against the desk and head hung down, no doubt preparing himself for whatever we’re about to watch.

  I click alive the computer screen, and my breath hitches immediately when I see the email sitting in the inbox from CJ. The subject line of “Video” taunts me as I wait for Colton to come over.

  “Please, Ry,” he begs. “I don’t know what’s going to be on here . . . and you’re not going to be able to unsee it once you do. I know for a fact it’s not me but at the same time, whatever they have on tape, I don’t even want that image in your head so you doubt me.” He hangs his head down again before looking back up to me with determined clarity. “I would never cheat on you, Ry. Never.”

  I worry my wedding ring around my finger, knowing what he’s saying to be true but at the same time, needing to see for myself. My only response is to move the cursor and open the email. The fortifying breath he draws in disrupts the silence in the room and rides shotgun to the sound of my own pulse thundering like a drum in my ears.

  I double-click the file.

  Snow fills the screen, gray, white, and black grain that holds my attention hostage. I will for it to clear and not want it to clear all at the same time. And when it finally does, it takes me a second to believe what I’m seeing.

  “Oh fuck!” falls from Colton’s mouth the exact same time as the thought flickers through my mind.

  The image is dark, grainy, but the what and the where are unmistakable. The memory zooms back in high definition color in my mind as I watch the one person that is unmistakably clear in the video, Colton, unknowingly look up toward the camera as he holds a woman’s hips and drives into her over and over.

  Not just any woman though.

  One in a dress, which is pulled up over her hips and bunched down around her waist, so she is completely exposed.

  And even though the video is black and white, I know the dress is red. Fire-engine red to be exact.

  Because the woman is me.

  In the parking garage.

  On the hood of Sex.

  And in case I wasn’t sure, the concrete wall of the parking garage is painted with the hotel’s name. There is no mistaking the where or the what. Or the whom.

  Both of us lean in closer out of reflex as we watch the video unfold, second by second, thrust after thrust, and I’m not sure if I’m more mesmerized or horrified at first before the realization sets in with what exactly this means. There is no audio on the security cam’s footage so the office weighs heavy with the silence until the clip goes dark and the video ends.

  We’re both stunned, unsure what to say, not certain what to do. I feel like a thousand-pound weight has been lifted from my shoulders because Colton was right: he wasn’t cheating on me.

  That weight has been replaced with an anvil teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall off and harm anyone in its path.

  And we’re standing in that damn path.

  Someone has footage of Colton and me having sex.

  I think even if I watched the video replay one hundred times I still wouldn’t believe it.

  “They’re on crack if they think I’m going to pay them three million dollars for that,” Colton says, breaking the silence, voice resolute, and staggering me in more ways than just one. Dumbfounded with my hand over my mouth, I force myself to look away from the black square on the computer screen and over to him.

  And if I thought he was angry before, he’s livid now.

  “What did you just say?” I finally stutter, not sure if I’m more shocked at the three million dollar figure or that he doesn’t care that a video of us having sex has been made.

  “You heard me,” he growls at the walls. He shoves off from where he’s sitting atop the desk and starts pacing the room. I need to understand what he means, but I’ll wait him out . . . wait for him to temper his anger. There’s no way in hell we’re not paying this. That’s me. And him. Naked. Having sex. For anyone to watch. Oh my God!

  He doesn’t answer me, just keeps muttering to himse
lf as he paces, working something out in his head. I’d much rather he shares than remain silent. After a few minutes, he waltzes back to the computer and frames his body above mine as he reaches over the back of the chair. “Watch it again.”

  “Did you call the police? Did you—”

  “That’s futile,” he snaps at me. “It’s not our property. Wasn’t stolen from us or our house so it’s not ours to claim.”

  “But it’s us!” I reiterate my voice breaking and eyes widening.

  “Play it again,” he demands, in a voice I’ve only ever heard when he’s at work. It’s the do-not-fuck-with-me tone that tells whoever he’s dealing with to do as he says without question.

  I hesitate, confused as to why he wants to watch it again, prompting him to move his hand over mine on the mouse and click the play button. Our images spring to life once more and again I’m transfixed. It’s like a car accident: I know I need to look away and yet I’m mesmerized. As much as I’m appalled, there is something about watching the two of us together, stepping outside of the moment, and seeing how fluidly we move in sync. Undeniable proof we were meant to be together.

  “CJ believes it,” he murmurs, more talking to himself than to me. I try to follow his train of thought, but replaying it has caused deafening panic to strike again. Every single breath—each thought—takes an enormous amount of effort. How we are going to fix this? “So will everyone else.”

  Exactly, I want to scream at him. Everyone will believe it’s us. How could they not?

  Colton turns my chair around so I’m facing him. “Do you trust me?” he asks, and I’m already shaking my head no because that gleam in his eye means he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear. And God yes, I trust him, but this isn’t a normal, “can you trust me?” type of question. “CJ watched this. He believed what they said.”

  “Huh?” I’m not following him.

  “Don’t you get it, Ry? They have no clue the woman is you. Your face . . . it’s not identifiable in one single frame.”