CHAPTER FOUR
Brian
I wasn’t exactly the bravest dude that night. After watching Jed fuck our intern, I didn’t hang out long at the office. What I’d just done and my resulting emotions were a whirl of confusion, and I couldn’t process them all, it was too fucking messed up. After all, I’m the alpha male, so what the fuck was I thinking? I’ve banged dozens of women, I’ve made them weep, get on their knees and beg me for more, offering their pussies, their asses, any holes available, and yet here I was dreaming about a man.
So yeah, after the little interlude, I beat feet, grabbing my keys and getting into the Maserati, heading home with a vroom. I swear, I could hear Jed laughing as I zoomed out of the parking lot, I could hear that low, knowing chuckle, making my skin tingle, my dick jerk reflexively.
And it pissed me off. Here I am, master of the universe, rich as fuck, and yet absolutely miserable. I have money in gobs, and it does nothing. I have a beautiful wife, but she’s got a heart as black as coal. I’ve got a thriving law practice, and it gives me no real satisfaction. I love my work but shit, seventy hours a week, every week? And what the fuck was I gonna do now? Where was I gonna go? All I wanted to do was fuck my law partner, so suddenly work seemed dangerously off limits.
Growling, I let myself in the front door with a slam, uncaring that Hannah was probably sleeping upstairs. God knows that woman had probably knocked herself out with all sorts of meds, she wasn’t gonna wake up even if Hurricane Sandy itself came calling. And stomping upstairs, I threw myself onto the couch, jerking my tie lose, big form sprawling carelessly across the upholstery. Fuck fuck fuck! I didn’t want to think about it and switched on the TV, letting the white noise drown out my thoughts, putting me to sleep.
But a sudden bang woke me. What the fuck, was that a gunshot? Startled, my big form jerked upright on the couch, looking around. And sure enough, the sharp raps came again. Oh fuck, oh fuck, it was the front door. What the hell? What was going on? I looked at my watch and saw that it was four a.m., never a great time for someone to be knocking.
Stumbling downstairs, I wrenched the heavy oak open, to reveal to cops in uniforms, expressions sober.
“Mr. Jones?” one asked. “Are you Brian Jones?”
I rubbed my face blearily, scrubbing my features.
“Yeah, so what,” I grunted. “What’s this about,” I growled, more of a statement than a question.
The cop whipped out his notebook.
“Are you the spouse of Hannah Evelyn Jones?”
“Yeah,” I said in a surly manner. “She’s upstairs sleeping. Why? What is this about?”
I must have looked like an angry bear, expression dark, my suit rumpled. But evidently the police have done this before because he launched right into it.
“Mr. Jones,” Cop One said, “We regret to inform you but your wife was found deceased earlier tonight. Your wife, Hannah Jones, was found deceased at 324 Lynwood Avenue.”
My brows lowered. What the fuck? Where was that? The cop read my mind because he said, “324 Lynwood Avenue is also the address of the Courtside Country Club. Do you belong to the club?”
I squinted, disbelieving, not hearing his words.
“I’m sorry,” I said slowly. “Did I hear you right? Hannah’s dead? What the fuck are you talking about? She’s upstairs right now, sleeping in her own bed. What the fuck?”
But evidently, the police have heard denials before, and both their heads shook slowly, pity in their eyes.
“Mr. Jones,” the second cop tried this time. “Your wife, Hannah Jones, was found deceased at the Courtside Club at 324 Lynwood, just a couple blocks away. Now are you and your family a member of the club? Does Courtside sound familiar to you?”
I shook my head, everything still in a blur.
“Well yeah, I guess,” I grunted, still squinting. “But what does that have to do with anything? We have a membership and I never used it, Hannah went to get massages sometimes, maybe take some tennis lessons and hang out by the pool.”
Both cops paused then, still standing on the stoop.
“Mr. Jones,” began Cop Two again. “Your wife was found deceased in the presence of Jorge Ramirez, Courtside’s resident tennis pro.”
Still, I didn’t get it.
“So, like I said, she goes there for tennis lessons. Who is this Jorge dude?”
Both cops looked at me, this time choosing their words carefully.
“Your wife was found nude in the men’s locker room with Mr. Ramirez at her side,” he said. “Mr. Ramirez is the one who made the call to 9-1-1.”
Now things were starting to penetrate the fog of my brain.
“Give me just one sec,” I said. “Hold on, give me just one sec.”
I shut the door in their faces and pounded up the stairs, sure that Hannah’s sleeping form would be there under the covers. But when I threw open the double doors to her suite, it was empty, the bed still made, satin coverlet untouched. What the hell? I stormed to her bathroom, flinging the door open, and even checked her walk-in closet. What the hell, where was she?
And pounding through the house, I barreled into every room, even checking the garage. Sure enough, Hannah’s car was missing, the cute little pink Mini wasn’t in its allotted space. What the fuck? I roared, rage flooding my brain. So there was truth to the officers’ words, my wife had been at the country club at all hours while I worked, seeing her tennis pro for some reason or other.
And slowly, I opened the front door again, my face a mask of livid anger.
“What the hell,” I rumbled ominously. “What the hell.”
Both officers jumped in then.
“Sir, we can’t presume anything,” they said. “But it’s my duty to let you know that Mr. Ramirez made the call to 9-1-1, and your wife was found nude on the floor of the men’s locker room.”
I paused for a moment, chest growing tight.
“Where in the locker room?” I grunted.
Both police officers didn’t answer for a second.
“In the men’s shower,” said Cop One, as business-like as possible. “She and Mr. Ramirez were in the shower.”
The full import of his words struck me then. Hannah had been banging her tennis instructor on the side like bored housewives do. It was stupid, so ludicrous, like straight out of some bad movie. As Mr. Husband works long hours, bringing home the bacon, spoiled suburban wife goes ape shit and begins banging the help. Sometimes it’s the FedEx guy, sometimes it’s the masseuse, but in this case, it was the Jorge Ramirez, her hot tennis instructor. They’d been fucking in the men’s locker room after hours, probably doing the nasty in the shower with the door locked, Hannah letting that oaf pummel her pussy and ass with his tennis racket. Yeah, my dirty whore of a wife had been getting it on with some poor hapless dude who was putty in her hands, absolutely powerless in the face of a determined, rich older woman.
But instead of feeling betrayed, I felt liberated. A wave of sheer relief coursed over my form, like I’d been freed from a cage, like I was a Jack-In-The-Box who’d sprung out suddenly, able to get some air. Because Hannah had been nothing but a millstone around my neck, and with her gone, a weight had lifted. It’s sad to say this and morbid too, but I was actually kinda happy that my wife had died. Pretty fucked up, right? Under suspicious circumstances sure, but still. The bitch was gone, and I’d had nothing to do with it, my sagging shoulders straightening suddenly, a bounce to my walk once more.
“I’m sorry officers,” I said, my voice low, giving nothing away. “But I’ll need to process this. Can I come to the station tomorrow morning?”
Cop One flipped his notebook such.
“Of course Mr. Jones,” he said respectfully. “We’re sorry for this news, in the middle of the night especially. Please come by at your convenience tomorrow, the sergeant will have more details.”
And slowly, I closed the door after their departing forms. Holy shit, holy shit, this had been the night of nights. I’d lusted after my sister in law, dreaming of Angie’s barely legal teen twat. And then I’d stormed into work, spying on my law partner as he fucked our intern. But instead of being disgusted, I was actually lusting after Jared, wanting the alpha’s dick in me. And now Hannah was dead. Hannah was dead, dead, dead, dead as a doornail, and all I felt was a sense of freedom, that the bitch of a woman was gone. Sure, it sucked that she’d been cheating, but it was all so stupid, so lame and predictable. Of course she’d been cheating, Hannah’s no angel, she was getting cock elsewhere if it wasn’t from me. And wandering slowly up to my study, I let myself in, sitting woodenly on the overstuffed couch, staring at the TV that was still buzzing with tinny voices. Because my life had changed dramatically in one night … and all I could feel was excitement for the next chapter.