Double, Dabble, Toil and Travel

Chapter One.

Chapter One.

THE DAY MY HUSBAND’S d**k disappeared was the worst day of my life. And consequently... the worst day of his.

It was one of those days when you just knew, as soon as you opened your eyes, the best option was to pull the duvet over your head and go back to sleep. One of those mornings when your alarm doesn’t go off because you didn’t plug your cell phone in overnight and the battery died. When your favorite blouse is in the wash, and the coffee cart you rely on to keep you functional through the day has moved to a new corner.

When everything in you screams something is wrong, that something terrible is going to happen... and then it does.

I was fired. For what? For being old, basically. For not being “the face” they wanted on the front desk anymore. For being too expensive. Despite the fact I was f*****g good at my job; I’m not a size six anymore. Not that I ever was. And it was hardly my fault that I was at the top of the pittance of a pay scale because I’d given the company twenty years of my life.

So, after saying goodbye to the few colleagues I got along with, I went home with severance pay to cushion the blow, and a pain in my gut the size of Nantucket.

My husband’s car sat in the driveway, but it always did. He ran his own business, mostly from the comfort of our large home. I was glad to see he hadn’t left to go to a meeting, or play golf, or whatever else he did during the day. I needed a shoulder to cry on, or at least a friendly face to tell me everything was going to be okay. We hadn’t been getting along the last few years, but with both of our daughters off to college now, I was determined to get our marriage back on track.

Perhaps there was a silver lining to being forty-nine and job-less. I’d have time to do all the things my husband valued. Keep the house clean, meals on the table, and maybe I’d get back into the gym.

Harry did prefer me when I was a little slimmer.

When I lifted my arm and slid my purple house key into the lock, that familiar click sounded and I shivered, a wave of premonition moving over me.

I’m not superstitious, nor do I usually follow the strange gut instincts I get more often that I can count. But as I jiggled the key, because the lock needs an adjustment and my husband is too lazy to fix it, a feeling of pure, icy dread began to drown me.

There was something going on inside my house. And somehow I just knew it was bad. I couldn’t see anything unusual. There wasn’t any unusual smells like fire, sounds like a robbery, and yet... every instinct inside me screamed at me to get away.

I inhaled sharply, my belly trembling. Should I run or stay to find out what was going?

Run....

Could it be a burglary? Or was my husband lying on the tiles with a twisted ankle? Had he slipped getting out of the shower? His knee was dodgy after so many years of playing football.

Could one of the girls be home from college, crying at the kitchen table, heartbroken, needing me?

The image of one of my daughters sitting at the table with a box of tissues and tear-streaked cheeks made me twist the key that final half-turn, then push the door open.

“Honey, I’m hom...” My gaze met a pair of knickers, casually thrown on the bottom step of my staircase.

They were black. They were made of lace. And they weren’t mine.

The only sound in our house was the ticking on the wall clock that hung in the hallway. I was afraid to move.

A deep, erotic moan travelled down the stairs, settling over me like a filthy blanket.

I glanced up at the ceiling. Directly above my head was my bedroom, where I’d spent the past twenty-four years trying to love my husband, and obviously failing.

Placing my work bag down on the floor next to the front door, I then carefully dropped my keys into the folds of the black leather of the satchel. I didn’t want them—whoever they were—to hear me.

My stomach churned, almost causing bile to rise to my throat when another moan and sharp gasp travelled the stairwell. I needed to see what was going on, though a part of me screamed, “Run, run away. You don’t need to do this.”

But I crept forward anyway, unwilling, and unable to run away from whatever truth was about to be revealed. My heart pounded with a sickening beat, but I kept moving.

Placing one foot on the bottom stair, I began to climb, careful to avoid each spot where the wood made a habit of creaking under foot. We’d lived in this huge house for over twenty years, I knew every c***k, crevice, and creak.

One step, then another. I slid my hand along the banister and held tight, hoping I didn’t faint before I reached the top of the staircase. The sounds of s*x grew louder. That or someone was having a loud temper tantrum, or panic attack. I suppose either was possible. Technically.

My stomach twisted so tightly I glanced toward the bathroom; was I going to be sick? My heart wouldn’t stop pounding no matter how many deep breaths I took.

The roar of blood in my ears was so insistent, even the thumping of the headboard against the wall was becoming hard to hear.

Finally reaching my closed bedroom door, I paused. My hands shook and my spine tingled with another premonition. I didn’t want to see what was behind that door. I wasn’t sure I could take it.

I swallowed hard, my throat swollen from swallowing the screams that erupted from my heart. I don’t want to do this.

A loud male groan broke my hesitation. I knew that sound too well.

I grabbed the doorknob, twisted, and pushed the door open.

“Janie!” Harry yelled out, sitting up like an obscene jack in the box behind a real-life Barbie doll. “What are you doing home?”

My mouth dropped.

Harry, my fifty-year-old, lazy, boring husband was tied—yes, tied—to our wooden bedhead. With red rope if I wasn’t mistaken.

On top of his c**k, riding backwards cowgirl was the Barbie, twisted satisfaction on her face at being busted.

“Oops,” the girl said, still rocking her hips over Harry.

And when I say she was a girl, I do mean girl. The blonde haired, tiny-titted, naked... person, had to be no older than twenty-one. Maybe. For his sake, I hoped she was older than she looked.

She slid off Harry’s rather deflated c**k and grabbed for the black dress lying next to the bed—no c****m, either. I covered my mouth with my hand to stop the bile that rose; I didn’t want to vomit on my new carpet.

He better not have given me anything.

My gaze flicked to her, anger bubbling inside my stomach like I’d never felt before. But I wasn’t going to make the mistake that everyone else seemed to do in every film I’d ever watched. I was not going to blame the no-brain chick for this. No. My anger was going straight to the person who deserved it. To the man I’d been married to for twenty-four years.

“Get out,” I spat at her, clenching my fingers into tight fists. “And take your knickers with you.”

“My...” She glanced around, pushing her long blonde hair out of her face.

Damn it... Harry always said he didn’t like women who wore too much makeup, but this chick looked like she owned shares in plaster-of-Paris.

“They’re on the bottom step. Downstairs,” I ground out between my clenched teeth. What sort of woman didn’t know where her f*****g knickers were? “Get out of my house.”

She shrugged, slipped the dress over her gorgeous but-too-thin body, then made to walk past me.

I reached out and grabbed her by the arm. She flinched and cried out, as if I was going to hit her.

I rolled my eyes but didn’t let go. “Calm your farm, you stupid half-wit. How long’s this been going on for?”

I didn’t really want to know anything else. Who she was... If they were in love... I just wanted to know how long I’d been this stupid for.

“Janie,” Harry started saying from the bed, “you really don’t need to—”

I shot him my best “don’t f**k with me” glare before focusing back on the beady-eyed girl.

“Um... A year or so. Maybe more,” she said, now trembling in my grip.

A year. Maybe more.

I released her arm, as if she’d burned me, then spun around to face my husband. The father of my children. The man who I’d fully expected to love until my dying day.

How quickly plans change.

The girl my husband had been f*****g, ran off with a soft shriek, her footfalls on the stairs quick and clumsy before the front door slammed.

I closed my eyes to try and get control of myself, a wave of nausea swimming up from my stomach. I am not going to be sick. I am not going to be sick.

Opening my eyes again, I crossed my arms over my heaving chest and swallowed hard. This was a day out of my worst nightmares. But I would conduct myself with aplomb.

“Harry,” I began to say.

“Hey, could you untie me?”

My mouth dropped open. “Did you just interrupt me?”

He opened his mouth to reply, then he paused and seemed to actually think about his response.

Good boy.

He shook his head. “No, I didn’t. Please continue.”

I wasn’t going to untie him. I liked him like that. n***d. Vulnerable. And probably a little afraid.

Everything I was feeling inside.

“Harry. When did this start happening?”

“This... being...” He swallowed hard.

I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingertips, “Dear lord, please don’t tell me there’s more than one.”

“More than one, what?” he asked.

I pointed toward the door and screamed, “More than one woman you’re f*****g behind my back!” My eye twitched. It felt good to yell like that, but it kinda hurt my head at the same time.

Pressing my fingers into my temples, I rubbed in circles. Damn it. Why was I still wearing my stupid corporate gear? I hated these clothes.

I kicked off my black high heels, my chronically sore feet sinking into the soft carpet, then I pulled at the pins and elastics that held my long, straight hair up into a high bun. I groaned with relief as it tumbled down and I ran my hands through the strands, shaking them out so that my headache eased. “That’s better.”

Then I looked back at my husband, still tied up, n***d, and squirming like a fish on a hook.

I paced along the carpet. “So, is she the first?”

“Ah...”

“I’ll take that as a no.” I inhaled sharply. “Next question. When were you going to tell me? Or were you just hoping to keep cheating, behind my back, forever?”

He glanced to the side, looking up at his bound hand, then pulled hard, as though that would do something.

I laughed. “I’m assuming that child you were screwing knows her way around a rope, so I don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “She’s not a child. She’d twenty-six.”

I grinned, loving that angry Harry was coming out. Angry Harry was an asshole.

“Really? You could have fooled me. She looked younger than Tiffany.”

Our eldest daughter was twenty-two.

“Look, Janie, untie me and I’ll answer whatever questions you want.”

“Um...” I pretended to think about it for a minute by tapping my chin with my finger. “No. You’re a cheater, and a bastard, and I think I’ll just leave you there until you s**t the bed. Because as far as our marriage is concerned, you already have.”

“Janie...” he growled at me, lowering his eyebrows.

I put both hands up. “Fine, you know what? I’ll untie you, then we can sit down and work out the financial settlement, and divorce, and all the fun things people our age seem to need to do to occupy our time. But first, you’re gonna tell me the truth.”

He still frowned at me, but since his cell phone was way out of reach, he said, “The truth about what?”

“About us. Why this happened, Harry. Why’d you go off and stick your d**k in someone else? I never did anything to you.”

He huffed and rolled his eyes, as if I was the one being unreasonable. I’d seen that look a hundred times over the past twenty-four years, and I was done with it. Done.

“Harry!” I yelled, more frustrated now. “Tell me the truth!”

He shook his head, as though talking to himself and blocking me at every turn. How was it possible he was still retaining all control and being totally self-righteous, even though he was the one in the wrong?

Well, two could play that game.

I got out my phone, opened the camera app, then started taking photos. “That’s one for Tiffany. One for your mom—”

“What the hell are you doing?”

I didn’t stop clicking. “One for Facebook... Does i********: like d**k pics? Probably not.”

Harry tugged the ropes with both arms. “Listen, you stuck up bitch.”

“Oooh.” I grinned, my heart thumping too loudly again. “That sounds like you want to talk.”

“You better not show those pictures to anyone!”

“Why not? The girls should know what sort of man their father is.”

“The sort of man... you drove me to this! If you were half the wife you said you’d be when we got married, I wouldn’t have to go out for s*x. I’d be able to get everything I need at home. Instead, I’m stuck with your frigid ass.”

“Frigid?” I repeated, gawking at him. “Are you f*****g serious?”

I’d bought s*x toys, revealing lingerie, even handcuffs. And they’d sat in the drawer gathering dust for years. He didn’t want to have s*x with me, and hadn’t, in a very long time.

“Yes, I’m serious!” He yanked at his bound wrists again. “This is all your fault. Why didn’t you just stay at f*****g work?” He groaned and threw himself back against the headboard, as if I was the worst person on the planet. As if I was the one who’d ruined his life. Wow!

“Now untie me, you crazy, fat cow!” he yelled to the ceiling, shaking his arms like he was rattling chains, “so I can move on with my life and finally stop pretending I want to be with you!”

I don’t really know what happened next. In retrospect, I only remember flashes of it. Lightning in the room. Anger rolling through my blood like a storm whipping my body. Screaming.

His screams. Not mine.

Then I had to untie the bastard. Because his d**k fell off.