The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(61)
“So…are you just going out to dinner?”
He’s focused on rolling up his sleeves, his watch gleaming in the light. At least he’s too cheap to buy a Rolex, so he won’t have women throwing themselves at him for his money.
Everything else, yes. But not money.
He shakes his head. “Simon did the planning, so I doubt it’ll end there.”
His shirt looks soft. If I were a girl seeing him out tonight, I’d walk straight up and run my fingers over it and ask him where he got it. He’d tell me he didn’t remember and ask if I wanted a drink, and I’d smile at him—a small reward for playing along because we’d both know I didn’t give a flying fuck where he bought that shirt.
He catches me watching him and crosses to where I’m standing. “Are you okay?” He tips my chin up as if he’s observing me for signs of illness.
“I’m fine,” I reply, batting his hand away. “But don’t think you get to bring someone home just because you’re paying the rent.”
His eyes brush over my face, searching for something before a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
He grabs his keys, hesitating.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Though I’d be better if I could just find my Tulane sweatshirt.”
“It wasn’t yours anyway.” A hint of a smile creeps onto his face again. “But yeah, it’s a real mystery, that sweatshirt’s disappearance.”
After he leaves, the apartment just seems empty. I change clothes and consider eating my weight in junk food—Lucky Charms, washed down with Doritos and Oreos and maybe some guacamole if I need a vegetable—but I don’t do it. When this pregnancy began, it was like being held hostage by someone or something I didn’t have to listen to. Now, though, the baby matters more to me than anything I crave, so I wind up eating a boring salad, and it sucks that Graham isn’t here to pat me on the head like a child for making a good choice. I’m getting texts from friends and acquaintances about the video, but work is my concern and Graham’s really the only person I want to discuss it with. I guess there are other people I could call—Gemma would bring both guns blazing to that fight, I’m certain—but I know it won’t be the same. She might reassure me, but she won’t be able to comfort me the way he would. No one could.
I put on Bridgerton and turn it off. It’s no fun without Graham there to comment, and I wonder if it’s always going to feel lonely like this after he’s gone.
I thought I loved living alone. I thought I loved being free. Maybe it’s just what I told myself so I wouldn’t get tempted to want anything more.
I wake on Saturday morning and scroll through the texts on my phone. Every friend has seen the video by now and it just makes me wish I’d been doing something slightly more spectacular—some kind of crazy roundhouse kick to fight off an intruder while pulling the baby out. Perhaps a John Wick-style pencil to someone’s eye.
I have no idea why this video is even a thing. Would anyone want to watch a video of a guy catching a frisbee? Because that’s basically what I did, only the frisbee was covered in amniotic fluid and briefly wedged inside a vagina.
Okay, I guess I would watch a video of a guy pulling a frisbee out of a vagina.
I skim through the texts until my eyes catch on an unfamiliar number.
Hi Keeley. My name is Trevor MacNulty. I’m a producer at Mindy and Mills. Hope you don’t mind but I got your number from a mutual friend. Saw your video and would love to talk to you about working together. Please give me a call as soon as possible.
This is it. My shot at fame has arrived at last. I’ll begin as their medical expert before moving onto a show of my own—something where I diagnose really cool, rare skin conditions but with a personal element: viewers will see me in business mode, but also watch me and Rihanna heading to Pilates together, or me and Jennifer Garner making scones in her kitchen.
“Graham!” I scream, running to the kitchen, still clad in my pajamas. “Graham, I’m gonna be rich!”
My words echo in the empty apartment. His door is wide open, the same way it was when he left last night.
I grip the counter, staggered by the unexpected wave of sheer fury sweeping over me.
He stayed out all night. I told him he couldn’t bring someone home and he followed my dictates to the letter and stayed with her instead.
You son of a bitch. You goddamn son of a bitch.
I picture him with someone else, someone more like Anna than me—tall and elegant and, you know, not pregnant, unbuttoning that black shirt he wore. Unbuckling his belt. Him beneath her, allowing her to take charge.
And I hate her, but more than that I hate him. I hate him so fucking much.
I don’t even know why I hate him, and I guess he hasn’t technically done anything wrong, but my thoughts are rage-filled and irrational. I picture kicking him out. Changing the locks, dumping his files and computer outside the door. And he has done something wrong. We are, technically, married.
I pick up the phone, my only goal to actively ruin whatever he currently has going with someone else in whatever way occurs to me. I’ll tell him I’ve gone into labor. Explain THAT to your one-night stand, Graham. But before his phone’s even begun to ring, I see a note he’s stuck to the bananas: At gym. Try not to eat all the fruit while I’m gone.