I nodded.
“I do love him,” I said confidently. “And this—whatever you’re trying to start—isn’t happening.”
He tilted his head, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Isn’t happening,” he repeated, like the words amused him. “You sure? ’Cause the way you be looking at me says something else.”
“That way I look—” I cut myself off, waving him off. “Don’t even answer that. I don’t want to hear what your crazy ass has to say.”
“But I want to answer you.” His eyes dropped, tracing the curve of my mouth. “I know hunger when I see it in a woman’s eyes. You want me,” he said.
I stared at him for a full second before shaking my head.
“Goodnight, Ciarán.”
I pushed past him and out the door, dismissing him from my mind. I was ready to go home.
I’d book a flight from Atlanta to Tampa in the morning.
Two- Jordin
It wasn’t until after putting my keys down on the entrance table that the fact there was another car in my driveway, besides my husband’s, at eleven in the morning when he was supposed to be at work, registered to me. He wasn’t supposed to be home and he wasn’t expecting me.
"Oak!" I called his name. When I got no response, I kicked off my shoes, left the foyer, and headed to the living room. It was empty. So was the kitchen. I went back into the living room and froze because why was there a pair of red bottoms sitting at the foot of my stairs? They weren’t my shoes.
My heart started pounding in my chest, a sinking feeling taking over me. But I had to be tripping for no reason because Oak—my best friend, my confidant, my world—would not fuck another bitch, let alone fuck one in my house. I made myself give him the benefit of the doubt. I took a deep breath and headed upstairs, each footstep feeling heavier than the last.
The door to our bedroom was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, and my world shattered.
My eyes landed on Oak, lying on his back. His secretary, a petite blonde with fake nails, a fake tan, and fake tits, was straddling him. She was putting her back into riding him, hollering like he was the first big dick she ever had. I don’t know if I made a noise or if he felt me there, but Oak’s eyes opened andwidened as he jumped up, knocking her off of him, pulling the sheet around his waist.
The secretary—Jenny or Janet, some name with a J—looked up from the floor, just as shocked to see me. Why, I didn’t understand, because she was in my house fucking my husband.
The room was a mess, clothes strewn everywhere, the smell of sweat and sex hanging heavy in the air. Oak’s shirt was draped over the lamp, her bra was hanging off the chair, and the bed—her panties were on the floor.
I snapped. I swear I lost my mind. “You motherfucker!” My rage was a live entity, and it took control of me. I didn’t think. I reacted. Oak approached me, palms out, slowly like he was approaching a wild animal. I felt wild. When he got in reaching distance—whap—my fist connected with his face. He staggered back, eyes flashed angry, then the guilt took over. My hand hurt like hell from hitting him, but I wanted to do it again.
“Jordin, please, let me explain!” he begged, but his words were drowned out by the sound of my fists hitting him dead center in his chest. Whap, I hit him in his mouth, and it immediately started leaking blood. Whap, I kicked him in the stomach, my sneaker connecting with a satisfying thud.
Tears were falling down my face, my vision blurry. I felt my heart crack, felt it split right down the middle. The secretary was screaming too loudly to ignore. I heard her start telling someone—probably the 911 operator—to send the police.
I was not built for jail, but I was too far gone to see straight and just walk away before I got in trouble. I swung at my husband’s head. Oak didn’t defend himself. He just stood there, taking it all, like he knew he deserved it. That’s what I had liked about Oak since the beginning—he was rational.
I drew back my fist and punched him in the eye. I knew it had to hurt.
“Jordin, please!” Oak begged, but I didn’t care.
He tried to grab me. I shoved him back, then kicked at his shin as hard as I could. “Fuck,” he cursed and doubled over. He tried to straighten up, but I came at him again, a wild punch landing on his temple. He fell against the bed, and for a second, he looked like he might actually collapse, but he didn’t and I wasn’t done. I kicked him again, in the stomach.
“You make me fucking sick,” I yelled. I wanted him to hurt like I was hurting. I raised my fist again, ready to swing. I heard police radios, then an officer grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides. I tried to break free, kicking out blindly, my heel landing somewhere on Oak’s thigh.
It took another officer to help pull me away from Oak. They cuffed me. Oak, still naked, scrambled to put on boxers, his face a mess, blood red and purple.
“I don’t want to press charges,” Oak pleaded with the officers. “This is between us.” He was using his sophisticated white-man-who-sells-insurance voice.
One of the officers shook his head. “We don’t need you to press charges. We caught her in the act of assaulting you.”
Oak was covered in red marks. He wasn’t exactly pale, but his olive complexion was telling on me.
