Midnight Mass (Camren)

CHAPTER 7

On a good day, it takes about ninety minutes to get from our townhouse to the new flagship Cabello Studio in Manhattan. And when it comes to New Jersey traffic, it's rarely a good day. So it was three hours past the gala's start time when I finally skidded into the studio, my dress shoes sliding against the smooth wood floors as I made for the event space in the open loft above the main studio room.

I'd tried calling Camila on my way home, and then again several times on the way there, and there'd been no answer. No answer to my texts either, and that was how I knew.

She was furious with me.

But there was a baby! My mind protested, as if she were already arguing with me. You can't be mad at a baby!

Once she would let me explain everything, it would be fine. I was sure of it.

I just had to find her first.

The gala was still in full swing. The stars twinkled in the many large skylights above. Tipsy donors danced as a band jazzed their way through Gershwin; waiters circulated with endless rounds of drinks; people chatted and laughed on the edges of the dance floor. I searched frantically for Camila, pushing past the guests as gently as I could, even though I felt like punching my way through the crowd. I had to find her, I had to explain why I was late, late even though she had explicitly explained to me how important it was that I support her tonight.

Shit.

I'd really fucked up this time.

I caught a glimpse of bright red lace out of the corner of my eye, and I swiveled on my heel, seeking it out. And then there she was, hair swept high off her neck, a small cross hanging in the dip of her collarbone. The dress plunged to a low, lacy neckline, showing off the uppermost curves of her perfect tits, and while the lace flounced out into a tea-length skirt, the nude-colored sheath under it stopped mid-thigh. Metallic gold heels and that emblematic crimson lipstick completed the look. For a moment, all the blood went from my brain to my dick, and my tuxedo pants became entirely too tight. I'd love to fuck her in all that lace. I'd love for her to spread those shiny heels while I knelt in front of her and lifted her skirt, and then I'd eat her pussy right where she stood.

I smoothed my jacket down and subtly adjusted myself as I moved forward, and then I stopped. Camila had so arrested my thoughts that I hadn't noticed whom she was standing next to. Not just standing next to—she had her arm around his waist and his arm was strung casually over her shoulders, a lingering side-hug as they laughed with a pair of donors and she gestured with her champagne glass.

Anger balled in my stomach, anger that I had no right to feel, but felt anyway. Here I was on the spiral again, except I couldn't be scholarly or enlightened about my continuing struggles with jealousy, not now. Not with Fucking Anton touching my wife so casually, so familiarly, as if they held each other like this all the time.

As I started walking again, my hands practically burning with the urge to throttle Anton, I remembered a picture from my children's bible growing up. It was an illustration of Jesus chasing the moneylenders and merchants out of the Temple courts, one hand scattering a pile of coins to the ground while the other was raised high. In that hand, he'd held a whip poised to rain brutality on the defilers who'd polluted the most sacred space in Jerusalem. There had been overturned tables and broken stools and people fleeing and scattering, and all of that sounded exactly like what I wanted right now. To be flipping tables and lashing out in anger, to drive away the bastard who was touching my wife—my sacred space. 

Camila turned to say something to one of the donors and then froze as she caught sight of me stalking toward her. Several emotions flitted across her face—shock and anger and relief and worry—and then her good-breeding and expensive education whirred to life, replacing her raw expression with a controlled and elegant mask.