Sunshine leaks past the blackout curtains, casting a spotlight across the sheets. It makes the entire bed glow like a halo orbiting the floor, but it’s too bright for this cheap hangover, so I bury my head in the pillow. Then I stretch my arm and smooth it over the cold space occupying the other side. It’s become a subconscious ritual over the last eight months. For twelve years I shared a bed with someone, so out of habit I still sleep on the left side. Maybe one day I’ll be adventurous and sleep in the middle? But, it won’t be today.
Sometimes I forget I’m alone and reach for her, but end up grasping air.
Most people laugh when I say my wife left me for another woman, but I don’t care about that part. I care that she lied—broke my trust, but most importantly, I care that she fractured my heart with gorilla-like strength and didn’t seem to give two shits about it.
Because of her, I put up walls around myself. If the woman you love can deceive you, then anyone can.
The only person I tell this to is Gwen. She’s a doctor, so she’s safe. Anyone else would smack me on the back of the head and tell me to man-up. I’m supposed to be macho, right?
Groaning, I roll over and stare at the ceiling while drumming my abdomen. The night before was crazy. Angie is wild, but I like it, and I keep asking myself if I heard her correctly? Killing our exes. What a joke, right? Glancing at the clock, it’s almost time to meet her, so up and at ‘em, I go! This body won’t wash itself.
By the time I arrive at the coffee shop, I’m perfumed and looking good in the reflection of the glass. Before stepping inside, I smooth the sides of my hair and walk into the invisible cloud of roasting coffee beans. Steam is rising from an espresso machine behind the counter and the familiar gurgle of brown liquid expelling into a paper cup swims through my ears—heightening my need for its warmth—the wake-me-up I desperately need after last night.
Then I see her sitting in the corner to my right.
The scuffed wood floor squawks beneath my converse. Angie is different in daylight—gorgeous without makeup smeared on her face like bird shit. The soggy hair is now a voluminous veil of curls sweeping her shoulders. She leans forward at the round table, a cup pressed to her lips, and winks. The cleavage peeking out of the deep V on her light pink sweater has me zeroing in and my feet following the imaginary line leading to her. A faint smile tugs at my mouth as I pull out the chair with a screech to take a seat. Just one look at her and I’ve forgotten I’m hungover.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” She bobs her brows.
“So last night, huh?”
“What about last night?” Angie leans back, crossing one thigh over the other. She must live in mini skirts, but I’m not mad at it. Those toned legs can wrap around me any time.
“Everything,” I lean in, whispering. “But especially that stuff you said while blowing me. That was a joke, right?”
“No.” She sips her coffee.
“Angie...” I tilt my head, smirking, but she stares back at me without blinking.
“We can help each other.”
“Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“My head is clearer than it’s ever been, Romeo. My ex is a piece of shit, and from the sound of it, so is everyone’s in that support group. Aren’t you tired of this divorce battle and having your ex use your job against you?”
“It’s not my real job. I only work at the club for extra cash.”
“And yet, she’s using it against you.”
“Well, I did smash my fist through her girlfriend’s glass coffee table a month ago, so yeah, I can see why she’s scared of me.”
“She’s a bitch.”
“Easy.” I hold up my hands. “She’s a lot of things, but I’m not gonna sit here with a stranger and let you trash her. You know nothing about my ex-wife.”
“Well, this stranger who sucked the ever-loving cum from your dick last night, knows more than you think.”
We have a five-second stare-down and then I sit back, causing my eyes to shift to the table. Scratches are all over this thing. Some are deep, others superficial, and someone carved a heart with two initials in the center. Cute, but at this moment, I don’t feel cute. I feel like the deep grooves collecting grime from spilled coffee and sticky snacks.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to help me kill my ex—”
“Jesus!” My eyes dart around. “Will you lower your voice?”
“And then I’ll help you kill yours,” she continues at the same octave as before.
“No. In fact, hell no. You’re fucking crazy!”
“Fine. I didn’t want to do this, but since you’re being a little pussy...” She twists at the waist, reaching into the purse by her feet, and then slaps a manila folder onto the table. I flinch. “My source dug up dirt on your ex-wife. I don’t think you’ll like her quite as much after reading this.”
“I’m not opening that.”
“You’re really gonna do this the hard way, huh?”
“No. What I’m going to do is get up, and walk away because this is bullshit. Thanks for the BJ, but you’re a fucking psycho.”
The chair screeches as I stand and distance myself from the hot mess in the pink sweater, but then I hear her.
“Back in 2009, your wife had an abortion. Did you know that?”
My feet freeze and a sensation like glacier water flushes through my veins, down to my feet. Staring at the glass door, the exit inches from reach, I find myself recalling that year. Celia had gotten sick from a bad stomach bug and I remember it vividly because just a week prior we talked about trying for kids. Her demeanor was cold during the discussion. She wanted to focus on her career for a few more years, but I felt we were ready to expand our family. Then she got sick and was nauseous, puking...
I shake my head. Maybe I have it wrong?
“Want to know who went with her to the clinic?” Angie continues. “Her best friend. You know, the one who’s her girlfriend now.”
I spin on my heels, facing her, and she has the manila folder open on the table, casually flipping through it. If I wasn’t such a gentleman, I’d slap the fuck out of her.
“There’s more.” She looks up and shuts the folder. “Your ex is a piece of shit. She didn’t just have one abortion. She had another in 2012, but the kicker is, she banged a guy at a bar just a few months prior, so the baby probably wasn’t even yours.”
A sharp breath stabs the inside of my lungs, and my fists are clenched so tight I might break my damn fingers.
“You’re a liar.”
“It’s all right here, cariño. She even got an IUD after that, but I’m guessing you didn’t know.” She slides the folder across the table with her index finger—the red nail polish still chipped. “I know you’re mad, but your anger is in the wrong direction right now. I’m not your enemy. Your ex Hija-de-Puta is.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll leave this here for you.” Angie stands and smooths down her black leather mini skirt. My inside are broiling, yet I can’t move as she struts up to me, pats my chest, and whispers in my ear, “Call me when you’re ready.”
The glass door bangs closed after a few seconds, but the manila folder is louder than anything in the coffee shop. I don’t even feel the ground as my Chucks pull me towards it. My knuckles are numb as they scrape the table and clutch the dirty documents. They disappear into my moto jacket, and I walk out of the stuffy place as if I’m surfacing water after a deep dive.
What can of worms did Angie just open? But I can’t think about that now. There’s a group of middle-aged women I have to coach at the gym.
Fishing for the keys, I hop onto my motorcycle and peel the hell out of this nightmare.
YOU ARE READING
The Divorcee Murder Club
Mystery / Thriller𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐎𝐧𝐞 | 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐇𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 It's all fun and games until someone suggests killing each other's spouses for revenge. Miguel Gomez is your average disgruntled divorcée attending a support group in San Francisco to cope...
