As soon as I closed the front door, I scrambled to the office.
It didn’t take me long to confirm what I already knew. I paid the house bills, but the bank paid for Scott’s cell phone. A quick call to May, Scott’s assistant at Caddo Bank and Loan, got me his account number. The next call to AT&T landed me a chatty rep who helped me into the iCloud. And since Scott frequently used the same password, SCOTTGOLF1, so I could log on to our household accounts, I easily accessed his texts for the past month. The dumb butt had been sexting one Stephanie Brooks. The same Stephanie Brooks I wrote a monthly check to at the country-club tennis center for Julia Kate’s lessons. No mistaking things like “I’ve been dreaming of your lips” and “What are you wearing?” as convo about Julia Kate’s tennis stroke.
What I had thought was an inordinate interest in sharing his passion for tennis with his thirteen-year-old daughter was actually Scott sharing himself with the bouncy Stephanie.
Or maybe he wasn’t sleeping with her yet—those texts could be simple flirting. I just couldn’t reconcile Scott with a guy who slept with his daughter’s tennis coach. It seemed so far-fetched.
But Scott was at the very least entertaining the idea of jumping the net to a younger, hotter option.
My first inclination was to drive down to the club, pull out a racket, and beat the ever-lovin’ crap out of that little bitch. All those times she’d chirped hello and talked about how much Julia Kate had improved her backhand, smiling into my eyes, suggesting I consider taking lessons, too. The woman had to have balls of steel under her tennis skirt, though how she hid them under something that short was beyond me.
My second inclination was to call the dirtiest divorce attorney in Shreveport and make Scott wish he’d never been born.
My third inclination actually happened. I dropped to my knees on the new carpet I had put in last January and shattered like a snow globe tossed onto cold marble. The slivers of my self-worth glittered and throbbed. I was doomed to never be whole again. I cried until my head hurt, curled into a ball, Pippa sitting beside me looking helpless and reluctant to make eye contact. But she stayed, sinking onto her haunches with a sigh that mirrored the desolation inside me.
And at that moment, I didn’t regret giving in when Julia Kate had begged for a puppy. As much as I bellyached about feeding, bathing, and cleaning up after her, Pippa beside me, a stalwart friend seemingly sympathetic to my sobbing, was better than having a hamster . . . which is the pet I had countered Julia Kate with. And speaking of Julia . . . my poor baby girl. Her daddy was a lowlife. We’d both been duped by him.
After a good thirty minutes of ugly self-pity, I struggled to my feet and walked to the bedroom I shared with Scott. What else was he hiding? I knew he was texting inappropriate things, but what more did I not know about the man I slept beside?
That’s how I had found the box under his unused chukkas in his closet.
Sucking in a breath, I unfolded the flaps and looked at the package inside. It took me a minute to comprehend the fuzzy ears and the bushy tail. What? A Halloween costume? What in the world . . .
And then I saw a tube of something and lifted it.
Anal numbing gel.
I squinted at the label before darting my gaze back at that bushy foxtail. The end of the tail was a rubbery triangle thing. My eyes widened as I realized what I was looking at.
A butt plug.
I threw the tube of lube onto the tail, shoved the whole shebang into the box, and folded the flaps, all the while making little eep noises because . . . ugh.
And then I remembered last year when Scott had asked me to look online at some sex toys. He’d been thinking we needed to up our game and experiment in the bedroom. He’d mentioned some ring things and a butt plug. Or was that anal beads? No matter. I had nipped that idea before it could bloom into something that kept me from sitting for a week. It was fine for some, but a no-go for me.
I backed out of the closet, wondering what this find meant. Had he bought that months ago hoping I would change my mind, or was he experimenting with the tennis pro? The seal on the tube of lube had been broken, and one of the foxy ears was bent. The image of Stephanie’s foxtail swishing beneath her tennis skirt flashed in my mind, and I bit my knuckles as tears gathered on my lashes.
Oh God.
Not only was Scott cheating on me, but he was playing weird sex games with things that seemed, well, very uncomfortable.
A sob emerged as I caught my expression in the bathroom mirror.
Stupid woman.
Hysteria began to burble up inside me. I pressed my hands against my eyes and panted like a wounded animal. Not a fox. No. But some other wounded creature. Another sob tore loose before I muttered, “No . . . no . . . no.”
And as I said those words, something inside me stilled. Deep down under all the hurt and shock was an ice-riddled part of my heart that whispered, “Keep your head, Cricket.”
I dropped my hands, lifted my chin, stared at myself in the mirror.
With resolve.
With the first flickering of anger.
This calculating coolness came from my mother. My mother always did the correct thing. She lived by unwritten rules. Heck, she even embraced the written ones, which is why she fussed when I went over the speed limit. But she also knew how to control her emotions and evaluate a situation with a levelheadedness that made her a force to be reckoned with. She was a pain in my ass, but she’d modeled composure her entire life. Now I needed to draw on what my formidable mother had taught me.
Scott would be home in an hour or so.
He didn’t need to know that I knew anything about him, Stephanie, and his potential foxy frolicking. I wasn’t exactly certain that he’d gotten totally physical with the woman, but all signs pointed in that direction. I also wasn’t sure how to confront him. Or if I should confront him. Or if I should just go ahead and smother him in his sleep. But one thing was certain—things were about to change.
And not for the better.
Damn it.
CHAPTER FOUR
CRICKET
Five days later
“Do you have a car phone charger by chance?” Ruby asked as she rooted around on the floorboard of the 1977 Spider Veloce that had belonged to my grandmother. Sue Ellen Sutton had bought the convertible right after I was born, the day she’d moved her home for battered women—some of whom, yes, were ladies of the night—to a bigger house closer to downtown. As a philanthropist and one of Shreveport’s five feminists, my grandmother Sue saw the swaggy car as a symbol of what a woman of the 1970s could be—independent, modern . . . and windblown.
She’d driven it every day to Printemps.
I, on the other hand, rarely drove the car because it was a stick shift and made me feel conspicuous with all the bright red and zippiness. Besides, my van had air-conditioning and lumbar support so . . .