“Maybe I need to join the gym,” she grins mischievously. “I could use more stamina myself,” she winks.
I laugh and simply nod, mainly because I don't want her to elaborate on why she needs that stamina. Not when I'm walking into my boyfriend's apartment to insist that he impregnate me. That mental picture could make my eggs crawl back up the Fallopian tube and never come out again.
Bobby forgot to lock his door again, I think as I shake my head and walk in. After I drop my bag on the couch, I walk down the hall toward his bedroom. When I approach the partially closed door, I hear the unmistakable sounds that alert me Bobby's not here alone. My heart pounds, my hands shake, and my palms are already sweaty as I push the door open wide enough for me to walk through it.
My whole world is crashing down around me as I watch while my boyfriend of seven years fucks my best friend of thirteen years. His bare ass is on display in front of me, and everything seems to happen in slow motion. I can't look away from this scene, regardless of how loudly my brain screams for me to leave. His arm wraps around the back of her knee as he pushes it toward her head and drives his cock in deeper. She screams in ecstasy, and then he joins her in their sexual bliss.
“I'm coming,” he says huskily. “I'm all inside you. Can you feel how hot it is?”
Apparently, that's exactly what I need to hear to jolt me out of this trance.
“You. Fucking. Bastard!” I scream at him.
Bobby jumps to the side, rolls off my ex-best friend, Cyndi, and gives me the most pathetic look I've ever seen on a man. His face is scrunched up, like he's the one in pain, and he holds his hands out in front of him wordlessly in mock surrender. Cyndi scrambles to grab the sheet and pulls it up over her naked body.
“You. Fucking. Slut!” I roar at her. “Traitorous slut and slimy bastard.”
They both look down.
“How long?” I ask.
“Layne, please—,” Cyndi starts.
“How. Long?” I demand.
“About three months,” Bobby admits.
“I'm so sorry, Layne. We never meant for this to happen,” Cyndi cries and a tear rolls down her cheek.
Crocodile tears are the first words that come to my mind. “How could you?” I spew out at them.
Bobby grabs his shorts off the floor, jerks them on, and approaches me cautiously. “Layne, just listen, okay? Please.”
“Why should I listen to anything either of you has to say? My boyfriend of seven years, who has been trying to get me pregnant for the past two years, and my best friend of thirteen years, are fucking each other. And you think I should listen? Have you lost your damn minds?” I yell.
“We both love you, Layne. It happened once when Brett and I broke up, and I was so upset. Bobby just comforted me, and one thing led to another. We tried to stay away from each other, but we're in love,” she explains with a single shoulder shrug.
My heart is being scooped out of my chest with a spoon. My eyes fly to Bobby's, waiting for him to confirm it. He doesn't look as convinced about the love part as Cyndi does. “Well, isn't that just sweet of Bobby to comfort-fuck you so you'll forget all about your boyfriend? Guess he literally screwed your brains out, because you forgot about your best friend, too.”
“Layne, you don’t understand. I'm—,” Cyndi starts.
“No!” Bobby cuts her off.
“You're what?” I narrow my eyes and draw my hands into fists.
“I'm pregnant,” she whispers. “It's Bobby's.”
I’ve heard of out-of-body experiences, but I’ve always thought that was impossible. It was more likely that the person had a very realistic dream while in a stressful situation and automatically believed it really happened to them.
That’s a logical explanation, right?
That’s not what I’m having right now. I’m fully awake. I’ve heard some use the phrase “saw red” to describe their extreme rage. I’m definitely not seeing anything red.
“Blind rage” is another term I’ve heard thrown around. I’ve never been so mad, so hurt, and so upset that I’ve literally been blinded by it all. That is, I’d never experienced it until the moment my ex-best friend said she’s pregnant with my ex-boyfriend’s baby. In that very second, I lost all capability for rational thought, intelligent discussion, or peaceful resolution.
My sports-nut-turned-chef ex-dick keeps sports memorabilia all around his apartment. His choice of decorations was frequently a sore spot whenever we even mentioned living together. His inability to leave his inner-teen decorating preferences behind him worked out well for me. He’d won a hard plastic New York Yankees bat in a radio contest, and it was one of his prized possessions. He had it prominently displayed on a shelf in his bedroom.
Right behind my head.