Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
RIGGS
The Sri Lankan job came and went. I’d spent most of it wondering why the fuck it felt like I was missing an entire limb from my body while taking pictures of mass protests, temples, and ancient ruins. I was preoccupied pretty much the entire time and managed to produce work only by chance. Surprisingly enough, Emmett wasn’t on my ass. Maybe he’d finally found interest in his own miserable existence.
I thought about Charlie often, but rarely with sadness. I preferred to remember him playing in Harlem with kids like he didn’t have a care in the world, even if he knew back then that his days were numbered.
I spent the flight from Bandaranaike Airport to JFK mentally counting all the reasons not to reach out to my wife:
She hasn’t reached out to me
She is busy with her new job (yes, I found her employee page online)
I’m not looking for a serious relationship
She hasn’t reached out to me
Just because she hasn’t touched my money doesn’t mean that she won’t once we get a divorce
She might be back with Cocksucker. In fact, he might be fucking my wife this very minute
SHE HASN’T REACHED OUT TO ME, WHY THE FUCK NOT?
All great, valid reasons. And still, halfway through my journey, I decided to text her.
Riggs: Gonna be in your neck of the woods soon. Drink?
It sounded noncommittal enough. Plus, it was my obligation to check in on her and make sure she was well. I stared at my phone for three minutes straight and, when she didn’t answer, flipped it so I couldn’t see the screen. I browsed the movie channels, looking for a distraction. There was a limit to how pussywhipped I could be. Sitting here pining for her when she could be sitting on Cocksucker’s face was bad form.
An hour after I’d sent the message, I glanced at my phone. No answer. Two hours. Three hours. Four hours. By the time I landed at JFK, I wasn’t worried—I was pissed. I’d set her up with a whole-ass green card, committed federal fraud for her, and pretty much handed her half my fortune, and she couldn’t even reply with No thanks, I’m busy?
Fuck. That.
The cabbie waiting for me at the airport must’ve picked up on my mood, because he grabbed my small suitcase without a word and only spoke when we were out of the elaborate hell that was John F. Kennedy International Airport.
“Where to?” he asked curtly.
I gave him Christian’s address. No way was I in a mood to tolerate Arsène’s smart ass in my current condition. When the driver rounded the curve to Christian’s street, I had a change of heart.
“You know what? I need you to drive me somewhere else.”
I gave him Duffy’s address. The little English rose was going to learn some manners from this American hooligan. I didn’t even consider that she hadn’t seen the text. Duffy was fused to her phone. She’d never taken more than fifty seconds to answer a text, even in the middle of the night.
Still, when I was about five minutes away from her apartment, I began to sweat. What if she was with somebody? What if she was with Cocksucker? I didn’t like the prospect of going to jail, but there was no chance on earth I’d be able to hold myself off from at least breaking his jaw.
“This is you,” the driver announced moments later.
I grabbed my shit, tipped him, and trudged up the stairway to her apartment, refusing to flinch when I passed by Charlie’s door. When I got to her place, I rang twice. When she didn’t answer, I banged on the door. Since it was the weekend, I knew she wasn’t at work. And since it was Duffy, I knew she wasn’t up to much, which made me wonder for the first time—had something happened to her?
The whole Charlie thing had made me a little raw when it came to people passing out in their own homes. Without thinking much of it, I pulled out the key she had given me months ago and had never asked for again.
I shoved it into the keyhole.
It didn’t fit.
Gritting my teeth, I pressed my forehead against the door and took a ragged breath. She didn’t answer my text and locked me out of her apartment? Good luck with her getting a divorce, because I was going to drag her to the depths of the legal inferno just to spite her so she could never marry her precious boyfriend.
Actually, that wasn’t true, and I knew it. I was going to give her whatever she wanted, because watching her happy trumped whatever trivial notion I had. But fuck, that hurt.
I pulled my phone out and called Christian.
“Hey,” he said, sounding sleepy. “What’s up?”
“How much time will I get for breaking and entering?” I snapped, skipping the hello part.