“What the fuck, dude?” he yelled. “I’ve been calling you nonstop. Then Pat says he brought you your car, and you didn’t even call me back. What the hell is going on? You don’t trust me anymore?”
Daring another glance in the mirror, I took in my bloodshot eyes and bed head. It wasn’t a good look. “I needed some time to think, and when it comes to you, everything is tied up with her. You know that. I can’t talk to you without thinking of her.”
God, I feel like shit. I decided coffee first, shower second.
“Shut the fuck up, man,” Mike spat out. “The police haul you off, it’s all over the news, and you don’t call me? What the fuck, dude?”
“The charges are bogus, and you know it. I may be a greedy ass, but I didn’t do what they said.”
“You know what? I don’t know shit. You’ve been so off lately, Prescott.”
“What the fuck is it to you, Mike? Patrick said the same thing. I haven’t been off. Distracted, maybe, but not off.”
Flicking on my blinker at the last second—the last thing I needed was a ticket—I turned into the drive-through of the Beanery.
“Pat’s right. You’re married, and then you’re not married, going after loose women in Vegas. And now you’re implicated in some major crime. What the hell is up with you?”
“One sec,” I told him, then spoke into the speaker. “Large coffee, black.” The cheerful voice on the other end gave me the total, and I pulled my Porsche around to the pickup window.
“Where the hell are you?” Mike demanded. “What are you doing out at this time of day, buying coffee? Jesus, dude, you just got out of jail a few hours ago.”
“I’ve been . . . out,” I said, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel while I waited for my coffee.
“Out where?”
“Thinking.”
“Aston, please don’t tell me you were where I think you were, because that’ll confirm what Patrick and I know. You’re whacked. Fucking whacked up.”
After being handed my coffee, I took a long sip of it as I pulled away from the drive-through and made my way down quiet side streets toward my office. I’d shower and change there and then try to figure out who the hell was trying to frame me, and my fucking company. Anything to avoid thinking about where I’d just spent the night.
“I’m not an expert,” Mike said, still ranting in my ear, “believe me. I just know you’ve stayed away from her for a long time. Why the fuck change that now?”
“It’s out of my control. My life is a fucking mess, and she’s the only one who can make it right. I’m thirty-fucking-five years old. It’s time I made myself happy. I’ve been chasing someone else’s wishes and dreams for way too long. End of story.”
It was the truth. Bexley would make it all right. In the meantime, I ended the call before Mike could argue with me.
Bexley
Two weeks had passed since I’d first seen the news, and I still hadn’t recovered. From what, I didn’t know. Constant exposure to Aston? He was everywhere. The newspaper ran a daily exposé on him. The local television station was featuring him morning and night.
After a few days, I couldn’t bring myself to read or watch any more of it. For the last ten days, I’d become a hermit, stuck in my house, staring at a growing pile of unread newspapers and dark television screens, and I didn’t dare download the digital version of the newspaper.
My life had become an extended version of the never-ending cycle of trying to block out Aston Prescott.
He’s nothing to me—a fling, an obsession, someone who happened to be a part of my life a very long time ago. At least, that’s what I told myself.
Yet, every time I glanced at the headlines, I got sick to my stomach. I couldn’t stop myself from staring an extra beat or two at his picture. Those eyes, they killed me. Then I’d quickly turn the page before tossing the paper into the recycling bin. Rinse and repeat.
Like now, I’d given in to the urge. My finger traced his picture, an expensive dark tie knotted at his neck, a tailored suit jacket snug on his shoulders. He’d aged some, with tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes and a few laugh lines around his mouth. For a moment, I hoped this meant he was laughing some, and then I wished he wasn’t.
I’d wanted all his laughs. They should have been mine to enjoy.
This was how I spent most of my time when I wasn’t at work or with the kids—lamenting over what had become of Aston Prescott. What could have been between us, should have been with us.
Get over yourself, Bexley.
The picture was a year or two old, a company headshot I’d seen before during one of my rare Google searches. His smile was similar to the one he wore when he shook hands—half smirk, completely confident, inviting and beckoning. Despite the few wrinkles, he still had thick hair and deep soulful eyes that would sear right through you.
Did he do what they’re saying he did?
I couldn’t help it, but I didn’t believe the accusations. All the way down to my bones, I knew he couldn’t, and never would be, capable of what they were saying he’d done. Aston was a lot of shitty things, but a criminal wasn’t one of them. He didn’t peddle drugs. That wasn’t him.
Thankfully, the kids were busy with back-to-school and activities, or I would have been a basket case. I didn’t have the strength to do 24/7 with them. Piper was consumed with trying out for seventh-grade soccer, and Tyler was busy convincing me to buy him a drum set and get him lessons. As for me, I was staying afloat of my emotions, working at the women’s health clinic three days a week, counseling young women about their choices.
As if I had a
