Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
What a liar he is. What a snake and a cheat. Why would he do this to me? The question is, do I even want to know? Do I want him to tell me that I nag him too much or that he doesn’t love me anymore? Could I take those words from the man that I have given everything to? The one that I have been in love with since he walked into my garage and pulled a set of drumsticks out of his back pocket and went to town on the set of drums that were set up. Watching the muscles in his arms flex and the magic he created was an epic turn on.
No, I don’t think I could because knowing that my husband thought it was okay to stick his dick into another woman while still married to me. . . really there’s no excuse. I punch the code for the gate and step through, and when I enter the house, it’s quiet except for the sound of my heavy footsteps.
There are two choices in front of me: One—go find him and confront him. Two—start packing his shit so he can get the fuck out. Option two is what I choose because it’s the most raging action I can think of right now. Kicking him out will give me the satisfaction of knowing I had the last word after what he did today.
Upstairs, I find him sitting on our bed, looking at our wedding photo. Does he feel guilty? I hope so. Without a word, I step into the closet and pull out one of the two suitcases I leave in there for quick travel.
“What are you doing?” he asks because apparently, it’s not fucking obvious.
“Packing.”
“Where are you going?”
I come out of the room with an arm full of his clothes and throw them at him. Most land on the floor, but there are a few hangers that hit him in the head. “I’m not going anywhere, you are. Get the fuck out, Van.”
“Zara,” he says, reaching for me but I step away, keeping myself an arm's length from him.
“Don’t fucking Zara me you piece of shit. You fucking cheated on me,” I say. “ME! The one you took vows with. You don’t get to say my name or tell me how sorry you are because you’re not sorry, Van. If you were, you would’ve figured shit out before you stuck your dick in her.”
I head back into the closet and grab another armful of clothes. When I come back, he’s still in the same spot, and when he looks at me, he’s crying.
“Why are you crying, Van? Because you got caught?”
“Zara, if you would just listen.” He’s able to grab my wrist and pull me toward him before my brain registers what’s going on. The stench of her sugary sweet perfume hits me hard and smells, dare I say fresher than it did earlier. The only thing I can think is that he’s been with her since I caught him hours ago.
I step away from him and shake my head. This time I won’t be able to stop the tears from coming. “Get out,” I say, pointing to the door. “Get out of my house right now.”
Van doesn’t say anything as he grabs his clothes and throws them into a suitcase. Everything goes quiet until the front door slams, and I jump. It’s not until I hear his car start up and the gate screech shut do I fall onto my bed and let the ache take over.
levi
Two
The only light in my room comes from my alarm clock as I lift the shirt I placed over it before going to bed. I cover the red numbers almost instantly, but not before I start to see red dots each time I blink. As I lay in bed, the faint sound of the house phone continues to ring off into the distance. My eyes try to focus on what would be my ceiling or my wall, but it’s pitch black in here and anything in front of me is purely my imagination.
It’s three a.m., and some jackass is calling my house phone. I sigh and think about how I need to change my phone number again and wonder what’s the point of having an unlisted number if people can still obtain the sacred digits. The only reason I still have a landline is that cell service is questionable on my ranch. Besides, I like the feel of a phone. I like that I have to sit down to talk to someone, giving the person calling my undivided attention.
The blackout curtains were purchased and hung by my personal assistant and publicist, Barbara, in an attempt to have my mind shut off at night. This was after she received an email from my record label informing her that my late night actions were causing the executives to have minor heart attacks when photos of me, drinking in a bar, were made public.