The Escort Next Door Read online

  Eventually, my insides stopped trying to turn themselves inside out, but my heart still raced and my fingers tingled with a lack of circulation. My knees beginning to feel numb, I forced myself up, regretting it almost instantly when my head pounded and I felt a wave of dizziness. Nevertheless, I pulled myself around to the sink and turned the cold faucet on full. I let the stream flow noisily for a second, while I looked at myself in the mirror. My usually bright complexion was deathly pale and my blue eyes gazed blankly ahead. Unable to bear the sight of myself, I stuck my head beneath the water’s stream, vigorously rinsing my face before filling my mouth with several large gulps.

  When the feeling of nausea returned with a vengeance, I quickly turned off the water and slipped down onto the cold tiles, my legs collapsing beneath me. My back propped up against the edge of the tub was the only thing keeping me sitting upright. Never, either before or since, have I experienced such a sudden and debilitating sense of loss and disorientation.

  It was an hour or more before I was finally able to drag myself up from the bathroom floor. By that point, I was still trembling, but it was no longer with fear. The victim mentality had been replaced with anger; a seething rage. Questions swirled around my frenzied brain, and I was determined to get answers.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PROOF

  Through an enraged red mist, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I flew back into the bedroom and started tearing the room apart. I began by ripping out the drawers of Paul’s bedside table, and tipping the contents of them on the floor. His collection of cufflinks scattered over the carpet and an old cell phone battery clunked to the ground followed by an ipod with tangled earphones. The lower, deeper drawer was heavier and full of notebooks and photo albums. I flicked through these, quickly dismissing them when I found nothing relevant within the pages.

  Using the bed to push myself up, I moved over to Paul’s wardrobe. My movements were frenzied, as I tugged suit jackets off hangers and rifled through the pockets. When I found nothing, I tossed the clothes over my shoulder. I continued this way, until I’d gone through every item of clothing he owned. I had to wade through an ankle deep puddle of fabric as I turned away from the closet and glanced desperately around the room. He had taken everything else with him; his phone, tablet and laptop were all in his possession.

  “Shit,” I hissed, my breath coming hard as the desperate need to get to the truth became an almost physical pain. I couldn’t call him, he’d only come up with a convenient excuse for the condom, and not being able to see him when he lied put me at a disadvantage. No, I wanted to have irrefutable proof of what he’d done before I confronted him with it.

  In the corner of the room was a desktop computer, which I focused on intently. It was my only route into his life. I’d only ever used the thing infrequently, but I’d worked with computers before Lizzie came into the world, and knew my way around them. Without a second thought, I turned it on and tugged the antique chair toward the desk.

  Sitting, I grasped the mouse and clicked on the shortcut for Paul’s email. Then, I was forced to pause. I had no idea what his password was. It wasn’t something he’d shared with me. Until that moment, I’d never questioned it; hadn’t believed for one second that I needed access to his cell or his computers. I’d stupidly believed that Paul loved me the same way I loved him, and that no matter what problems we faced, we’d work through them together.

  Not only did I feel betrayed and sick with the knowledge that he’d been with someone else, but I also felt stupid. I was gullible and naïve not to see what had been going on. The signs were there; his distance, his unwillingness to have sex (the exception being our strange encounter the night before), that gnawing sense that something just wasn’t right. It was a feeling I’d had for weeks, and yet I’d ignored it, buried it, pretended that everything was just peachy and perfect.

  With no trace of humor, I laughed bitterly at my own stupidity.

  Fresh anger welling inside me, I turned my attention back to the computer screen. I began typing words that floated into my head. I started with the name of Paul’s family business: ‘Hayes&Son’, then moved onto the license plate number of his new BMW, the name of his childhood dog, our children’s names and dates of birth, the date of our wedding. Denied, denied, denied.

  “Argh,” I groaned loudly, slamming my hand down on the surface of the desk. In the silence that followed, I waited to discover that I’d woken one, or possibly all three, of the kids. However, the moment’s ticked by and still silence met my ears. Drawing in a calming breath, I resolved to control my outburst. The last thing I needed was a sleepily toddler wandering in and asking what was going on. I would never be able to explain Mom’s teary, haunted face or the wreckage she’d made of the bedroom.

  With a sigh of resignation, I threw myself back into the solid wooden-backed chair, jarring my spine as I did so. I didn’t care about the discomfort. Instead, my eyes crawled up the wall before me and landed on a framed picture of Paul with three of his high school football teammates. “Tigers,” I whispered under my breath.

  Moving without my conscious request, I typed, ‘Tigers’ into the empty password box. However, I hovered over the enter key for some time, before deciding to add ‘32’, Paul’s jersey number. The screen suddenly changed and I was looking at Paul’s inbox.

  Quickly scanning through the first page of recent messages, all seemed normal, boring and businesslike. However, three quarters of the way down the page, I noticed something that seemed out of place. The sender’s name was Jennifer, in of itself nothing to be suspicious about, but the subject line of her email read, ‘Last Night’.

  Terrified, but unable to simply turn away, I slowly directed the mouse to that message and clicked to open it. I don’t think I breathed as I read, and my heart seemed to sink lower and lower in my chest.

  Hi Paul,

  Just wanted to say thanks for a very interesting evening. Someone told me that you admire people who go after what they want, so I assume you won’t think any less of me for doing exactly that. Like I told you, I’d been thinking about it for months and the temptation of being in a strange city and a luxurious hotel with you was just too great to resist. And I think you should know that you definitely didn’t disappoint! Anyway, I look forward to working with you. I’m pretty sure it’s going to be a lot of fun for both of us.

  There was nothing overt, but the subtext of her email left little to the imagination. My eyes flicked to the date, it had been sent almost three months ago. Paul had been on another three, maybe four trips since then. The tears that had been pricking my eyes spilled silently onto my cheek and traced a hot trail to my chin. This hadn’t just been a one-time thing; a moment of weakness. In all likelihood, he’d been having a full-blown affair with this woman.

  Desperate to know more, I typed Jennifer in the search box and pulled up all messages sent to and from her. There were only two more that she’d sent to Paul, both were completely professional and written some time earlier. The other was written by Paul in reply to the first email I’d read.

  Jen,

  The pleasure was mine! You’re absolutely right, this could be the start of a long and successful association. Will be in Dallas again in a couple of weeks. If interested in another meeting, let me know. I’ll e-mail you the details when they’re set in stone.

  Again, the pretext of business hid something that caused my stomach to lurch. Blinking back the water that was blurring my vision, I slumped in the chair. There were still so many unanswered questions. Who was this woman? How long had it been going on? Was it just a fling or was Paul considering leaving me for her?

  It seemed as though I’d struck a dead end. Paul and this Jennifer hadn’t corresponded in ten weeks, at least not via email. However, as I was about to give up, I noticed that Paul had placed those two emails, which seemed to skirt around the subject of a night spent together, in a folder entitled, ‘business trips’. I’m not sure why it occurred to me to check it, but I did
so on instinct.

  Moving the mouse to the right hand side of the screen, I clicked on the folder, which opened a new window. ‘Business trips’ contained dozens of messages and as I scanned down the list, I quickly noticed the pattern. Every single one was from a woman. Four names featured heavily; Abby, Rachel, Joann and Krista. Emails from each of them were predominantly in dated chunks. Abby’s were all sent just before and around the time Paul was in New York. Rachel’s centered around the week he was in Tampa. Joann wrote to him during his trip to San Francisco, and Krista’s emails were dated on and just after Paul’s visit to San Diego.

  “Jesus,” I mumbled, my eyes widening with disbelief. It all seemed so surreal. Shaking my head, I felt that I must be dreaming. This had to be some horrible nightmare that I was about to wake up from. However, no matter how many times I blinked, the image on the screen stayed the same.

  Although a part of me didn’t want the pain of knowing what was inside those emails, the urge to get to the truth was overwhelming. So, regardless of the sensible voice that told me to just turn the computer off and walk away, my fingers gripped the mouse tightly and directed the cursor to the last email on the list – the oldest. It was from Krista and the subject line read, ‘Discrete’.

  Paul,

  I’m sure you feel the same, but I wanted to ask if we can keep what happened yesterday between us. Some of the guys on my team were asking where I disappeared to last night and I made up an excuse about not feeling well. I just hope nobody saw us going upstairs to your room. I don’t want people thinking that I’m trying to sleep my way to a promotion. Working with a large group of men is difficult enough without them thinking I’m a slut. And as drunk as we both were, I don’t want you to think I regret what happened. In fact, if you’re in town for a few more days, perhaps we can meet up again?

  Her next message made it clear that Paul had reassured her and responded in the affirmative to her final question. She simply confirmed that she would meet him at his hotel room at 9pm that evening.

  There followed a couple more messages, stating that she’d had a good time and requested more meetings with him. The content of her final email suggested that Paul had given her the brush off. However, she didn’t seem too distressed by that news.

  Next came Joann, her messages were similar in tone. She obviously also worked for the company, in one of the smaller branches. She alluded to having given Paul a blowjob in the bathroom of a restaurant, before signing off with a crass remark about her jaw still being sore from the experience.

  With a disgusted grunt, I shut that email and opened the next. It was immediately apparent that Rachel from Tampa was direct in expressing her desires.

  Mr. Hayes,

  This is probably totally inappropriate, but I know you’re here for the weekend and I was hoping you might like a little company. I feel that there’s been some chemistry between us and I’ve caught you glancing at me in a way that tells me you’ve felt it too. I know that you’re married, and I’m not looking for anything serious. I just want you to fuck me.

  There were several very short messages, confirming a time and place to meet. Then, a day later, a long message praising Paul’s prowess. However, she, unlike the two other women, seemed content with just one night. She made no mention of meeting him again, and continued to address him as Mr. Hayes.

  The final clutch of emails was the most recent, concerning Paul’s trip to New York. There, he’d been supposed to be meeting with potential new clients. The Abby from his mailbox seemed to be an employee of that business.

  Hello, Paul.

  I’m Abby, Frank Welby’s personal assistant. I tried to call you this afternoon, but couldn’t get through. Mr. Welby was impressed with your presentation, but he’d like some further questions answered before you leave town. However, he’s heading to Napa tomorrow, so would it be possible for you to get down to the offices tonight? Thanks in advance.

  I read this message again, searching for some innuendo or hint of over familiarity that I might have missed the first time around. There was none, so why had Paul kept this message? The fact that there was another email from Abby indicated there was more to this seemingly professional exchange. With a sense of dread, I clicked on the subsequent message.

  Paul,

  I forgot that there was a security camera in the conference room! Had to do some quick thinking to remove this footage from the files. I really enjoyed watching this, though. Hope you will, too.

  Beneath the text was a video file. In so deep, I felt sure things could get no worse. I was wrong.

  A new window quickly opened and a grainy image appeared. The picture was soundless and quality awful, but there was no mistaking my husband. He was standing behind a blonde-haired woman, with her shoulder length hair masking most of her face. She was bent forward over a massive circular table with some ten chairs around it. Her large breasts were threatening to spill out of the low cut blouse she wore.

  Paul had her tight, very short skirt tugged into his hands and yanked up around her waist. I then watched his left hand, the one bearing his solid gold wedding band, slide down to his pants and unzip his fly. His fingers disappeared within and quickly returned, easing his hard shaft through the opening. Suddenly, he was inside her. With no thought for contraception, he’d rammed his unprotected member into a woman he’d met just that morning. The knowledge that less than a week later, that same cock was inside me made me feel that I’d been defiled.

  Her head bucked up and she arched her back, her mouth open as she screamed something. Paul instantly took advantage of her elevated upper half, grasping both of her breasts in rough hands. After a few seconds of frenzied groping, she turned her face to his and said something I couldn’t lipread. It spurred him into action, pushing her back to the desk and slamming his erection into her with a force that rocked the huge table.

  All of the blood left my head, as I watched him repeatedly enter her from behind. She was writhing beneath him, squealing in what looked like delight at the violent treatment. Paul abruptly pulled free from her, using his right hand to slap her hard on the buttock before clasping his penis. With hurried, brutal strokes, he stimulated himself. Climaxing with a sudden jet of creamy white fluid that splattered over the hand print that was reddening on her ass.

  Jumping to my feet, I dashed to the bathroom, making it to the sink just in time to lose the small amount of water I’d managed to force into my stomach just minutes before.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR

  Unable to think clearly, I dashed back into the bedroom and flung open my closet. Yanking out a suitcase that was laid on the bottom, I flipped it open and began throwing clothes into it. I couldn't say what I chose to take and what I chose to leave, there was no logical sense to what I was doing, no thought for practicalities. The only thing I was aware of was a desperate need to get out of that house. A claustrophobia had gripped me and was frantic to break free.

  Enclosing the hurriedly bundled clothes within the case, I grabbed a pair of sweatpants with my free hand. Rushing to the bed, I sat down and slipped the sweats over my legs. Keeping the robe fastened and draped over the top, I pulled the pants up to my waist and jumped up from the mattress. It was only as I returned to my closet and grasped an oversized sweater that I silently asked, what was I doing? Where would I go? I didn't have any money, no family nearby and, after I'd left Paul, he was sure to do everything he could to take the children away from me. He could afford a team of the best family law attorneys. I could afford...nothing.

  As all the furious energy drained from me, I slumped to the floor of my closet and leaned back against the firm wall. I was trapped.

  Staring blankly ahead, I wrestled with that concept; questioning how I'd found myself in such a situation. It had never entered my head, not even for a second, that by agreeing to Paul's parents’ demands over the prenuptial agreement, I'd been backed into an inescapable corner. The balance of power in our marriage was
hideously weighted in his favor. And I was out of options.

  In a state of utter despondency and still reeling from what I'd just discovered, I did what I have always done when I didn't know what to do. I picked up the phone, after plugging it back in, and called Grace. She was my best friend, had been since we were in second grade. Although life had sent us in different directions, quite literally placing us on opposite sides of the country, and things often got so busy that it would be months between conversations, we remained close. Every time we talked, even when it was almost a year since the last time, it was as though we'd just seen each other yesterday. We both understood that life got frantic, so there was no sense that the other wasn't making 'enough effort’ to stay in touch.

  Waiting anxiously for her to answer, I clutched the phone tightly to my ear as if it were a lifeline.

  “Hello,” she eventually said, a slight question in the word which made it obvious she hadn't looked at the caller ID before picking up.

  “Hey,” I replied, my voice sounding hoarse and scratchy. “It's me.”

  “Julia?” she responded quickly. “What's up? You sound terrible.”

  Despite the intense misery I felt, I couldn't help but smile. Grace always had a way of cutting right to the heart of the matter. She didn't worry about a veneer of politeness, she never said anything she didn't mean and expected everybody to treat her with the same level of brutal honesty.

  “Jesus,” she added. “It must be three in the morning there. What the hell's happened?”

  “Is it?” I mumbled absently glancing at the digital clock. “I lost track of time.”

  “Jules,” she sighed soothingly. “What's going on?”

  “I umm,” I began, not knowing exactly what to say. After a brief pause, I decided perhaps Grace's approach was the best, if not the only, way to deal with things. “Paul's been cheating on me.”