Page 44 of The Cruiser
“The trip was last minute. It slipped my mind to tell you,” I lie. Derek needs to know everything, all the time, but now he needs to get used to not knowing my whereabouts.
“Nice try,” he grumbles. “You live on your phone. One text wouldn’t have killed you.”
“Why are you being so pissy?” I ask.
“Because Flynn’s following me around like I’m trying to steal something!”
“Are you?”
“Really, V?” he scoffs. “I didn’t think you’d be this fucking petty.” Says the guy who nabs every complimentary toiletry from any hotel room, including the spare roll of toilet paper.
“I’m with my client right now,” I say. “What do you want?”
“Have you talked to Stryker lately?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Why?” Then, thinking about it, “Does he know?”
In a moment of taut silence, we digest the indigestible. The only same sex coupling justifiable in Stryker’s world is two strippers servicing him simultaneously. If he’s on to Derek, it’s game over.
“I don’t know,” Derek finally says. “He sent some cryptic text last night saying an exec at Warner is pushing a new guy onto him for the superhero movie. The timing feels weird.”
Crap. The superhero flick is a reboot and they’re already talking a three-picture deal. It’s Derek’s chance to direct second unit, and opportunities like this come around once a millennium. Stryker lobbied hard for Derek at first, but it’s his house, his rules. That’s how it works in Hollywood when you’re making people billions of dollars. Something tells me this is just the beginning for Derek. Career crush.
But he should have thought of that.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
“He listens to you. Maybe you can … I don’t know. Tell him nothing’s changed. I’m still the same guy.”
Nothing’s changed? Is he a fool? If my mother were here, she’d be foaming at the mouth. “Jesus, Derek. Everything’s changed! Didn’t you and Alistair talk about this? Please tell you gave some consideration to how coming out might impact your life. And mine.”
My rising voice carries and in the salon, Morgan glances over his shoulder. I move to the farthest outpost of the deck, breeze whipping through my hair.
“You don’t think I thought about it?” he snaps. “It’s all I thought about! Breaking your heart. Your fucking witch of a mother gloating over our breakup. I know my family wasn’t good enough for you, but they were at least decent and kind. They embraced you. Tried to, anyway.”
Guilt slices through my heart, just like he wants it to. Both his parents divorced and remarried, and we once shuttled between Bozeman and Bismarck for a week of snowy Christmas hell. It’s not like I can’t relate to people with miniature spoon collections and vinyl recliners, but when conversation turns to what ammunition works best to take down a moose, I’m sorry, but I got nothing. I do, however, regret catching up on back issues of Vogue instead of eating waffles and watching Home Alone with them. Derek was fuming, and hauled me and my Uggs into a frigid snowstorm to tear a strip off me. Deeply offended at his spoiled rich girl slag, I pointed out we were arguing in a trailer park. That had to count for something. But apparently it did not.
“You know what, V?” Derek’s voice turns bitter and beat down. “I knew when I married you that it was going to be all about you. Your mom made damn sure of it. The pauper marrying the princess. But it’s pretty shitty of you to be so high and mighty. Like you had nothing to do with this.”
It’s like he’s punched me in the gut. It takes a few seconds to find my voice. “You’re saying this is my fault?”
“I wasn’t the one unhappy with our sex life.”
Another knife in my heart.
Eighteen months ago, after some uninspired sex and a few too many glasses of Zinfandel, I threw it out there—a threesome. Derek insisted he wasn’t unsatisfied, but I pushed for it. We tried two different girls two different times, and it was awkward. Derek was not so into it. He then suggested we try a guy; equal opportunity was how he put it. It says a lot about a husband if he’s willing to offer up what most men would run away screaming from in the name of keeping his wife happy. In retrospect, Derek knew it was all about me. I was bored. With him. Little did I know inviting another man into our bed would turn the tables in ways we never imagined.
And I don’t feel like reliving it at this precise moment.
“I have to go,” I say, tersely. “We can talk about this when I get back.”
“Can you send one text, V? All I’m asking for is one text. Feel him out. Please?”
It’s not my job to salvage his career. Not after everything I did for him. And calling me petty is utter ridiculousness. I courier my used clothes to Goodwill. Graciously accept the carnations and baby’s breath his family sends on my birthday. “Fine. I’ll reach out to him.”
