An Improper Ever After(60)

"It would be for me. I hate owing people one."

"Elliot! I would never presume to call on this … like it was some kind of favor. I'm doing this for my friend."




 

 

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm going to bring my wife home where she belongs," I say, even as an internal alarm goes off. Who wants to look after a girl who's blacked out when she can pass her off to someone else without an ounce of guilt? I put steel in my voice. "Your address?"

Traci gives it to me. She isn't stupid, and she probably knows if she doesn't give it to me, I have other ways of getting it.

I hang up. "I'm going out."

"Okay," Nonny says, oblivious, which is exactly how I want her. "But I may not be home by the time you're back. I'm going out with Jennifer tonight."

I scowl. I don't remember that. "To do what?"

"Hang out … maybe watch a movie."

"Okay. But text me when you get there and again when you're on your way home."

She gives me a careless salute with two fingers. "Aye, aye, sir."

Now that guardian duty's been taken care of, I go to Traci's apartment. The drive feels interminable with the Friday evening traffic. I keep thinking about all the bad things that could happen to my wife, then tell myself none of them will, since she's with a friend. Traci may have been a shitty friend-and I still don't like her. However, she won't do anything stupid when she knows I'm aware of who my wife is with.

By the time I reach her place, a cold sweat has filmed my back. Traci opens the door. She's in a pink baby doll, her feet bare, and I raise both eyebrows.

"Come on in," she says.

A section of her hair wrapped around her finger, she twists this way and that as I walk inside. Every time she changes position, she tilts her head and arches her pelvis. If she's doing it on purpose, she's trying way too hard to be sexy.

The first thing I notice is my wife, prone on the couch. Her breathing is shallow, and she's so pale that I wonder for a moment if she's fainted. Her brows pinch as though she's in pain, and a hand is resting on her belly. There are smeared spoons and a couple of wine glasses on the table. The one nearest my wife is empty. Lipstick marks on the rim match the shade on Belle's mouth.

The scene tells me everything I need to know about what occurred … except it can't be right. I turn to Traci. "What happened?"

"Annabelle and I shared a bottle of Chardonnay, and she passed out after only two glasses. Cheap date, right?" Traci tries a laugh, but it doesn't come off. "I should've been more careful and made sure she wasn't drinking more than she could handle. I'm her friend. It's my job to keep her safe."

I merely stare at her. Her eyes are overly wide, and she keeps running her teeth over her lower lip. I don't remember it being so fleshy, I note with clinical detachment. 

When I continue to peer at her without a word, she clears her throat and shrugs, the gesture pulling the fabric over her braless tits. My eyes narrow at the display.

"Don't be too hard on her," she says. "I won't tell anyone."

I dismiss her with a nod and pick Belle up. She feels so slight and delicate in my arms. I open my hand. "Her purse."

"Here." Traci gives it to me, plus a plastic bag with Belle's shoes.

I leave without a word, carrying my wife down to the car. As I arrange her in the passenger seat, I get a good whiff of alcohol on her and stop. What the fuck? I bring my nose closer to her and sniff. She definitely smells like some kind of dairy and wine.

Just what the hell happened? My mind refuses to believe she actually consumed even a drop of alcohol. To her drinking means losing control, and that has heavy consequences. She'd no more give up her full faculties than jump out of a plane without a parachute.

Something very fucked up took place in the apartment. I'm this close to barging back up and demanding the truth, but my wife needs me more.

Tomorrow. I'm going to hear what happened from Belle herself tomorrow.

* * *


Annabelle

I groan softly. My skull feels like it's being pressed from all directions by a great, crushing force. The room's too bright; I place a palm over my eyes, trying to prevent my eyeballs from exploding.

I'm on a bed. The mattress dips, and my stomach roils at the motion. A warm hand checks my forehead temperature, and I turn into it, moaning a bit.

"Where am I?" I say, but given how thick my tongue feels in my mouth, I'm pretty certain the question is garbled beyond recognition.

"Home." Elliot's voice. Thank god. "Here. This should make you feel better." He helps me sit up and drink some kind of flavored water. I make a face at the odd, artificial taste, but he's relentless. "All of it. It's electrolytes. You need 'em."