Devil In The Waters, Book 3, Chapter 17 (complete)

The power was in her hands, quite literally. She didn’t know if that made her want to laugh or cry. Sometimes over the last twelve hours it was both.

What she’d done to Josh yesterday made her feel guilty. It was a direct and purposeful manipulation of her sweet husband. A way for her to get away with the things she’d done.

There were times during this escapade between her and Josh and Devlin that had become so complicated she thought she might go out of her mind. There was so much she cherished with Josh. So much she cherished with her husband, that she’d used that as an excuse to foster support to her adventure working for a man neither of them wanted in their lives. Only, she hid a secret from Josh. At least now she admitted it: She wanted Devlin in her life.

As much as she hated Devlin telling her how he knew what she wanted, it turned out he was right. She wanted him. Wanted him for one thing. One thing, one time. So she’d wrapped cotton around her badness, like an armor of soft padding so she could pinball her way through the safety and security of her marriage without either of them getting hurt. For one dirty thing. It was terrible. Lies, all lies, told to a man she respected and adored. And yesterday she’d resorted to sexual manipulation. And frankly, Kimmy, be honest with yourself: it wasn’t really the first time you’d resorted to it.

She lay in bed bathed in morning light, her back to her husband’s front. A wonderful afternoon yesterday once the cork had popped off their bottle of tension. A wonderful night with him, too. But that weird thing she’d done with her hand came out of nowhere. Using Josh’s erection like a joystick to control his movements. Not the physical ones, but the movements of his mind. Guiding his Player-Character away from her game’s dark corners where he might stumble onto the truth.

She stared at her hand, curled on the pillow next to her face. It had worked . . . 

***

Last night they’d gone out on a date. Went to this new Brazilian steakhouse in town and they ate too much. But they laughed and talked. Not about work, though. Well, not about her work. Not about Stone Brokerage. They talked about Swanson and talked about strategies moving forward that might get him attention. She knew he was already well-liked and competent, but his savvy wife had some good suggestions.

At first they backed out of drinks because they were stuffed, and thought they’d go see a movie, but ended up instead driving around in her new eco-conscious car looking at houses in subdivisions, talking about things they liked, things they wanted, laughing at things they didn’t like when they did see them. The fun had been completely unprovoked.

It was Kimmy’s decision to look at houses. It was togetherness she wanted. They were a couple again. He told her how much he hated being mad and she said she hated the feeling too, hated walking around all day hardly talking. Then they ended up at the Dragon again, went inside and had some whiskies at the end of the bar.

After that they came home and watched TV together, cuddled on the couch. And though Kimmy’d been perverted in the afternoon, doing that weird thing for him, they never did have sex. But that was fine. They fell asleep around ten o’clock on the couch, woke up together and found their bed around midnight. He’d woken up with her this morning in bed spooned against him.

Now he was making them both breakfast, hoping they’d eat together at the table before leaving for work, his ambitious omelette failing and becoming scrambled eggs and peppers instead.

“Hey,” Kimmy said, coming from the bedroom to the kitchen pass-through, head down, looking hassled, going through her purse.

“Morning,” he said.

She was showered and dressed for work; suit jacket, shirt buttoned right up, all business with her hair pulled back in a bun. Purse plopped on the counter, she had her phone now and was texting. He plated their breakfasts as she came into the kitchen, stocking feet in her cozy slippers. She glanced up from texting and did a double-take seeing his eggs, smiling then and tucking her phone into her jacket pocket. “Aw, Josh, did you make me breakfast?”

“No big deal,” he said. “It was supposed to be an omelette . . .”

***

Before Josh had a chance to take a bite of his breakfast, she lay a hand over his. When he looked up, she said, “Look, we need to talk more, right?—I’m probably going to be late tonight. Are you going to be okay with that?”

Josh sat poised, contemplating, a forkful of scrambled eggs held up midpoint from plate to his mouth. His eyes drifted over her shoulder out the window, back to hers. He nodded. “Okay,” he said, then took a bite of his eggs.

She watched him chew, patted his hand, picked up her fork and took a bite for herself.

Josh wiped his mouth with a napkin, said, “Why are you going to be late?”

She hummed while she chewed, coming up with an answer. She’d hoped he wouldn’t pursue it. Hoped that her honesty would be enough. But Josh held his crumpled napkin in a hand and waited for her to finish chewing. She put a hand over her mouth, saying, “Have to meet some clients after work. Maybe they’re coming in from the airport or something, I don’t know.”

“Why do you say the airport?”

“Oh, I don’t . . . Because it’s not . . . we’re meeting them downtown.”

“Where downtown?”

Shoot. She thought the honesty would be easier. And she couldn’t lie. So she said, “Right downtown. We’re meeting at the Royal York,” hoping that wouldn’t bother him. Josh knew the Royal York was a hotel. But surely the clients were staying there, he’d think, so she said no more before she suggested to much and sounded suspicious. That is what she thought: the clients were coming in from the airport, probably from China, but staying in the city.

She waited for more questions, and Josh said nothing. Put another forkful of eggs in his mouth.

***

It bothered him that she was going to be late tonight. Bothered him that she would have a meeting after work hours. But he knew her job wasn’t like his job. Not a 9-to-5. Billable hours and all that. She made more money than he did, and it came with obligations. He wouldn’t hold that against her. But it still bothered him. He racked dishes in the dishwasher, cleaned the pan were he’d ruined the omelette, dried his hands. Kimmy returned from the bedroom, all ready for work now. She was going through her purse at the pass-through saying, “So what’re you going to do tonight, baby?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “I’ll come up with something.”

“Go out for dinner,” she suggested, smiling, “or get Meyer and Steve to come over. You guys can play video games . . .”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” he said.

Whatever it was she searched for in her purse was abandoned. She looked up, both hands still in her purse, nodding at him, lips pursed in a half-smile. She zipped closed her purse then slung it over her shoulder. She was taller, and he knew the slippers were gone and she’d put her feet into high-heeled shoes now. She said, “Have fun tonight. I’m sorry I won’t be home. I don’t think it’s a regular thing.”

And he had to ask: “Devlin will be there?”

She nodded. Then she said, “I don’t know who all’s going to be there. It won’t just be me, I imagine. But yes, Devlin will be there. You’re still okay?”

“Work is work,” he said, putting on a brave face.

She held his gaze for a few beats, then smiled. “That’s really good, Josh. Okay, I’m gonna go . . .”

He nodded, met her in the foyer and kissed her goodbye. In her heels she was practically the same height as him, and he ushered her to the door, held it and let her walk out. He stuck his head in the hall to see her move down the hallway to the elevator bank. Looking good, looking professional. All black suit, black high heeled shoes, and smoky stockings . . . 

He closed the door, stood in the foyer by himself with his hands on his hips, staring at the photo of the Lungshan Temple. Slightly askew, he leaned over the table and straightened it. Then looked to the table where Devlin’s card had been stored.

If Kimmy put the card there—and if he was to believe she was telling the truth—then who else would know she’d done that? How could anyone know where she’d put his dumb business card? Would Kimmy have said to Devlin if he asked if she had his card: Yeah, I put it in the table in my front hall? No one would say that. They’d say Yes, I have your card. Why would Kimmy lie about how the card got there?—because Devlin had really been here. Here in his apartment, and Kimmy’d fucked him. Fucked Devlin before she ever started working for him. Maybe fucked him at the party, too. That’s why she took the job. Took it to be close to Devlin.

He was running out of excuses for his wife. Running low on the fuel that ran his engine of trust.

And something occurred to him. A sudden icicle dripping down the back of his throat and freezing his heart.

Chewing his cheek, he made his way to the bedroom now, heart thudding. Right into the closet, opening all the drawers, not finding what he was looking for. Knew exactly where it should be. He’d seen it there already.

Out into the bedroom, checking the other drawers, checking the hamper. Moving fast.

He darted to the bedroom window, getting on his knees on the chair and peeking down to the parking lot. Kimmy out there, strutting in high heels to her new car. Looking confident. Independent. Like his Kimmy, but a woman separate from their relationship. One who was intimidating. Beautiful, smart, making lots of money. The way she should be. Not stuck in this apartment making baskets for people who love their cats too much.

But it was what she wore that stabbed dread into his heart. Those smoky stockings. Part of the lingerie set.

Her kimono hung on the back of the bathroom door, but the lingerie was gone. Bra, high scoop-bottom panties, garter belt and garters, and thigh-high stockings. Kimmy was wearing them. He was sure. Sure his wife had worn that special elegant lingerie today knowing she had a late night meeting at the Royal York—a hotel—with Devlin fucking Stone . . .