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I’m fucking clueless.
Useless.
Not the one who should’ve ascended the throne of lies I had no idea he sat so comfortably on.
Mindlessly reaching for the nearest whiskey bottle to top off my glass is done in tandem with me beginning to review his financial records again.
Correction.
Will Cox’s financial records.
He couldn’t even be bothered to create a better goddamn alias to fuck around on my mother with!
It was almost as if giving us the finger.
Saying I care that this may hurt you but not enough.
Not enough to completely hide it.
Damn sure not enough not to do it.
Splashes of liquid fall on the photocopied journal entries they’re closest to during my drunken disregarding of another empty bottle.
I’ve read and reread and reread every single line Marzia Simmons, Monica’s mother, wrote about him.
When they met.
How they met.
What she called him.
What he called her.
Their first hug.
Hand hold.
Hug.
Kiss.
Fuck.
Tossing back a mouthful of the dark liquid is slipped in between thumbing through the next page of offshore documents used to properly fund his second life.
The one where he owned a fucking ranch that took up most of the property in some no nothing town.
And in that town, everyone or anyone who worked for him, crossed paths with him, had any sort of contact for longer than the time it took to shake his hand signed a fucking NDA swearing silence.
Allegiance.
Protection to this fucking stranger who staggered into their godforsaken piece of shit spot on the map and invested in it, in them, simply to maintain his anonymity during his shady secret scandal.
A scandal that I’m sure he kept quiet not to lose shareholders or investors or other backroom business deals that would’ve never been possible had his face been plastered in the wrong magazines.
Attached to the wrong interviews.
Had history put him in the lying, cheating, prick category instead of the saintly one.
