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Cynthia.
He's not at the club with a buddy, he’s at the club with his ex-wife.
Chapter Nineteen
Michael
I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe that she's here. And I can't believe that Hunter brought me here.
“I’m sorry,” Hunter says “I didn't know how else to deal with her. She's only willing to leave if she can talk to you.”
He'd betrayed me, tricked me into coming down here to deal with his problem. Because she's not my problem. She hasn't been for a long time.
I finish my drink, trying to decide what to do next. I can't imagine that just walking out and leaving will fix anything. I already hate Club Red, and now I'm here, sitting at the bar listening to the pulsating music and Cynthia's voice. At this point, I'm not sure my day can get any worse.
I lower the tumbler hard to the bar top. It clunks down on the concrete countertop with enough force that I’m surprised the glass doesn't break in my hand. Hunter winces, but Cynthia seems thrilled. Of course, she is. She loves any opportunity to try to ruin my life.
Without another word to Hunter, I get up and make my way toward the door. I don't want to be here for whatever game she's playing. If it really takes me to make sure that she leaves without making a scene, then fine, I'll leave too.
I hear her hurrying to catch up to me. “I need to talk to you.”
I walk past the bouncer, who nods at me. “Well, I have nothing to say to you, so that's going to get awkward.” Making my way across the parking lot toward my car, I wonder why I even bothered offering to come help Hunter. Of course, I thought he was my friend. Now I'm not so sure. Disappointed and frustrated, I unlock my car and drop into the driver's seat.
Cynthia stands outside my car window for a moment, gesturing at me to roll the window down. But there's no way in hell I want to talk to her. There's nothing she could say that would interest me. If I'm going to prove to her that I don't want her in my life, I have to stop giving her the time of day.
Instead, I turn over the engine and start to pull out of my spot, careful not to hit her with my car. I know the club is equipped with cameras pointing at the parking lot, so I should be safe even if she tries to pull some theatrics.
To my surprise, she doesn't. Instead, she walks away.
I make the drive home, silently cursing myself for listening to Hunter. I get that she’s not easy to deal with, but he shouldn't be pawning her off on me. Why didn't he call her damn husband? She's his problem now.
I fume all the way home.
I pull in and park, then get out of my car, swinging my keys all the way up to my front door. When I let myself in, I swear I hear another car in my driveway, but I'm not willing to deal with whoever is showing up right now.
I lock the door behind me, but before I can make it too far into the house, I hear someone knock.
I stop in my tracks, let out a deep breath, then walk back to look through the people. It's Cynthia standing on my doorstep, holding a sleeping child in her arms. She's still wearing that tight red dress that shows far too much skin.
But how the heck did she manage to get from daycare to my house within a minute of me arriving? Something doesn't add up and it's bothering me. Not enough to open the door, but it is absolutely bothering me.
“Michael, I know you’re there, I followed you home. Open the door.”
There's no chance in hell. I want to open the door for her. Thanks, but I'll pass. Maybe eventually she'll get the hint and leave.
I turn and walk away from the door, only to hear a key slide into the lock.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter to myself. I turn to face her as she pushes open the door, the sleeping five-year-old now over her shoulder.
I feel a pang of sadness as I think about how this could have been my life. If Cynthia wasn't an awful person, of course. She could be coming home, walking in with our child over her shoulder. In an alternate universe, I'd rush forward and take the child from her, carrying her to her room and putting her to bed.
But in this universe, that's not my child and she's not my wife.
I cross my arms. “What are you doing here?” I don't offer to take her or lay the little one down because I don't want her to be any more comfortable than possible. If her arms and legs and feet are tired, maybe she'll leave sooner.
As if she hears my line of thinking, she walks past me into the living room and lays the little girl down on the couch.
And something finally clicks. “Was she in your car the entire time you were at Club Red?” She'd been there for hours. How could she do something so incredibly awful or dangerous? Hasn't she heard the news stories about what happens to children that are forgotten in vehicles? Granted, it's been a very cool day today, but still, what a stupid move to make.
