Park Avenue Player(10)
“So what’s on the agenda for this week?” I asked.
Soren put on a pair of reading glasses that sat at the tip of his nose. They detracted from his coolness negligibly. “Got another cheater job for you, if you’re up for it. Wife will be here at five, so I need you to stick around.”
“Me? Stick around?”
It was rare that I spoke to the wives. Women weren’t generally fond of me to begin with. And Soren felt that a woman already scorned didn’t need the woman about to seduce her husband shoved in her face.
“This one asked specifically for you. Said she was referred by a friend of a friend. Of course, she wouldn’t tell me who. Not that it matters as long as her check clears.”
***
I should have worn a less lacy bra today. Or skipped lunch.
My meatball parm hero had dripped sauce onto my white blouse. Soren had bellowed unexpectedly as I attempted to remove the stain by pouring a bit of seltzer on the spot, causing me to startle and spill the full bottle all over myself. Now I had a giant red stain, a soaked blouse, and one pert nipple visible through the sheer, damp fabric of my bra and shirt.
“Your five o’clock appointment is here,” Bambi announced through the intercom.
I sat in one of the guest chairs on the other side of Soren’s desk as he gave me the once-over. He shook his head and looked like he was about to tsk.
“What? It’s your fault I look like this.”
“My fault? In the two years you’ve worked here, you’ve never left this office after a meal without wearing it. It’s a good thing you have great tits. Most men will overlook a stain or two for a rack like yours.”
“So stop looking at me like that. Overlook the stain like all the other assholes will.”
Soren grumbled and pushed the intercom button. “Show Ms. Brady in, please.”
Soren’s divorce-assistance private investigation services, where we gathered evidence that serial cheaters were just that—cheaters, was one of the more popular services he offered. But the client seldom wanted to meet the woman seducing her husband, so I was curious to see what set this one apart from the others.
They all came to tell us about their lying, cheating, asshole husbands—yet they were always all done up for the occasion. The women with reasons to come here had bruised egos, cracked hearts, and fissures in their faith in the male gender, but they stood tall as they told their stories. Getting all dolled up was part of the untold story they wanted to tell us.
It isn’t my fault.
My husband didn’t cheat because I gained an extra forty pounds, greeted him wearing stained sweatpants every day when he came home from work, and hadn’t given him a blow job in ten years.
He cheated because he’s an asshole with a character flaw.
The thing is…most of the wives probably did let themselves go a little—got comfortable, stopped spending time on themselves because they were taking care of others. But none of that should matter. These women didn’t need to prove anything. Just being here, I already knew it didn’t matter if they met their man at the door decked out in a lacy negligee and dropped to their knees. Because it wasn’t the faithful partner’s fault. No matter what. It was the cheater’s.
I should fucking know.
Caroline Brady was petite. Dressed in a conservative pantsuit that covered most of her thin frame, she looked more like a banker than a scorned woman. Her mousy brown hair was thick and straight, cut in a blunt bob with heavy bangs. Oversized dark sunglasses covered half her face. She looked like she was trying to hide eyes that were more than likely swollen from countless hours of crying over her piece-of-shit husband.
Soren stood and introduced himself, then looked to me.
I softened my normally bitchy attitude and extended my hand. “I’m Elodie. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Brady.”
After she shook my hand, she stared down her nose at me for a solid thirty seconds. I stood my ground and stared right back. I could see her judging me, even hidden behind her glasses.
Soren finally intervened in our stare off. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
With her eyes shielded, she continued to gape at me for a few heartbeats, and then finally sat.
“What brings you here today, Ms. Brady?”
Her voice was cold. “I want her to sleep with my asshole husband.”
Soren held up his hands. “Whoa. Hang on a minute. That’s not what we do here. I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed.”
I glared at her. “I’m not a whore.”
She pursed her lips, but she didn’t have to say a word. Her face said it all.
I stood. “You know what, Soren? I’m actually not going to be able to do Ms. Brady’s job anyway.”
The one thing I knew about Soren was that he cared about me more than any retainer.
He nodded. “No problem, babe. Why don’t you head out, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Got plenty of other work for you to do.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and didn’t give Caroline Brady the satisfaction of a last glance on my way out.
I was deep in thought as I drove toward the Whitestone Bridge. There was a time when I’d actually gotten off on the work I did for Soren. My own messed-up relationship had taken such a toll on me that I needed a few years of screwing asshole men over. Every time Leo snapped the camera, I envisioned it was me getting the proof and screwing over my ex, Tobias. Oddly, setting up cheaters for their wives was cathartic for me—and a hell of a lot cheaper than a therapist.