The Next Wife by Kaira Rouda (top 20 books to read .txt) 📗

my bedroom, but to be honest, I never really had a room to myself. There was a curtain hanging between my mom’s bed and mine. It didn’t seem to mean anything, not to anyone. A curtain isn’t a locked door. It’s something to be pushed aside, ignored.

I shudder. No, I can’t blame Ashlyn for becoming the teenager she became. For being the woman she is today.

But you shouldn’t blame me for who I became, either. We’re all creatures of our environment. I’m the type of person who figures out how to get ahead. And it worked out for both of us. Ashlyn needed a little real-world experience, and I needed an ally in the office. So when I say that her little internship was all my idea, believe me, it was. If it weren’t for me, Ashlyn would have spent another summer lying by the pool at the country club, flirting with the boys, and perfecting her suntan. It’s too bad she turned on me once she started working at EventCo.

Shit. John’s head is on the table. He’s literally passed out on our deck. I cannot have anyone zipping by on the gondola seeing this. I mean, he’s in the news now, with the IPO. This is unacceptable.

“John, John, wake up!” I shake him, but there is no response. OK, deep breath. I can handle this.

John moans. He’s in there. I just need to activate him. He’s drooling on himself. Ugh. His face is pale, but that could be the moonlight.

“John, look, we’re going to go to bed. I’ve got you. Stand up.”

He’s doing it. We’re walking inside. He’s heavy, leaning on me with all his weight. It’s all I can do to get him to the couch. I’ll just let him rest here. That’s what I’ll do. I make sure he’s settled across the couch and then cover him with the blanket.

He just needs to sleep it off. I wipe drool off his face. Nice, John.

While he’s resting, I clean up the kitchen. I carry a tray out to the deck and clear all the glasses and dishes. I rinse everything in the sink with soap and pop it all in the dishwasher, setting the cycle to pots and pans. I like dishes extra clean, extra sanitized.

I didn’t even know that was a thing until I married John. We never had one of these fancy dishwashers.

With the kitchen all tidy, I look around to see if anything else in the condominium is out of place. John’s phone is on the kitchen counter. I put it on the coffee table in front of the couch where John has passed out. I’d rather have him in the guest bedroom, in case the cleaning crew comes tomorrow. I’ve expressly asked them not to come tomorrow because of our romantic weekend. But you can never be too sure. Sometimes people just don’t do what you want them to do. They lie. They cheat. I shake my head and look over at John.

The thing is, a lot of guys pass out on the couch watching sports or something on TV. I find the remote, and the screen flickers to life. I have no idea what channel has sports, or even what summer sports could be. I find two women playing tennis. Perfect.

John fell asleep while watching a tennis match. Happens every day. No one needs to know that he isn’t a tennis fan.

I kiss him lightly on the forehead. It’s slimy with sweat. I wipe my lips on the sleeve of my shirt. That was gross. This is gross. All of it.

I hope it’s almost over. I look at his phone where I put it on the coffee table and see a text from her. How sweet! She wants John.

Call me when you can get away. Rather demanding, isn’t she? And she’s violating our private time by texting him. I feel my hands clenching into fists. I want to punch someone, something.

She thinks she’s won. She thinks he can get away from me.

I drop the phone back onto the coffee table.

She’s so wrong.

CHAPTER 12

JOHN

Where am I? Why am I so thirsty?

I roll to my side and fall to the floor, landing on a soft rug.

I just fell off my own couch.

Before I can make sense of it, my stomach heaves. I need to get to the bathroom. It’s not pretty, but I’m crawling across the great room. It’s dark, but I know I’m in Telluride, in my condo, and I’m headed in the right direction. Man, the altitude is really hitting this time. Oh, and the margaritas. Probably shouldn’t have had so many.

Probably shouldn’t have done a lot of things.

My stomach has calmed down, but I’m parched. I pull myself up to the sink and stick my head under the faucet, gulping water like I’ve just survived a desert trek. I relieve myself and limp back to the couch. My phone is on the coffee table. It’s one in the morning. I just need to sleep this off, start fresh in the morning, but still I open my text messages and see there’s just one. It came in while I was passed out.

Call me when you can get away.

I smile. She cares.

I hope Tish didn’t see the text, but I’m certain she probably did. She’s always nosing around in my business. I know it’s late, but my eyes can’t focus to text so I call instead. Her voice mail picks up. “Hey, listen I’m uh, really, really drunk but I uh, just wanted to call and you know, say hi and well, I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow as soon as I can get out of here I, uh, I will. I don’t feel so good. And, uh—”

Another wave of nausea hits, and I’m sweating profusely. I drop the phone on my stomach, force my eyes shut despite the feeling of being on a sinking ship, and will myself to fall back asleep. It’s the only antidote for a