Page 86 of Untying the Knot
Not to mention, since that night it’s been a nightmare living with her.
Here’s the thing with Myla you need to know—she doesn’t handle her emotions well. She doesn’t like to feel out of control or exposed in any way because it reminds her of her childhood. She keeps her guard up at all times.
The other night, when I was between her legs, she won’t admit it, but she let down her guard, especially when she followed me to my room. And because she did that, now she’s put up a fortress around her while shooting off bombs every chance she gets.
Meaning . . . she’s trying to drive me fucking nuts.
She knows how to push my buttons, and she’s doing exactly that. How, you ask? Simple, it’s little, inconsequential things that in the grand scheme of life don’t seem like a big deal, but when you know someone is doing it on purpose, it builds.
It mounts.
And boy, oh boy, am I at my fucking breaking point.
For instance, she keeps tilting the hung pictures around the house so they’re crooked. Every time I pass one, something’s off, and sure, I could walk away and not care . . . but fuck, I am not that man. I pull out the level and adjust the picture until it’s perfectly back in place. It’s to the point now that I carry my mini level in my back pocket while I walk around the house.
And laundry, if I don’t take mine out of the washer right away and put it in the dryer, she pulls it out, sets the wet clothes on top of the dryer, and starts her own load. She doesn’t grant me the courtesy of slipping my clothes into the dryer for me, so I end up having to wash my clothes again so they don’t smell moldy. Infuriating—and yes, I know this is my fault. I’ve now set a timer on my phone, and when it goes off, I sprint up to the washer to make sure I don’t waste any time putting my clothes in the dryer.
Not to mention the little things like walking around in her bikini, lying topless by the pool, or even parading around in a loose-fitting robe that does nothing to hide her sexy curves.
Don’t even get me started about the batteries in my TV remote. Or how she is constantly moving my things around so they’re out of place. Like my protein powder or my vitamins, or how she seems to only swim when I’m outside watching a game and blasts her music so loud I can’t hear the announcers say a goddamn thing.
But that’s fine because I’m the one who fucked up, right?
I deserve it all . . . right?
At least that’s what I keep trying to tell myself so I don’t fucking explode.
I slip my tie from around my neck and toss it on my bed. Banner picked me up and dropped me off today because I haven’t bothered with transportation yet—you know, because she has my goddamn car. And what a fucking day. I woke up with a headache, and it’s only gotten worse throughout the day as I sifted through mindless meetings, exciting, but boring-as-shit quarterly projections, which I know are required, and mind-numbing interviews of prospective employees. Apparently, I did a shit job of hiding my annoyance today because I got a lecture from Banner all the way back home about not showing my annoyance around the new employees. Because yeah, life might suck for me right now, but we’re still on the cusp of a new venture, and I shouldn’t be dragging it down with my personal life. He was right. Then he proceeded to tell me he’s been working on something special that, if it goes through, will skyrocket The Jock Report to the next level. But because he didn’t want to jinx it or get my hopes up, he refused to talk about it and offered me zero details.
None.
So he just slipped me right back into a bad mood.
Needless to say, I’m irritated and exhausted, and all I want to do is eat the steak and potatoes I picked up on the way home, drink a beer, and enjoy the Bobbies game. Harris is pitching tonight, and he’s been on fire lately.
I don’t want to deal with The Jock Report.
How I fucked up with Myla.
I quickly change into a pair of shorts and then pull out my phone and check my email once more. I was expecting an email from JP about a meeting with a merchandise vendor. My phone dings with incoming emails, and my inbox floods with over twenty.
The pounding of my head increases, becoming a constant throb at the forefront of my brain.
Power through. I search for an email from JP, and when I see it at the top, I open it. He hands me over an email for a guy he knows and tells me to contact him and tell him JP sent me over. Thankful that I have the Cane brothers to work with, I shoot an email over to James, the merchandise guy, with our general needs and my availability for a meeting. On a deep breath, I slip my phone into my pocket. Done for the day. How many times have I thought that only to be sidetracked by another call or several other emails?The truth behind running your own company.
Okay, beer, steak, and potatoes. My mouth waters at the thought of taking down one of my favorite steaks in Chicago, so I head downstairs and straight into the kitchen, where I find Myla standing with her back toward me in a thong bikini.
Fuck . . . me.
My headache has now turned into a full-on raging migraine.
Her bubbly ass is on full display, tan and perky. Her hair is down in waves, cascading over her shoulders, covering her bare back. Before she asked for a divorce, I would have slipped up behind her, tugged on the strings of her bikini bottoms, and pushed her over the counter so I could fuck her just the way we both like it. But now, I just have to deal with the fact that my wife with the finest fucking body I’ve ever seen is untouchable.
Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I walk toward where I left my take-out box only to stop mid-stride as Myla turns toward me, fork and knife in hand, half of my steak already gone.
My juicy, delicious, made-just-for-me steak with roasted seasoned potatoes and a side of horseradish sauce is being masticated by the one and only Myla Bisley.
“What . . .” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What the hell are you doing?”
