Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,47

of suspicion in Clarke’s voice, and I mentally cheered him on from my frozen spot on the stairs. Surely he wouldn’t buy that crap. Surely he would see what was really going on.

“Oh God, don’t be such a New Yorker.” She slapped a casual hand on his chest. “It’s, like, seven on the West Coast.”

“This isn’t the West Coast.” I’d never heard that tone in Clarke’s voice before. It was still and dark, with a sharp edge. I silently moved down a few steps, closer to the train wreck that was finally unfolding, my heart beating faster. This was finally it.

“Clarke,” Nicole said dismissively, the words shut up clearly in the name.

“You should leave.” Clarke gripped the door’s edge and, from my perch, I saw the white clench of his knuckles as he spoke to Paulo.

“It’s so kind of you to offer to pay for the doghouse,” Nicole blabbed on, her voice bright.

Clarke said nothing.

Paulo said nothing.

I stared at the action and wished I had popcorn.

“Chloe.” Nicole’s voice pierced through the room and I blinked, suddenly aware that I just stood there, like a creepy ogler on the subway.

“Yes?”

“Go home.”

I nodded quickly, galloping down the remaining steps, my eyes down, my squeeze through the front door done without anyone shifting to give me room.

Someone shut the door behind me, the heavy wood slamming into place and snuffing out any sound, my eavesdrop dying a quick death in the cool night air.

It took a moment for me to move, stepping down the sidewalk to the next cross street, my arm raising out of habit and flagging a cab. I needed, wanted, to go home. Forget the party Benta was throwing that night. I wanted my bed.

An affair was a dirty virus, taking in innocents as it spread and grew. I could feel it diving under my skin, my corruptibility growing simply out of proxy. Maybe this was the end. Maybe, come tomorrow, I would walk into a different household.

44. Does Sex Solve Everything?

The next day, I carefully opened the door, pausing for a moment and listening for sounds of carnage, looked for splatters of blood, crime scene tape, or dead bodies. I saw nothing and eased inside. Whispered my hellos to the Brantley staff and trotted upstairs to my office as quietly as I could in my super-cute new sandals. I shut the door and didn’t hear a peep from anyone until Chanel scratched on the door around nine.

Any concerns I had over Nicole and Clarke’s marital woes were addressed an hour later, when—from the ceiling of my office—a loud thumping started. I stopped typing the letter to Mavero’s management, demanding a full refund of his performance fee, and listened. Chanel let out a low growl and I picked her up, moving to the door and sticking my head out, on high alert.

Then, Nicole shrieked. Loud and long enough for me to instantly understand what was causing the thumping. Her hyena call was followed by a scream of Clarke’s name, and I closed my eyes in thanks. If I had to listen to my boss have sex, at least it was with her husband, one indignity I could handle. I ducked back into my office, pulling the door shut and put on Spotify, blaring Gwen Stefani loud enough to drown out any more sounds of sex. My door swung open forty-five minutes later, a perfectly put together Nicole glaring at me from the doorway. I paused the music. ”Good morning,” I said.

“I’m shooting in Brooklyn today.”

“Yes.” I lifted her set bag that, sometime around her fourth orgasm, I packed with her snacks, clothes and makeup. “Dante is out front.”

“Make sure everything I’ll need for today is in there; I don’t need you to hang around with me today.” She pointed at the bag with one long finger, as if I might get confused.

“Okay.” I nodded and noticed the humongous diamond still on her ring finger. Between the orgasms and her ring, it appeared to be business as normal for the Brantley marriage. Maybe she was done with Paulo. Or maybe she lied it all away and Clarke bought it. Or maybe I needed to stop speculating and get my butt moving. I stood. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Ten minutes later, I slid into the backseat and pulled out my phone, checking my texts as Dante headed to Brooklyn. One from Joey, two from the sound production girl, one from wardrobe. Nothing from Carter. Almost a week since our quasi-double-date with Joey.