A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife by Arnica Butler Page B

with his cock.
    I have no idea how the conversation ended. The phone began to scream in my ear and startled me from my reverie.
    I wasn't so much stunned that Jordan was having an affair, and had been caught.
    I had known that, hadn't I?
    I was something else.
    I was like a kid at Christmas, unable to wait.
    I wanted to see the pictures. 
     
    So this is where I really lost it.
    I sat in my car in the parking lot of Ricky's building, staring at the pictures he had given me. He had asked me to stay for about twenty minutes, presumably sizing up how ballistic I was going to go. I had kept my cool, told him I just wanted confirmation of what I already knew. I would be in touch if I needed more. Bill me.
    Then I walked, rubber-legged, to the parking lot and collapsed in the car.
    So it was all true. She was having an affair.
    And from the evidence, including what I had seen in The Mile, she was having more than one affair.
    Many affairs.
    Struttin' her stuff, all over town.
    I looked at the man in the pictures.
    This man was dark-haired. In great shape, from what I could see by the way he pressed out his tailor-made suit. Was that fucking Armani? Rich, good-looking.
    Jordan was leaning close to him in one photo, smiling, her ear close to his mouth.
    What secret was he telling her? Some dirty, delicate thing he would do to her, as soon as they disappeared?
    Jordan's dress in this picture was an incredibly sexy black dress, cut very low to show off her tits. They hung, beautifully, in full view in one of the pictures. Her hand was on the man's forearm.
    I squinted. Her left hand.
    No wedding ring.
    The pain that clawed inside of me was a new kind. It was so much more real. Now everything was so much worse.
    Now it was all very, very real.
    She was really doing this. My wife.
    And with more than one man.
    I sifted through the pictures again and again.
    I thought of Ricky's face as I left the office. “Now don't do anything stupid,” he had warned me.
    I tossed the pictures in the passenger seat.

A THICKER PLOT
     
    I was going to lose my job. That much was easy to see, and in spite of the mad rage that had taken over my body and mind, there was still a little bit of me thinking about my career.
    Doug could no longer cover for me, and his interest in doing so was waning. He knew I wasn't sick. He knew I had personal problems. But he was getting tired. He never said anything, but his face said it all. Sort your shit, it said.
    It's the face he had given me when I hung up the phone with Ricky. The face he had given me when I had sat, like a zombie, in court, leaving him to wing it on a plea in a case that wasn't even his. 
    It was the face he had given me when I left to meet Ricky.
    The face he had given me when I told him I was cutting out early because I felt sick.
    Sort your shit, or you're gonna get fired.
    But I didn't give a shit about any of this as I got into my car and drove out of the parking structure.
    Did I know where I was going? Did I know what I had planned? I have no idea what I was thinking at that moment.
    I still had no idea what I really felt about what I now knew to be true: Jordan was having an affair.
    Was I happy, happy to be proven right and not crazy? Was I sad for our marriage? Was I excited because it turned me on? Was I angry because my life was going up in smoke?
    I had no idea.
    I've heard people talk about blind rage. Blanking out, Doing things, like smashing someone's head in, and not realizing it.
    Needless to say, as a prosecutor in a strongly Republican county, I am compelled by a variety of pressures to not believe that sort of thing. I never really did, personally.
    But when I turned off the engine of my car, in front of Jordan's office, with no recollection whatsoever of having driven there, I could see how it could happen.
    I had no idea what thinking had led me here. Was I going to burst into her office? I'd probably get shot. Arest Greene did some of the most underhanded PI work in the