Respect Me, Part 1 by Nia Arthurs
Jerrison
The envelopefrom the private investigator arrives at the end of the day.
I stare at the ugly, orange square. It takes up too much space on my desk. My fingers drum against it. The contents bend and crackle with every tap.
My door opens.
The creak shatters the tense silence.
Patrick sticks his head inside. “You busy?”
“Just finishing up.” I grip the envelope. Squeeze it tight until it protests.
Patrick’s dark eyes drop to the package. “What’s that?”
“The PI sent it.”
His expression shifts in an instant. Brows tightening, he drops his voice to a dark whisper, “Have you… is she…?”
“I haven’t checked yet.”
“Why not?”
“Just haven’t gotten around to it,” I mumble darkly.
Patrick steps through the door and kicks it shut with his foot. Marching toward my desk, he slams his hands on the surface and faces me with burning eyes. “You’re not being a punk about this, are you?”
A scowl crawls over my face. “Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”
“How many times has your wife checked your phone?” Patrick arches an eyebrow.
I turn my face. Sigh in the direction of the large windows. The night sky stretches over the city. Skyscrapers blink yellow and red. A million tiny stars trapped in concrete.
“Bet it’s a lot,” Patrick adds cockily. “How many times has she gone through your bank statements? Your receipts? How many times has she called around asking for confirmation of your whereabouts? How many times has she demanded to know who you’re with?”
I rub my chin. Feel the bristly sensation of stubble that needs to be shaved off. Harriet’s always been a bit of a control freak. She likes when everything is in order. In place. And when it’s not, she loses her mind. Goes crazy trying to get them back in the way that she likes. Ever since we got married, those habits got worse. She became a nagging voice in my ear. A burr in my side that I couldn’t flick away.
A few months ago, I caught her rummaging around in my trash can. That woman is like a hound dog with a bone. There’s no such thing as boundaries when she wants to get to the bottom of something.
“See?” Patrick’s voice is oily. “You can think of a hundred times when she’s invaded your privacy. Nothing wrong with giving her the same treatment.”
“You’re right.” I square my shoulders.
Patrick hurries around the desk and bends over my chair. Glee sparkles in his eyes. He licks his lips, rubbing his hands together. “Hurry up and open it, man.”
I don’t move a muscle.
Patrick’s face swings toward me. His brows pull into a deep V. “What are you waiting for?”
“Do you mind?” I jut my chin in the direction of the door.
His expression falls. “Hey, I’m the one who set you up with this guy. Give me some credit.”
“Get out, Patrick.” I narrow my eyes at him.
He screws his lips like he smells something disgusting. “You’re no fun, Bradley.”
I ignore him.
Realizing that he’s not welcome, Patrick plods to the door.
I wait until he’s gone.
Once the silence settles around me, I redirect my attention to the envelope. Such a harmless piece of paper. Something this flat and this light carries the world. The entire weight of my anxiety.
What am I going to do if the PI found proof of Harriet’s affair?
My mouth gets dry as cotton.
“Don’t be a wimp, Jerrison,” I murmur to myself. Reaching for the envelope, I rip it open like a band-aid and shake the contents out on the desk.
The photographs are crystal clear. Almost HD. I have no idea how the investigator managed to grab such decent shots from the background.
Harriet’s smiling face beams up at me from one of the photos. Sunshine does magical things to her brown skin. She’s glowing from the inside, her hair swinging around her plump cheeks. Black eyes glittering like marbles.
I set my hand on top of her face, caressing her cheek gently. “What have you been up to, baby?”
Sliding those pictures aside, I search the rest.
There.
My eyes widen when I see the photos of Harriet with some old guy. He’s short. Dark skin. Dark eyes. The grey hair in his goatee puts him way above our age range.
“What is she doing?” I hiss to the silence.
In one photo, she’s handing him a wrench.
In the other, she’s peering over the hood of a car.
Harriet and the old guy.
It’s a pattern that continues for ten shots.
The more I stare at the photos, the more annoyed I become. Some shots are innocent enough, but there are others where she’s staring deeply into his eyes.
Whatever they’re talking about must be real freaking intense.
My jaw starts to hurt and I realize I’ve been clenching it for too long. I relax the muscle only to grind my teeth again.
My wife has been spending her mornings with this old guy.
The hell?
Grabbing my keys, I sweep the pictures haphazardly back into the envelope and rush home.
I barely restrain myself from kicking the front door down. Letting myself in like a civilized man, I stomp to the kitchen where I hear pots and pans clanking.
Harriet’s in the brightly lit room. Her straight hair is pulled back into a ponytail, but soft strands slip out of the clasp and fall against her sweaty neck. Dark hands press into flour and roll out dough. A fluffy apron protects her tank top and shorts from ruin.
She turns with a smile on her face. “Hey, honey…” Her words drift to silence when she sees my expression. “What’s wrong?”
How can she play innocent when she’s sneaking around every morning doing who knows what with that old man in his garage?
Memories of her coming home and bearing the slight whiff of car oil fills my head. How far has she gone with that mechanic?
“Jerrison,” Harriet’s eyes search mine, “what’s wrong?”
“Explain this.” I toss the envelope on the counter.
Harriet tilts her head. “What is that?” A few of the pictures slipped out when I tossed the envelope and they peek from the edge of the orange folds. She reaches for the one on top. It’s the photo where she’s staring into the old man’s eyes.
Her body stiffens into a straight line and her voice gets dangerous. “Where did you…” She gasps. “What the hell is this? Were you spying on me.”
“Are you messing with that guy?” Heat slams me in the chest. I’m trying my best to restrain my fury, but it leaks out of me like poisonous gas. “Is that why you spend all morning at that garage?”
“What?”
“You’re into old dudes now, Harriet?”
“How dare you?” Her hands tremble and her eyes bulge out of her face. “How dare you spy on me!” She jerks her chin back and forth. “I knew I felt someone watching me. I felt uncomfortable all day and it was because of you and your stupid…” She takes the photo into her hands and squeezes it until it rolls into a ball. “I can’t look at you right now.”
I step into her path before she can storm away.
My chest heaves with every violent breath.
My eyes bore into hers, searching for the truth. “You can’t lie your way out of this, Harriet. And you can’t avoid it either. I want answers.”
“Do you?” She leans back, her arms folded over her chest and her lips tightening into a severe scowl.
“Who is that man?”
“Why don’t you ask the guy you hired to spy on me?” Her spittle flies into my face.
Because I want to hear you admit it. I glare at her as I wipe my jaw dry. “I’m going to ask you one last time. Are you having an affair?”
“Get out of my face!” Shoving me away, Harriet marches to the door. Suddenly, she whirls around and shoves a finger in my direction. “You need to hire an investigator to watch yourself. You’re the one sneaking around with other women and doing things you know you shouldn’t. Don’t you ever spy on me again, Jerrison, or I swear I will rain hell on earth.”
“Harriet!”
“I said enough!” A vein bulges on the side of her temple. I can see red strains pulsing in the whites of her eyes. Can hear the pounding of her heartbeat over the pounding of mine. “I wish you’d put a quarter of that effort into changing your behavior and ending all the affairs you’re having.”
“Don’t you start with that, woman.” I take a step toward her.
“Get away from me.” She lifts a hand. “In fact, you’re better off sleeping on the couch tonight, Jerrison. Don’t bother coming to my bed.”
“Fine! I don’t want to anyway!”
The words fill the air, dark and heavy.
Her eyes flash with hurt before a sharp cast of fury overshadows it. Whirling around, my wife stomps up the stairs. I hear the door slam hard enough to rattle all the frames in the house.
My phone chirps in the silence left from her exit.
I pick through my pocket.
Anger still burns in my veins and it takes me a second to register who’s calling.
Ashley.
It’s the woman I met at the bar. A few days ago, we started messaging each other. It’s clear that she’s into me, but I wasn’t sure if it was worth the effort to follow her up. Right now, I don’t give a damn.
I answer quickly. “Hey.” My voice slips into an easy timbre. It’s practiced. As smooth as butter. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Were you?” She gives a deep, throaty laugh.
“Yeah.”
“Me too. Something told me to call Jerrison. It was almost, like, fate.” She breathes out into the phone. “Is… everything okay?”
“No, actually.” I wilt against the table. The weight of my latest blow up with Harriet settles on my shoulders. Even though we had an incredible night yesterday, our fights keep happening closer and closer together.
“Did something happen with your wife?”
“It just… it feels like we’re different people.” I glance up the stairs and run a hand down my face. The wedding ring on my finger glints brightly. I’m usually proud to wear it but, right now, it feels like it’s tightening on my hand. Cutting off circulation. “It doesn’t matter what I do these days. Everything turns into a fight.”
“She sounds so selfish.”
“It’s not that. We’ve both been under a lot of stress.”
“It’s okay if you want to badmouth her in front of me. I’ll understand.”
“No. I’d rather not talk about my wife right now.”
“How about I cheer you up?” Her voice carries a hint of shyness.
“What do you have in mind?”
“My roommates are gone for the night. I have the apartment to myself.”
Heat coils through my stomach and heads down south.
“Why don’t you… come over?” Her voice is husky. A dangling invitation.
I glance at the pictures of my wife and that old man. My lips curl up and I stalk to the door. “I’m on my way.”
