Dirty Forever (The Dirty Suburbs Book 8) Page 13

“What is it you wanted, Sanaya?”

  “Mr. Trotten, a Brittany Delaney has been calling you all day. Something about wanting your services to file a paternity lawsuit. She just left another message and I swear to god, I’m about to lose my ever-living cool with the woman.”

  I wave a dismissive hand at her. “Ignore her. Block her number or something. Come over here. I need your help.

  She steps into the room. “Yes?” she says, hitching a hand on her hip.

  “I need some more precedents for the Shinewell case. We’re heading to the court of appeal soon and we have nothing to counter the motion.”

  Her smirk deepens as she drops the folder in her hand onto the table. “Got ya covered, boss.”

  “Phew!” I blow out a sigh of relief, lifting and dropping my shoulders to relieve some tension.

  See? Sanaya’s on top of things. She’s excellent at her job. It all most makes up for her irreverent sarcasm, her shocking impropriety and her blatant insubordination. I’ve clearly won the administrative assistant lottery.

  “At least, something is going right today.”

  I can feel her pitying stare on me.

  "What is it?" I ask.

  She shakes her head. "It's just so sad seeing you like this, Mr. Trotten. I heard that you and your wife split. Look – if you've already started dating, my sister Priya would love to go out with you. She always likes a guy with a tan line on his ring finger, if you know what I mean."

  "Thanks for the offer," I smile tightly, "but you focus on managing my legal briefs and I'll focus on managing my personal life."

  She laughs. "Wow – I've never been told to fuck off in such a diplomatic way before."

  I wink. "That's the way I roll."

  “Anyway, your legal briefs are all handled. Maybe I’ll go to an early lunch,” she muses.

  “If you’re looking for something to do, I need you to go online and order me some yoga-man pants.”

  She hitches her eyebrow, casting me a suspicious look. “Why would you ask me to buy you yoga-man pants? Is it because I’m Indian?”

  “No, Sanaya. It’s not because you’re Indian. I’m just incredibly busy and it’s your job to help make me less busy. So I can go to this god-forsaken tantric yoga retreat with my wife on the weekend.”

  This couples’ yoga retreat has to go off without a hitch. It’s my last chance to save my marriage. Talking to Grace last night made it clear to me that she doesn’t trust me not to hurt her again. She’s afraid that I won’t keep the promises I make to her. I understand where she’s coming from. The last time I told her I was ready to fix our marriage, I cancelled our date at the last minute because I had to work. That night, I really had no choice – I had just learned that Prescott’s little sister, Evangeline, had (unbeknownst to her family) gotten herself caught up in a bizarre sex trafficking ring and I had to help her. So, I was justified in canceling my date with Grace that night but I hate myself for hurting my wife in that way.

  That won’t happen again. Nothing’s going to stop me from going to this yoga retreat. Especially not my secretary’s taunting.

  Sanaya smirks. “Ah, tantric yoga! Nothing says ‘I love you’ like a weekend of vigorous, nude genital bumping in a room full of complete strangers getting their bodily fluids all over your yoga mat while Enya plays on low in the background of the incense-and-perspiration-scented room.” Grinning breathlessly, she throws me a wink. “Things are about to get sticky, if you know what I mean!”

  I scowl at her. “Stop trying to scare me. I’ve done my research. That’s not what it’s like.” I hope.

  “Shoot!” she mutters, punching the air and feigning disappointment. “Why do I always get stuck with personal assignments for you lawyers, anyway?” she grumbles under her breath. A few months ago, Sanaya took on the project of turning Prescott’s not-yet-fiancee into the belle of the ball for an important event they had to attend. “I’m an administrative assistant. Not a personal shopper.”

  It’s my turn to smirk. “Well, as far as I know you’re not a matchmaker either but yet here you are trying to couple me up with women you know. Apparently you like to take initiative. Good trait to have.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  I like this girl. Keeps me on my toes. Much more entertaining than my last secretary.

  After rifling through my wallet, I hand her my American Express card. “As a matter of fact, order me whatever the hell I’ll need for the weekend. Just take care of all the details. Toothbrush, deodorant, yoga mat, everything. Have it all shipped to my apartment. I want to wake up on Saturday morning, grab the bag and be out the door.”

  I don’t exactly like the glint in her eye as she grabs my outstretched credit card or the sugary way she says, “Sure, Boss.” But right now, I’m way too swamped with work to worry about her motives.

  The little voice at the back of my head warns that I may end up regretting that decision.

  Chapter 24

  Daniel

  Isla holds the door open and waves us into the dry safety of the yoga center. “Come on in, guys! You two are getting drenched!”

  The wind whips through the trees, howling in the dead predawn air. Autumn in Reyfield is always wet and cold and unapologetic. With Grace leading the way, I hustle toward the door and my hair clings to my face. Blinded by the rain in my eyes, I stomp straight into a crater-sized puddle causing cold water to splash the legs of my sweatpants.

  This day is already off to a splendid start!

  I got to my apartment from the office around 2:15 this morning. My alarm clock started crowing at 4:30. But I was already wide awake, staring at the ceiling, fuming that I have to be here at this tantric yoga hocus pocus.

  Contorting my limbs into impossible positions while chanting shit in ancient languages I don’t even understand is supposed to save my marriage?

  Meditation, is that the answer? Really?

  Gimme a break.

  If the $400-an-hour therapy sessions with one of Chicago’s most renowned relationship counselors couldn’t fix us then I don’t see how this mumbo-jumbo will.

  You know what I think is the solution? We need to send Sebastian off to my parents’ for the weekend, bring a few bottles of wine and some chocolate fondue up to the bedroom and fuck until we’re too tired and dehydrated and intoxicated to fight. That’s what we used to do in law school and it worked every time.

  But Grace just isn’t having it this time.

  “Hi hun,” my wife greets Isla as she steps into the reception area and brushes her wet hair out of her face.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been here – Keeland has dragged me here a few times since he’s considering renting out a small room at the back to run his tattoo business – but every time I step into this building, the whole new-age bohemian vibe gets under my skin.

  The essential oils and incense being diffused through the air.

  The sitar music echoing in the room.

  The large, colorful cushions all over the floor.

  The candles. All these damn candles.

  Apparently, the bedrooms upstairs where couples stay during these retreats are equally quirky. There’s no escaping the eccentrism in this place.

  Don’t get me wrong – I like Isla. But all this woo-woo she’s selling, I just don’t buy it. The shit’s outlandish, to say the least.

  “Good morning,” she says to Grace and me, and she’s way too perky for this early hour.

  I tell her just that. “You’re way too perky for this early hour.”

  She laughs melodically. “Once you allow yourself to sync up with the energy of the Universe, you’ll feel the bliss, too.” I try not to roll my eyes.

  Nope. Not buying it.

  But I don’t want to be rude so I’ll hold my tongue.

  “The other participants are down the hall in the big room. We have a light breakfast spread out just in case you didn’t have time to eat. You guys probably want to go get dried off first, right?”

&nbs
p; I look down at my drenched clothing and nod.

  “The locker rooms are just down that way.” She points to a long, dimly-lit hallway, “Once you’re done, we’ll all gather in the big room and begin with an overview of what to expect this weekend. Sounds good?”

  Grace hoists her overnight bag up on her shoulder. “Sounds good,” she says with a hesitant but willing cadence to her voice.

  Both women turn their expectant eyes to me. I push out a rough exhale and rake my fingers through my wet hair. “Sounds good.”

  Isla smiles warmly. “Most men start out with their reservations,” she tells me, “but by the time this weekend is over, you’ll be looking at your wife and your relationship with whole new eyes.” She peers at a sceptical-looking Grace. “Trust me, the biggest hurdle is usually getting your mate to walk through the front door.”

  My wife’s eyes move to me, those beautiful brown irises pleading with me to play along. She has no idea the power she has over me.

  Not one other women on this planet could have me standing here right now. I should be working today. Next week is a big week. The Shinewell case goes before the court of appeal. I don’t have time to be sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat all weekend, trying to get in touch with my inner Dalai Lama. I have things to do. Real world things.

  But that look on Grace’s face, the way her drenched white t-shirt clings to each of her curves. I want that. More than I want anything. That’s why I’m here.

  I’ll need to keep that at the front of my mind if I’m going to get through this weekend. “I’m gonna go dry off,” I say and turn down the hall, following the sign that leads to the men’s locker room.

  Chapter 25

  Grace

  Inside the women’s locker room, I quickly dry off my hair and pull it into a limp ponytail before slipping into my black yoga pants and a close-fitting graphic t-shirt. I make my way into a large room at the back of the studio where a handful of people are milling around, helping themselves to a variety of special teas that are supposed to mellow you out.

  I think I’m gonna need a gallon of that tea.

  I’m surprised by how edgy I am. My nerve endings tingle and my stomach is in knots. I guess I just feel like the fate of my marriage depends on what happens here this weekend.

  Taking a deep breath, I glance around the room. I don’t recognize everybody but there are a few familiar faces from around town including Nancy and Edward, a newly engaged couple in their late 80s. Nancy throws me a wink and I grin, the tension fizzling out of me just a little.

  A hand settles on my shoulder and I glance back to find Isla standing there with a big, compassionate smile on her face. “Hey…”

  “Hey…” I give her an unconvincing smile in return.

  She hands me a cup of tea and I accept it with a grateful nod. “How are things?” she asks tipping her head in the direction of the men’s locker room.

  I sigh heavily. “Very tense since I suggested this workshop.”

  “Well, you got him to come here. So I’d say that’s a promising step.” Her tone is far more confident than I feel but I’m trying to keep an optimistic outlook.

  I chew on my bottom lip. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Look – he’s here. He’s trying. That’s got to count for something, right? My ex-husband wouldn’t even consider coming here. That’s one of the many reasons why he’s my ex-husband.”

  A little laugh escapes my mouth.

  “He’s trying,” Isla says again as she pats me on the arm. “That matters.”

  She’s called off by one of the couples to answer questions. I take a recycled bamboo plate and grab a few grapes for myself. I don’t really have an appetite but I figure that eating will give me something to do and it’s going to be a long day so I’d better put something in my stomach. I also grab some food for Daniel. He’s a pineapple fan so I make sure to pile that high on his plate.

  I take a seat in the corner, feeling like a wallflower. Daniel is always the outgoing one. That's why he fit right in in law school while I floundered. He had no problem starting (and winning) a debate in Constitutional Law class and he had professors eating out of his hand during office hours. His confidence – that’s one of the things I admire most about him.

  Glancing at the clock on the wall, I realize that I’ve been waiting on him for 20 minutes. We’re all waiting on him. The other couples are here and I’m the only person sitting alone. Panic flares in my stomach as I recall the many times that we made plans and he backed out at the last minute to deal with work. I sit there quietly, praying to god that today isn’t one of those times.

  After an eternity, he rounds the corner. I’m not surprised to find that he’s typing away on his phone.

  A flurry of reactions swirl in my chest. I’m pissed that he couldn’t put down his fucking phone for five minutes. The first session hasn’t even started yet and his work is already a problem. Still, I’m relieved that he actually showed up. He didn’t sneak out the back door and run off to his office to get work done.

  But the predominant emotion that I feel is shock…

  What the hell is my husband wearing?

  Chapter 26

  Daniel

  Ten minutes earlier…

  I push open the door to the locker room and am visually assaulted by a mural of a larger-than-life pot-bellied man sitting completely nude in the center of a lotus flower.

  No – I’m not talking Buddah, here. I’m talking a round-tummied, Regular Joe with a penis the size of a baby carrot. Why anyone would find this thing artistic is beyond me. He looks like a truck driver from Idaho who decided to get naked and smoke some pot after a long-haul shift across the country. Is it supposed to be soothing? Am I supposed to be comforted by the fact that this guy – even with an AAA battery for a dick – was able to find his inner peace?

  There’s hope for me yet.

  Once I manage to pry my eyes off of the mural, I plod over to the benches and drop my bag down. A quick glance into the mirror covering the wall shows me just how drenched I am. I peel off my T-shirt and toss it aside before prying open the zipper of my gym bag.

  A sense of confusion takes over when I pull the first item out.

  It’s a pair of loose orange pants with colorful embroidery and sequins snaking their way down the side. The shimmery linen hangs loose around the crotch and there's elastic cinching it tight at the ankles. It looks like traditional Indian garb.

  The next item I pull out is a slack yellow U-neck tank top cut so low that my nipples are bound to make an appearance in class today. I dig through the bag and only find more of the same.

  Is this Sanaya’s idea of a joke?

  I can’t wear this. If I’m seen in these clothes in public, I’ll lose all my credibility. My clients will think I’ve gone mad. The partners at work will question my fitness to represent the firm. Growling deep in my throat, I dig my cellphone out of the pocket of the pants I’m wearing and pull up her phone number.

  Daniel: sanaya what the hell did you pack in my yoga bag???

  Her response only infuriates me further.

  Sanaya: hehehe

  Sanaya: told you i wasnt a personal shopper *angel face emoji*

  She did this deliberately. That conniving little wench!

  I dump the bag out completely and rummage around for something a little less ridiculous to wear. The regular, practical clothes are at the bottom of the bag. They’ve got to be. Right?

  Wrong!

  Shit! All of the clothes are equally outrageous.

  I pull on my hair in frustration just as my phone pings with another text message.

  Sanaya: dont forget the head wrap. it really completes the look

  Sanaya: and I even got you some sanitizing alcohol wipes. Y’know, for the sticky yoga mats!

  I can just imagine her now, tossing her head back and laughing her ass off. As pissed as I am, I’ve got to keep my cool. There’s too much on the line. My marriage hangs in the balance. I s
trip out of my wet pants and dry off with one of the complimentary towels folded on the shelf near the shower stalls. I try drying off my wet clothes with the hand dryer for a few minutes but it’s pointless. And it’s making me late. Eventually, I step into my ridiculous outfit and check myself out in the mirror.

  I take a deep breath and tighten the drawstring at the waist.

  My street cred just lost about 5000 points.

  Oh, Sanaya, you think you’re a little prankster, huh?

  She’s going to regret this. I’ll make sure of it. Come Monday, she’ll be barricaded in that copy room making photocopies until she’s high off of printer fumes and ink toner.