It had been hours since I’d watched Isabella slip into J.B.’s limousine, and the waiting was driving me out of my mind. My wife had walked out the front door wearing next to nothing, and ever since the stretch limo disappeared down the street, I couldn’t stop imagining J.B.’s hand sliding across her bare thigh in the back seat.
As the car pulled away from the curb, I glanced across the street at the massive three-story house opposite ours. Wayne, our neighbor, stood in his driveway grinning like he’d just won the lottery. He waved and started toward me, dressed in his usual suburban-uniform combination of cargo shorts and a faded T-shirt.
“Evening, Brad,” he called. “That’s one hell of a ride. Where’s Isabella headed looking like that?”
It wasn’t any of Wayne’s business, but I was too distracted to come up with a believable lie.
“Some work-related event,” I said.
“Doesn’t she work for one of those big auto dealerships?”
I nodded. “She’s head of accounting at Bennet Auto.”
Wayne’s eyebrows lifted. “Then I’m guessing she’s going to the automobile dealers’ association dinner over at the country club.” He studied me for a second with an odd expression. “I’ve heard stories about those parties. You must trust Isabella a whole lot to let her attend one of those.”
A knot tightened in my stomach. “What stories?”
Wayne shrugged casually. “That once the respectable crowd leaves, things get pretty wild. Real wild.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Who was in the limo with her?”
The question caught me flat-footed. Before I could stop myself, I answered honestly.
“J.B. Bennet.”
Wayne slowly looked down the street where the limousine had vanished. He tapped his fingers against his thigh while something clicked into place behind his eyes.
“Well,” he finally said, “I didn’t realize Isabella was a hotwife.”
He turned back toward me, and suddenly the goofy guy in Bermuda shorts and a cartoon T-shirt didn’t seem goofy at all.
“Or that you were a cuckold.” His voice stayed calm, almost conversational. “So what’s your plan tonight, Brad? Sit at home pacing the floor while you picture what your wife’s doing?”
I realized I was staring at him with my mouth half open. Wayne had figured everything out in less than five minutes.
“Wayne,” I said quietly, “let’s keep this between us.”
“That depends,” he replied. “How would you and Isabella feel about coming over for dinner Sunday night?”
It wasn’t really an invitation. It sounded more like a test.
Wayne might have dressed like an aging frat boy, but he was far from stupid. He’d gone to college on a football scholarship and probably would’ve played professionally if a knee injury hadn’t ended that dream. Even now, he stayed in impressive shape. His wife was petite and striking, a former college cheerleader who still had the kind of looks that made television cameramen search for her in a crowd.