Chapter 8

“What’s so funny, babe?” Jamie asked me as we waited for Ana and Oscar to join us.

“Just the thought that not that long ago, I was a betrayed husband with a horrible harridan of a wife who drugged, kidnapped, restrained, and humiliated me. Now ... I have what some might call a harem and such ... couldn’t I have just skipped the shrewish cunt of a wife from hell and gone straight to the harem?” I blushed a bit at my own stupidity in trusting, loving, and marrying a royal pain in the ass bitch like Danielle.

“Well, you could have, but that’s water under the bridge, and at least this way you now have Michelle, which you might not otherwise. And that sorry twat is in the slammer, where she can’t hurt another man. It was only a matter of time. That cunt has borderline personality disorder, antisocial personality disorder, or something like that. No sane, rational person would do what she did. Period. She’s a danger to herself and everyone else. She really belongs in a psych ward, if you ask me,” Jamie said as she lit up a joint and offered me a hit, “don’t worry, I have it on good authority that your boss won’t sack you for getting high.”

Jamie winked at me on that one, while all of us burst into laughter, including Oscar and Ana, who were in the dining room now.

“That’s what someone like Danielle could use. A good bong or joint hit, right? Some proper weed! And if I had to guess, yeah, knowing her as ... intimately as I do, BPD is the most likely culprit. Maybe she can get some real help like she needs ... in prison,” I shrugged, “I’ll have to wait to have the papers ready, but as soon as I can, I’ll skip the process server and serve them to her myself in jail. Assuming that I’m allowed to visit her, that is. Okay, now enough about the ex. She’s a depressing topic.”

“Depressing, yes, except when you think about the look on her face when she sees either or both of us with you at her trial or sentencing or whatever. That’s gonna be satisfying enough. By the way, what harem? Two, three girlfriends max, a lesbian girlfriend to one of your own sweet girlfriends, and a boyfriend. Big deal. I got a harem myself by that standard! It’s not like you’re suddenly Brigham fucking Young or whatever!” Jamie mocked the idea that I was some kind of sexual deviant just because I now lived with her, Michelle, Ana, Carly, and Oscar, three of whom really needed a place to crash, anyway.

“And there are FAR worse ways to handle this mess, you know. At least you didn’t kidnap her and/or her lover, chain them to a fucking stove in a secret cabin out in the fucking boondocks somewhere, starve and abuse Ramone to death, and rape her repeatedly until she had like, fucking Stockholm Syndrome, or some other crazy response. You’ve let the law handle things. You didn’t take the law into your own hands like some fool vigilante.

“My cunt of an ex-friend, Danielle, will get everything that she deserves, such as a long, healthy prison term, while we move onto much better lives. Lucky you that you didn’t have to go far for rebound lovers, and we’re not gonna act like normal rebound partners. No, it’s much more like that Doug Stone song, ‘Come in out of the pain.’ Have you heard that song?” Michelle now broke her silence after taking her hit of the joint.

“It sounds vaguely familiar to me, but please enlighten me, babe,” I asked my love slave.

“My favorite line from it goes, ‘come in out of the pain, let me dry your tears. He’s been gone for days and I’ve loved you for years. Lay down in my arms, there ain’t no shame. Don’t just stand there, girl. Come in out of the pain.’ Change a couple of pronouns and a few other words, and that’s us. It’s definitely you and Jamie. We’re not just rebound lovers. We’re women who have adored you for the longest time and now that you’re ours for the taking, we’re grabbing you with both hands, honey,” Michelle told me with a very steamy kiss.

“Amen to that. I love that Survivor song. ‘The Search is Over.’ My favorite part is where the lyricist writes that ‘the search is over, love was right before my eyes.’ Well, honey, the search is over. Love was always here, just waiting for you to come to its arms. Others won’t ever get it, you know. They’ll just see ‘ultimate male fantasy’ and either judge or envy you. They won’t see that you tried to love the conventional route, the way that society tells you to try it, blind dates, so-called ‘real dates,’ monogamy, engagement, wedding, honeymoons, etc.

“What the fuck did that get you? Pain, sadness, misery, treachery, torment, and worse. See why I avoided that mess this whole fucking time? Stupid wedding vow lines like ‘forsaking all others,’ ugh, some folks even feeling obliged to be faithful when their partner has already breached said vows, said contract, at which point they’re arguably absolved from any such obligations or duties if you ask me. People so convinced that sex is a poison pill for a new relationship, or whatever, that they avoid it until they’re already neck deep in one.

“So, what does that get you? Being celibate while waiting for a new Ms. Right while your ex runs around and fucks everything that moves, gets rewarded in her life with pleasure for not having such hang-ups. I’m telling you, monogamy, serial or otherwise, is a fucking rip-off! Don’t wait until you’ve found a new Ms. Right. Your body still has needs, primal urges, that don’t stop or lessen just because some stupid cunt of a wife does you wrong, stomps on your heart, and spits on your love. She betrayed you, not vice versa. If anyone suffers, it should be her, not you.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I don’t sound like a fucking Hallmark movie, do I? Or a story by one of the online romantics, either. They’re okay, if a bit depressing at times. Dude has to stick to Rosie Redpalm and her five daughters while the wife moves on easily with her new boyfriend, just because he still has some stupid notion that he is bound to the wedding vows because he ain’t divorced yet. Um, dude, you’re such a fucking buzzkill ... When she cheated, you were absolved from said fucking vows and any need to be faithful at all!

“So, the damn heifer of an ex is getting her ashes hauled daily while the unlucky victim of her betrayal is forced to resort to giving himself handjobs and sitting around depressed or drunk or whatever, because of some vows he took to a false god who died two thousand years ago? As if! Maybe it’s just the fucking tomboy in me, but I call bullshit on that crap!

“And now, because your dumbass ex was especially vicious, she gets to rot in jail like her idiot loverboy while you stick it to her the way that she normally would have to you, regardless of who cheated. The same courts that would have shafted you will shaft her instead, because if there’s anyone who gets screwed over more than ex-husbands, it’s convicted felons. Welcome to the good ol’ US of A, right? Sorry, I’ll get off my soapbox now,” Jamie laughed a little at her own tirade there.

“Hey, I enjoyed and totally agreed with that entire fucking rant, if you ask me,” I chuckled while making out with her and Michelle in turns.

“Are we ready for breakfast? I picked it up this morning and I’ve kept it warming in the oven this whole time so that it didn’t go cold. I’m a decent cook, but I wanted to treat you guys to my own rich girl version of something very special ... and I didn’t want to take time this morning, of all mornings, away from fucking this dear man here halfway into the grave. Well, that and I planned to get a little stoned, too. I hope that you’ll forgive me my flaws,” Jamie announced as she rose and took the delivered croissants from a local bakery, complete with bacon, cheese, and eggs on them.

She also poured us some papaya juice and some coffee as well. The croissants were fucking delicious, too, a nice, buttery flavor included in the bread itself, eggs scrambled just right, which was hard to accomplish with takeout breakfast, the cheese just the right level of gooey, cheesy goodness, and the bacon sizzling in such a way that you could hear it. Something told me that this was to give us all the calories that we would need for one helluva day.

That was when I got a call from Mr. Natansky.

“Sorry, we’ve had to rush that restraining order, Mr. Avanti. Your wife got out on bail. I don’t know who posted the bond, of course. This does mean that you can’t serve her the papers yourself. It would be too dangerous, of course, with her no longer incarcerated. We’ll have to use a process server, who will cost some money. We’ll have to find her, anyway. At least in jail we knew where she was.