And even though I knew as much from my short-lived conversation with TMZ, I still suck in an audible breath when I hear him say the words and automatically start shaking my head as I try to reject them. Everything I know I should say or ask is stuck in my throat because as much as I believe him, why is dread sifting through my body weighing every part of me down?
Dread. Curiosity. Unease. All three swirl in an eddy of discord as I try to process this.
I can tell my lack of a response makes Colton worry. He steps forward and then steps back. Antsy and irritated. “Do you doubt me?” he asks, voice rising in pitch with each word. I don’t answer him. I’m too inside my own head, too overwhelmed by every single thing about this.
“No.” I mouth the word, unable to find my voice.
“Don’t you ever doubt my love for you!” I jump as his voice thunders through the room; his palm hits the desk to reinforce the words. And I can see he immediately regrets the reaction by the fisting of his hands and how his head falls back to try and rein in his anger. When he lifts his head back up, he meets my eyes with a determination I’ve never seen before. “Ry, I swear on the life of this baby that I have not so much as touched, kissed, or anythinged another woman, let alone put myself in a position to be videotaped having sex with them.”
I force a swallow down my throat. I believe him. Have no doubt. And yet . . . “I want to see it,” I say with more certainty than I feel.
“You walked in just as the full video came across to CJ. He’s emailing it to me.” He scrunches his nose momentarily and in that instant I can see how worried he is about this. And not about the existence of a tape, but more so what this is going to do to me. To us. “You don’t need to see it.”
“Don’t tell me what I need to do, Colton. If you didn’t do anything, then it shouldn’t be an issue, right?” I slowly stand and walk over to the desk so I can sit at the computer while Colton remains with his hips against the desk and head hung down, no doubt preparing himself for whatever we’re about to watch.
I click alive the computer screen, and my breath hitches immediately when I see the email sitting in the inbox from CJ. The subject line of “Video” taunts me as I wait for Colton to come over.
“Please, Ry,” he begs. “I don’t know what’s going to be on here . . . and you’re not going to be able to unsee it once you do. I know for a fact it’s not me but at the same time, whatever they have on tape, I don’t even want that image in your head so you doubt me.” He hangs his head down again before looking back up to me with determined clarity. “I would never cheat on you, Ry. Never.”
I worry my wedding ring around my finger, knowing what he’s saying to be true but at the same time, needing to see for myself. My only response is to move the cursor and open the email. The fortifying breath he draws in disrupts the silence in the room and rides shotgun to the sound of my own pulse thundering like a drum in my ears.
I double-click the file.
Snow fills the screen, gray, white, and black grain that holds my attention hostage. I will for it to clear and not want it to clear all at the same time. And when it finally does, it takes me a second to believe what I’m seeing.
“Oh fuck!” falls from Colton’s mouth the exact same time as the thought flickers through my mind.
The image is dark, grainy, but the what and the where are unmistakable. The memory zooms back in high definition color in my mind as I watch the one person that is unmistakably clear in the video, Colton, unknowingly look up toward the camera as he holds a woman’s hips and drives into her over and over.
Not just any woman though.
One in a dress, which is pulled up over her hips and bunched down around her waist, so she is completely exposed.
And even though the video is black and white, I know the dress is red. Fire-engine red to be exact.
Because the woman is me.
In the parking garage.
On the hood of Sex.
And in case I wasn’t sure, the concrete wall of the parking garage is painted with the hotel’s name. There is no mistaking the where or the what. Or the whom.
Both of us lean in closer out of reflex as we watch the video unfold, second by second, thrust after thrust, and I’m not sure if I’m more mesmerized or horrified at first before the realization sets in with what exactly this means. There is no audio on the security cam’s footage so the office weighs heavy with the silence until the clip goes dark and the video ends.
We’re both stunned, unsure what to say, not certain what to do. I feel like a thousand-pound weight has been lifted from my shoulders because Colton was right: he wasn’t cheating on me.
That weight has been replaced with an anvil teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall off and harm anyone in its path.
And we’re standing in that damn path.
Someone has footage of Colton and me having sex.
I think even if I watched the video replay one hundred times I still wouldn’t believe it.
“They’re on crack if they think I’m going to pay them three million dollars for that,” Colton says, breaking the silence, voice resolute, and staggering me in more ways than just one. Dumbfounded with my hand over my mouth, I force myself to look away from the black square on the computer screen and over to him.
And if I thought he was angry before, he’s livid now.
“What did you just say?” I finally stutter, not sure if I’m more shocked at the three million dollar figure or that he doesn’t care that a video of us having sex has been made.