Anthony’s laptop is a Mac, so I flip up the lid to use his FaceTime to call her back. I click to shut out of the window he has open, but it doesn’t close; it plays instead. It’s a video.

My body goes rigid for a split second before collapsing in on itself. The weight of utter shock and disbelief drags me to the depths of Hell like an anchor off the side of a boat. That abused organ behind my ribs slows from the sludge of anger crawling through my veins. The only part of me that moves is the cold sweat beading along my skin and the bob of my throat as I try to swallow the truth.

The truth?

Anthony stuck his slightly bent dick into Kim, and he recorded it.

My head eases to one side and then the other. Yep. Any way you look at it, they are going at it in the kitchen. How appropriate. We first had sex on my massage table. He was a client of mine. Not my usual MO. I guess Anthony Crooked Dick Bianchi likes to see how women perform in their element.

He pulls out of her, swipes his finger through a bowl of chocolate mousse, and … no no no … he smears it between her legs as she arches her back off the white granite counter top. What a waste of chocolate mousse. Anthony doesn’t even like chocolate—

Gasp!

Bile seeps up my throat.

Liar!

Clearly, he likes chocolate mousse. He’s eating it as if he’s starving and it’s the last food on earth.

Why am I watching this? I know how it ends, yet I can’t look away. Even worse, my finger inches to the volume button. I tap it once, twice, three times until his moans fill the room, accompanied by Kim chanting, “Tony, Tony, Tony…” Wait a damn minute. He told me his name is Anthony like Saint Anthony. Period. Not Tony. No nickname.

“Avery?”

My head snaps up. I don’t shut the computer. I don’t mute the volume.

Tony’s jaw ticks, eyes wide and flitting between me and the computer.

“Spread them wider, my little angel.”

He grimaces at his recorded voice full of lust, and my eyebrows shoot up. Well, I was raised to believe there is only one God, but many angels. Kim’s skin is beautiful, some might say angelic. Moans and the intermittent slurping of Saint Anthony enjoying his mousse keep us both entranced. Who will speak first?

Me. I’ll go first.

“So you do like chocolate, Tony.”

“Avery.” Anger purses his lips as he takes three long strides forward, slapping the laptop shut.

I can’t even … Nope. My world is gone. Swarley is off the hook. I can’t even feel the pain in my hand at the moment. I can’t feel anything. Disbelief is a long-lasting shot of anesthetic.