Roommate Arrangement （Divorced Men's Club #1）
Saxon James
ABOUT THE BOOK
Payne:
In search of: room to rent.
Must ignore the patheticness of a forty-year-old roommate.
Preferably dirt cheap as funds are tight （nonexistent）。
There’s nothing sadder than moving back to my hometown newly divorced, homeless, and lost for what my next move is.
When my little brother’s best friend offers me a place to stay in exchange for menial duties, I swallow my pride and jump at the offer.
I need this.
I also need Beau to wear a shirt. And ditch the gray sweatpants. And not leave his door ajar when he’s in compromising positions …
Beau:
In search of: roommate.
Must be non smoker and non douchebag.
Room payment to be made in meal planning, repairs, and dumb jokes.
Since my career took off, I barely have time to breathe, let alone keep my life in order. I’m naturally chaotic, make terrible decisions, and scare off potential dates with my “weirdness”。
So when Payne gets back into town and needs somewhere to stay, I offer him my spare room with one condition: while he’s staying with me, I need him to help me become date-able.
And while he does that, I can focus on my other plan: ignoring that Payne is the only man I’ve ever wanted to date.
PROLOGUE
Payne
The internet is an amazing place for cooking recipes, watching cat videos, and finding out your husband is a filthy, lying cheater.
My mouth is dry as I punch in fake details and my credit card number to access the OnlyFans account that was sent to me. The thumbnail is so clearly him, but I need to know for sure, because there’s that tiny part of me that can’t accept it.
My heartbeat picks up as his page loads and …
Fuck.
A quick scroll shows, well, way too many videos. This isn’t a one-off.
The most recent is date-stamped yesterday.
Yesterday.
I don’t know if he fucked this guy yesterday or just uploaded the video, but either way, this was obviously on his mind while we spent the morning together. Right before he went to the gym.
Is this guy “Jim”？
And because I must be dead in the brain, I tap on the video.
That fucking. Mother. Fucker.
I’m an understanding, open-minded guy. If Kyle had come to me and told me he wanted to do porn, we could have talked about it. I might have watched. I might have done it with him. If he’d wanted an open relationship, it’s something we could have discussed …
But when Kyle shoves the other man onto the bed and roughly pushes inside him, I see red.
Not totally because of the cheating, though that’s making me pretty fucking ragey.
Or seeing him with another man.
But because I’ve suggested a few times over the years that he top me and he’s always said no.
He hates it.
It doesn’t feel right.
We rarely have penetrative sex at all anymore.
And yet …
I scroll through his page and find videos dating back two years.
My stomach rolls.
Two years of that asshole cheating. Two years of him doing with other men what he’d never do with me.
We are done.
I force myself to watch another three scenes, to watch his orgasm face and the way he smacks the other men around, and I let my rage build.
And build.
And wonder if he’s out there, right now, with his dick in some guy.
The thought crosses my mind to go and film myself fucking someone else and send it to him, but I’m not so convinced he’d care. And the thought of retaliating that way makes me sick.
But I have to do something.
Revenge is burning through my blood.
Pumping so hot and thick through me that it sets off a ringing in my ears and makes it difficult to think.
I stalk into the bathroom, grab his toothbrush, and drop it into the toilet, where I take a photo of it before popping it back in the cupboard.
But it’s not enough.
My gaze lands on his laptop, charging on the side table, and fuck, was he lying in bed beside me last night, reading the comments on his OnlyFans?
My hands shake, and I stalk over to it, tug it off the charger, and open the top. The password screen blinks at me, and it only takes a few attempts to get the right one. That’s how well I know him. A man I’ve spent twelve years with.
Well …
I thought I knew him.
When I get to the OnlyFans site, his username and password are pre-saved, and a second later, I’m in.
All his filthy secrets are at my fingertips.
He has a ton of unread messages, and I know I shouldn’t do it, but I click over to them anyway. Hundreds of different men, dick pics exchanged, dirty talk and cybersex, and … my heart squeezes. Messages arranging hookups.
… wait until my husband is at work …
I shove the laptop off me and suck down a breath, trying to stop the rising vomit. It’s a struggle to hold on to my anger when betrayal and embarrassment are attempting to take over instead.
My nostrils flare, but I refuse to cry over this asshole.
He’s not fucking worth it.
My head knows that, but my heart is struggling to catch up.
I grab his laptop again, find the Go Live option, and turn it on.
My face is reflected back at me, and I look wrecked. Fuck it.
“To everyone subscribed, this is the page for my husband, Kyle Rousle, and despite being married for five years now, I’ve only just found out it exists. So thank you for subscribing to two years’ worth of evidence of my husband cheating on me.” I rattle off his phone number. “Feel free to give him a piece of your mind or to arrange hookups, but now that he’s single, it might not be as hot for him. Also, he chews with his mouth open, talks like an obnoxious monkey, and apparently has issues with commitment.” I wink. “Real catch.”
Then I end the video, walk out onto the balcony of our fourth-floor apartment, and drop the laptop over the edge. It hits the ground with a satisfying crack, but the silence that follows is stifling.
I stare down at the broken computer like I’m staring at our shattered relationship, and I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of grief.
There’s no staying with him, and facing the end of a twelve-year relationship is a complete mindfuck.
How do we split our things?
Work out joint finances?
Finances? Screw him. He must have a secret bank account with the number of subscribers he’s got, so I’m clearing our accounts out.
I pack everything I can into my car, knowing I have a couple of hours until he’s finished work.
Shit … I’m going to need to get tested.
The thought hits me out of nowhere and sends me spiraling.
If that son of a bitch has given me something …
A sob builds, and no matter how much I try and swallow against it, my vision blurs.
I block his number in my phone, then flee the house before he’s home. There’s no way I can face him.
I leave, brokenhearted and at a loss.
What the fuck do I do now?
The drive from Boston to Kilborough, the town I grew up in, takes a bit under two hours. We’re located in Hampden County, in the foothills of the Provin Mountain. It’s been a while since I visited, the last time being for my niece’s birthday, and that fucker was with me.
I push the anger back.
I promised myself by the time I got to my brother’s, I will have put it behind me, which seems laughable as I make my way through town. Two hours isn’t enough to erase over a decade of memories.