Cowboy Town: Down Under Cowboy Series, #1

PROLOGUE

Life doesn’t always hand you the happy ever after you dreamt of.  Sometimes, living happily ever after is a choice, not a given.  Live happy with what you have – not what you thought you would have.

Happy birthday, Eden, Matt whispers in my ear.

Hmm, I stretch out in his bed, Thank you.

He kisses my cheek and then nibbles down my neck to my collarbone. You’re most welcome.  I feel his grin against my skin.  Turning slightly onto my side, I run my hands up and down his sculpted back.  I have always liked Matt’s toned, long, athletic body.  Just thinking about it hovering over me causes a shiver to run through my body.  I run my fingers up over his shoulders and into his perfectly trimmed sandy blonde hair, ruffling it with my fingers. I moan when he takes a nipple into his mouth and laves it with his tongue.  He pays each nipple special attention until he’s satisfied, then he spits some saliva on his hand and wipes it on his cock (for lubrication because he never takes the time to get me really excited), then he positions himself over me and thrusts inside in one swift movement.

Ah, I cry out, arching my back.

Oh, yeah, he grunts.  He thrusts a few more times before emptying himself inside of me.

That was great. He kisses the corner of my mouth before rising out of bed and heading for the shower.  Three years, and every time was the same.  Slam, bam, thank you ma’am.

I lie there for about five seconds before I reach into my overnight bag and pull out my toy.  Slipping it underneath the covers I switch it on and I’m rewarded with an enthusiastic buzzing sound.

My hips jerk when I first touch it to my clit and I moan softly, careful to keep the noise down so Matt doesn’t hear.  Rolling my nipple between my thumb and forefinger, I use my other hand to work my toy down below until I stiffen, then shudder.  I bite down on the corner of my pillow to muffle the drawn out moan that rises from my throat as I convulse.  I hear the shower cut off and I quickly place the toy back in its place before taking my shower and readying myself for work.

I hear the bathroom door open as I rinse the conditioner from my hair.

I’m off to work, Eden.  Can you lock up when you leave?  I’m going to be pretty busy tonight with work.  It’s red week starting tomorrow isn’t it?  I guess I’ll see you in seven days. I’ll call you, ok?  Love you.  He doesn’t wait for me to answer; he just closes the door and leaves. Red week is what he calls my period week.  He never comes near me when I’m menstruating.  I have no idea why, and honestly I don’t care.  My heart sinks.  I love Matt; well at least I think I do.  We got together just before my parents passed away and along with Jules and work, he’s been a constant steady part of my life since.  I do often wonder though, if my parents hadn’t died, would I still be with him?  We’ve been together a long time and even though every year previously has been the same, it doesn’t mean I don’t get my hopes up every birthday that he’ll buy me some flowers or some jewelry or just ... something to acknowledge me.  But this year, same as the previous two, the only thing I get from him is a ‘happy birthday, Eden’ and a thirty second fuck that leaves me hanging.

I finish getting ready and leave for work, making sure to lock Matt’s door before I go.

Hi Eden, happy birthday, my boss, Dawn, greets as I walk through the doors of Prestige Real Estate.

Hi Dawn, thank you, I reply, smiling.  Dawn is middle aged, has a sleek platinum blonde bob, perfectly applied makeup, and she wears tailored skirts, blouses and suit jackets to work every single day – even when it’s freezing.  She won’t be caught in trousers.

What have you got on today? She asks, following me through the building until I reach my office.

I have a walk through at one and an open house at three.  I’ve also got to get onto preparing some leaflets and brochures for the Marsden residence auction.  Those have to be sent to the printers today to ensure they’re ready.  I’ll get Bridget onto that.  Oh, and I also have to make a few phone calls to book an inspection with the tenants of two two eight River Crescent, I say as I flip through my appointment book.

Okay, well I’m out of the office today, so I’ll be on my mobile. She smiles breezily as she struts out of my office and into her own.

I set about organizing the photos and information that we’ll need to make up into brochures and then get printed.

Eden, there’s a delivery of flowers for you, Bridget says as she walks into my office carrying a beautiful bouquet of red roses mixed with baby’s breath.

Oh, thank you, I say, slightly shocked.  I can’t imagine who they’re from.

I spy a small white paper envelope, so I open it and read the message:

B,

You’re all I ever want.  You’re my every star in the sky.  My every dream come true.

P x

I slide the card back into the envelope and call out to Bridget.

Uh, who told you those flowers were for me?

Nobody did.  I saw them sitting on my desk and assumed they were for you.  It is your birthday, after all, she explains.

They’re for you. I smile, handing her the bouquet.  I’m sorry, I read the card.

Oh, she gasps.  The swiftly takes the card out of the envelope and, I swear, she melts on the spot.  Phillip, she whispers to herself.

They’re a gorgeous bunch of flowers, I tell her.

Yeah.  I’d better go call him to say thanks, she says dreamily.

Okay. I chuckle.

A part of my heart pangs, wishing it was Matt who sent me the flowers.  You would think I’d know better by now.

I’m off for my one o’clock, Bridget.

Sure, she mumbles, still dreamy.

I shake my head and make my way out to my car.  I love my car.  She’s a sporty, navy colored, Toyota RAV4, with dark tinted windows.  I’ve had her for two years now and I bought her brand spanking new.  I take a detour for drive-thru Oporto’s for lunch (it is my birthday, after all) and then make my way to my appointment.

Mr. and Mrs. Bateman, I am Eden Cross from Prestige Real Estate.  It’s lovely to meet you both. I smile warmly and shake their hands in turn.  I have spoken to Mr. Mark Bateman over the phone twice, but this is the first time we’ve met.

And you, Ms. Cross.  We’re quite interested in this property, Mr. Bateman replies.

Well, let’s get started. I move my hand aside so they can precede me into the house.  I spend about forty minutes showing them through the three bedroom, two bathroom house.  They seem even more interested to put an offer forward by the time we leave.

I head back to the office and collect the papers I’ll need for the open house this afternoon and then head out to the property.  Around twenty people arrive to view the house and I hand out small leaflets with information about the property itself, the upcoming auction for its sale and Prestige Real Estate.  I can tell that five of the inspectors are very interested in the property.

I drag myself back to the office at half past five and unload the leftover leaflets onto my desk.  Bridget has already left; her work day finishes at five, so I shut down my computer and head for home.

I’m halfway home when I take the detour that will change everything. I decide to call over to Matt’s and see if he’s home.  I know he said he was working late, but I’m hoping his plans changed and we can go out to dinner and celebrate my birthday.  If he’s not home, I’ll stop by the liquor store and grab a bottle of wine and celebrate by myself.

I park the car across the street from Matt’s townhouse and then walk down the path about fifty meters so I can cross the road safely.  Matt lives in a beautiful Victorian era townhouse.  When he bought it two years ago, the previous owners had been very keen gardeners and kept the front yard in immaculate, manicured condition.  I convinced Matt to hire a gardener to keep it in its pristine condition.  He did, and the yard looks even better today than when he brought it, if that’s possible.  Walking up the paved pathway to the huge chestnut wooden door, my brow knits together in confusion. 

His door is ajar.  Never, in the entire time I have known him, has Matt left a door ajar.  He tells me frequently that we live in Sydney and you cannot be too careful.  People will slit your throat to rob you of a dollar these days.  I always scoff and tell him to stop being so dramatic, but even so, I always lock my doors.

The first thought that runs through my head is that his house has been broken into.  I stand at the door and concentrate on listening as hard as I can.  I can’t hear anything that sounds like a sound a burglar would make.  There’s no crashing of pans, smashing of photo frames.  Not that I know what sounds a burglar makes, but I did watch Home Alone a time or two when I was a kid!

I hear no sounds at all, so I decide it’s safe to enter.  I push the door open and walk as quietly as I can on my tip toes (to stop my heels clicking on the wooden floors) the four steps it takes until the hallway opens out to the left into the open plan kitchen/dining/living room.  My eyes scan the room and then stop on the couch.  I am frozen to the spot.  My legs are like lead weights that I can’t lift.  I think I’m in shock.  I want to blink to clear my eye sight, just in case I’m seeing things.  But I know I’m not.  I see a naked Matt kneeling on the floor.  A woman’s long, slender legs are coming off the couch and are thrown over his shoulders.  I see his tongue in profile as it snakes out and licks the woman’s core.  She tightens her legs and then moans.  Suddenly, Matt rears up and impales his length into her, thrusting hard.  It all happens in about twenty seconds, but it feels like twenty hours.  Finally my legs come unstuck and I race out of the house.  I don’t know whether I made a noise with my shoes.  I don’t know whether I slammed the door shut or left it wide open.  I don’t know anything.  I bolt across the road, not caring that it is peak hour and I should be using the crossing down a bit.  I jump in my car and speed off toward my house.  My heart is thundering in my chest and the lump in my throat is making it hard to breathe.

I arrive home and on shaking legs, I make my way up the path and into my duplex. My hands are shaking so badly, I drop my keys three times before I can insert them into the lock and make my way inside.  I shut the door, lean up against it and slide down until my ass hits tiled floor.  My mind is whirling.  So many questions are swirling around and the images.  Oh god, the images. 

How long has he been cheating on me?

Is she the only one?  Is there more than one?

He never, not once, gave me an orgasm. He never once gave me oral sex – he said performing that act on a woman was filthy.

What am I going to do?

What am I going to do?

Then the tears come.  Huge drops raining from my eyes, tumble down my cheeks.  I hang my head between my bent knees and let my tears splash onto the floor as I sob quietly.

Should I confront him?

Will I forgive him?

Should we stay together?

Does he still want me?

Do I still want him?

Can I get past this?

Do I love him enough to forgive him and try to make it work?

Does he even want to make it work?

Do I want to make it work?

The questions continue to run through my mind, but I know one thing deep in my heart.  I can’t forgive him.  It doesn’t matter if it was one time or a hundred.  I can’t move past this.

My mother put up with my father’s infidelities throughout their entire marriage.  It wore her down and she developed deep self-esteem issues from his cheating.  Don’t get me wrong, my father was the best dad.  He was also a loving and caring husband to my mother.  He was just shitty at being faithful.  That’s why she stuck with him – because everything else was great and the only down side was his faithfulness, or lack there of as the case may be.  I remember a conversation I had with my mother, about a week before they passed away.  We were sitting on the back deck at their house (the same house I grew up in) drinking coffee and eating fresh cinnamon scrolls from the bakery down the street.  They were still warm.  My mother looked sad.  Dejected.  Lost.  My father hadn’t come home last night.  He still wasn’t home, and it was nine a.m.

Mum, are you ok?  I ask, watching as tears fill her eyes.  She doesn’t let them fall though.

I’ll be fine, sweetie, she says in a small voice.

Why do you put up with it, Mum?  If I had a man and he cheated on me... I shake my head and let my words trail off.

I know it’s hard for you to understand, Eden, but I promised your father ‘for better and for worse’.  You can’t expect a marriage to last if you’re prepared to only take the better.  My whole life with you and your father has been the ‘better’.  His ... indiscretions are the only ‘worse’.  So to continue having the better, I have to deal with the worse.

I understand that, mum.  But I think somewhere in your vows you also promised to ‘forsake all others’.  Did dad leave that part out when he declared his love to you in front of Pastor Nicholson and the congregation? I ask heatedly.  I love my father but I hate when he hurts my mother.

Hello, my girls.  I spin around in my chair and see my father striding through the sliding doors.  He leans in and kisses my cheek before making his way to my mum.  He lays a passionate kiss on her mouth and I turn away - I definitely don’t need or want to see my parents making out.

Hi dad, I answer.

Hi, honey, my mother whispers.

What are you two doing out here?  Oh, are one of those for me? he asks picking up a cinnamon scroll.

Go for it, I say, gesturing toward the delicious baked goods.

I wait for my mother to call him out on where he’s been.  I hoped my speech about their vows would hit a nerve.  But she doesn’t say a word.  She just acts completely normal and unaffected in front of him. 

I knew from that moment on that I couldn’t tolerate an unfaithful partner, no matter the ‘better’.  I’ve always viewed cheating as a cowardly act.  If you feel the need to cheat then you, at the very least, owe your partner the respect of telling them where your feelings lie before you commit an act of adultery. 

My tears ease and I know deep in my bones, the answers to my questions.

I cannot forgive.

I cannot forget.

I cannot get past this.

I don’t want to be with him any longer, regardless if it was one time or a hundred, with the same woman or with many.

Should I confront him?  I don’t know.  I’ve never been a big fan of confrontation.  I don’t like it and I go to great lengths to avoid it.

My phone rings and vibrates in my pocket, bringing me from my thoughts.  I lift it up, hoping it’s not an after-hours work related call, or worse, Matt.  My shoulders sag in relief.  It’s my best friend, Jules.

Hi, my voice is thick from crying so I cough to clear it.

Happy Birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to yoooooou, sings down the line.

A small smile touches my lips.  Thank you, I say as tears well in my eyes again.

Hey, what’s wrong?  She gentles her voice, concern clear in her tone and I just know she’s frowning.

I wish you were here, I manage on a quiet sob.  Jules is in Bali