The Best Friend's Betrayal

The plane touched down at nine p.m. on the dot.

Perfect timing for a date.

I headed straight to Jack's place and rang the bell.

"Took you long enough."

Jack's lazy voice drifted from inside. The moment he opened the door and saw me, every drop of color drained from his face.

"L-Lane?"

"What the hell are you doing back?! Weren't you supposed to be out of town?"

He stared at me like he'd seen a ghost. I didn't say a word, just let my eyes trail down to the robe he was wearing.

A charcoal gray velvet number, the belt tied loose, the V-neck plunging damn near to his navel. And from the looks of it, nothing underneath.

I'd gone shopping with him last week. When he bought this thing, he'd grinned and told me, "A guy's gotta have some game, man. This robe is my secret weapon."

And now my secret weapon—the one I'd helped him pick out—was about to be used on my wife.

I tried to smile. My eyes stung instead.

Jack and I had been ride-or-die since we were kids.

Seven years old. Some older kids from the neighborhood swiped his baseball glove and shoved him into the mud. He was sitting on the curb, sobbing his little heart out. I grabbed a bat, chased those bastards off, and puffed out my chest: "I got your back, man. Always."

Fifteen. Different high schools. He was drowning in acne, self-esteem in the gutter, and the varsity jocks cornered him in the locker room, made him lick their cleats. He called me, voice shaking. I grabbed a mop, ran from the fourth floor of my school all the way to his, and charged into that locker room like a maniac. Almost got expelled. Didn't care. I told him nobody was ever gonna mess with him again.

Seventeen. Junior year. His folks were in the middle of a nasty divorce, fighting over every penny, neither one wanting the dead weight. They sent him two hundred bucks a month. That was it. He stretched it by eating one meal a day—a single sandwich. Went from a hundred and sixty pounds to a hundred and ten.

We weren't at the same school anymore. He called me one night, voice cracking: "Lane... I'm done. I can't do this."

I climbed out my dorm window, hitchhiked home, and begged my parents on my knees for two hours to take him in, pay his tuition, give him a shot.

Seven to twenty-seven. Twenty years of brotherhood.

He'd told me more times than I could count that meeting me was the best thing that ever happened to him. That if he had anything to give, he'd give it all to make sure I was okay.

And now he was wearing the robe I'd helped him pick out, in bed with my wife.

I almost laughed. Almost. Instead, I kept my voice steady, casual, like nothing was wrong.

"So. Got a date tonight?"

"Who is it? Do I know them? What's their name?"

My tone was light. Friendly. The way you'd ask a buddy about his weekend plans.

But his face went white as paper. His lips lost all color. He was shaking.

"Just... just someone from work. You don't know them."

Still lying.

My grip on my keys tightened until my knuckles went bone-white. I let my gaze drift over his panicked face, then down to his wrist. Smirked.

"That's a nice watch. Did your 'coworker' get it for you?"

Last month, I'd found the receipts on Emily's credit card statement. A pair of Cartier cufflinks—twelve hundred bucks, on my dresser. And a Patek Philippe rose gold watch. Twenty-eight thousand dollars.

On Jack's wrist.

His face went from white to gray. He jerked his left hand behind his back like I'd caught him stealing.

"Yeah. Coworker. Gift."

By this point, any normal guy would've cracked a joke. Asked if things were getting serious. When do I get to meet them?

But staring at him now, all I could feel was how absurd this whole thing was. The guy couldn't even lie straight, and somehow he'd been pulling one over on me for months.

"Right. Well, don't let me keep you."

"See you tomorrow."

I smiled like it was nothing, watched the relief flood his face, and walked away.

On the drive home, I called my father—the senior partner at the investment bank, the man who'd been quietly funding Jack's life and career for years.

"Dad. I need a favor."

I pulled over, fished the cinnamon rolls out of my bag—the ones from that bakery in Manhattan Jack loved—and tossed them straight into a dumpster. My voice came out cold and steady.

"Emily's job. Jack's apartment. Every cent they've bled out of me. Get me a lawyer and take it all back."

"Yeah. They're sleeping together. And I'm not about to get screwed twice."