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his lumps and then like a dog, tucking his tail between his legs and wandering off.   Portia was going to pay for what she had made him.   He’d see to that, though nothing could have prepared him for just how easy it would be.
    While sitting in the car, he’d blacked out, a full night of drinking finally taking its toll.   His next cogent thought was of how high the ceiling above him seemed to be, how white, and also, how unfamiliar.
    He was lying on a couch.   He stared around: teal walls, modernistic sculptures, an expansive living room of neat, brown and black décor.   He rolled his head left, and noted a large kitchen sitting just beyond a breakfast table.   And at that table, perched before a steaming cup of coffee, was none other than Gabrielle Saltair.   Portia’s best friend.
    She said nothing at first, only kept staring at him with that What the hell are you doing here expression.
    It was a good question.   A damned good question, because he had no answer.
    He lay there for some time, trying to clear his mind.   Gabrielle had brought him the coffee.   “Drink,” she had said, extending it to him.   He took a sip, politely sat it down, and then gazed up at her.
    What happened next was prompted by one part impulse, one part revenge, and one part because he simply knew that he could.   He reached up and began toying with Gabrielle’s hair, twirling it in his fingers.   She gazed at him confusedly, then brushed his hand away.   She questioned him as to whether he was still drunk.   He was not.   He knew exactly what he was doing.
    He reached up again, this time caressing her cheek with the back of his hand.   This brought a sharp blush—or was that anger.   She made a more dramatic attempt to push his hand away but he abruptly grabbed her neck, pulled her face to his, and began to kiss her.   He could feel her shoulders tense in surprise, the tug of her body as she tried to pull away.   The struggle became furious, but he would not let go.   He knew she wanted this.   He knew it, even if she didn’t.
    Still she kept trying to retreat, trying with desperation to pull away.   But each attempt was growing weaker than the last.   He could feel it.   Finally, her body relaxed and her mouth parted.   She began kissing him back, feverishly, then climbed on top of him.
    Later that day, he had returned to Portia’s house and put an end to their relationship.   Portia seemed completely stunned that it was happening, and seizing on that Jack did his best to make it hurt, smugly chiding the woman for holding so tenaciously to her antiquated morals.   He’d hoped she would break down, or perhaps beg him not to leave, but she did none of those things.   What she did do, however, was perhaps no less satisfying.   A single tear, long and clear, had fallen from her eye.
    As much as he’d enjoyed seeing that, Jack had intended to deliver an even harsher blow.   His plan had been to have a brief affair with Gabrielle, perhaps one or two weeks depending on how good a lover she turned out to be, then either force her to reveal the relationship to Portia, or, if she was unwilling, do so himself.   Either way the pain he’d inflict on Portia was sure to be spectacular, no less spectacular than the suffering he’d endured the last four months.
    But to this point, the plan had not worked out as intended.   That one or two week affair with Gabrielle had now extended out to two full months.   And, irony of ironies, it had nothing to do with how good a lover she was.   It was because for some unfathomable reason he had taken a liking to Gabrielle.   There was something about her.   Something he simply could not pin down.   Something different enough to make him delay his plan.
    Still, whether he wanted it to or not, his relationship with Gabrielle could not remain as it was.   Sooner or later their affair would have to be made known to Portia.   Sooner or later she would have to serve her