A Clean Slate

Josie and Clark get into it right in the hallway. She's holding her phone like it’s evidence in court, claiming she’s got proof he’s been screwing Felicia. Clark keeps saying it’s bullshit, but Josie’s not buying a word. She storms past him, slams the door so hard the frame rattles, then marches out into the street. Clark’s still yelling after her when a car screeches, metal meets flesh, and Josie drops in front of his eyes. A couple weeks later she’s propped up in her own bed, bruised but breathing. Felicia perches at the edge, playing the good friend, straightening pillows and handing over water. Josie says she doesn’t remember squat from that morning or the days before. Felicia swallows, squeezes her hand, promises to stick around no matter what. Then she slips out. Clark’s in the living room, tie loosened, pretending to watch TV. Felicia shuts the bedroom door behind her, turns, and the look they swap says everything. They’re both in it—exactly what Josie figured out—and they can’t believe she lost the receipts. They agree they should quit while they’re ahead, take a breath, walk away clean. One beat later Felicia’s already on her toes, tongue in Clark’s mouth, because convenience tastes too good. Clark slides a hand up her skirt, says maybe they’re safer hiding in plain sight. Felicia answers by popping his fly. They keep trading reasons: Josie’s still weak, she won’t hear them, it’s only once, they’ll stop tomorrow. Every excuse makes the next one easier. When Clark turns her toward the couch and yanks her panties down, Felicia hikes one leg onto the cushion. He pushes into her fast and shallow, both of them still half-listening for the bedroom door. Sweat sticks their shirts together; Felicia bites Clark’s shoulder to keep quiet. They fuck harder, whispering that this is the last time, even while their bodies chase another round. And every thrust knocks the same risky thought closer: this little secret might not stay buried.