Chapter 3

The whispers started the next day at Metro Motors.

Soft at first, then growing louder, more detailed.

Michael heard them in the mechanics' bay, by the coffee machine, in the hushed tones of secretaries.

"Did you hear about Henderson? Brenda Thompson spent a very long evening at his apartment last week."

"And Davies from accounting? My buddy saw her car outside his place two nights in a row."

"She wasn't just charming them with words, if you know what I mean."

"Rick Donovan didn't win that promotion on merit. He won it in the bedroom. Several bedrooms, apparently."

The talk was crude, specific. It painted a clear, ugly picture of Brenda' s campaign.

One afternoon, Michael was in the parts department storeroom, looking for a specific alternator.

He overheard Henderson talking to another senior mechanic, old Johnson.

"Yeah, she' s something else, that Brenda," Henderson was saying, his voice thick with a greasy kind of pride. "Promised me I' d be head of purchasing for the whole dealership group if I backed Donovan. And a few other... perks."

Johnson chuckled. "She make good on those perks, Bill?"

"Let' s just say," Henderson leered, "Donovan owes me big time. And her? She knows how to seal a deal. Real talented."

Michael felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. It wasn't surprise, not anymore. It was a deep, visceral disgust.

He stepped out of the aisle.

Henderson and Johnson froze, their faces paling.

Michael just looked at Henderson. "So that's how it was."

Henderson stammered, "Thompson, I... we were just talking."

"I heard enough," Michael said, his voice devoid of emotion. He turned and walked away.

That evening, he confronted Brenda in their sterile, modern living room – a room she' d decorated with money he' d earned.

"The rumors are true, aren't they?" he asked, not bothering with preliminaries. "You slept with Henderson? Davies? How many others, Brenda? How many men did you use to get Rick that job?"

She was filing her nails, an image of bored indifference.

She didn't even look up. "And what if I did?"

Michael stared at her. The casual admission, the complete lack of shame.

"You forced my hand, Michael," she said, finally meeting his eyes, her own hard and defiant. "You wouldn't step aside. I did what I had to do for Rick. For my future."

"Your future?" he repeated, incredulous. "By whoring yourself out?"

She flinched at the word but recovered quickly. "Don't be so dramatic. It was business. They got something, I got something. Rick got the job. It all worked out."

"Not for me," Michael said quietly. "And not for us."

He walked to the desk, pulled out a piece of paper and a pen.

He wrote a few lines, then slid it across the coffee table to her.

"I want a divorce, Brenda."

She picked up the paper, glanced at it, then laughed. A short, brittle sound.

"A divorce? Don't be silly, Michael. We're just getting started."

"No," he said. "We're finished."