Hung up the phone, Joe Heath drank a big gulp of red wine.
His Little Jasmine was so simple and gullible, really, Sylvan Cheney that fox made a killing.
Where could you find such a perfect wife.
Damn, having such a good wife and not treasuring her, he truly deserved to be struck by lightning.
He snatched her from his hands, and now passed his wife on to someone else; Joe really wanted to kick this type of man.
Thinking of this, Joe kicked his blanket in frustration.
So infuriating.
He still missed Jasmine Yale, but Jasmine had made it clear to him, and he couldn't keep pestering her relentlessly.
With that thought, he took another sip of red wine.
His tolerance for alcohol was usually quite good, but he was somewhat tipsy now.
The sky outside the window was oppressively dark, with no moonlight, only an endless expanse of darkness, so thick he couldn't see his hand in front of his face.
Joe leaned against the pillow, cocked his head, and looked out the window.
