Bad Husband
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyrights
Dedication
Bad Husband
Quote
1 A true “What the fuck” moment
2 The waiting game I don’t play
3 Give me answers, woman.
4 The “other” dads
5 The cold shoulder
6 Game Plan
7 Are you smarter than a 7-year-old?
8 Noah the cat killer
9 She’s using your dick
10 I’d like to make an appointment
11 Dee The Reptile and Rodent Lady
12 Monster in-law
13 Kit The Knight Rider
14 One step back
15 Distractions
16 Lost in more than one way
17 What the shit?
18 Sign here
19 My father the bachelor
20 The Trojan horse deception
21 Forgiveness works both ways
22 Making time
Acknowledgments
Meet the Author
Thank you for purchasing Bad Husband. To be notified of new releases join my mailing list on my website at: www.sheystahl.com
Copyright © 2016 by Shey Stahl
Bad Husband
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Shey Stahl.
Certain phrases, quotes, and/or lines from the author’s previous works may appear in this book and are copyrighted by the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, sponsors, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, dead or living, is coincidental.
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Cover Image: Copyright © Sara Eirew
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Interior Formatting: A Designs
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I think with any story, there’s a beginning, a middle, and the end.
And just so we’re clear, we’re at the end. Right now. Or at least, in many ways, it feels that way with the way my heart wants to jump out of my chest and into my brain, a place it’s never been. Believe me, the two are seldom on speaking terms. One leads, the other follows at will like a lost puppy trying to find his way.
You see that guy standing there, staring at a stack of papers in his hand? The confused one.
No, not Brantley. He’s reading instructions to the framing nail gun our trainee jammed earlier today and then managed to shoot himself in the foot with. How is beyond me, unless he was doing it purposely. If you’ve ever met Trey, you’d totally understand how that’s possible.
I’m confusing you, aren’t I?
Welcome to my current situation.
Take a look around the framed house to the kitchen. Look at the guy next to Brantley, to the left leaned up against a counter. The one wearing a look of mystification as he scans over the words Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
I’ll say it again, because it certainly doesn’t feel real to me either. Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
Divorce? That means divorce, right?
I’ve been married to Madison for eight years… hell, remember just an hour ago when I fucked her against the shower wall? Did any warning bells go off in your head when she was screaming my name I’d be served with this today?
Oh wait, you weren’t there yet. Sorry. Let’s rewind a moment here and then you can give me your take.
Three hours ago, I’m in the shower, but there’s my wife, Madison, standing at the sink brushing her teeth with nothing on. Look at her for a second. Long dark hair she keeps curled most of the time, beautiful wide blue eyes and that heart-shaped face.
Go lower, and you’ll see hips most men only dream of touching and long legs… well, you get the point by now. Hot wife.
I actually started dating Madison back in college for her body. Don’t sound so surprised. It’s a fact of being a warm-blooded male. Ninety percent of the time we go based off looks at the first glance.
I married her for her heart, but still, she has an amazing body so naturally, I see her naked, I look. Or more importantly, I grab, or whatever else she’ll let me get away with. Today she lets me get away with more.
Fast forward a little bit here, and I manage to get her in the shower with me.
See those two people, she’s bent over the bench seat in the shower, hands splayed out over the tile, steam rolling between their bodies, eyes closed, hands grabbing at any angle they can to keep from one, falling, and two, never wanting to part.
That’s Madison and me. We have an amazing sex life. Or so I thought.
We actually started with sex. Met at a Halloween party off campus, found out we actually had three classes together at ASU and then fucked the rest of the night. Honestly, it was one of the best nights of my life.
Me, I was in love that first night. It took Mad another month or so… maybe like six. I can be a bit… hmmm… what’s the right word here? Intense? Nah, that’s not right. I’ll think of one and get back to you.
For now, let’s just focus on the facts. We had sex this morning, and it was good, right? It seemed that way to me.
And now this? Shit just doesn’t add up, does it? How did we go from, “Fuck me harder!” to a petition to…. I glance down and read the title once more. A petition to dissolve marriage.
What the shit?
“Why do you look like you saw a ghost?” Brantley stands in front of me, his wide burly shoulders blocking my view of the sunlight streaming between the two by fours in what will soon be the dining room.
I look up at him then back at the papers. I don’t know if I can form words. It’s like the time Madison told me she was pregnant. I sat there for ten minutes trying to formulate a reply, but I couldn’t. I don’t even know why I couldn’t reply to her then.
Maybe because she was giving me a blow job at the time and I thought to myself, who tells you they’re pregnant in the middle of a blow job?
Madison does. She has impeccable timing like that.
Blinking rapidly, I hand the papers to Brantley, still rendered speechless. I mean, what the fuck?
Brantley snorts, reading through it. That’s more than I did. I just scanned the title and freaked the fuck out.
Swallowing back the lump rising in my throat, my heart continues to pound. I’m sure I’m having a heart attack. Rapid heartbeat, sweating… I think I feel some left arm pain too.
No, wait, that was Brantley. He punched me.
“Dude, what the fuck is this? Mad filed for divorce?”
Scrubbing my hands down my face, I stare at him. “I don’t know.”
He waves at my phone in my pocket. “Well… call her.”
Digging my phone out, I swipe the screen and select her name. Guess what?
Yep. Straight to voice mail.
“Voice mail,” I tell Brantley holding up the phone, and his brow pulls together. Brantley’s been my best friend for twenty years. He knows Madison as well I do. Hell, he’s our son’s godparent.
Oh right, did I
mention we have kids together?
Yeah, two. Callan and Noah. Callan’s almost seven and Noah’s three. Makes this even more bizarre. I’m a good dad. Okay, I work a lot but I provide a comfortable life for them, one where Madison only works because she wants to.
So why?
“Okay, let’s think here,” Brantley begins, pacing the floor, his boots making a scuffing noise from the thick layer of dust. “Have you guys been fighting?”
I try to think about it. We’ve been married for a while. Of course we fight, but never once has either of us mentioned divorce. That I know of. I know we say some shit in the heat of the moment, and I sometimes lose interest when she’s bitching about random crap, but divorce… what the actual fuck? I think I’d remember the warning signs.
Frustration takes over, and I rip the papers off the counter and stare at them once more. I’m a man of action. I see a problem and I fix it.
“Got any suggestions, guys?” Trey’s staring at his foot just as I’m beginning to take action. The one with the nail through the top of it. He’s bleeding all over the fucking place.
“Yeah, go to the hospital,” Brantley tells him, shaking his head in disbelief at the trail of blood Trey left from the back sliding doors to the kitchen. “Shit, man, it looks like a crime scene in here. How are we gonna get that off the subfloor?”
I don’t know why Brantley’s surprised by this. This is like the third time in two weeks Trey’s hurt himself on a jobsite. He’s the reason we have to carry such high industrial insurance and have the city up our ass over his last mix up when he fell off a roof and broke his ass.
Where was I?
Right. The “what the fuck” moment. I’m having it again.
Action. I need to take action.
“The city will be here at 12:30 for the electrical inspection.” I hand Brantley the inspector’s business card and roll the papers in my hand. “Stay here. I’m going to find out what the hell this is about.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything else.
I jog out of the house to my truck in the driveway. Tossing the papers on the seat next to me, I throw the truck in drive and rip up the gravel road to the main highway. It’s around ten in the morning, and I know once I hit Highway 60 out of Peoria, I’ll run into traffic, but it’s not like I could have stayed at the jobsite and wondered what the hell this meant.
My mind races through memories trying to pinpoint one where she might have hinted to this. Have you ever seen one of those old fashion phone books? You know the ones I’m talking about with the letters on the front of the metal clipboard looking thing. My dad used to have one. You’d take the plastic slider to the letter the person’s name started with and then flip it open and there’d be these cards in it with phone numbers.
That’s me right now. Sliding through memories trying to pinpoint the right one. There had to be a reason. Was this something like that movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith where she’s not at all who she said she was when we married? Had she been hired to kill me and her only way out was divorce? That’d I’d understand. I mean, good for her for taking the noble way out here. I’d take divorce over being shot in the back any day. I’ll miss the sex, but I’ll get over it eventually. No one wants a hit man for a wife. Think about it.
It takes me a half an hour to reach West Bay Salon where Madison is a massage therapist during the day. That’s right, I said massage therapist. Believe me when I say I’ve voiced my opinion about said job before.
Why you ask?
Well, let me tell you who her clients are.
Professional baseball players. Lots of them.
I don’t like it one bit.
Is that why she served me with divorce papers? Is she leaving me for Derek Jeter?
If she is, I want season tickets in the settlement so I can heckle his wife-stealing ass.
Once I’m in the parking lot, I park my work truck next to a Mercedes and a Lexus. I weave through the cars like a man on a mission, papers in hand. Fuck yeah, I’m on a mission.
I yank the large glass door open, my calloused hardworking hands probably the only ones to pull open these doors. Maybe not the greatest entrance, but forgive me here because the moment I’m through the door and standing in the marble entryway that greets these pretentious bitches who come here, I slam the papers on the counter. “Where the fuck is Madison Cooper?”
Too harsh?
Maybe so.
The young girl behind the counter jumps at the sound of my voice. “She’s with a client, sir.”
Sir? Who calls people sir these days? Right. She’s like fourteen. Everyone over the age of eighteen is probably a sir in her world.
I lean into the counter and make eye contact with her. I can be intimating when I need to be, which is 85 percent of the time. I do run my own construction company and have four employees. I need to be intimating from time to time.
“You tell Madison, her husband is looking for her and she’d better call him the minute she’s done or else I will be back here, waiting for her.”
The cheerleader behind the counter gasps at me, unsure if I’m serious, or just mentally unstable. A little of both today. “I uh….” Her cheeks heat crimson, eyes darting from my mouth to my eyes and the little bit of dark scruff on my jaw. She’s checking me out?
I’m attractive. I know I am. I lift weights, I run, I take care of myself. That’s not me being conceited. That’s me being confident. There’s a difference between confident and conceited. How you ask? That’s like saying you’ve got a big dick when you’ve actually got something your fist can’t even handle. Then you compensate by driving a lifted Chevy with balls hanging from your tailgate.
What’s confident?
Snagging a chick like Madison when in reality, she’s so far out of your league you’d need binoculars to see the playing field. Confidence is the key here.
“I’ll tell her you stopped by,” the girl finally says after clearing her throat.
Knocking my knuckles against the granite counter, I wait for her eyes to meet mine again. “You do that, honey. And if she doesn’t call me, like she’s supposed to, I’m coming back here and asking for you…” My eyes drift to her name tag. “Penelope.”
Was that too much? The look on her face says it might be. It’s something similar to the look girls give their fathers when they know they’re in trouble. And I’m giving her one that’s similar to the one a father might use when said daughter tells him she’ll be out past her curfew and dating a guy named Tool who drives a black van with blacked-out windows.
We break eye contact as I slide the papers back off the counter and I turn to walk out.
Once I’m in the truck, I have no idea what to do next aside from call my lawyer and see if this is a joke. Maybe it’s not real?
Glancing to my right, I look at the date wondering if it’s an April Fool’s bullshit.
February 24th.
Nope. Not a joke.
Did I forget Valentine’s Day? Pulling at my hair, I rack my brain for what we did on Valentine’s Day… oh right, we went out to dinner at that steak house she loves. See, we celebrated it. Okay, so we had to go out three days later because I was stuck in Denver on a job. Maybe knock me down a point for that one. She was pretty pissed.
And her birthday… it’s a week before Valentine’s Day. I worked my ass off and bought her those diamond earrings she wanted.
See? No selfless prick here. I treat her good. I may not have a lot of time, but still, I do what I can in between working fourteen hour days. Running your own business isn’t easy, and when you don’t want to partner with a bigger company, you do what you can. I want the quality of Cooper Custom Homes to remain custom and not this commercialized bullshit you run into with these mass housing markets.
Back to my point. This Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
Oh God, I can’t think about it anymore. It’s making me nauseous.
Dialing up Frank’s number, he answers on about the third ring. �
�Hey, bro, what’s up?”
He’s not formal with me. Clearly. Mostly because we’re friends outside of his lawyering duties. “What’s a petition for dissolution of marriage?”
He thinks about it. I can almost picture him running his hand over his jaw or tapping his black pen obsessively against his rosewood Gran Palais desk. “It’s a petition for divorce. Why?”
“Madison filed for divorce. I was served this morning.”
He must be shocked because he’s really fucking quiet like he’s trying to decide the final play call at the Superbowl. Either that or he knows, and he’s hiding it.
My temper flares as a rush of emotions hit me. “Did you know about this?” I shout, my words blistering through the cab of my truck. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“No!” he shouts over my accusing tone. “I didn’t know, Ridley. I swear.” There may or may not be a few events that have occurred in the past where he’s weary of my temper. Okay, I’ll just come out and say it. He’s terrified of me. I guess when you threaten to nail another man’s dick to the wall over a poker game, he tends to be a little scared of you when you get angry. It was a long time ago. At least two months ago. Before you go thinking I have anger issues, I wasn’t serious. It’s not like I had the nail gun with me at the time. “Were you guys having problems? I wasn’t aware you were.”
“We weren’t… that I knew of. Well, maybe a little, but she’s never mentioned divorce to me.” The heart attack feeling returns and I can barely breathe. Or maybe it’s like an anxiety attack? I used to think anxiety was just a cop out for people who couldn’t handle adult responsibilities. I think I might be wrong here. It’s real.
I try to recall the name of that therapist I saw when my mom died. The one I told to shove his anxiety medication up his ass. Maybe I should apologize and ask him for a new prescription?
It was fifteen years ago, but he could still be in business, right?
“Fuck,” I groan, laying my head back against the headrest. “What do I do? It says here I have twenty days to file a response.”
Frank sighs. “Okay, um… can you drop it by my office?”
“Sure.” I say this with a tone similar to the one you use when someone asks to cut in front of you in the grocery line. You’re never thrilled when they do it, and admit it, the only reason you agree is because you don’t want to act like a total asshole in front of your kid.