The Dispensable Wife
The MisFit Series, Book 5
By AB Plum
Table of Contents
The Dispensable Wife
About the Book
Note to Readers
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Exclusive Content for The MisFit Series
The MisFit Series
About the Author
About the Book
Eyes are everywhere …
Multi-millionaire, high-tech icon, Michael Romanov demands total compliance with this mantra from his three model children and his unstable wife. When he discovers her flirting over coffee in a very public place with an obvious loser, he makes certain the see-all, tell-all witness never breathes a word.
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 PlumBooks
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, redistributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, print, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Author.
Dedication
For David, my biggest cheerleader.
Acknowledgements
Marjorie Brody and Linda Madl read the first draft—and every iteration thereafter. Thank you. EZ Writers—Karen Edelfsen and Dorothea Hamilton—gave me sustained encouragement as well as their critiques. Both made this book richer and stronger. Thank you, friends, for the past fifteen years together.
Maria Connor, VA Extraordinaire, and I have a shorter time working together; but she takes on all the thousands of tasks I hate doing and comes up with some great marketing ideas. Namely—The MisFit Sampler. Grab your copy now. Thanks for the idea, Maria, and for all you do—too much to lay out in detail or this book would be 50 pages longer.
Note to Readers
Thank you for reading The Dispensable Wife. It is the novel that set me on the MisFit path. The next two volumes—the final ones in this series—are scheduled for release in early 2018. In the meantime, check out the full list. AND, consider writing a review. Word of mouth works.
May you stay up all night reading The MisFit Series,
"She is more precious than rubies."
—Proverbs 3:15
Prologue
Following a stranger requires little effort or talent or determination and results in mind-numbing boredom.
Following an acquaintance requires more effort, marginal talent, minimal determination, and too often results in only a modicum of entertainment.
Following a cheating spouse requires the least effort, the most talent, and the strongest determination; but results in minimal boredom, maximum entertainment, and highest hilarity.
How do I know these truths?
Quite simply—from experience.
I have nurtured a childhood aptitude and grown into a human-tracker extraordinaire.
"A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband,
but she that maketh [him] ashamed is as rottenness in him."
—Proverbs 12:4
Chapter 1
HE
Nine-thirty on a balmy morning in autumn. A perfect time to see and be seen.
A breeze snakes past my observation post on Castro Street, the main drag in Mountain View, California, as nouveau-millionaires parade past coffee shops, banks, the “new mission-style” City Hall and Performing Arts Center, restaurants of every ethnicity, and two funeral homes.
The millionaires’ shiny new Benzes and Teslas and top-down BMWs and custom-made reclining bikes scream money. Clout. Potency.
Ahhh, the musky smell of testosterone.
The air hums with rampant expectations. I adjust the lens on my Steiner Commander III Binoculars and peer at one driver after another. How many of these wannabes know what I know? How many ever think about losing their toys? Their reputations? Their power?
A bearded homeless guy sipping a tall Starbucks shuffles by. He stops. Plants his feet wide. Sets his coffee between his filthy, broken-down tennis shoes. He glances at me and curls his index fingers inside his thumbs. He places his binoculars over his eyes. Wiggles his ass twice, tilts his head then studies the cloudless sky with slow, exaggerated movements.
My nostrils flare. Loser. I wave the Steiners. May they trigger a full-blown PTSD-attack.
Laughter erupts from deep in his throat.
A muscle ticks under my left eye.
He drops his hands at his sides, picks up his coffee cup, exhales through his mouth.
My fingers twitch. I slide my right hand inside my suit jacket.
He throws me a smirk and shambles on down the street, middle finger held high, humming the first bars of The Star Spangled Banner.
God, it would be so easy to teach the asshole a lesson about respect, but I ignore the lowlife, remove my hand from my jacket, and stare through the Steiners again.
Birds sing, sunshine warms my bare head, and crimson-gold leaves ripple on young trees.
Not quite paradise, though, as I study m
y wife with her latest, besotted male friend.
The October sun shines so extravagantly I hardly need binoculars, but I take pleasure in their precision. Two twists and I see better than if I pressed my nose against Le Boulanger’s floor-to-ceiling windows. They face Castro, and the Steiners’ zoom feature offers a perfect view of the couple I observe with open curiosity.
Curiosity because I am searching for clues.
No, for answers.
For insight.
For understanding into this puzzle.
From my vantage point in the parking lot of St. Joseph’s Church, I count the white hairs on the head of my wife’s balding companion. His eyes—weasly, blah brown, too close together, and surrounded by prune-colored hollows—rest on gaunt cheekbones above a weak chin.
What does she—six days short of her forty-ninth birthday—see in him with her naked eye that I cannot see with my military-grade binoculars?
Customers mill around their table. Some queue up to a glass display of pastries and breads. Others stand in line to order their morning caffeine fix. No one takes particular notice of the two friends, but as owner-CEO of my soon-to-be-acquired biotech company, I understand the damage notoriety exacts.
Bad press spooks clients, boards of directors, potential recruits, employees, and investors.
A cheese Danish lies on a plate between them. My wife lays the fork to one side, pinches off a crumb, clamps it between her thumb and index fingers. Her other three fingers point toward the ceiling then drop to graze his hand.
My knuckles whiten on the Steiners. A CEO’s tarnished reputation almost guarantees him a swift and embarrassing exit. He may rise phoenix-like from the ashes—but not without enduring vicious public scrutiny and humiliation.
Eyes narrowed, I study the friend’s turkey wattles. They shake as he leans toward her on one elbow. He hangs on her every word, every syllable, every breath. He opens his mouth and takes the morsel she offers. His whole face lights up, as if fueled by an inner radiance.
Small, yellow teeth crowd friend’s less than generous mouth. He chews, swallows, and says thank you. Wrinkles ironed in by the sun crease his sallow skin. If he controlled his goofy, adolescent grin, he could pass for a Renaissance master’s depiction of an early martyr.
Seeing them—without knowing she’s married with three young children since she’s not wearing her eight-carat diamond engagement ring—you might smile and envy the private island they’ve created in the hustle of the fast lane. You might think they are the only two people in the coffee shop.
In the world.
In the cosmos.
With the slow, calculated deliberation of a seductress, she removes the plastic lid from the cup in front of her. Her friend—a fly in a spider’s web—fixates on the lid. He’s so smitten, he’s blind. What are the chances he’d even notice her engagement ring?
She pushes the lid toward him. His chest stops rising and falling. So does mine. He’s totally oblivious silk threads can prove stronger than steel bonds. I, thanks to the Steiners, am completely aware of her deviousness. I press my forehead hard against the binoculars and stare at her left hand. No tell-tale white line from wearing a wedding ring for fifteen years.
Steam—visible through the Steiners—rises from the cup. Her lips purse as if about to bestow a kiss.
Her friend’s jaw drops.
Her gaze lowers demurely. She lifts the steaming cup. The tip of her tongue appears between her teeth like a small pink viper. Her tongue flicks her top lip, then withdraws. She blows on the vapor.
Her friend gapes—as if stunned by an angel.
“You have no idea how fine the line is between angel and slut,” I say aloud. My lungs constrict. My breathing slows. Hands shaky, I fumble open my briefcase. I stow the binoculars, and then slam the lid shut.
No one observing me would guess I’m suddenly breathing a little faster than normal. My resting heart rate is forty-eight and my BP an enviable 110/60. Exhaling, I relax my grip on the briefcase and wait for the light. A Google bus stops on the cross street of Church for a dozen bright-eyed worker-bees. Their reserved, luxury coach will convey them the three miles to their private kingdom by the Bay. I reach the opposite curb, and my pulse ratchets up.
On a hunch, I pivot away from Castro and jog for the parking lot behind the bakery.
I’m betting the friend will depart by the rear entrance. Unless AnnaSophia coaches him to shoot out the front door.
That scenario would spoil the full impact of my surprise arrival.
Caution controls the weak of imagination. In the parking lot, I tap an icon on my phone and smile. Fire burns inside me, but my mind attains a cool focus.
“Hello, Darling.” My fingers spasm on the phone. I savor the two words in my mouth as if honey coats each syllable. I resist laughing.
What I’d give to see her cheating face. “Are you at Starbucks?”
In my mind’s eye, I imagine her long, titan waves cascading around her wanton face. The picture of innocence. Making her huge eyes bigger. Wider. Luminescent. Blameless.
Fake innocence.
Had I seen her red hair that first time we met fifteen years ago, I’d have walked away. I’d have left her jammed between her two bohemian boyfriends and never have thrown her a second glance.
My gut roils. No time now to gnash my teeth and beat my breast. Rectifying that long-ago mistake drives every decision I make.
Chapter 2
SHE
Hello, Darling.
The endearment—a fat tick—slithers into my ear. The silken, cynical baritone triggers an instantaneous and familiar pattern. First, my clammy skin contracts and tries to crawl off my arms. Next, a chill creeps across the back of my neck and down my spine. My adrenaline spikes, and the contents of my stomach reflux into my mouth.
Donotthrowup. Do. Not. Throw. Up. I close my eyes and inhale.
“What’s wrong?” John skims his fingers across my knuckles.
My eyes snap open. Primed for flight, I jerk my hand away. My fingertips graze my cup of coffee. The cup teeters. Reflexively, my hand shoots out. Steaming liquid sloshes my wrist.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Damn. I’m sorry.” John rights the coffee, dabs a napkin in water, and lays the makeshift bandage across the bright red spot already forming a blister.
“Not your fault,” I counter, jaw locked. I reclaim my hand and inhale again. No time to explain.
Always, always, always check the LED. Never, never, never accept human comfort.
“Darling? I missed what you said.”
“Nothing. I knocked over my coffee.” Galvanized by the second Darling, I hitch my head toward the back door. Leave, John. Go. Now.
“Oooh, poor baby. Did you burn yourself?” Quietly asked, but the subtext screams, You’re always hurting yourself. “Do you need ice?”
“No. No ice. No burn. Just made a mess. Where are you?” Why doesn’t John stand up?
“At Castro and Church, Darling.” The velvety menace in his tone closes my throat. “I just left Wells Fargo and saw your car. I deduced you must be at Starbucks.”
Deduced? The blatant lie clears my head. I push back my chair and stand, spine straight as a flagpole, legs pressed primly together. I stare straight into the sun-drenched window, blink against the glare, and scan the pedestrians coming from the bank’s direction. Where is he? Is he coming through the parking lot? Is he already at Starbucks?
“Hold on, Sherlock.” I meet John’s gaze. Why hasn’t he left? I swallow and pitch my tone to teasing, but snap my fingers at John. “My car at Wells Fargo led you to deduce I’m at Starbucks?”
“Well, Darling, you do know how my mind works.”
“Yes, I know exactly how your mind works.” Another hint of lightness to deflect the sarcasm and slow the shakiness now pouring into my legs. I doubt he picks up the sarcasm. He’s bec
ome accustomed to my fear and panic. A sliver of pride surfaces, and I smile.
John remains seated, his eyebrows raised. Wondering why I’ve lost my mind?
“I’m not at Starbucks.” I cover the mouthpiece and speak to John. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll explain then.”
Confusion and curiosity and some indecipherable emotion flicker across his gentle face.
“Darling? You’re fading.”
“How about now?” I avoid eye contact with John and revert to searching the sidewalk.
“Much better. From the background noise, I deduce you’re inside.” Just a trace of gotcha in his tone.
“An on-the-money deduction this time.” I point at John, then wave toward the back door.
He frowns but gets the message. He shrugs, scoots his chair away from our table, picks up his yoga mat, slings it over his shoulder, and wades past customers toward—I hope—safety.
“Inside, but not at Starbucks.” I stretch my neck to follow John’s progress. A few more steps and he’ll be safe. “I’m at Le Boulanger. Next to the front door. Where are you?”
“Halfway across the Boulanger parking lot. I chose the scenic route to Starbucks.”
“Give me a minute.” A little breathless, I grab my purse and press the blister on my arm, wincing, but feeling more alert and confident and resilient—buoyed by the every-day smells of roasted coffee and warm bread. En route to the front door, bits and pieces of a plan fall into place. “I’ll meet you by the fountain.”
Arriving at the back door on John’s heels poses too big a risk.
“Too late, Darling. I’ve already turned around. No reason we should both run in circles.”
“Someone else just claimed my table,” I counter, my voice thick and guilty.
“Life is a timing problem.” Unspoken, like our life together. “Maybe a couple of caffeine jolts will get us back on track.”
His mocking note sucks me in, but I resist the impulse to spar with him. “The caffeine addicts in here would drop the maybe.”