Hoax Husband: A Hero Club Novel

by Candice Wright

  “Laugh it up, asshole.” I grudgingly let him get it out of his system, knowing if the shoe was on the other foot, I’d probably find the whole thing just as amusing.

  “Look on the bright side. You don't have to make the wicked bitch of the east your wife anymore, so there is a silver lining in all this.”

  “Assuming I can find my runaway bride, that is,” I answer sarcastically.

  “It's not like a woman to leave you high and dry in the morning, Asher. You must be losing your touch. What did she do, sneak out while you were asleep?” he asks, laughter still in his voice.

  I wince before I answer him. “Not quite…” I state, thinking back over my actions and looking at them with a new context. “I woke her up, fucked her, and then kicked her out.”

  He stops laughing and frowns.

  “Wow, you might actually be safer with Dawn at this point. I can’t imagine you’ll be her favorite person.”

  “She might not even remember it,” I point out. It was clear we had both been drinking because why else would either of us marry a fucking stranger? “I need to find her.”

  “She could be in a relationship, Asher,” he warns me, and for some reason, it makes my blood boil.

  “Well, husband trumps boyfriend, so he can back the fuck off,” I snap out.

  Graham holds his hands up in capitulation. “I’m just saying. Anyway, you have to find her first.”

  “She was at the hotel for the meeting. She got locked out just like I did, so someone must know her,” I remind him.

  “What was her name again?” he asks, so I look down at the paper in front of me, feeling like an ass for not knowing my own wife's name, and find what I’m looking for.

  “Linda Carter,” I reel off, but his face is devoid of recognition.

  “I knew everyone in that room and only a handful were women. I can tell you now, none of them were named Linda. Let me pull up the list of attendees.” He scrolls through his phone as I gaze out the window, trying to wrap my head around this bizarre change of events.

  “Nope, there is no Linda on the guest list. Let me ask around the office tomorrow. Someone might know who she is.” He stands to leave, pulling the door open before turning to look at me. “Just prepare yourself. You did a shitty thing. It won't be as easy to charm her a second time.”

  I nod and watch him go, thinking about his words. Maybe she did know we were married, but then why didn't she say anything, I wonder? Then again, I can’t imagine how humiliating it must have been to get kicked out of your husband's suite the morning after your wedding night.

  It doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is finding her and convincing her to do me this favor. She walked out without mentioning us being married at all. If she had, I could have sought an annulment. The way I see it, she owes me.

  I submerge myself in work, keeping my brain as occupied as I can despite the snippets flashing through my mind of that night and the morning that followed. When my phone rings, I answer it without looking at the screen first.

  “You’re fucked.” I hear Graham's voice before I even get a word out.

  “You know who she is?” I question excitedly, climbing to my feet and pacing the room.

  “Yup. Linda Carter was my secretary,” he informs me, making me frown.

  “I thought you said she wasn’t on the list.”

  “That’s because she wasn’t. She was down as Laura.” He coughs, sounding uncomfortable.

  “Laura?” The name sets off a red flag.

  “Yeah, Laura. The secretary I fired for spilling coffee all over us the day we signed the contracts.”

  The secretary who had looked at me with humiliation stamped all over her face, but I was so mad I was going to be late, I’d just glared at her.

  “Fuck,” I grunt out. “I didn’t know it was her,” I tell him even though I’m sure he has figured that out already.

  I remember the look on her face again—humiliation, pain, and embarrassment.

  A memory of the morning after our night together flashes through my head.

  Condom wrappers, a torn thong, a snot green gumball ring.

  She knew I was her husband, and I looked through her like she didn’t exist.

  God fucking dammit.

  Eight

  Linda

  I lie on the padded bench singing along quietly to my rather eclectic playlist as my friend Tig finishes off my latest tattoo—a series of hummingbirds in flight across my shoulder, growing smaller as they fade into the distance up my neck.

  A nudge at my arm has me pulling my earbud out and facing Tig, who is frowning at me.

  “What's wrong?” I glance at my shoulder before he laughs.

  “With the ink, nothing, with your music choices, a lot.”

  I grimace in apology. “I didn’t realize it was so loud.”

  “It wasn’t that loud but you went from Moana to Afroman’s crazy rap without blinking an eye. And you sang every word to both songs without missing a beat.”

  When I don't say anything, he just laughs and shakes his head at me.

  “It's not my fault people mistake me for normal, Tig, I mean, look at me. Do I look normal to you?” I indicate my body when he signals for me to sit up.

  Today I’m wearing a faded gray Guns N’ Roses tank top with ripped black skinny jeans and black flip-flops from the dollar store. My hair is twisted up into a messy topknot. It still has splatters of paint in it from last night because I was running so late, I had no time to wash it.

  I have an array of tattoos up my arms, all as colorful as my hair, depicting things from my favorite animal—the peacock—to flowers and stars. Everything is bright and eye-catching, making me a walking, talking piece of art, and Tig’s work is so good it truly is art.

  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. There isn’t a goddamn thing wrong with you, Linda. Fuck what anyone else says,” he states emphatically.

  I smile as I hand him the cash before slipping my flip-flops back on.

  “Such a sweetheart,” I tease, making him grumble as I grab my bag and keys from the table beside the bench.

  “I have to hurry as I’m pulling a double shift tonight. Tell Delia I said hey,” I say, before sliding my sunglasses up my nose and making my way out into the warm midday sun.

  The air feels charged tonight. I don't know what it is, but my skin ripples with anticipation.

  I slam the door to my locker shut and walk over to the mirror to put the finishing touches to my outfit. Not that there is much of it—tiny little denim shorts, more like panties, really, over fishnet stockings that disappear into my black, knee-high biker style shit-kicker boots. Up top, I have the long-sleeved T-shirt with Daddy’s Lil Monster emblazoned across my breasts, made iconic by the movie.

  My hair is styled in pigtails, one on each side of my head, and my lips are painted a scarlet red. I use my eyeliner to draw a little black heart on my cheekbone and grab the Louisville slugger from beside me before heading out to the bar.

  There's a full moon tonight, and for whatever reason, it tends to bring out the crazies. Thankfully, Jack and Dennis are on the door and they seem to have a sixth sense about troublemakers, stopping most before they gain entry.

  I prop the bat up out of the way behind the bar and slide a piece of bubble gum into my mouth for bubble blowing later—all part of the Harley Quinn act.

  “Hey, Linda, thanks for helping out tonight. Debbie is still out sick with the flu and Kyle called in with a stomach bug. I swear it's always something around here.”

  “No worries, Tony. You know I don't mind. Plus, I could use the tips so it's a win-win.”

  “Well, I still appreciate it. I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he calls out, heading off just as Daisy struts toward me from the far end of the bar.

  “Hey, Linda, I see you got roped into covering too.” She laughs, looking stunning in her Marilyn Monroe getup.

  “I could do with the cash and it won't hurt to have so
meone owing me a favor for a change. Besides, unlike you, I don't have to wear heels all night,” I point out, making her scowl.

  “Thanks for reminding me. My feet will be crying like little bitches by the time we’ve finished.” She doesn’t say anything else as two guys in suits at the end of the bar she’s working flag her down. I take the opposite side and for the next few hours, we work in tandem, side by side like a well-oiled machine until finally there is a brief lull in the crush. Taking advantage of the moment, I grab a quick drink, and visit the bathroom while I have the chance.

  I’m just returning to the bar when I feel it again. That strange static change in the air I experienced earlier in the day, but this time, it's accompanied by the sensation of being watched. I scan the crowd, but it's far too busy to see if anyone is watching me, and even if they are, then what? This outfit is designed to grab attention, so can I really blame people for staring? It's just that this particular stare feels sensual, heating me in ways more conducive to being in the bedroom, not behind a bar.

  I carry on serving drinks, thankfully at a far slower pace than earlier in the evening, when out of the corner of my eye, I see someone sit on the stool in the center of the bar.

  I’m still grabbing change for the twenty-one-year-old birthday girl and her posse, so I leave Daisy to serve the newcomer. I hand over the girl's change with a smile, knowing that after this drink I’ll be cutting her off, when I hear a voice that makes my skin erupt with goosebumps.

  A voice I usually only hear in my dreams.

  “I’m sorry, sir, you’re going to have to speak up,” Daisy calls over the din of the bar. “What can I get you?” she repeats as I turn my head and lock eyes on a man I hoped I’d never see again.

  “I said, I’m looking for my wife.”

  Shit. Fuck. Shit.

  I walk over to Daisy with fake confidence I have perfected over the last year and nudge her with my hip.

  “Go take your break. I’ve got this,” I tell her calmly.

  She looks up and down the bar before turning back to me. “You sure?”

  I nod. “Absolutely, now go.”

  She smiles with gratitude, likely happy to be off those heels for a little while, and disappears out back.

  I turn to face the asshole in front of me, guarding myself against the barrage of images that bombard my brain from the time we spent together.

  Asher fucking Sloan.

  He might have forgotten me, but I didn't forget him, not for a single second, no matter how much I wished I could have.

  “If you hand me the papers, I’ll sign them. I won't contest anything. I want nothing from you.” I mean every word.

  “Papers?” he asks, his voice as deep and sexy as I remember.

  “Divorce papers. I assume that's why you’re here, right?” Why else would he be here? He doesn't strike me as the themed bar kind of guy.

  “I didn’t come here to get a divorce,” he informs me, shaking his head, making me frown in confusion.

  “Well, what the heck did you come here for then?”

  “I came here to get my wife.”

  Nine

  Asher

  She stares at me in shock, but it barely registers as my eyes rove over this woman who, in the eyes of the law, is mine. How the fuck could I have forgotten the goddess in front of me?

  I arrived an hour ago, watching her from afar, along with every other guy here and even some of the women. She is just that captivating—and in that outfit, the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. This includes my high school history teacher, Mrs. Matthews, who provided me with enough spank bank material to get me through my first few years, and then the Dixon twins had taken over my sexual fantasies in my senior year. But standing here, staring at my wife, I can’t remember ever feeling as turned on as I am right now.

  My wife.

  “Collect your wife? Have you lost your fucking mind?” she whisper-yells at me. I’m pretty sure if I look hard enough, I’ll see steam pouring from her ears.

  “On the contrary, I’m perfectly sane. What time do you finish?” I ask her calmly.

  She shakes her head in disbelief. “Fuck you,” she spits out before turning away from me.

  I lean over the bar and grab her arm. Not hard, just enough to stop her from running off.

  She glares at me in disgust. “Take your hand off me, or I’ll call security.”

  I let go and raise my hands in surrender. “I can either wait for you to finish and we can talk, or I can come back. And when I say come back, I mean every single night that you work, I’ll be here sitting on this very stool until you speak to me.”

  And I would. One way or another, I will get her to listen.

  “Fuck. Fine. I get off at 2:00 am. If you want to wait around, that's up to you,” she tells me before walking to the end of the bar to serve an older man and a woman who looks young enough to be his daughter. They remind me of my father and his latest bride.

  She doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the night, not that I expect her to. I nurse the drink the other bartender served me and try to figure out the best way to approach this.

  Before walking in here tonight, my sole aim was to get Linda to play the part of my happy wife. When she had fulfilled her purpose, I was going to cut her loose, serve her with the divorce papers, and give her a nice settlement as a thank you.

  But that was before I watched her laughing with her co-worker. It was such a carefree sound that it had my dick standing to attention.

  It was before I saw the young woman enter the bar hanging on the arm of a guy old enough to be her father. Watching her fawn all over him—and him lapping it up—makes me think of my father and has my lip curling in disgust. It’s right then, when Linda’s eyes land on me, hers widening in surprise, that I realize I wanted something else.

  Avoiding relationships to prevent myself from turning into my father is a moot point now since I’m already married. And the thought of throwing this marriage away so carelessly like my father has done over and over makes me feel sick.

  I want something more out of life than late nights in the office and empty fucks with faceless women.

  I don't know why, but all of a sudden, I’m feeling the need to prove everyone wrong, myself included. I’m craving the one thing I’ve always denied myself—a connection. I want to feel like someone’s missing puzzle piece.

  Fuck, maybe I should lay off the whiskey.

  Finally, last orders are called, and the crowd begins to thin out. As the drunken revelers make their way outside, Linda turns to face me with a look of resignation on her face.

  “I’m just going to help clear the glasses from the tables, then get changed. I’ll be ten minutes or so, okay?” she asks, but it's not really a question. The options are, I either wait or I don't.

  I nod as she walks to the end of the bar and lifts the part of the counter that brings her to this side. When her full body comes into view, I finally see what the bar hid for the night and I nearly have a stroke. My heart thuds loudly in my chest as my body wars between having a heart attack and shooting my load in my pants.

  “What the ever-loving fuck?” I bellow, making her jump and catching the attention of the other staff members.

  She turns to face me with a look that promises me pain, but it's lost on me thanks to my anger heating my blood. I stand and slip off my suit jacket and stomp over to her, slipping it over her shoulders before she can protest. When she tries to speak, I slam my mouth down on hers, surprising the shit out of both of us, but something tells me that this might be the most effective way of getting her to shut up.

  I stare at her in shock as she pulls away and slaps my face hard before snagging my shirt by the collar and dragging my lips back down to hers. I comply without any fuss and deepen the kiss, the taste of her on my tongue sparking off a thousand memories before she tears herself away and swears.

  "Motherfucker." She stomps away, heading behind the bar, and I let her, needing a
moment to reboot my brain.

  This woman is a fucking witch. I sit at the bar, ignoring the rest of the staff who surreptitiously watch me without saying a word until Linda comes back, thankfully wearing more clothing than she had on before.

  "Let's go asshole," she snaps.

  I don't call her on her smart mouth but she needs to learn that if she pisses me off, I'm going to have fun filling it with more than just dirty words.

  I follow behind her until we make it out to the parking lot and watch as she pulls out her phone.

  "What are you doing?" I question, walking closer to her and placing my hand on the small of her back.

  "I'm calling an Uber. We can meet at the diner on sixth." She’s about to hit the green button, but I pull the phone from her hands and slide it into my pocket.

  "Hey, asshole. Give that back.”

  "Carry on mouthing off, Linda. I'm not going to lie, all those dirty words of yours are drawing my attention to your lips and what other dirty little things that mouth of yours can do.”

  “Well, considering you forgot what this dirty little mouth could do once before, I would say it wasn't that memorable to begin with, so maybe you should just cut your losses and leave me alone.”

  "Nope. Now get in the car," I say firmly herding her over to my black Mercedes parked in the corner.

  "Yeah, stranger danger 101 says don't get into cars with men you don't know,” she says with a shake of her head.

  “I'm your husband,” I remind her.

  “And the biggest stranger of all,” she adds quietly, the fight suddenly draining from her.

  “Come on, let me get you a coffee and some pancakes or something. You promised me five minutes. That’s all I need right now, and you look ready to drop.”

  She watches me for a moment. I can’t tell what she's thinking but I suspect none of it is good.

  “Fine, but if you try anything funny, I will kick you so hard in your balls you'll be tasting dick for a week.”