It’s been said that “When the shit hits the fan - it all comes down to a woman”, and they’d be right. For me it actually came down to two of them, making it twice as bad and ten times more complicated.
My name is Hunter ‘Tank’ Adams and this is my story. This is how I managed to fuck up the second chance I was given when this world doesn’t give us many to begin with. This is why I find myself desperate for someone I don’t know if I’ll ever have. This is how I lost my saviour…
CHAPTER ONE
Hunter
The Devil In I - Slipknot
Making mistakes apparently makes us human. But can you honestly say when you witness someone make a mistake the first thing that comes to mind is, ‘that’s okay, you’re only human’, or is it more likely that you to think, ‘oh man, you fucked up asshole’? Personally, I’m leaning toward the latter. I can tell you now, if mistakes make you human then I’m the most human motherfucking man you’ll ever meet because I’ve made enough to have a football team cover from here until the end of time.
Charlee came into my life at time I didn’t think I’d make it out of the Navy let alone home unscarred. She offered me one thing. One thing only; the opportunity to say that I was married before I died. There was no greater reason for me making the decision to tie the knot. No altruistic motivation. Nothing. Fuck. My parents’ and brothers were livid I’d done it, and in hindsight it was fucking stupid, and I clearly hadn’t thought about the long term effects of such a monumental decision. Especially since I regretted my decision within a month of standing in front of an officiant at the local courthouse. And now I’m regretting it even more for obvious reasons. What’s even sadder is I think I knew the whole time that this wouldn’t end well and still set out to do it anyway. Sure, I didn’t have any fucking idea it would turn out this fucked up, but there were enough red flags to give me a heads up if I’d pulled my head out of my ass long enough to see them.
I met Charlee at a bar when I was on leave from the Navy just before my first deployment. I was horny, borderline drunk, and was fully aware that it’d be a good long time before I got between the legs of a soft, warm, willing woman any time soon. So seeing Charlee, talking for a while deciding we hit it off well enough to take this further, I took her back to my hotel room that night and fucked the shit out of her. Sadly she wasn’t that great in the sack. I wouldn’t have written home about it. I left unsatisfied, pissed at myself that I wasted my last chance at getting laid on her. Occasionally brothers about that shit, what they want in a woman between the sheets, and most the time it’s pretty fucking unanimous; fire, spark, a little bit of fucking enthusiasm wouldn’t go astray either. Charlee bombed out on all three. Big time. So when somehow, to this day I still don’t know how it got that far, Charlee and I ended up at a local courthouse with a marriage licence in hand and half an hour later we were man and wife. And all this after only knowing each other for three weeks, just.
Don’t get me wrong, Charlee is fucking hot and if I could blame someone for my shitty decision to put a ring on it I would blame my dick. He’s got fucked up taste in women, only looking out for himself.
At five foot nine with long black hair, green eyes, plastic tits mommy and daddy paid for, long legs, and an ass made for grabbing when you’re pounding inside her Charlee’s good to look at but that’s about the extent of it. The other side of the coin, the one I didn’t see, or I should say only saw flashes of before I married her is, Charlee’s shallow, vapid, self-absorbed, vain, and those are the good parts of her personality. Sure, I’d known her all of three weeks, was just barely a grown man myself, but I should’ve seen that shit before attaching the old ball and chain. I’ll give her this; Charlee’s the master at only letting you see what she wants you to see. If she hadn’t wanted me to see those flashes of her personality seep through her hot exterior I wouldn’t have seen them. The same can still be said about her today. She’s just as bad now as she ever was, if not worse.
We spent a grand total of thirteen weeks together spread out over two years spanning two deployments before Charlee told me she never had any intention of having children. The very idea of having kids was abhorrent to her, and she communicated that to me in a way that couldn’t be misinterpreted. Basically she said she’d never risk her figure to pop out rug rats that would not only demand her time and attention, but tie her down to a man that can’t even stay in the country for more than a month without getting itchy feet.
That last part was bullshit. I had a fucking job that required me to fight for our country. Her country. I wasn’t continent hopping for shits and giggles. Charlee knew this before we got married. She knew it during. And she knew my dedication to what I did for a living, the fact that my goal was to remain enlisted in the Navy for as long as they’d have me meant I was going to be gone for long periods of time. Often. Wanting children wasn’t something we’d missed when discussing our future. I told her at the beginning of our marriage that I wanted a houseful of them. Coming from a large family I wanted the same for my kids, and as far as she was concerned at the time she was fully on board with that plan.
Truthfully, I believe Charlee would have been perfectly happy in our marriage regardless of not seeing or spending any time with me, had I not brought up the topic of babies. Namely the fact I wanted one. Soon. It didn’t bother me that she wasn’t like most of the other military wives. Sending care packages, letters, waiting for them on base when they arrived home after six long months. All I wanted was a happy marriage, a hoard of kids, and a long career in the Navy. Not much to ask, but enough to make me happy for the rest of my life. The fact that Charlee never sent me anything, not one thing while I was deployed, didn’t meet me at the base when I flew in, didn’t write, email, or even answer calls I made home half the time only became an issue when I knew this farce was nearing its end.
Charlee was perfectly happy to spending the money I sent home, going out with her girlfriends, and bitching about her absentee husband to her parents to the pointy that it could be considered a sport. All while I was rotting in some sandbox from hell and she was living it up on my dime, with my ring on her finger. Yeah, this wasn’t working for me anymore.
Her parents are well off, nowhere near as loaded as mine, but that’s neither here nor there. They’re wealthy enough to indulge her when it comes to fake tans, Botox, cosmetic surgery she doesn’t fucking need, and anything else her heart desires. And they did, not often but regularly.
As an only child Charlee’s spoilt rotten and unrepentant about it. At the start I thought her parents were good people. Her mom works on boards for numerous charities, and her dad is an investment banker who worked his way up from lowly stockbroker at a no-name brokerage house to a successful owner of his own investment capitalist firm. My opinion did a swift one eighty when I realised they’re the cause of their daughters selfish, bratty, intolerable behaviour, effectively turning her into the bitch she is today. Not to mention if I weren’t the son of one of the wealthiest families in North America they’d have had no qualms annulling our marriage or demanding we get divorced immediately.
When Charlee told me there’d be absolutely no children for us now or in the future with a certainty that confirmed her stance I gave her a choice. She could have some time to think that over, come to a different decision, or we could get divorced. It was that simple as far as I was concerned. I wanted kids, with a passion that was unexplainable. I wouldn’t spend my life married to a self-centred bitch that has nothing better to do than buy another five hundred dollar purse, then spending two hours deciding what to wear out to lunch with her friends.
There was no changing her mind. Charlee was and still is adamant children aren’t in the cards. She vetoed the idea of divorce vehemently, and in the end I couldn’t force her at gun point to sign divorce papers, no matter how much I wanted to. So we came to an amicable agreement to remain married on paper only. To carry on with our lives like the other doesn’t exist. And up until a few years ago
I wouldn’t have bothered putting in the effort to see that changed.
The added benefit for her is being able to continue to use the Adams name, and in turn making good use of the doors that opens for her. I didn’t, and still don’t give a fuck about her capitalising off my families name. As long as she doesn’t do anything to embarrass my parents, grandpa, or brothers I could give the first fuck about how she networks. Well that was true up until six years ago when I fell in love with another woman at least. Now I just want to be rid of the bitch once and for all. In all fairness I’d never been in love before, so I wasn’t expecting the effect it would have on me. Charlee didn’t count. Marrying her wasn’t love it was desperation, fear, and stupidity. So when I found and fell in love with Priss I didn’t know I’d want to hitch myself to her ASAP. That the situation I got myself into with my wife, her impeding my options with her fucking stupid demand to use my family’s name would have me this fucking anxious to get it over and done with. And to be honest, the anxiety probably wasn’t anything to do with ending it, more to do with ending it quietly.
I made a few visits home to Chicago during the first couple of years after meeting Priss. And when I did it wasn’t to visit my brothers, my grandpa, or my parents. It was to pay fruitless visits, (I didn’t know they’d be fruitless then but I do now), to my wife in hopes this time she would grant me a divorce. By the time I met Priss we’d been married for ten years, and most people would ask why I didn’t just file for divorce and let it go through the courts if I wanted the chance to claim the woman I loved. I considered it, even going as far as to mention it to Charlee on one of the earlier trips home. My suggestion met an abrupt end with Charlee letting me know, with no uncertainty, that she’ll go to the press with an expose on newly returned Veterans, their issues with PTSD, and the violence and mental abuse their wives suffer at their hands. It was bullshit. It was manipulation. And it worked. I spent the rest of that trip consider how she could spin this shit in reference to me. Eventually coming to the conclusion that she couldn’t. When I was finally discharged she wasn’t around often enough to know what she was talking about, and I hadn’t given her any cause for concern. Not that the thought hadn’t crossed my mind when she mentioned her bullshit scheme. But I don’t, and never would hurt a woman, so she was safe regardless of the fact I spent the next six years hating I was tied to her in any way.
I knew she had nothing to report about me because to placate my mom after returning home I saw a shrink, Dr Burns, twice a week for just over three months. Apparently mom talked to some of the ladies she works with on the hospital charity boards, and they told her it was highly likely I was suffering from PTSD like a lot of Vets do. I was grateful that she cared. I was grateful that she looked into what could possibly cause her son harm, but I wasn’t happy that she shared far and wide about it.
Dr Burns ended up being a decent guy though. He listened to my concerns offering alternative way to approach things without judgement. I refused the sleeping tablets he wanted to prescribe, that being the only thing we differed in opinion over out of many mind you. But for my part I hated drifting into an artificial comas. The not being fully aware of my surroundings, not being able to wake up immediately freaked me the fuck out. There’s nothing more confronting to a soldier than not being capable of defending yourself. Everyone that thought it was a good idea to send myself into a drug induced stupor could go fuck themselves. I didn’t want it. I didn’t need it. I wouldn’t take it. It was as simple as that. Ultimately Dr Burns agreed, or I should say didn’t disagree, with my self-diagnosis that I wasn’t suffering from PTSD. He in turn didn’t actually diagnose me with anything tangible, and other than commending me on how I was coping with the events I’d been witness to he didn’t do a whole hell of a lot. That didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate his help mind you, because I did. If anything he helped to confirm that I wasn’t fucking nuts, and that did more for my state of mind than he’ll ever know.
Not once did I seriously consider PTSD as a viable diagnosis in my case. If you’d seen body parts not attached to their owner, your friends with varying degrees of; burns, infection, shock, and gore the likes of which I can’t and won’t even begin to describe, you’d have fucking nightmares and flashbacks too. I can only speak for me but I’m perfectly fucking sane. I might suffer at night when I close my eyes reliving those horrors, but as far as I’m concerned it’s natural under the circumstances and they’ll ease with time.
What it boils down to is that my wife’s a spiteful cunt. She knew none of the details regarding what I was going through, nor did she want to. None of the shit she threatened was because she wanted to keep me around. It was to save herself the scandal of being a twenty-nine-year-old divorcee. It was a fucking joke. It didn’t matter to her that we hadn’t lived in the same house since we were twenty-one. Or that we had only seen each other five times, for about a half hour each time, over the last eight years. All that mattered is how she’s perceived by her “adoring” public. The thing is, she has no idea that half the people she’s referring to hate her as much as I do, so this is all for nothing and she doesn’t even know it.
The last visit I made signalled the beginning of the end. I’d reached the end of my rope. I wanted out of my sham of a marriage now. I wanted freedom. I needed the chance to finally explore a relationship with the woman I actually wanted. I wasn’t getting any younger and I didn’t want any more life to pass me by while I was sitting waiting idly by in the wings. Sadly the beginning of the end wasn’t in reference to Charlee’s agreement to a divorce. It was however what caused me to pull away from Priss altogether.
Opening up the front door, I still have a key to the townhouse I own regardless that I’ve never liver then, I drop my keys on the front hall table and hook my jacket on the coat rack. It’s only eight-o’clock on a Thursday night, so I know Charlee will be home from work by now. It’s not a weekend so she’ll be slinking around here somewhere. Charlee works as a personal assistant to an event planner here in Chicago. Because Saturday and Sunday weddings are the most popular she’s usually always home early enough to get a good night’s sleep in before a full-on weekend. I don’t know much about my wife but I do know that she values her sleep like I value a cold beer at the end of a long day. There aren’t many lights on giving me a clue as to where she is. The kitchen is my best bet.
I bought the townhouse with Charlee in the Chicago historic district of Pilsen a few months prior to finding out Charlee didn’t want kids. I had no intention of moving in here with her when I was discharged, but saw it as a good investment so let her continue living here when I went back to my parents’ house. The place is too fucking big for just her, but I could give a shit, if it keeps her off my back she can fucking keep it. With four-bedrooms, five-baths, split over three levels I don’t know what the appeal is when you’re going to be living in it alone, however she fucking loves the place.
Folding my cut placing it beside my keys, I make my way into the kitchen at the far end of the house. Sitting at the counter with a glass of wine in front of her and the society pages of the newspaper open, Charlee has her back to the door not even cluing in to the fact that I’m here yet. She’s still as hot as she’s always been but these days, let’s be honest for the last six years, she doesn’t do anything for me. My cock doesn’t even twitch at the sight of her. Not that I’m surprised, he learnt his lesson too.
Tipping the glass to her painted red lips she lets out a shriek as she finally sees me leaning against the door frame.
“What the fuck Hunter? You scared the shit out of me.”
Setting her glass down she stands and I reply,
“Yeah? I’d say I’m sorry but we both know I’m not.”
Charlee snarls at me. Her upper lip twitches like she’s trying to hold back one of the bitchy comments she’s known for,
“Well now you’re here what do you want? There’s no way you’ve come all this way to just visit your wife, so I’m sure there’s something
you’re after.”
This is how all our interactions go. Charlee acts like a raving bitch, I pretend I’m indifferent to her when all I want to do is fucking choke her out half the time, we fight, then we part ways until next time.
“What I want is for you to give me a fucking divorce. It’s been nearly sixteen years Charlee. For fucks sake, you don’t even have to change your name back to your maiden name if you don’t want to. Just sign the papers I sent you last month, and we can be done with this shit.” Last month I had the MC’s lawyer, Davis, draw up a new set of divorce papers signing the townhouse, and a million dollars from my trust fund my parents’ set up, over to Charlee if she agrees to settle out of court. My parents’ would be fucking livid if they found out I gave her a dime, but at this point I don’t fucking care. I just want her out of my life once and for all.
Chuckling she says,
“You and I both know that’s not going to happen Hunter. Not only do I know that you’re worth twenty times that minimum, but we’ve had this discussion before and my reasons for not agreeing to it haven’t changed. How would it look if an Adams son divorced me? I don’t know why this is such a big deal anyway, it’s worked for us so far. Unless…” She lets her sentence hang attempting to get me to bite. I never do so I don’t know why she still bothers. Not getting any reaction out of me Charlee keeps spewing her bullshit. “If this is about that cheap looking slut you’ve got stashed away in bumfuck Colorado then…”
Saviour: A Devil's Spawn MC Novel (Savior Book 3) Page 2
