The Dispensable Wife (The MisFit Book 5)

by AB Plum

  He chuckles. “Until they’ve drunk a full cup of Russian coffee, they have no idea.”

  I repeat like a parrot, “They have no idea.”

  But I do. I know that even mainlining pure Russian caffeine won’t get us back on track.

  A small commotion of squeals and laughs and over-loud apologies offers salvation. I swallow my inane remark before it rolls off my tongue. The hubbub escalates and I glance behind me, then freeze.

  Seeing is not believing.

  Two twenty, maybe thirtysomething women picking up their hot orders have bumped into John. He turns. They stop. He grins. My fingers dig into my thigh.

  Get out, dammit. Get—

  “I’m at the back door, Darling. Wave when you see me.”

  “All right.” Single syllables are all I can manage as I fight against screaming at John. He and the women are chatting as if they’ve known each other forever. They shift to one side as another customer approaches the pick-up counter.

  Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Between inhales and exhales, I will John to move.

  Shoulders touching, three heads bobbing, he and his new friends spread out toward a back booth like a multi-celled amoeba in a petri dish. None of them pays any attention to the man entering the back door.

  Dozens of male and female techies on the other hand gawk at the presence of a Valley icon. Even those who work in non-technical jobs must recognize him. For anyone who hasn’t caught him on TV or on YouTube or in the national media or in area newspapers, his custom-made suit, shirt, tie, shoes, and briefcase attest to his wealth.

  His swagger confirms his power.

  His calculated smile reflects his predatory character.

  One young man dares stick out his hand. Instantly he goes still and steps back. He fists his hand behind his back, opening and closing his fingers. His minor act of eagerness undoubtedly cost him a few small, broken bones.

  As if making way for a prince, the young man scoots aside. The moment gives me just enough time to wrap a scrunchie around my hair and pull it into a ponytail.

  A ponytail is the best I can do for peace.

  In my ear, the tick burrows deeper, gorging on more of my blood, attaching its claws more tightly, devouring whatever it wants from me—giving nothing in return.

  Chapter 3

  HE

  “Hello, Darling.” I kiss her behind the ear and so telegraph my awareness of her ponytail. I detest her hair flowing down her back in lush, shiny, coppery waves. That kind of exhibitionism belongs in the bedroom behind closed doors. The corners of my lips twitch.

  Who says women aren’t teachable? Of course, since she pulled the ponytail in place after I called her . . . well, let’s just say she has more to learn.

  Eyes straight ahead, mouth tight, she hugs her waist and stands as rigid as a virgin. No recoil as I breathe on her neck, but her carotid gyrates. She says nothing.

  A small show of power?

  “You’re perspiring, Darling.” I nip her ear—my own small show of power. I straighten and lay my hand on top of her head. My nails dig gently into her scalp, and I feel her blood boiling under my fingertips.

  More silence.

  “No cool down today?” Temptation burns the tip of my tongue. Christ, I want to give her a shock. Inform her I know she was wearing her hair down, patting it, twirling a long strand around her fingers while she chatted with her friend.

  “We always cool down.” She shifts and forges a splinter of space between us.

  My fingers tingle. I imagine a calculated pinch to her jaws. With her lips pushed forward, she’d look like a fish struggling for oxygen. She regards me with barely disguised contempt. I relax my jaw. Patience. There’s a right time for revealing every lie.

  “You’re quite flushed.” I tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I think we should sit. Where’s your table?”

  “I don’t have one. I’d already given it up when you called.”

  “But you told me you spilled your coffee . . .” My eyes narrow, but I smile widely—as if I believe every lying word she utters.

  “When I stood up.” Guilt flushes her throat, then floods the ashen skin on her ears and face with an ugly shade of raspberry. Several nearby coffee drinkers stare.

  Raspberry provides an interesting contrast with copper-colored hair.

  “When I stood,” she repeats in a breathy rush. “I spilled my coffee when I stood.”

  “Where were you sitting?” I gaze around the room, come back to focus on the table where my wife and her friend sat, and make eye contact with the young brunette who has been eyeing us with a cobra’s calculated avidity. I take a step toward the table, smile my CEO-smile, and shoot my cuffs, giving her a glimpse of my Tour De L’Ile watch. Her eyes widen.

  Ahhh, she’s never seen a watch that costs more than a million dollars.

  The monster greed breathes into her ear. Dollar signs glow in her bright blue eyes, but I need no further encouragement.

  “You wouldn’t mind sharing your table.” Not a question, but I deduce the brunette sporting twenty cheap earrings in the cartilage of one ear and a fake diamond tongue ring laps up faux sincerity. I tack on a PC-courtesy line. “Would you?”

  “Please. Sit. Please.” Her tongue doesn’t hang out, but if she was a cocker spaniel, her tail would whump from side to side. As it is, I suspect she’s wetting her pants.

  Marie Antoinette climbed the steps to the guillotine with less reluctance than my wife approaching the table. She says, “We should get coffee to go—”

  “No, no, no.” The brunette shakes her head, then pushes two stools toward us and stares at my left wrist. She’ll have quite a story to tell her friends about the Tour De L’Ile. “I don’t mind sharing. In fact, I almost asked you earlier if you’d mind sharing with me.”

  Blood drains from AnnaSophia’s face. She swallows, frowns, shakes her head.

  “When you and the older guy—gentleman—were sitting here. But the two of you looked so intense I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “How nice of you, right, Darling?” Luckily for my lying wife, I am alert to her body language. I slip a chair under her before her legs collapse.

  “But you could’ve interrupted.” She lifts her chin and tilts her head back and away from me—small gestures of defiance.

  Such bravado. I chuckle. Is she even aware her carotid is hammering hard enough to knock her off the chair?

  “Let me guess.” Silkiness textures my sarcasm, “You were discussing yoga.”

  “That’s right.” Her frown asks if I’ve thrown her a life line or a cement anchor, but she stumbles on. “We were discussing yoga poses.”

  “I’ve always wanted to learn yoga,” our table companion says. “Do you take a class?”

  “Across the street. Next to Wells Fargo. Five days a week.” My darling’s voice drops to a mumble on the last phrase. She wants this conversation to end.

  I repress a snicker. Since I read lips, I know with absolute certainty she’s lying about the topic of conversation with her friend. “Yoga is your passion, right, Darling?”

  “I find yoga a challenge.” Her face remains impassive, but her tone carries an edge, raising the brunette’s eyebrows.

  “And I know how you love a challenge.” I set my briefcase on the table—a subtle reminder that it contains, in addition to papers and my Steiners, a .357 Magnum.

  The brunette must sense the topic isn’t yoga, but she says, “I’ll have to check out the class someday. What time does it start?”

  “Nine o’clock. That’s an advanced class. I’m not sure about the beginning classes.”

  The chill in her tone dampens the brunette’s enthusiasm. She murmurs, “Oh.”

  “What do you want, Darling?” Besides getting away from me as fast as possible? “A latté or an espresso?”

  Head down, she licks her dry lips. “Coffee. Plain.”

  I turn to our table companion. “How about a refill? Pastry? Breakfast?”

 
; “Thanks. Nothing for me. I’m fine.” Her tone borders on flirty, and she emphasizes fine as she watches me from under thick, black eyelashes.

  Too much mascara for my taste, and willowy instead of curvy like AnnaSophia. I wink. Why not make someone in the world happy? “You’re sure.”

  She tosses her head—a gesture I hate—and shoots me a smile full of promise and fun as she pushes her chair away from the table. “You need help carrying the coffee?”

  AnnaSophia jerks her head up, mouth open. I speak over her. “Thanks. I could use a hand, but shouldn’t I introduce myself? For all you know, I’m a known criminal. Or a serial killer. Or a sexual predator.”

  Sitting up straighter, AnnaSophia looks as if she’s suffocating on her own breath. She’s gone pale as death again, flat-eyed, droopy-mouthed, brain shut down. I place my hand on her shoulder, and muscles across her back jump as if tensing for an assault. “Are you all right, Darling?”

  “If you need to stay here, I can go get the coffee,” the brunette says, her voice pitched to eager-to-please.

  “No.” AnnaSophia’s lips barely move. “I’m fine. A little too warm.”

  “The sun’s wicked.” The brunette shades her eyes against the glare streaming through the window.

  “You must have sat here too long after your yoga class, Darling.” No one—least of all the brunette—could decipher my real message to my cheating wife. “You know you can’t take much heat.”

  Her jaw cracks, but she speaks in a low, even tone. “I want coffee and a bottle of water.”

  No please, but I reply, “My pleasure.”

  No thank you as I turn. Liars cannot afford bad manners. I stop, snap my fingers but choose my words carefully. “By the way, I’m Michael Romanov. This is my—”

  “I’m AnnaSophia.” She dislikes being introduced as my wife—says the term implies she is my property, my chattel.

  “AnnaSophia and I share the same surname and the same bed at the same address as our three children.” I admit my voice carries a trace of acid. How many chattels have engagement and wedding rings worth half a million dollars? “She’s a feminist and a wife.”

  One corner of the brunette’s mouth lifts, but her voice is bright and jaunty. “Hi, I’m Tracy Jones. I recognize you Mr. Romanov from the TV news. I’ve seen you in here quite often, Mrs. Romanov, but always with that older gentleman.”

  This unsolicited tidbit drops on AnnaSophia with an impact that shocks her into silence.

  The crumb slides into my brain like an overdose of nitrous oxide. The impact buzzes along my spine, turns my legs and arms to jelly, but fuels me with the power to crush my enemies and regain my position as the husband. Those words—with the older gentleman— confirm my long-held suspicions.

  Suspicions that have taunted—me for years.

  Suspicions that now crystalize.

  Suspicions that to the outsider qualify as paranoid figments of my imagination.

  A movie on my mental DVD rolls out, frame by frame. I reach into the briefcase, withdraw the .357, aim, and shoot a single bullet into my cheating wife’s brain.

  The conversation in the hot, airless space soars around me to a crescendo. My fingertips tingle. The urge to laugh becomes overpowering. My lying wife’s eyes squint at me as if I have come undone.

  “You see, Darling.” It takes no effort to return from my fantasy. “Just as I’ve always said. There are eyes everywhere.”

  Chapter 4

  SHE

  Eyes everywhere . . .

  And Michael’s eyes are the biggest of all. The better to see you m’dear.

  A cold deep inside me bites my fingers, shaky on top of the briefcase. I trace and retrace the outline of a concealed gun. Revolted, I shove to my feet, stretch my neck, and scan over the waiting customers. Michael’s head is inclined toward Miz Bigmouth. Does he see John?

  Does she see John? At this moment, she has her big, soft eyes fixated on Michael.

  Why didn’t I ever notice her watching us? Taking notes? Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

  Why don’t I see John? My friend for the past year. My friend who doesn’t know and couldn’t guess who my husband is. Couldn’t guess I’ve put him in danger.

  What kind of friend am I?

  The kind who has kept so many dark secrets.

  The darkest—my marriage to a man obsessively charming. Calculating. Controlling.

  Sunshine scalds my neck and back. I scrunch my shoulders. A rushing fills my ears. It’s too hot in here. Too crowded. Too many eyes.

  Chapter 5

  HE

  “Do you believe in serendipity?” Ignoring the eavesdroppers in front and behind us waiting to order coffee, Tracy Jones speaks in a throaty, intimate contralto that invites teasing secrets and sexual innuendos.

  Suspicion pings in my chest, but I reply, “Define serendipity.”

  “Piece of cake.” No batting of her eyelashes. No “accidental” jostling. No overt flirting. Just über-confidence she has hooked a big fish. “I excel at defining words and sizing up situations.”

  The hiss of the espresso machine and the murmurs of the caffeine junkies muffle her conceit, but my fingers twitch with the urge to clap my hand over her red, mocking mouth. Little does she know she has hooked something—something big and dangerous.

  Surprise. Surprise. Not a fish. Not a dolphin.

  She has hooked a full-grown bull shark.

  Without any encouragement, she exhales and launches into a monologue that sounds rehearsed. Serendipity. Luck that she has sat here for three weeks watching my wife and her older-gentleman friend drink coffee and talk, talk, talk. Each time they left together, they were still talking. She imagined they’d lived alone in caves for decades, then found a path to civilization, and suddenly discovered other humans.

  Except they never noticed anyone but each other.

  “It’s crazy I know, but I thought they were romantically involved.” Her laugh—too loud and phony—draws a few stares. Even AnnaSophia gawks—skin tight around her eyes, brows knitted.

  Arching her neck, Tracy preens. She loves an audience, but she must pick up on my coolness. As if reading my demand she use her inside-voice, lowers the pitch, and continues for my ears alone.

  “Then, today, by chance—pure chance—you show up and we meet. What are the chances?”

  The tip of her tongue flicks her upper lip as she pauses for a reply.

  I remain silent. Goddammit, AnnaSophia.

  “Serendipity.” Inching forward in the order line has zero effect on Tracy’s enthusiasm. She throws her hands up in the air with child-like glee. I doubt she takes note of my disconnected silence.

  “You and I travel in different orbits,” she says as if her awe will leave me stunned. “We travel in different galaxies. Different universes. Everyone I know is going to be crazy jealous once I tell them what brought me and Michael Romanov together.”

  The barista takes my order, and I take a moment to smell the steaming coffee. The bitter odor calms my electrified nerves. Not as much as the fragrance of good, black tea. But tea conjures an image of men I don’t like. So I order an espresso. At the last minute, Tracy squeals she’s changed her mind and orders a large Danish.

  “Something sweet to celebrate my good luck.” She fumbles for her wallet, but I have already handed over a twenty-dollar bill, telling the cashier to keep the change.

  Tracy natters on about serendipity—or something equally inane. I listen with half an ear and fume in silence. Unless I stop her, she’ll soon make me the laughingstock of Silicon Valley.

  Not going to happen, I vow as we step away from the register to wait for my espresso.

  The barista hands over a bottle of water with a plastic glass. Her smile is servile. AnnaSophia’s coffee, despite the generous tip, is strictly self-service.

  I never come to this kind of place. I prefer being waited on. Glancing toward the counter with carafes of coffee, I scan the place. Acid spurts into my stomach.


  The friend sits near the back door between two women half his age. The women are either stoned or hypnotized. They lean toward him, nodding at every syllable falling out of his mouth. What is this guy’s appeal?

  Like a four-year-old demanding her daddy’s attention, Tracy grips my upper arm. Canary feathers fall out of her mouth as she whispers, “Are you always so generous? That tip bordered on extravagant.”

  Do not touch me. An ocean rushes into my ears, and I jerk my arm away from her lingering fingertips. Fury swamps the restraint I’ve managed to hold onto until now. Fury, of course, because—too bad for Tracy Jones—I despise fools who underestimate me and think I succumb to flattery.

  “I can afford to be generous.” The need to keep Tracy close until I’ve reached a decision about how to handle her softens the statement. I fake a smile. “I enjoy being generous.”

  “Oooh, my friends are never going to believe this.” She stands so close I smell her churning out estrogen. The woman should volunteer to work with biologists who insist human females don’t go into estrus.

  One of those pure ahas explodes in my head, and I change the subject without a segue. “How were you able to spend three weeks observing my wife, her friend and, I assume, all these coffee drinkers? Are you an independent contractor? A student? A writer?”

  Laughing, she reaches for her Danish, and her breast brushes my arm. “A writer. Was a writer, I should say. I took a sabbatical a month ago.”

  Sabbatical? The invisible antennae on top of my head slide up like periscopes. “How long did you have to work to earn a sabbatical?”

  Her blip of silence confirms my hunch. Sabbatical, my ass. She was fired.

  “Actually, I got a package,” she says. “The company wanted me to switch from creating marketing materials to developing online help.” She pauses with the pastry halfway to her open mouth, then sticks her index finger inside and rolls her eyes. “Borrring.”

  “So you’re more creative than technical?” Given the opportunity, I have no doubt she will embroider the story about AnnaSophia and her friend into front-page tabloid fodder.