Creed’s Expectations
Copyright © 2017 J.D. Hollyfield
Cover Design: All By Design
Photo: Adobe Stock
Editor: Ellie McLove, All about the Edits
Formatting: Champagne Book Design
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
This book is dedicated to all the good girls wishing to be bad.
I HATE HIM, I HATE him, I HATE HIM!
I throw my iPhone onto the hotel bed, grunting as it bounces, nailing the fancy hotel lamp.
Great. Was that just a crack?
The last thing I need this weekend while attending this overpriced job fair is to open Facebook and see Steven, my ex-husband, and his new girlfriend Mary, or should I say always has been girlfriend, all smug on their vacation. But then again, if I would have listened to my best friend Amy, and deleted his cheating ass off my account a long time ago, I wouldn’t have to deal with his stupid updates.
Twenty-four and already divorced. I know… loser, right? I might as well have a neon L-sign glowing on my forehead.
I drop my suitcase next to the dresser and go to retrieve my phone, hoping I didn’t crack the screen. It would officially be the third cracked screen this month.
I really did just need to delete him. But for some messed up, glutton-for-punishment reason, I don’t. And it’s because at night, when I secretly find myself searching through his pictures, posts and updates, that stupid, curious part of me wonders if he ever mentions me, or if he’s deleted any sign of our relationship completely.
The first screen crack debacle was, of course, the profile picture update. It had always been us. Well, ever since he’d been on social media. He’d barely even known how to use Facebook when we were married. The ritzy doctor he was didn’t have time for ‘silly social media nonsense.’ So helpful ol’ me, took it upon myself to set up his account, making his profile picture one of my favorite pictures from our honeymoon. That was up until three weeks ago, when it changed to a picture of him and Mary. His whore girlfriend.
Picking up my abused device, I turn it over to thankfully see no damage caused. I sigh in relief because I wasn’t sure my monthly budget, between school loans and my measly living expenses, could afford another replacement. I tuck it into my back pocket and drag my suitcase over and toss it onto the bed.
Unzipping my luggage, I toss her open and spot the thick pile of resumes. The reason why I’m here.
Divorced.
Jobless.
Broke.
Oh, and angry. Let’s not forget angry.
A deep pain settles in my chest, as it always does when I’m reminded of what Steven did to me.
More than two years of my life wasted on a man who never took us seriously. Oh, he stood in front of the justice of the peace and vowed to love me, take care of me, and always be faithful, but he wasn’t serious. The entire time when we were married, when he neglected me, cheated on me, ignored me, he never took us seriously.
The pathetic part of all this? The entire time, I was as serious as a heart attack. I was in love. Blind and completely clueless. It took him getting caught and leaving me for me to realize I was living a complete lie. The confrontation? He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even try and fight to keep me when I caught him and Mary. He said it was for the best. He also didn’t fight me when I threatened divorce. He actually spent the money for the high-end lawyer he hired to escalate it.
There is no mistake that Steven Monroe, my now ex, was a true asshole.
But with his looks, money, and professional stature, I guess some would say he was allowed to be. We met three years ago when I stumbled into the ER. A karaoke stunt gone bad, I had drunk too much and fell off the stage, ending in a foot cast. Steven was the attending doctor on call that night and tended to my sprained foot. The spark we both felt was immediate. He was tall, with dark hair, and eyes you’d get lost in. He was what wet dreams were made of. And by wet, I guarantee I was drooling so bad, it looked like I wet myself.
He was tender to my wound. He laughed at my explanation of how I ended up on his ER table. The way his fingers caressed my bruised ankle left my body in a sheer wake of tingles. Embarrassed he was able to tell how my body was reacting to his touch, he just smiled and did something I wasn’t expecting. He asked me out.
Now, on any normal occasion, I would have screamed total unprofessional, but I was more shocked he actually asked me. Asked me. This guy was a god. Hot, clearly successful, being a doctor, and me? Well, I was a drunk college kid, who’d just spent the remainder of my housing money on a round of shots for a random group of strangers.
But for some reason, he seemed to see past all that, or maybe it was because he knew nothing about me. In that moment, it was as if we were two people who decided we would hide who we really were, right from the start. It was better that way. That way, we would work out.
It was after he was finished wrapping my leg that I said yes. I figured, what did I have to lose? My life was a complete bore to begin with and the only reason I was at the bar, drinking booze I’ve never touched before, was because I wanted excitement in my life. I’d been raised to follow the rules. Stay within the lines. I didn’t want to be such a goodie-goodie anymore; one who had no experience and sat at home most of her life wishing they were someone else.
Steven took me out and showed me how it was to actually be wined and dined. I had never been to such fancy restaurants, held to such a high standard, and treated with such respect. Every time I was with him, it felt like a dream. One that I begged never to wake up from. It was on date three I ended up back at his fancy apartment in the city. A doctor’s salary definitely showed with his private entrance, doorman, and palace overlooking the city.
It was on the third date that he had me undressed and no part of my skin untouched before realizing I was a virgin. Embarrassing, right? Like I said, a hermit in the making. He was shocked, and a little angry I’d never mentioned it before. But what was I supposed to say? I was waiting for marriage? I was, but in the heat of the moment, I decided I needed to live. Do something out of my norm. And I suppose losing my virginity on date three with Steven Monroe, the doctor, was on that list.
Sex for the first time hurt, but I figured it would. Steven was tender, and after the pain subsided, he took me to a place I’ve never experienced before. I couldn’t remember being so mad at myself for waiting so long, or so proud of myself that I finally went through with it. And as I laid wide awake in bed that night while Steven snored away, I beg
an to plan my future.
I wasn’t going to live by the rules anymore. I was going to live free and, as they say, by the seat of my pants. There wasn’t a playbook to life, so screw the rules. I hadn’t felt more alive than I did with Steven. So after only a short time dating, when he asked me to marry him, I said yes.
Now, some would say, that I was living too freely. One being my mother, who about had a heart attack when I called and told her I met someone and I was getting married all in the same call. I’m pretty sure when she asked how long I knew this man, and my response was three months, she hit the floor. Actually, I know she did because I heard my dad in the background asking her if she was okay and the scrambling of him helping her back to her feet.
I knew she wouldn’t approve. But to be honest, my mother probably hoped I would become a nun and give my life to the church to avoid any havoc of real life.
Speaking of the church, we saw none of that during our wedding day. Steven insisted we get married at the courthouse. “Why waste time,” he said. “It’s not about all that material stuff. It’s about us.” As I saw that as sooo romantic, my mother, father, aunts, anyone who knew me saw it as crazy. Why was I rushing this? Why was I denying myself the beautiful wedding all girls dream of? Well, because I was in love. And all that other stuff didn’t matter. Steven mattered.
The ceremony was super quick, and before I knew it, I was Mrs. Steven Monroe. We had a small reception at a steakhouse downtown. My parents forcefully attended, along with his mother and younger brother, Creed. Those two couldn’t have been any more different. Where Steven was so well put together, his brother was a hot mess. I swore he was drunk at the courthouse and the girl he had on his arm could have been a stripper. As much as he intimidated me, I smiled and shook his hand when Steven introduced us. Kind of strange to be meeting your future in-laws and brother-in-law the day of your wedding, but oh well.
His mother was, how should we put it, about as happy as a kid at the dentist for me to be joining their family. Clearly, I wasn’t good enough for her prominent son. But hey, I would have fully agreed. I wasn’t. He was prime property, while I was more like hobo status. But he loved me and that’s all that mattered. I married her son, not her.
It was a lot easier to brush off his mother than it was his sibling. It was obvious his brother was also on the fence about me. He made it his mission to stare me down the entire dinner. It made me uncomfortable, and every time I caught his deep blue eyes piercing into me, I would become restless in my seat. It could have been because he was just as attractive as Steven. But there was something about him that screamed trouble. Possibly jealousy of his successful older brother. Who knew? But there was something about Creed Monroe that unsettled me.
As the night ended, we said our goodbyes, and in the morning, we headed to St. Lucia for the most amazing honeymoon ever. A magnificent honeymoon suite overlooking the clearest waters. We made love and ate exotic fruits. Swam, relaxed, and enjoyed the silence of the Caribbean.
We got three days in before his phone rang.
Work called.
And he was needed back.
He promised we would return when the timing was better. And as disappointed as I was to leave such a beautiful place, I believed him.
Of course we never did. It was also the last time Steven and I really spent alone.
I never, in my love-struck brain, imagined what it would be like to be married to a doctor. I didn’t think about how much time he would spend at the hospital and the lack of time he would spend with me. I was still in school, so I spent my days on campus while he spent his at home sleeping. When I would return home at night, most times he would already be gone for his shift. On days I was aching to see him so bad and canceled classes, he would end up on a double shift, leaving me a text that he was just sleeping at the hospital. Even when I went to see him at work, it was rare I spent more than thirty seconds chasing after him while he was on the move.
It was just… just…
Not what I signed up for.
Our routine became consistent. Messages here and there. Me slaving in the kitchen to offer him a homemade meal, and it going to waste because he was never home to eat it. Dates rescheduled and promises broken. It kept on this way for the next year. It wasn’t a shock that I became depressed. I wanted my husband. I wanted all the things he promised me. I wanted to not always be alone. We would still have our moments. Once a month, at most, he would ease my worry with sex, telling me he was just busy at work. And every time, I would believe him.
But as time went on, my intuition sat heavier on my mind. A girl knows. And I knew that Steven wasn’t just busy at work. He was preoccupied in other territories. He always seemed vacant in our sparse love making. And he stopped noticing me, if he ever did in the first place. I tried to tell myself I was just tired and stressed out because I had finally finished school and still hadn’t lined up a job. Even when I expressed my concerns to Steven, he blew ‘em off, telling me I didn’t have to work. He didn’t devote his life to being a doctor to not have a promising income in return. Devoting his life to that hospital was an understatement.
On our two-year anniversary, I finally snapped when I read the note on the counter, saying he was working. I was sick of being alone. Mentally and physically. Nothing about Steven was the same since we had returned home from our honeymoon. It was as if the man I dated and the man I married were two different people. And for that, I had had enough.
I pull up to the hospital, a plate of food from our anniversary dinner I’d prepared in hand. I’m still not sure if I’m going to throw it at him or offer to feed him in between patients. I’m sure he’s starving. I walk through the halls toward his office/the on-call room [whichever one], when I see a couple in a secluded corner, having an obviously heated conversation. I’m about to walk past when I recognize the shift in the man’s stance as Steven’s. I glance past him to see a pretty nurse with an angry look on her face.
“Steven?” I call out, grabbing their attention, and they both turn.
“Kasey?” Steven looks shocked, with a hint of something else mixed in. He turns to the nurse, whispering, “We’ll discuss this later.”
He starts to walk over to me, but the woman pushes ahead of him, walking straight toward me. “Hi, Kasey, you must be Steven’s wife. I’m Mary. We work together. We’re also sleeping together. What’s it been, Steven? The past three/four years?”
I’m at a loss for words, and I turn my gaze to Steven’s, finally seeing the emotion I couldn’t place earlier. Guilt.
“Yeah, we’ve been together for years. I think we know pretty much every room in this hospital, right Steven? Did you want to bring that plate home with us to eat later? It looks like Kasey put a lot of effort into it.”
Steven simply stands there, denying nothing, confirming my deepest fears. The plate slips from my hands, crashing to the floor, breaking his silence.
“Kasey” – he scrubs a hand down his perfect face – “I…”
“Save it,” I snap. I turn on my heel and walk out of the hospital, determined not to cry in front of Steven and his slutty whore.
There’s not much more to tell from there. When Steven got home the next day, he lamely apologized. I told him that I hated him and he accepted it. He suggested the quick divorce, and as much as I wanted to beg to work it out, I agreed. He had made a fool of me since day one. It was time I accepted that our marriage was a ruse from the beginning and move on.
The trouble with moving on is, it’s easier said than done.
I moved out.
I was lucky enough to have still kept in touch with my college roommate, Amy, and she offered her extra bedroom to me until I got myself back on my feet. It was that or move home, which I would have rather become homeless. If I had to hear my mother say “I told you so” one more time, I was going to go insane.
One of the many reasons to follow that I realized Steven was nothing like I thought, was when the divorce papers came. Irrecon
cilable differences were the reason, and the terms were that either party would take or owe the other nothing.
Translation: he was divorcing me and offering me not a single penny. No alimony. Nothing.
Not that I wanted his money, but for him to feel like he didn’t owe me something, hurt. Bad. Amy said I should have taken him to the cleaners. But I just wanted to be done with him. And if that meant cutting ties completely without a cent to my name, then so be it.
I ended up selling my engagement ring which bought me a few months of rent and bill money, but as the months passed, my bank account dwindled. I knew it was time for me to get back on that horse again and find a job. So I spent the remainder of my savings, putting all my eggs in one basket, and bought a plane ticket to Atlanta, and a two-day admission ticket to the National Job Fair Association, the most reputable job fair on the East Coast. If I couldn’t land an interview in those forty-eight hours, then I was doomed from the start.
This brings us to my current position, annoyed that once again, I’ve allowed Steven to spoil my mood. It also doesn’t help that I’m worried I may have jumped the gun on blowing all my money on a job fair that probably only hires really smart people with degrees from Ivy League schools and not a state school in Washington. I admit I never really had a lot of confidence, but get dumped and not only does your view on love plummet, but so does your self-esteem and confidence.
Love sucks.
So does being jobless.
Anywho, the fair doesn’t start until tomorrow, but I arrived a day early to scope out the scene. Headhunters always arrive early. According to the pamphlet, eagerness in your career shows. I want to make sure I stand out, so when I hand out the three hundred copies of my resume tomorrow, I get noticed.
I shower and throw on a nice fitting grey pencil skirt that sits just above my knees and compliment it with a white blouse. Amy lent me, along with the outfit, some of her flashy jewelry, so I place a silver and pearl beaded necklace around my neck.
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