Wrecking Ball (Hard To Love Book 1)
Page 1
Wrecking Ball
Hard To Love Series Book 1
P. Dangelico
Contents
Also by P. Dangelico
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
Epilogue
Thank You
About the Author
Wrecking Ball (Hard To Love Series #1)
Copyright © 2017 by P. Dangelico
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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ISBN: 978-1-5323-1603-6
Also by P. Dangelico
Romantic Suspense
A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1)
A Million Different Ways To Lose You (A Horn Novel Book 2)
Cold Hard Winters (Coming Soon)
Romantic Comedy
Wrecking Ball (Hard To Love #1)
Sledgehammer (Hard To Love #2) Spring 2017
Bulldozer (Hard To Love #3) Winter 2017
Babymaker (Moon Over Malibu #1) Summer 2017
Heartbreaker (Moon Over Malibu #2) 2018
Chapter One
Cautionary tale ladies, never marry a man who quotes the movie Wall Street like it’s his Bible. If Gordon Gekko is his idol, it’s time to pack your bags. Trust me, I wish somebody had given me the heads up.
“Sign here and here––” instructs the vulture also known as the federal prosecutor, “and this case will officially be closed.” He pushes the stack of papers across the conference table. I grab the pen my lawyer hands me and pause.
“What about the money in my checking and personal savings accounts?”
“Claw back.” He always delivers the worst news in a soft, gender-ambiguous, yet effectively scary voice. I know it well by now. A filthy smile tips up the corners of his mouth. My unflinching glare convinces him to put a lid on it. Then I glance askance at my overpaid lawyer who, as usual, has nothing to add. “Mrs. Blake, the more we recover, the better this will go for you in the event a civil suit is filed.”
“Let me get this straight,” I say, exasperated beyond measure because after living this nightmare for three years, I have no patience or filter left. “Even though my husband never used any of the investor’s money for our personal use, you can still confiscate every single thing we own?”
“Mrs. Blake––” he says very softly.
“But he was only covering losses!”
“Mrs. Blake––your husband could’ve stopped after one, two, even three years. But he didn’t. He ran this Ponzi scheme until his unfortunate demise. And had he lived, there’s a very good chance he’d still be running it. In the last five years of his life, he didn’t earn an honest dollar. Who do you think owns all that stuff?”
I swear if he says ‘Mrs. Blake’ one more time I’m going to take this pen and drive into my carotid artery. He has a point though. The management fees Matt had been charging hadn’t been honestly earned when all he managed to do was lose money for his clients.
“Like I said, there’s still a very good chance the victims will file a civil suit,” he repeats, delivering this precious gem with a gleam in his hard eyes.
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…cannot have a panic attack now.
The last thing I want to do is to reward the sadistic turd. I check my mental Rolodex for a soothing image to focus on and get a momentary flash of my husband instead.
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe…breathe, bitch, breathe before you pass out.
It’s incomprehensible to me how Matt could have done such a thing. Matthew Edward Blake was my high school sweetheart, the love of my life, the ying to my yang. He was the man I shared my first dance, first kiss, first everything with. He was also the man that had been lying to me for years. And I didn’t have a goddamn clue.
You can’t blame me. We didn’t lead an extravagant life. Idyllic, maybe, but not extravagant. That is, right up until three years ago, when on a cold winter night the police showed up at my front door to inform me that my husband’s car had to be fished out of the Hudson River, along with his body, and the course of my life was forever altered.
That was just the beginning. The investigation came next.
Ambition was always a facet of Matt’s personality. That was never in question. So he liked bright shiny objects, so what. Matt wasn’t greedy. He was always kind and generous with those around him. Hence, I chose to see it as a positive. My ambitions were of a different nature. Being a good wife. Making sure every child that entered my third grade classroom received the best education possible. That’s all that has ever mattered to me.
Did I have aspirations that included becoming a CEO of a fortune five hundred company? No. Did I dream of winning a Pulitzer? No. Qualifying for the Olympics? Mmmnnno. And if that sets the feminist movement back fifty years, then so be it.
For a while, I considered getting a Masters in child development. Until Matt persuaded me that I would eventually be too busy raising our children. There was nothing ever unreasonable about what he wanted. He never gave me cause to doubt him. Therefore, as a good wife, I supported my man. I’m a team player after all, loyal to a fault. If Matt wanted the house in Connecticut that we really couldn’t afford, I went along with it. When he got me the BMW I said I didn’t need or want––well, he was just being generous.
Things are nice, but I had family, friends, and the love of my life. Matt always wanted more. It was never enough. There was a certain restlessness in him that I never cared to look at too closely. In hindsight, I wish I had––I’ll forever be sorry I was too much of a coward to deal with it––because something keeps needling my conscious like a splinter I can’t see yet can feel every so often. And now that he’s gone, I’ll never know where it all went wrong.
“We’ll give you three days to vacate the premises. If you remove anything other than your clothes we will bring you up on charges,” the vulture informs me. My carcass has officially been picked clean.
Now if this was a sassy romcom, this would be the part of the story where I mount my comeback. Complete with a super cute montage of me going to the gym and sweating like a pig, me cleaning out my wardrobe and refrigerator, and me getting a new job. Playing in the background would be an ass kicking soundtrack featuring Chaka Khan in which she sings about how strong and powerful this new me will be. Spoiler alert: nothing of the sort happens.
“What about my cat? Am I allowed to take my cat? Or is he being clawed back as well?” My whole life has been dismantled by no fault of my own, and the rage that had been steadily simmering up finally hits the boiling point.
Exhaling his irritation loud enough to be heard in Alaska, the prosecutor steeples his salami like fingers and says, “You ma
y take your cat and nothing else.”
Frigging cat hates me. I’m taking him on principle alone.
“Did you take out the garbage?”
“Yes, Ma.”
“Did you pick up the milk?”
“That’s the second time you asked––yes, I did.”
“The two percent? Not the skim, right?”
Holy mother of… “Yes. Now can I finish what I’m doing??”
“No need to get hostile. I’m just askin’ a question.”
She bows her head and wrings her hands as she walks the short distance from our small dining room to the kitchen. Cue the eye roll. Nobody plays the victim better than Angelina DeSantis. She could make Mother Theresa feel like a villain.
My eyes return to the screen of my father’s ancient laptop, which doesn’t support Flash, which of course makes it incompatible with nearly every website on the planet. I’ve resorted to scanning the job listings in the most arcane, back alley sites. Sites that include job listings like ‘seeking female massage therapists between the age of eighteen and thirty at the Happy Day Spa’ and ‘receptionist needed at a gentleman’s only club’.
Gentlemen, my ass.
‘Stay busy,’ everyone said. ‘Go back to work. It’ll keep your mind off your troubles.’ Top of my troubles––not being able to get a frigging job. Piecing my life back together will without a doubt be a long and arduous process. And I’m harboring no false illusion that it will ever resemble what it once did––minus the scandal and the thieving husband, of course. I just never thought it would look this hopeless.
After my last visit to the federal prosecutor’s office in Manhattan, I went home, dropped my cell phone into the trash bin, huddled under the covers, and cried like I did it for a living. I mourned not only the loss of my lover and best friend, but also the death of everything I believed to be true. All those years…all those memories were a lie. My husband embezzled millions from anybody willing to trust him with their savings account. I lived it and it still sounds like the bad plot of a Lifetime movie to me. Unfortunately, though, it is not a Lifetime movie, it is the steaming pile called my life. I have the paperwork to prove it.
I emerged from my cocoon of despair not a beautiful butterfly, but rather a woman harboring more rage than was healthy. And it was all directed at one gender. Then I packed my bags and my cat, and made the pride-crushing journey back to my parents’ house in a yellow cab because my BMW had already been repossessed.
Four months have passed since I’ve lost my home and my job. The house holds too many memories; I wasn’t entirely sad to see it go. The job is a different matter altogether. That hadn’t been my decision to make. The department of education thought it best for all parties involved if I just fucked off since some of the parents of my third graders had invested with Matt.
“Any luck, Punkin’?”
My father places his calloused, knobby hand on my shoulder. I love my mother, I really do, but I’m my father’s daughter. I pat his hand and look up into sympathetic brown eyes. The same eyes as mine. Although he’s still handsome in a rugged way, Thomas DeSantis seems to have aged exponentially since the proverbial shit has hit the fan. Lately, he’s looking older than his sixty-six years.
I’m an only child, a miracle baby. I’ve heard the story a billion times. How I came along after ten years of marriage, long after my parents had stopped hoping to conceive. So to say that they have all their hopes and dreams in one basket is not an exaggeration.
“Nothing yet,” I say, my voice hitting a strange high note that sounds like the worst attempt at optimism ever.
“And the agency?”
I can’t even answer in fear my voice will crack. I resort to a quick head shake. You would think that with a double degree in psychology and early childhood education, I wouldn’t have too much trouble finding a decent job. The problem is that my husband’s crime has been well publicized in the Tristate area, along with my face, and since I can’t afford to move elsewhere, anywhere that I won’t be easily recognized, finding a job has become a torturous experience. I’ve resorted to scraping the bottom of the barrel. Basically, I’m ready to consider the receptionist position at the gentleman’s club––if they’ll have me, that is.
“You’ll find something, I know you will. And I can always ask Bill if he needs another secretary.”
Bill is the owner of the plumbing business my father runs. He’s also the lech that insists I call him uncle while openly grazing my boobs at holiday parties every chance he gets.
No thanks.
I always thought my father should go into business for himself. His excuse is that he didn’t want to do that to Bill, who had given him his first job after trade school. Truth is, my father and I are a lot alike. Translation: he doesn’t need much to be happy, and he has everything he needs in my mother and me. As he constantly tells us.
“How you doin’ with money?”
“Fine, Dad, really,” I answer quickly.
It’s a total lie of course. At this point, though, I’d rather turn tricks than take another one of their hard-earned pennies. My parents are working class folks, scrupulously disciplined savers, as ‘old school’ as it gets. They’re even suspicious of credit cards. It took my mother years before she finally caved and started using an ATM machine. And I still see her hit the cancel button like ten times before she walks away because she’s convinced that somehow the next person can get into her account without a card.
With the way the economy has been going in the last ten years, their income can no longer cover their expenses. Lately, they’ve had to dip into their retirement fund. A retirement fund that has been decimated thanks to all the legal fees I incurred proving that I had nothing to do with Matt’s business.
The fancy float in this shit parade is that Matt never suggested my parents invest with him, not once, leaving their retirement fund intact when so many others had suffered terrible losses. Did he do it on purpose knowing I needed that money to prove my innocence? I’ll never know. In the end, everybody lost. That’s why I can’t ask them to loan me any more money. The situation has officially become dire.
Just then, by some miracle, my cell phone rings. The name of the agency I signed with a month ago flashes on the screen. It’s the first time they’ve ever called.
“Hello,” I answer enthusiastically.
“Ms. DeSantis?”
Yup, I’ve learned the hard way that it’s best to use my maiden name. The name Blake seems to inspire looks of total disgust once the person interviewing me places where they’ve heard it. Of course, they all assume I was an accomplice at worst. Or, at the very least, fully aware of what my husband was up to. Never mind I was cleared by two government agencies. I don’t even want to entertain the notion of what would’ve happened if I didn’t have the money for a decent lawyer.
“Yes?”
“We need you to come in tomorrow. A job listing has come up that you qualify for.”
Saved by the bell.
“The position requires you to live on the property.”
Sitting across the lady from the employment agency, Mrs. Marsh, I wait patiently for her to continue. She takes the pen from behind her ear, pokes it through her teased up, gray bob, and scratches an itch on the side of her head. My eyes follow the dandruff that sprinkles down onto the shoulder of her black blazer.
“Is that going to be a problem? It pays extremely well––don’t think about it too long. ”
I stare at her blankly, waiting for the bomb to drop, any bomb. This employment opportunity seems too good to be true, and after what my handsome and loving husband has done, I’m a born-again skeptic. Everything seems too good to be true.
“Where’s the property?”
Truth: I have $48.77 sitting in my checking account. If the property is in the Sudan, I’ll be on the first flight out.
“Alpine, New Jersey.”
“Alpine is only a ten minute drive from where I’m currently living.”
“If you can’t reside on the property, they won’t even consider you. And quite frankly, Ms. DeSantis, we haven’t been able to find any employer that’s willing to overlook the trouble that your notoriety will bring. Nobody wants the headache.” She finishes with a shrug, her expression tight in a manner that makes her look constipated.
“I don’t understand why they’re willing to consider me then?”
“The job is listed under child care and education. You’re the only one on my roster qualified.”
This is the lucky break I desperately need. Children are my passion.
“They know who I am––right?” The first job in months with any real promise and I’m trying to talk her out of it. Someone needs to punch me in the face. Mrs. Marsh raises an over-plucked, penciled-in eyebrow.
“Not yet,” she says, guilt drawn into the firm purse of her thin lips. And the burgeoning hope I was nurturing only a minute ago withers away in an instant. “They’ll find out eventually. When they run a credit check. I’m hoping by then you’ll have made a good impression. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers.” The last few words she mutters under her breath, though I catch them all the same.
“Meaning?”
She sighs heavily before answering. “I hear through the grapevine they haven’t been able to keep anyone for very long. I won’t sugar coat this for you, the client is a difficult man to work for. Thus, the salary.”
Ah yes, here it comes.
“You have to sign a nondisclosure agreement, abide by a tight set of rules, and take a full physical exam.”
“Why?” I ask with what I am sure is a horrified look on my face.
“Make sure you’re not carrying any contagious diseases.”
“I guess that explains the difficult part.” By nature, I’m an extremely easygoing person; my anger threshold is incredibly high. And I tend to be nonconfrontational. Which means I will apologize to diffuse a situation whether I’m at fault or not. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no pushover. But my desire for peace always upstages my desire to win any silly argument. The thing is, events over the last three years have tested the integrity of my patience and left it significantly weakened. If this guy is into public displays of humiliation, this is not going to work.