Quick Fix: Book 1 (Suddenly Satisfied)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Works by Ashley Suzanne
Sneak Peek at Embody by S.E. Hall
Quick Fix by Ashley Suzanne
© 2017, Ashley Suzanne Books
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 any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.
Cover Design – Laura Hidlago
Editing – Tiffany Tillman of Beyond DEF
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Works by Ashley Suzanne
Sneak Peek at Embody by S.E. Hall
Dedication
For my sisters … the baby ones … there’s such a difference between us … and a million miles. When one door closes, another opens … and I’m not talking literal doors, assholes … I’m talking dicks (or not dicks if you’re not into that kinda thing). There’s more than one dick (again, or not) in the sea! NEVER SETTLE!!! You’re too pretty for that!
And for my Goddaughter. I may not have known you since you were born, but I promise, on my life, to always take care of you. And part of this Godmotherly duty includes me telling you to LOCK THAT SHIZ DOWN!!! While the above applies to you as well, you’re gonna have to take a chance someday, and I think the day has come. He’s good for you, Lou.
And the biggest shout out to my baby brother and huge congrats to the future Mrs. Campbell. Officially, welcome to the crazy train. I couldn’t be happier you’re going to be my new sister!! Drunken sister shenanigans coming up!!!
Chapter 1
Miranda
It’s been months since I’ve seen him—a lonely few months—and now here he is. The long, mahogany table is the only thing between us … and our attorneys, of course. Three sets of original documents pass back and forth between all parties … sign where the sticky arrow points to your name … Decree of Divorce … Equitable Division of Assets … Irreconcilable Differences.
“’Til death do us part,” we both promised the day we became man and wife, and I’m sure he would have held up his end of the bargain but with a few added clauses. Like the part about forsaking all others. That was valid until the first affair. Honor and obey only took precedent on my part, never his. One can only be a good wife if she has a good husband, which I obviously did not, or we wouldn’t be sitting here today, me looking at him as if he were the last person in the world I’d want to be with and vice versa.
Since I’ve already read everything twice—as well as my lawyer—I don’t waste any time placing the pen to the paper, signing all three copies. Ten years of marriage dissolved as soon as the ink dries. Lucky for me, I’ve spent the last couple weeks crying my eyes out awaiting this day; I’m fairly sure my tear ducts are broken, so no tears from me today. If anything, the impartial look on his face infuriates me. I mean, the asshole had the audacity to ask his attorney to require I change my last name as part of the divorce.
No, sir. Not happening. I spent a over a decade—additional time served while we were dating—working my ass off, earning the Hathaway name, no way in hell I’m giving it back without a fight. He wants to remarry, that’s fine, but she’s going to be the second Mrs. Hathaway.
“Is that everything?” I ask without emotion, masking my pain.
“I do believe so. Your attorney will receive your copy as soon as it’s signed by the judge. The arbitrator will file one with the county. Effective immediately, Mr. Hathaway should schedule to have the last of his belongings removed from the property now owned by Ms. Hathaway. Also, per the decree, Mr. Hathaway has twenty-four hours to surrender the keys and title to the Mercedes and prepare a wire transfer of half the liquid assets to Ms. Hathaway’s bank account noted on file.” The poor secretary looks as if she’s done this a time or two, actually getting everything out in just a few breaths without making eye contact with either Ben or me.
“Wonderful. I’ll let my attorney know if Benjamin is late on any of the demands so we can seek further damages,” I say over my shoulder as I slip into my gray pea-coat and push my auburn hair to one side, making sure Ben notices me staring at him.
Cheating husbands, I tell ya, are the dumbest bunch around. I’m sure he thought after the first time I caught him, he’d get a free pass to whip his dick out anytime he saw a pretty, young thing bat an eye in his general direction. Little did he know, behind the tears and depression he caused, I became more jaded, untrusting. Every single indiscretion was saved as evidence to ensure when I finally decided to leave him—having had enough—I’d get just about everything.
Now, when he starts over with Katie, or Mandie, Tasha, Amie, Angie—whatever her name is this week—he starts from scratch. No house. No money. No fancy car. Just his job, debt, and an alimony payment out the ass. Let’s see how many of those tarts are willing to be with him when he’s nothing like he was when we first started dating. Vindictive, sure, but what else do you expect? For me to sit back and watch him live happily ever after while I’m pulling together the pieces of my life—the one I built? Nope.
“I’ll see you out, Ms. Hathaway,” the secretary says softly. I genuinely smile at her but decline the offer. It’s much more gratifying to walk out of here on my own, just how I walked in.
Putting a little extra swing in my hips, I sashay down the long, marble-tiled hall, purposefully letting my expensive heels—the ones I bought this morning with his credit card—click loudly the entire way to the elevator, which is magically open and waiting for me. The moment the doors close, my bravado slips, and my shoulders sag as I let out the breath I’d been holding, my tears threatening to spill.
I’m sure the cuntmuffin is waiting downstairs for him, ready to jet off for some elaborate getaway to celebrate his divorce. I’m also sure she’s not older than twenty-five with perky tits, a matching ass, and a peppy little attitude to accompany her perfect life. I don’t know this one—not that she’s different from the rest—but I hate her.
I hate she’s going to get her hands on what I spent nearly half my life—my entire adult life—building for Ben. She wasn’t there to push him through school, make sure he applied for all the right jobs and accept only what would drive him forward. Had it not been for me, Ben would still be a substitute teacher, not the renowned professor he is today.
Brick by brick, I built that man. Too bad for me those bricks were mine. He’s the tall, beautiful building while I’m the one scheduled for demolition. It won’t take him long to recover from this setback. After all, he is a Hathaway. One call to mommy and daddy and he’ll be set back up just as pretty as he was when we were together. I’m sure his parents will help him get a new place, but the overly conservative pair won’t be financing any Caribbean adventures for him and … not his
wife.
Only this time—and this is where I get a little too excited—he wouldn’t have earned it. Our entire life, we earned. He didn’t want a handout from his excessively wealthy parents, nor did I, so we worked our asses off. That’s why I’m able to not feel guilty he’s going to have to take back his word to make it on his own … because he did, and he failed. I didn’t. I deserve all of it. I stayed true and honored my word and my vows.
As I make my way through the parking garage, I can’t stop laughing to myself. Caught up in my own grief, I totally spaced a moment ago—there won’t be any getaways for the next ex-Mrs. Hathaway. Or a house to redecorate to her specific tastes. There won’t be anything at all because it’s mine.
“Oh, Benjamin, you poor little thing,” I giggle to myself. I’m sure I look like a crazy mess to anyone watching the surveillance in the secured area, but I really couldn’t care less. He gets the slut and I get … me.
When I get in the car, I hit the ignition button and the engine fires to life. Using my Bluetooth, I dial Nikki, my best friend.
“Are you okay?” she answers.
“I will be,” I respond honestly. I can joke to myself all day long, but at the end of the day, my marriage ended with a few signatures. Years came down to drying ink on a slip of paper to file with the county. If that’s not sad, I don’t know what is.
“You’re damn right you will be. You’re Miranda fucking Hathaway, the sexiest woman in the world. And you have the hottest best friend, too. You can’t go wrong Mi-Mi.”
“I love you. Have I told you that lately?”
“Every single day,” she coos. “What are you doing now?”
“Figured I’d go home, watch a movie or something.”
“Negative. You’ll come straight to my place. We have plans.”
“Since when?”
“Since now!” Nikki squeals. “Dinner. Me and you. It’s a date. Got it?”
“Yeah.” I sigh, knowing there’s no way I’m getting out of this. She’ll just show up at my house and drag me out, regardless of my appearance. Might as well go with my pride intact. “I’ll be there. Give me an hour. Traffic’s gonna be a bitch.”
“Okay. Love you. Drive safely, single lady.”
The call disconnects and I turn on the radio. Scrolling through my phone to put on my “Woe is Me” playlist, Ben saunters into the parking garage with his phone glued to his ear and a smug smile on his face. I switch gears on my musical selection and choose my current favorite song, “Runaway” by Kanye West. Trust me, I hate Kanye, but the words to the song are perfect. Too perfect, actually.
Rolling my window down a little, I crank the volume and fast forward to the chorus as I pull out of my parking spot. As I pass by Ben, he glances my way and nods his head. I kindly tell him “fuck you” with my finger, singing loud and proud. I toast the douchebags, the assholes, the jerkoffs, the scumbags … every one of them!
He had a good girl but was addicted to the hoodrats. It happens, I suppose. To the weak-and-insignificant-in-the-grand-scheme-of-things people. Anyone with any sort of intelligence or respect for themselves would never do what he did to me. He’s pathetic. The more I think about it, the luckier I feel. Sure, my eyes hurt from the crying, but I don’t have to crawl into bed tonight with a man who smells like another woman. Those days are long fucking gone.
His smile fades and mine surfaces. “Have a nice life, asshat. Make sure to transfer my money within twenty-four hours. If it’s a second late, you’re fucked,” I holler as I make the last turn, then he’s out of my sight.
Deciding I like this music better than the Adele I had planned, I stick with the “My Husband’s a Cheating Bitch” mix, belting out angry songs, one after the next.
Kanye blends to Alanis. “You Oughta Know” changes to “’Tis a Pity She Was a Whore.” Bowie to Chris Brown. On and on, the playlist continues. Before I know it, I’m pulling into Nikki’s driveway. I do, however, wait until “Deuces” comes to an end and my voice is hoarse. Nikki better have booze; I should start with a little whiskey and honey to soothe my vocal chords because I have a feeling I’m not done singing tonight. There’s more in me and I’m getting it out, dammit.
Chapter 2
Miranda
“Hey, Nik,” I sputter, choking down the third shot she’s shoved in my face since I walked through the door less than ten minutes ago.
“Yes, babe. Need more?”
“No. Well, yes, I’m empty, but wasn’t there a promise of dinner? I thought you were going to feed me.”
“Oh, sweet girl, we’re drinking dinner tonight. Now,” she pours more vodka in my shot glass and nudges it back toward me, “bottoms up, babe. Gonna need ya drunk if I’m gonna play dress up.”
“Dress up? Was this part of the deal, too? Wine me, dine me, dress me?”
“Tonight, you’re my inner vixen. John’s out of town … again … and since I’m still a married woman, I can’t slut it up outside my bedroom. You, however, can. So you will. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But, really, is there going to be food? Tacos? Maybe nachos?”
“Sure. It’s your night. You can have whatever you want. It’s not every day a girl loses two hundred pounds of dead weight.” Nikki thrusts her shot toward the sky, swallows the liquid and flips the shot glass over on the table, while toasting my night, “To Mi-Mi and her sexy self wearing what I pick out for her because she loves me most.”
How can I say no to that?
We wander into Nikki’s closet, me with a nice buzz—Nikki’s plan working perfectly—I’m ready to play dress up. First thing I should note is it’s extremely tidy in here … John’s suits perfectly line the right side, and her expensive dresses and Stepford attire the left. Surveying the area, I have no idea what she plans on putting me in—nothing’ll work for a night out on the town. Everything screams “two grand a plate fundraiser” or “lunch with the girls at The Ivy.”
“Don’t worry your precious little heart. I have a secret. Swear you’ll never tell anyone,” she demands with a blush and, of course, I nod. She’s my best friend. I know more about her than anyone else … things that would have John running for the hills, or at least would call into question his judgment. Never once have any of her secrets slipped past my lips, nor will they ever.
“Cross my heart,” I respond, and a devilish twinkle in her eyes has me wondering if I’ve made the wrong decision all these years.
“Good. Come with me,” she whispers, digging around and shoving aside hangers. Kind of like Narnia, she opens a small door behind a row of designer cocktail dresses, and beyond a row of shoes which cost more than my mortgage, I see her holy grail.
“Well, holy fuck, Nikki,” I gasp as the row of tract lighting illuminates the secret compartment that is apparently Nikki’s inner slut. I’m shocked shitless but not surprised in the least, if that makes sense.
Keep in mind, I’ve known Nikki since forever. Our college party days were filled with her bad ideas and my throwing caution to the wind. Between Nikki and me, she takes the cake for being the wild one, but after she and John married, she tamed down … a lot. I guess I assumed John was the prude to Nikki’s kink. Apparently not, noting all the … equipment … that would be for him. I will never, ever again, judge a book by his cover. John might be the true freak here judging by the ball gags and man-sized leather suits with matching mask.
“It’s pretty fucking awesome, isn’t it?” she brags, and I can’t pick my jaw up off the floor.
“It’s something, alright. What even … Where … Since how long … The fuck, Nik?” I simply cannot form a complete, coherent sentence.
“John has a thing for dress up, so I keep an array of handy-dandy-fucking-me-standing outfits on standby. Only thing … I don’t get to wear them in public. For his eyes only, or some shit.”
“You know there’s no fucking way possible I’m going to walk out, into the world, wearing your sex clothes, right? Like, not a single chance.”
“Even if I dressed up with you?”
“And if John finds out?” I question, giving her a side-eyed glare. My marriage ended because of dishonesty and infidelity; I’ll be damned if I’m encouraging my best friend to partake in the kind of behavior that could do the same to her family.
“Lucky for us, John adores you. I’ve promised to take a driver to and from the club and allow a security something-or-other to follow us around … discretely, of course. In exchange, I get to pick an outfit so you’re not alone!” Nikki’s excitement is obvious, and I’m still not sure this is a good idea. Again, knowing my best friend and how relentless she is, especially when it involves getting to do something typically prohibited, there’s no way out of this, so I propose an addendum to her plan.
“Fine. I’ll let you pick one for me, but I’m picking yours.”
“Deal. Search away, Princess. I already know what I’m putting you in, and you’re going to look killer.”
I sigh and start scanning through rows and rows of skimpy outfits, heels with spikes all over them, and then there’s that leather mask I ignore in order to not look at my kinky friend or her husband any differently. Or rather, her upstanding, deep-rooted-member-of-the-community, doctor husband. Somethings, however, you cannot unsee. Like the row of different shaped, sized and colored dildos.
“Ding, ding, ding,” Nikki cheers, pulling a handful of hangers off the rack. “I’ve found it,” she singsongs. “I knew it was around here somewhere.”
“As have I.” I only grab one dress for her. Black, tight, but fairly modest considering all the other stuff in this dungeon of depravity. I swear, if Christian Grey pops out asking me to get on a St. Andrew’s Cross, I’m hightailing it out of here and going with my original plan of Netflix and ice cream.
“Good choice, grasshopper,” she praises. “That’s one of my favorites, anyway. Yours, however, is going to be out of your comfort zone, but you have to wear it.”
“Fine. Show me this masterpiece you’ve selected in my honor.” Please don’t be the mask. Please don’t be the mask.