Dirty Exes (Liars, Inc. Book 1)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  He was.

  And then, just like that?

  My arms were empty again, because of my husband’s betrayal, even when I was willing to take in an innocent child—who wouldn’t?

  I wiped at my cheeks and tried to fan up the rage, the anger, because sadness had never once helped heal my heart. If anything, acknowledging it just made the pain worse.

  I growled low in my throat as I stomped over to the counter, found a glass to pour wine into, and imagined that I wasn’t alone, that someone was asking me how my day was.

  Jason used to be so interested in my day. He’d sit me down and ask about every pertinent detail. It was another mark in his favor, I thought. He actually cared about my days and oftentimes knew my schedule better than I did. I found out the hard way it was for another reason entirely.

  Lucky him. I forgot my keys.

  It started like this.

  I caught him cheating.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  It was loud.

  Ugly.

  My keys fell out of my hand the minute I noticed her purse, which looked like it had been dropped hastily by the door. Funny the things you notice when your life is about to explode in your face. The purse was three seasons old. Purple. Coach. She texted me the day she got it for half price.

  I heard laughter at first.

  The kind of laughter that comes from your belly. I frowned at her purse again and set my keys on the counter, then carefully kicked off my shoes so I wouldn’t make any noise and took the stairs one at a time, noticing a few scattered articles of clothing, including his favorite sweater. The one I bought him for his birthday last year. It was black and I always thought it made him look handsome. A pair of well-worn jeans blocked my way, like he was in a hurry to get upstairs and dropped everything he was doing.

  I followed the laughter.

  Which quickly turned into moans.

  My heart caught in my throat as I slowly pushed the bedroom door open to see her on her hands and knees, my husband thrusting inside her from behind while he slapped her ass like he actually had sexual prowess.

  There was an insane amount of beer bottles littered around the Tempur-Pedic bed I’d paid a fortune for—Jason had a bad back and I was trying to be an understanding wife.

  Spoiler alert: men with bad backs shouldn’t bend at that angle.

  The alarming part of the entire situation wasn’t that my husband actually knew more sex positions than missionary—no, the alarming part was that he was practicing them with my best friend.

  In our bed.

  In our home.

  She had welcomed me into her life when I was forced to move to LA because of Jason’s job.

  She made me chocolate chip cookies the day we moved in.

  Then two months later she gave him her cookie.

  And by the sound of his moans, he was really digging her special brand of chocolate chip. He didn’t even notice me at first. And when he did, it wasn’t with sadness or regret, he just seemed angry that he got interrupted. It stung that there weren’t any denials on his lips, it sucked even more that she didn’t look ashamed either. I was the odd one out.

  I don’t remember stumbling out of the house, I don’t remember walking down the street—I later discovered I put on her shoes instead of mine. At least she took them off before my husband invited her in and screwed her senseless, right?

  I may have burned the shoes after getting drunk, then cursed her and her perfect yoga body. The memory was fuzzy from all the alcohol, tears, and chanting at the bonfire.

  Thankfully I didn’t burn the house down, because rain started pounding against my skin, mixing with the tears as they slid down my cheeks.

  The burning sensation in the back of my throat.

  The stabbing insecurity that I hadn’t been enough—even for someone “normal” like Jason. Normal meaning he wasn’t a celebrity. He worked in an office, he was supposed to be safe.

  Jason had been my safety net for so long I felt like I was drowning without him, like our life together had been a complete and total lie, like I’d been cheerfully looking through rose-colored glasses throughout my entire marriage without realizing that he’d had a different prescription.

  First I hadn’t been enough for the one who got away.

  And then I wasn’t enough for even Jason, the guy who I was supposed to settle down with, have kids with, build a life with!

  Jason.

  Missionary-position Jason.

  I was the problem.

  Me.

  I thought I must be defective, and there was something intrinsically wrong with my DNA, my makeup, because at the end of the day, the only person choosing me . . . was me. Had always been me.

  I ran in those stupid Nikes all the way to the wine bar. Wine would solve everything. At least momentarily.

  Bottles decorated the chic black shelves. I grabbed the first two my blurry eyes locked on. In hindsight I’d realize that I’d grabbed two Syrahs, wines you didn’t exactly chug, not that a person should ever chug wine. I quickly plopped down at a table and held up the simple one-page menu with shaking hands.

  I was way past the stage where I cared what people thought. They were lucky my mascara was still intact and I wasn’t trying to maim every male who looked in my direction. I sniffed back more tears as my gaze fell to the couple next to me holding hands. Sharing a damn cheese plate.

  I loved cheese.

  And date nights.

  Though my fuzzy brain couldn’t conjure up the last time I’d had one.

  All around me, there was happiness, laughter. People clinking glasses while I sat in the corner, miserable and alone.

  A waiter with sandy brown hair, black glasses, and an easy smile approached.

  I unintentionally glared at him. Maybe it was because I had no happiness left to give, or maybe I’d just forgotten how to fake it after years of doing exactly that. I shook my head very slowly. If I talked, I’d cry. If I cried, I wouldn’t stop.

  He took one look at me and dropped the corkscrew on my table. The guy paled and backed away like I was going to use the opener as a shank. Take that, Jason, right in the nut sack! I felt my face stretch into a smile, and then my mind flashed to the past hour.

  His ass.

  Her ass.

  His groans of excitement.

  Her perfect boobs smacking together in a cadence that matched his lazy thrusts.

  My boobs would never smack together that way without surgical enhancement, and even then there wasn’t a man alive who had ever made me feel that . . . good.

  Liar, my brain told me.

  I told my brain to shut the hell up as a vision of a tall, dark-haired man with muscles on every inch of his body came to mind.

  “You slept with her!” An angry voice jolted me out of my pity party. I wiped my eyes and stared in shock as a gorgeous Asian woman who looked to be about my age stood, slammed her hands on the table in front of her, and yelled, “You. Lying. Piece. Of. Shit!”

  That. That was how I should have handled Jason. My grip on the corkscrew tightened to a painful degree.

  I should have yelled.

  I should have told him he broke my heart.

  Broke me.

  I should have thrown things.

  Why had I been so calm before running away?

  “I saw the texts!” The confrontation was like watching a live version of one of those Housewives reality shows. I leaned in, suddenly pulled into a drama that wasn’t about me or my failed marriage.

  “Baby.” The unlucky bastard exhaled and glanced around like he was embarrassed, maybe he should have thought of that before it was too late, hmm? Something about him was vaguely familiar. “Let’s not do this here.”

  She started taking off her earrings.

  Pulled her hair back into a ponytail. “Get up!”

  He snorted. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Get. Up.”

  Slowly, he stood. There was not one wrinkle in those pants, a
nd he wore a perfectly ironed crisp white button-down shirt, and if I was a betting woman I’d say his teeth were about as bleached as the shirt was.

  “Isla—”

  She punched him in the gut before he could utter another word.

  I gasped.

  He doubled over.

  I looked around.

  And wondered why people weren’t standing?

  Cheering?

  Holding up signs of encouragement?

  I was tempted to nod my head, make a toast to my sister from another mister, and maybe burn my bra.

  She followed the punch with a solid toss of her wineglass at his perfectly white shirt. I winced as it spread like a bloodstain.

  He stumbled away, pulling at his chest like she was the devil for ruining a stitch of clothing on his body.

  The woman locked eyes with me.

  And it was like she knew. I nodded at her.

  “Should have kicked him in the balls too,” I said with a watery smile and tear-filled voice.

  She snorted out a shaky laugh and then shook her head. “I don’t want anywhere near that guy’s balls. He was sleeping with my sister.”

  I instantly felt a kinship with her. My best friend had felt like a sister. And betrayed me when I needed her most. It was strange, like the universe was trying to tell us something.

  We talked for two hours.

  Went through four bottles of wine.

  And the rest is history.

  That was a year ago.

  And that’s how Dirty Exes was born.

  Two raw, beaten-down hearts recognized each other in a wine bar and decided to say “screw you” to the guys who thought they had the right to make us feel insecure about ourselves.

  If we could manage it we made sure that cheaters were caught with their pants down—literally or figuratively—live on Facebook. We humiliated them, just like they humiliated our clients. Ever since catching our first cheater—a drummer from a popular rock band who slept with a different groupie in every tour city while his pregnant wife stayed at home—we’d been unstoppable, even going as far as having to turn clients away because of our schedule.

  We’d never been wrong about any of the cases. Ever.

  Chapter Two

  BLAIRE

  I yawned for the tenth time that morning, my desk was in chaos, and I needed a sugar fix to get through the first few hours of work. I pulled a piece of licorice from the tub and eyed my computer wearily. I’d gotten home at midnight, and by the time I showered off the grime from my night in the sewer it was almost one.

  I would have gone to sleep if the TV hadn’t been on—and if I hadn’t been completely distracted by the man’s face on its screen.

  Jessie Beckett.

  I’d finally fallen asleep around two and barely made it to work on time. I fired up my computer and thought of him.

  I gulped as my face heated, and then turned my attention to our Facebook group. Focus on work, not the hot ex-NFL player who chose his job over you when he got traded.

  Jessie was . . . everything I’d ever wanted.

  And then he said those words.

  “I’ve been traded.”

  I waited for him to ask me to go with him.

  Those beats of silence stretched on forever until he cleared his throat and then pulled me into his arms and said, “I’ll miss you.”

  That was it.

  I’ll miss you.

  Not I can’t live without you.

  Or Let’s stay in touch.

  Insecurity slammed into me from all sides, because what did I have to offer a man who had everything? Who had women throwing themselves at him at every turn? I saw the looks he received, I knew how famous he was even as a rookie. I couldn’t believe that he was with me, that he’d chosen me, that we’d actually gone on more than one date . . . especially since I spilled wine on him on our first one. I told him things about my life that only my brother knew. He listened and reciprocated. It felt like we were building something epic together, moving toward this lifelong goal I’d always had to be in a loving relationship. Jessie checked off every box except the ones that mattered most: he didn’t like me as much as I liked him, and he wasn’t falling in love with me. I was the psychopath looking at wedding magazines as if we had a future.

  I wanted him to at least give us a chance. When he didn’t, I lost a part of myself.

  And sometimes, I blamed Jessie for my own choices, because after he left me I ran right into Safe Jason’s arms.

  “Whoa.” The Facebook group finally pulled up, jolting me out of my misery. A smile spread across my face as the page refreshed. “We’re up to half a million views, Penny, can you believe it? Pretty soon we’re going to have over a million members in our group!”

  “Stop talking to the cat. It’s weird.” Abby, our secretary, swept into the room. She had long glossy brown hair, and her perfectly rounded nails were tipped with white. She was holding the same chipped brown coffee cup she always did. On the outside she seemed so perfect, so my eyes always went to the chip. The one imperfect thing in the picture. It made me forget all about her long legs, black pencil skirt, and flowy green top. Yup, just focus on the chip in the coffee cup so you don’t think about the giant chip in your heart every single time she gets a phone call from one of her kids or her equally perfect husband.

  “Blaire?” Abby moved to stand in front of me. “You okay?”

  “Fine. Perfect,” I chirped. “Fantastic.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You look tired.”

  I was thirty-five, divorced, and my eggs were dying. I always looked tired, especially after losing sleep dreaming of my ex. I was tired the way she was perfect. So basically, I was the chip in her coffee cup.

  Why did we hire her again?

  The phone rang, and she rushed over to her desk.

  Ah yes, that was the reason. My phone etiquette. When we’d first started the company, my answering the phone led to shouting matches with the guys who wanted to sue us for exposing them.

  Since I’d never yelled at Jason or had any closure regarding the end of our relationship, I may have projected my very strong feelings too many times over the phone. And that was bad for business—it was one thing to have a rant group for cheated victims that was private, but quite another to yell at the guilty until they threatened to shut us down.

  Apparently, yelling at people was frowned upon in society. Who knew?

  I exhaled while Abby talked about our services in the background, her voice just as damn bubbly as the rest of her, and checked the group again. With that many hits, Ashtray was gonna have a hard time walking down the street without someone recognizing him for his cheating ways.

  “How many hits?” Isla stole a piece of licorice.

  “Gah!” I jerked away from the computer. “You know I hate it when you read over my shoulder. When did you get here anyway?”

  Isla just winked, gave our rescue calico a pat on the head, and stole another piece of candy. “Nicely done, B. You’ve got some great angles of his rageaholic face.”

  “Team effort.” I hid my yawn behind my hand while Isla went over to the Keurig and made two cups of coffee, both for her. Sometimes I wondered if the woman consumed anything other than caffeine, ibuprofen, and sugar.

  Our office was small, but just like us, it packed a punch. Decorated in vibrant colors and chic furniture, it looked sketchy on the outside thanks to the bail bonds company and liquor store next door, but on the inside, it was full of class.

  “What’s our lineup for new client submissions?” Isla placed her mugs on her desk and leaned against it while Abby made her way to her laptop and started clicking away with those perfect nails of hers. For some reason the tap, tap, tap made me want to pull my hair out. I didn’t run well on no sleep.

  And I hadn’t slept well in a year.

  Maybe that was my problem, lack of sleep.

  Lack of sleep that had nothing to do with the fact that I slept alone.

  I
slumped, I didn’t even have a cat.

  I eyed Penny.

  She growled then jumped off my desk.

  Maybe a goldfish?

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I nearly snapped my pencil in half. This couldn’t be healthy—this insane amount of anger and aggression. I closed my eyes and repeated my mantra in my head.

  I can control only myself. Not the others around me.

  Take it out on the cheaters.

  Make them pay.

  Focus.

  “Hmm.” Abby let out a sigh. “Looks like we have a nanny-loving cheater, and a cheater who likes to dress up in . . . okay, I’m just going to skip over that one.” Abby’s cheeks fired red, and I fought the urge to laugh at her embarrassment. She liked to live in a protective bubble labeled Loving Family: two kids, five goldfish, a parakeet, and a husband who knows how to iron.

  Lucky whore.

  “Oh!” Her face lit up. “We have a socialite who wants to find out if her husband is staying true, though they’ve been separated for a few months. She’s hopeful for a reconciliation if he’s not cheating, hmm.” She kept clicking. “Apparently she found incriminating text messages and a hair.”

  I sighed. It was always the text messages.

  Isla gave a thumbs-down in agreement.

  “Damn it, men, change your passcode!” I threw my hands in the air. “It’s like they want technology to screw them.”

  “True,” Isla agreed, biting her lower lip. “Remember the guy last month? Changed the other woman’s name in his phone to Pablo and didn’t know that his girlfriend’s dad’s name was also Pablo. She thought he had her dad’s number to ask permission to marry her.”

  I burst out laughing. “Do your research, man, find the will to google.”

  “You pick.” Isla pulled her black leather bomber jacket closer to her body and crossed her arms. “I picked the last one.”

  Abby looked between us, her nails hovering over the keyboard, ready to jump into action.

  I spun my chair, then caught my foot on the desk. “Right, and the last one had me crawling through a sewer so, yeah, my pick.”

  “I kissed him,” she reminded me.

  With a huff, I stood. “I still win, I pick the socialite. This should be in and out, easy, a little hack job, a little spy-games action, and a big paycheck.”