So Wrong It’s Right
A Boston Love Story
Julie Johnson
JOHNSON INK, Inc.
Copyright © 2018 Julie Johnson
All Rights Reserved.
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No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.
Cover design by: ONE CLICK COVERS
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Contents
Prologue
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
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About the Author
Also by Julie Johnson
Next up…
NOT YOU IT’S ME
For the perfectionists.
“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Prologue
ZEN AF
* * *
I generally think of myself as an even-tempered person.
Calm.
Composed.
Collected.
Cool under pressure.
Hell, I teach yoga, for god’s sake. And if ever there was an occasion to not be cool, it’s when you’re in a 105 degree Bikram studio with your whole body weight resting on your elbows and your legs bent backwards over your head in an inverted sayanasana pose.
Talk about getting bent out of shape for no reason…
Sorry.
What was I saying?
Oh, right.
Me.
Sedate, serene, steady-as-she-goes Shelby Hunt. The quiet woman who lives on the quiet corner of the quiet tree-lined street in the quiet Boston neighborhood. The very picture of suburban bliss, with her two-hundred-dollar haircut, a walk-in-closet full of designer clothes, a new car in the driveway every year, and a handsome, successful husband in her bed every night.
It’s such a pretty lie, even I almost believe it.
Almost.
The truth is, there’s nothing remotely perfect about my life, or than man I’ve spent the past decade sharing it with. And there’s certainly nothing even slightly quiet about the past few days, given the sheer hell that’s broken loose…
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Before I fill you in on the series of unfortunate events that have, for all intents and purposes, flipped my whole world on its axis, I need you to understand something. I’m not some swooning damsel who faints at the first sign of danger and waits for a man to swoop in and save her. I am no delicate flower, wilting in the heat as soon as things don’t go my way. It takes a lot to get me worked up; to ruffle the glossy feathers I take such painstaking effort to present to the outside world.
I mean…
I meditate. I garden. I own not one but two aromatherapy candles. (Granted, I only burn them once a year since they smell a bit like patchouli and make my eyes sting… But that’s not the point.)
What is my point, you ask?
Simply this: that I, Shelby Hunt, have never been the kind of woman who screams or throws tantrums when life doesn’t go her way — which, despite what an outsider might think looking in on my seemingly perfect life, is more often than not.
I take things as they come and don’t complain, because, in my experience, complaining rarely accomplishes much of anything. Why bitch over life’s many unfortunate twists and turns when, instead, you could take all that useless angst and channel it into something productive? Like, say, the ability to breathe deeply through a head-to-foot sirsa padasana pose, even after your pelvis has lost proper circulation from contorting into a veritable pretzel?
See — I’m totally chill.
Cool as a cucumber.
No.
Cooler than a cucumber.
Placid as a pickle. Even-keeled as an eggplant. Untroubled as a… a…
Curse the lack of produce beginning with the letter U.
Whatever. Fruits and veggies aside, my point remains.
I am zen. Zen as fuck. It’s not easy to rattle me.
And yet, I must admit…
Today, I am rattled.
I am not calm.
I am not collected.
I am not cool.
Honestly, though… can you blame me?
I am, after all, currently locked in the trunk of a car with my hands bound together by zip tie and my mouth covered in duct tape, being taken god only knows where by god only knows who, for god only knows what purpose. (Call me crazy, but I have a hunch it doesn’t have to do with my rather impressive yoga skills or my impeccable home decor taste or my unparalleled fashion sense.)
The car jolts to a stop.
Trying not to pee my favorite pair of Lululemons, I hear a door open and attempt to draw from that bottomless sense of calm that’s gotten me through some rather sticky situations in the past. Like that summer afternoon I blew out a tire on the highway in my two-seater convertible and nearly bit the dust beneath the carriage of an eighteen-wheeler. (Thank god for airbags.) Or the day of my wedding when a flock of pigeons shat all over my ten-thousand dollar white dress as I walked from the limo to the chapel. (Looking back, that was definitely an omen from the universe I shouldn’t have ignored.) Or Christmas morning, when Paul hurled my favorite Tiffany-style lamp against the wall six inches from my head in a blind rage. (See what I mean about ignoring that bad marriage omen?)
All those times, I managed to make it through without much more than the faintest uptick in my resting BPM. And yet, as I listen to the crunch of boots on gravel approaching the trunk, I feel my heart thundering like a battering ram, hard enough it could splinter my ribs and tear itself right out of my chest.
My deep breathing techniques have officially fled.
My chakras are decidedly unbalanced.
I am full-on, no holds barred freaking the fuck out.
It’s almost ironic. I mean…
Who would’ve ever in a million years thought I’d wind up here?
Sedate, serene, steady-as-she-goes Shelby Hunt.
Putting the om in OMG, I’ve been kidnapped.
Chapter One
NAMASTE (in bed)
One week earlier…
* * *
“Namaste.”
Releasing a long breath, I open my eyes and watch as fifteen intermediate-to-advanced yogis bow back at me. With murmured thanks, they begin rolling up their mats and heading for the exits. I wave when I spot a few regulars in the group, mixed in with a healthy number of new faces. My class has grown more and more popular, these past few months. I’ll have to start turning people away if Aimee, the studio owner, doesn’t give me another time slot. Plus, I can’t lie — it would be nice to have something else to occupy my pathetically under-scheduled Saturdays.
A girl can only spend
so many hours binge-watching Netflix alone before her brain starts to atrophy… along with certain other sorely-neglected body parts south of the waistline…
I don’t bother looking for my friends in the crowd. They’re not exactly what you’d call athletic — unless running through the mall in pursuit of a shoe sale counts as cardio. (I’m looking at you, Phoebe.) Besides, they’ve all been so busy for the past few months, I’m lucky if I even get to see them at our occasional girl’s nights. Without margarita pitchers and gossip to entice them, there’s approximately a zero percent chance of getting them to show up at one of my sunrise fitness sessions.
Maybe if I start serving bottomless mimosas after class…
I sigh deeply.
It’s not that I don’t understand why my besties have been MIA as of late. Our twenties have been a whirlwind of job changes and life shifts, new relationships and apartment moves, lavish weddings and squirming babies. Plus, unlike some of us, my friends actually enjoy spending time at home. (It probably helps that they have men who worship the ground they walk on — albeit, in fabulous footwear — waiting when they step through their front doors.)
What a novel concept: actually wanting to spend time at home…
“Thanks for a great class, everyone!” I call as my students filter out the front exit into the parking lot. “Hope to see you next week!”
When the door finally swings shut behind the last girl, I glance around the empty studio. It’s a familiar mess — foam blocks and free weights scattered haphazardly across the hardwood. I flip on the stereo and hum along to the refrains of an ‘80s love ballad as I stack the equipment in the racks on the left side of the room. My mind makes a slow loop through my daily to-do list.
Stop by the Farmers Market.
Long run along the Charles River.
Cook a new that new butternut squash soup I’ve been meaning to try.
Eat a bowl alone while watching a rerun of Chopped I’ve already seen twice before falling into my empty king-sized bed, pretending not to notice the crushing sound of silence in my empty house.
And repeat.
I’m stacking the last of the free weights when I catch a glimpse of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror dominating the far wall of the studio. Bare feet, high ponytail, pink sports bra, black leggings. My posture is tense despite the past two hours of deep breathing exercises. My bow-shaped mouth is set in a frown. My light brown eyes appear flat and empty. God, I barely recognize my own reflection.
When did I become this unhappy stranger staring back at me?
Maybe around the time I served my husband Paul divorce papers six months ago. Or maybe further back, when he stopped coming home for dinner, or sleeping in our bed, or spending any time with me whatsoever. Then again, if I’m being totally honest with myself… maybe it happened long before then. So far back, I’m almost afraid to look, for fear of what I’ll find. Because the stark naked truth of the matter is…
Maybe I’ve never been happy with him.
Not ever.
Not one year, not one day, not one hour.
Not one single second of this marriage.
I’m so caught up in my own thoughts, I barely register the sound of the studio door swinging open until I catch a blur of movement in the mirror on my right. Spinning around, my mouth starts running on auto-pilot before they’ve even cleared the threshold.
“Sorry, you’ve just missed our morning session. The next class is core aerobics with Aimee, but it doesn’t start until noon…”
I trail off, sucking in a sharp gulp of air as I get a good look at the men who’ve just stepped inside. My tongue feels suddenly made of lead, unable to form words as my eyes scan them from head to toe. Which, frankly, takes quite a while because holy shit these men are enormous. Well over six feet tall with brawny builds to match, I’d guess they’re somewhere between thirty and forty but it’s hard to tell with their hair buzzed so short and their faces set in such scary expressions. Their massive muscles strain the seams of their matching black suits as they stride toward me, gun holsters clearly visible beneath their jackets.
Call me crazy, but I don’t think they’re here for core aerobics.
“Uh, hi there,” I say, striving for a calm tone as I take in their intimidating expressions. “If you’re looking for the law firm, it’s actually in the building just around the corner… sometimes the GPS mixes up the addresses and people get confused…”
There’s no answer. No sound at all except for four black shoes rapping like gunshots across the hardwood floor as the men come to a stop in the middle of the room. Well, that and the steady thumping of my own heartbeat between my ears, growing louder as the giants level me with those icy, thousand-yard stares.
I fight the urge to backpedal, abruptly aware of the fact that I am alone here in this soundproofed studio, wearing nothing but a hot pink sports bra and a pair of ultra-thin leggings, with two very large men who, it must be said, are the scariest dudes I’ve ever seen in my life.
Chill, Shelby, I chastise myself, squaring my shoulders with a confidence I don’t feel. You don’t even know what they want.
“Can I help you with something?” I force myself to ask, glancing from one giant to the next, my eyebrows arched in speculation. They must be brothers. They’re so similar looking, I can’t tell them apart.
“We’re looking for someone,” Righty says in a flat, faintly accented voice that sounds vaguely Slavic.
“Shelby Hunt,” Lefty jumps in, narrowing his eyes on me. “Wife of Paul Hunt. Ring a bell?”
My mouth goes dry. Out of nowhere, I feel like a fifteen-year-old girl again, caught in the act of breaking curfew. “Um…”
Two sets of dark eyes burn into mine, searingly cold, and I try not to shiver.
Lie, an inner voice whispers out of nowhere, irrationally afraid to admit my identity to two men who make the gargantuan casino bouncers I encountered in Las Vegas a few years back seem chill in comparison. Lie your perfectly-toned ass off.
“Well?” Lefty prompts impatiently. “You Shelby?”
“Sorry — afraid not.” I swallow hard. “Shelby called me this morning and said she wasn’t feeling well. Asked me to step in and cover her class.”
They don’t react, so I keep going.
“I mean, yoga isn’t really my specialty — I’m more of a barre gal, myself — but she covered for me this summer when I had a seriously intense case of food poisoning and couldn’t lift my head from the toilet bowl, let alone lead a class of bored housewives through rigorous choreography, so I figured I owed her one.”
The men glance at each other dubiously.
Are they buying this bullshit?
“Uh. So. What is it you want from her?” I ask, dragging their attention back to me. “I’d be happy to pass along a message from you…”
For a long, suspended moment they both just stare at me. I worry they’ve seen straight through my little white lies — okay, so they aren’t all that little, sue me — until Righty finally opens his thin-lipped mouth and grunts.
“Tell her we’re looking for her husband.”
“And that we’ll be back,” Lefty adds, still eyeing me suspiciously.
Hoping my face hasn’t gone pale, I give a small nod.
The men turn in tandem and head for the exit. It’s not until the door swings shut behind them, leaving me alone in the small, silent studio, that I realize my hand is curled tight around a five-pound free weight, every knuckle pale with tension.
I blow out a long, shuddering breath.
Namaste, indeed.
You’re probably wondering why I’m not exactly shocked by the sudden appearance of two armed gunman looking for my ex-husband. Err… soon-to-be ex-husband. Once the jerk agrees to sign the damn divorce papers I served him, that is.
The answer to your question — and, perhaps not so coincidentally, the answer to every other question concerning strange encounters with scary dudes in bad suits that have cropped up over t
he course of my life — is just another four-letter word.
Paul.
When I met him, I was an eighteen-year-old graphic design student at a small liberal arts college just outside the city, instantly infatuated with the TA of her mandatory Economics 101 class. Well-mannered and well-dressed, Paul was a few years older — and a few lightyears more confident — than any of the unrequited crushes I’d set my teenage sights on back in high school.
So, imagine my surprise when he made a point to talk to me after class one day. When he requested to meet privately to discuss my end-of-semester project. When he laughed at my jokes and smiled like I was the most adorable thing he’d ever set eyes on. When he asked me out on a real, actual date with real, actual candlelight and a real, actual kiss at my dormitory door when the night came to an end.
Me.
The awkward freshman, still attempting to shed her last layer of baby fat, whose love life until that point was about as passion-filled as a documentary on three-toed sloths. I was, in so many ways, just a girl. I didn’t know how to dress properly or highlight my hair to flatter my skin-tone or apply eye makeup that didn’t resemble a music video from the early ‘90s. (Hello, turquoise eyeshadow.) I didn’t understand what falling for a man like Paul would mean for my future.
And yet… I didn’t stand a snow cone’s chance in hell at resisting him.
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