“Assuming I can find my runaway bride, that is,” I answer sarcastically.
“It's not like a woman to leave you high and dry in the morning, Asher. You must be losing your touch. What did she do, sneak out while you were asleep?” he asks, laughter still in his voice.
I wince before I answer him. “Not quite…” I state, thinking back over my actions and looking at them with a new context. “I woke her up, fucked her, and then kicked her out.”
He stops laughing and frowns.
“Wow, you might actually be safer with Dawn at this point. I can’t imagine you’ll be her favorite person.”
“She might not even remember it,” I point out. It was clear we had both been drinking because why else would either of us marry a fucking stranger? “I need to find her.”
“She could be in a relationship, Asher,” he warns me, and for some reason, it makes my blood boil.
“Well, husband trumps boyfriend, so he can back the fuck off,” I snap out.
Graham holds his hands up in capitulation. “I’m just saying. Anyway, you have to find her first.”
“She was at the hotel for the meeting. She got locked out just like I did, so someone must know her,” I remind him.
“What was her name again?” he asks, so I look down at the paper in front of me, feeling like an ass for not knowing my own wife's name, and find what I’m looking for.
“Linda Carter,” I reel off, but his face is devoid of recognition.
“I knew everyone in that room and only a handful were women. I can tell you now, none of them were named Linda. Let me pull up the list of attendees.” He scrolls through his phone as I gaze out the window, trying to wrap my head around this bizarre change of events.
“Nope, there is no Linda on the guest list. Let me ask around the office tomorrow. Someone might know who she is.” He stands to leave, pulling the door open before turning to look at me. “Just prepare yourself. You did a shitty thing. It won't be as easy to charm her a second time.”
I nod and watch him go, thinking about his words. Maybe she did know we were married, but then why didn't she say anything, I wonder? Then again, I can’t imagine how humiliating it must have been to get kicked out of your husband's suite the morning after your wedding night.
It doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is finding her and convincing her to do me this favor. She walked out without mentioning us being married at all. If she had, I could have sought an annulment. The way I see it, she owes me.
I submerge myself in work, keeping my brain as occupied as I can despite the snippets flashing through my mind of that night and the morning that followed. When my phone rings, I answer it without looking at the screen first.
“You’re fucked.” I hear Graham's voice before I even get a word out.
“You know who she is?” I question excitedly, climbing to my feet and pacing the room.
“Yup. Linda Carter was my secretary,” he informs me, making me frown.
“I thought you said she wasn’t on the list.”
“That’s because she wasn’t. She was down as Laura.” He coughs, sounding uncomfortable.
“Laura?” The name sets off a red flag.
“Yeah, Laura. The secretary I fired for spilling coffee all over us the day we signed the contracts.”
The secretary who had looked at me with humiliation stamped all over her face, but I was so mad I was going to be late, I’d just glared at her.
“Fuck,” I grunt out. “I didn’t know it was her,” I tell him even though I’m sure he has figured that out already.
I remember the look on her face again—humiliation, pain, and embarrassment.
A memory of the morning after our night together flashes through my head.
Condom wrappers, a torn thong, a snot green gumball ring.
She knew I was her husband, and I looked through her like she didn’t exist.
God fucking dammit.
Eight
Linda
I lie on the padded bench singing along quietly to my rather eclectic playlist as my friend Tig finishes off my latest tattoo—a series of hummingbirds in flight across my shoulder, growing smaller as they fade into the distance up my neck.
A nudge at my arm has me pulling my earbud out and facing Tig, who is frowning at me.
“What's wrong?” I glance at my shoulder before he laughs.
“With the ink, nothing, with your music choices, a lot.”
I grimace in apology. “I didn’t realize it was so loud.”
“It wasn’t that loud but you went from Moana to Afroman’s crazy rap without blinking an eye. And you sang every word to both songs without missing a beat.”
When I don't say anything, he just laughs and shakes his head at me.
“It's not my fault people mistake me for normal, Tig, I mean, look at me. Do I look normal to you?” I indicate my body when he signals for me to sit up.
Today I’m wearing a faded gray Guns N’ Roses tank top with ripped black skinny jeans and black flip-flops from the dollar store. My hair is twisted up into a messy topknot. It still has splatters of paint in it from last night because I was running so late, I had no time to wash it.
I have an array of tattoos up my arms, all as colorful as my hair, depicting things from my favorite animal—the peacock—to flowers and stars. Everything is bright and eye-catching, making me a walking, talking piece of art, and Tig’s work is so good it truly is art.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. There isn’t a goddamn thing wrong with you, Linda. Fuck what anyone else says,” he states emphatically.
I smile as I hand him the cash before slipping my flip-flops back on.
“Such a sweetheart,” I tease, making him grumble as I grab my bag and keys from the table beside the bench.
“I have to hurry as I’m pulling a double shift tonight. Tell Delia I said hey,” I say, before sliding my sunglasses up my nose and making my way out into the warm midday sun.
The air feels charged tonight. I don't know what it is, but my skin ripples with anticipation.
I slam the door to my locker shut and walk over to the mirror to put the finishing touches to my outfit. Not that there is much of it—tiny little denim shorts, more like panties, really, over fishnet stockings that disappear into my black, knee-high biker style shit-kicker boots. Up top, I have the long-sleeved T-shirt with Daddy’s Lil Monster emblazoned across my breasts, made iconic by the movie.
My hair is styled in pigtails, one on each side of my head, and my lips are painted a scarlet red. I use my eyeliner to draw a little black heart on my cheekbone and grab the Louisville slugger from beside me before heading out to the bar.
There's a full moon tonight, and for whatever reason, it tends to bring out the crazies. Thankfully, Jack and Dennis are on the door and they seem to have a sixth sense about troublemakers, stopping most before they gain entry.
I prop the bat up out of the way behind the bar and slide a piece of bubble gum into my mouth for bubble blowing later—all part of the Harley Quinn act.
“Hey, Linda, thanks for helping out tonight. Debbie is still out sick with the flu and Kyle called in with a stomach bug. I swear it's always something around here.”