Dishonor Thy Wife Read online

  DISHONOR THY WIFE

  By

  Belinda Austin

  Cover Design by Cover Couture (www.bookcovercouture.com)

  Photo Copyright: Conrado / Shutterstock

  Copyright © 2016 Belinda Austin

  All rights reserved

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  August 27, 2015 || Part One: The Game || 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

  August 27, 2015 || Part Two: What Happened in Philly || Chapter 26 || Chapter 27 || Chapter 28 || Chapter 29 || Chapter 30

  August 27, 2015 || Part Three: Promises Broken || Chapter 31 || Chapter 32 || Chapter 33 || Chapter 34 || Chapter 35 || Chapter 36 || Chapter 37 || Chapter 38 || Chapter 39 || Chapter 40 || Chapter 41

  July 23, 2015 || Part Four: A Wedding in Vegas || Chapter 42 || Chapter 43

  July 31, 2015 || Part Five: Obscene Attraction || Chapter 44 || Chapter 45 || Chapter 46 || Chapter 47 || Chapter 48 || Chapter 49 || Chapter 50

  August 23, 2015 || Part Six: Promises Kept || Chapter 51 || Chapter 52 || Chapter 53 || Chapter 54 || Chapter 55 || Chapter 56

  August 27, 2015 || Part Seven: Oh, the Web We Weave || Chapter 57 || Chapter 58 || Chapter 59 || Chapter 60 || Chapter 61 || Chapter 62 || Chapter 63 || Chapter 64

  September 5, 2015 || Part 8: A Funeral in Austin || Chapter 65 || Chapter 66 || Chapter 67 || Chapter 68

  September 15, 2015 || Part 9 : The Reckoning || Chapter 69 || Chapter 70 || Chapter 71 || Chapter 72 || Chapter 73 || Chapter 74 || Chapter 75 || Chapter 76 || Chapter 77 || Chapter 78 || Chapter 79 || Chapter 80 || Chapter 81 || Chapter 82 || Chapter 83 || Chapter 84 || Belinda Austin's Memoirs & Other Books

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  August 27, 2015

  I AM NOT THE MANIAC WHO FILMED A HOME VIDEO STARRING HIMSELF KNIFING A WOMAN TO DEATH. I do know the victim, which makes my incarceration even stickier. Her picture hangs on the wall of my bedroom and get this; she is wearing a wedding gown. I am a heartbreaker, not a killer, a deceiver, not a liar. Yeah, there is a difference.

  Handcuffs blister my wrists. The cops will be here any moment to torture me into a confession. Officer Big Boobs will smother me with her chest. She calls me her psycho lockup and flirts. How sick is that?

  Some men laugh when they are nervous; I recite music lyrics. The group Pulp has a raw edge that grates my soul. “You’re the body hidden in my trunk. You’re the last drink I never should have drunk. You are the cut that makes me hide my face. You are my secrets on the front page every week.”

  According to the Bible, I am an adulterer—my alibi is another man’s wife. The Book of Exodus quotes that the sins of the father are visited upon the son. Well, my father, whoever he is, should have kept his pants zipped up—like father, like son! Exodus, right—I should have fled across the border to Canada earlier but wanted to protect her.

  Running away was cowardly, abandoning her unconscionable, and there are enough sins on my plate.

  Do not trust anyone—above all her, my sweet alibi! If she ever finds out how many lies I have told…no, make those untruths, a kinder, gentler word.

  My trouble started at a bar in Philadelphia and one too many drinks of AMF.

  Hell, my snake pit really began on the day I was born.

  Sh! There are footsteps outside the interrogation room.

  * * *

  Part One: The Game

  May 23rd; Austin, Texas 13 Weeks Earlier

  Chapter 1

  Glaring from the screen of my ebook-reader was the cover of a book downloaded at Kennedy airport—How to Be a Good Husband for Dummies Whose Wives Are Clueless about What Kind of Shits They Are Married to or just how Far the Cheats Will Go to Get what They Want. I must have been smashed while waiting for the plane to Austin to agree to a scheme so distasteful, illegal, immoral, so…

  I yanked out a prescription pad with the name Dr. Brad O’Boyle, and scribbled with a shaky hand.

  Note: Call in the morning and tell him I want to back out. The scam is too risky. We will be caught!

  Note: Call in the morning and tell him I want to back out. The scam is too risky. We will be caught!

  Crap! He would call me a weak pussy for changing my mind. He might laugh in my face as he did when he first proposed the conspiracy at the medical conference in Philly. He talked me into treachery by drowning me with liquor and his words “we should be best friends. Long time no see!”

  My nerves rattled so much I could not remember the wife’s name. Think! Think, you moron! Jackie Daniels? Ginny Beam? Cherry Brandy? Sherry Wine?

  Well here goes, one foot in front of the other, only about 20 steps from the car to the door. Empty miniatures rattled in my suit pockets. Wheeling a suitcase helped my mobility, like pushing a wheelchair.

  Damn keys would not open the frickin’ garage door! Maybe this last key, the one shaped like a guitar could open a hole like a rock star.

  The light sensor of the laundry room blasted my eyes like a Star Wars lightsaber. I hummed two verses of the Darth Vader Imperial Death March. “Dum dum dum, dum dee dum…what what is the wife’s name?”

  Oh, God, why did I consent in Philly to such a wicked scheme? I grabbed a paper sack near the sink and breathed into the bag to avoid passing out from hyperventilation. A picture of a bridal couple leered in the harsh light of the den. That mousy brunette in the picture was my wife, but at least she was temporary. Like mother, like daughter, her mom had been a stripper. In the wedding photo, she appeared the opposite of her mother, more like a nun dressed in a simple wedding gown of bone-colored satin with jet-black hair pulled back from her pinched face. She resembled a Mormon wife from a polygamist compound or one of Charlie Manson’s girls with eyes wide open like a zombie.

  I sang some drunken notes to the Rolling Stones song, Sympathy for the Devil.

  Speak of the devil; she shuffled into the den. “You’re home,” she said in a flat voice.

  How very observant of you, my dear. One would think you had a brain. I was too chicken to voice my sarcasm. I guzzled the rest of my martini, choking on onions, olives, and maybe toothpicks. Quick, I flipped through mail on the kitchen counter and glared at the name Ronni O’Boyle stamped across a department store bill. Right, Ronni was a short, masculine name for Veronica, a shopaholic who sucked a man’s credit cards dry. The woman was a ball buster, born on the wrong side of the tracks. She dropped out of high school at 17 and recently earned her GED. She was now attending college to become a dental assistant. Whoop-de-do! Trailer-trash Ronni won the lottery when she married a doctor.

  Well here goes, now it begins, a devious plan concocted in Philly. “You look nice, Ronni.” Wow! My voice had gone up as if she clenched my balls because the wife looked unbelievably sexy. In soft light, she appeared almost pretty with her hair mussed. One strap of her t-shirt drooped over her shoulder.

  Okay, down boy! Quit picturing how she would look with pointy nipples tingling with excitement, and legs spread wide, hips humping. I cursed the desire welling inside my dark soul. I must not sleep with her—ever! That was our agreement. “Ronni?” I said in a eunuch voice.

  “Well, who were you expec
ting, Brad? Fool!”

  Next to the wedding picture was a photo of a child, supposedly my daughter. The oldest trick in the book was to trap a man with pregnancy.

  “No one calls me a fool and gets away with it!”

  She ran towards the stairs.

  My legs were longer and I grabbed her arm, laughing at her kicking and missing.

  I spun her around, trapping her with my arms. Our bodies touched everywhere and I held her even tighter. “You smell of jasmine,” I moaned, lowering her to the stairs and raining kisses across her neck. Her wiggling aroused me beyond belief. I throbbed, pounding with such pressure; all I could think of was easing my pain in Ronni. My blood rushed to that one spot where my need was desperate. At this moment, the act was worth any price. Guilt could come later. I closed my eyes, and muttered, “God, I promise to say ten Hail Marys later even though I’m not Catholic.”

  I shoved her hand on my pants, rubbing her palm against me. “Please, I need you, Ronni. Feel how much I want you. I need you so much, Ronni. Please, stroke me, pet me. Yeah, that’s it. More!”

  She quit struggling and groaned.

  I removed my hand and she continued rubbing. Squeezing. Pulling. Caressing.

  My breath came in deep gasps. “Unzip me,” I panted and tugged at the zipper of her pants, my fingers clumsily poking her.

  “Ouch, get off me you oaf!”

  She slapped my cheek hard, sobering me, making me remember who we were and that bed was out of the question between us. “Again, Brad? You’re raping me again?”

  I stood, straightening my pants and feeling rather sheepish about the rape thing. I plunked down on a step to conceal my throbbing arousal, looking like a petulant child. Any moment now, I might have a temper tantrum—Ronni really should give out to her husband. She was a tramp, just as her mother had been.

  “I wish you stayed in Philadelphia permanently, Brad, or the plane crashed,” she snapped.

  I never struck a woman in my life and clenched my hands into fists, resisting the urge to punch her. It took a minute for my pants to deflate. I then stumbled up the stairs, banging my ankle against the last step.

  At the end of the hallway was a view of a woman’s room, decorated with flowers and all that female crap, the sanctity of the wife’s four-poster bed.

  Ronni narrowed her eyes and hissed. “You know you can’t sleep in here, Brad! Drop dead, sucker.” She slammed her bedroom door, shaking the rafters.

  I made a jerking off motion at the closed door. “Far be it from me to invade the sanctity of your bedroom!” It was the liquor else, I would never have attempted sex with Ronni. Nor would I be having a conversation with a door and flipping off the wood. One more drop of liquor and I would try to have sex with the door.

  I dropped to my knees poking my eye at the keyhole.

  She peeled off her pants, revealing long sexy legs and muscles bulging from still wearing heels. Ah, she was wearing black boyshorts, a woman confident enough with her own femininity to wear a girly take on snug, tiny boxer shorts. Mm, instead of a bulge the panties showed her slit.

  She yanked off her blouse revealing a pink lacy bra.

  Oops, my knees creaked and my breathing had gone sex heavy. Damn, she quit undressing!

  A soaking wet washrag flew across the bedroom, connecting with the doorknob and splashing my eye, startling me so much, I fell on my ass.

  I staggered down the hallway trying to find my room. Have to honor our agreement of no sex with the wife. Must honor our agreement.

  I yanked off my tie but then the sports decor of the other master bedroom, engulfed me with warmth. I hugged each of the trophies of soccer, basketball, football, and even baseball, rubbing my cheek on the cold statues. The trophies went all the way back to Little League and up to high school.

  This room was the coolest man cave. Star Wars paraphernalia and posters of playboy bunnies surrounded the room.

  I lay on the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Bedspread Edition bare-chested, rubbing my nipples. Desire still heated my blood, and I drilled against the sheets, imagining rubbing inside the wife even though I pushed against Miss January’s luscious, wide-open, cherry-red lips. Yeah, baby, right there where my body throbs with need. Faster. Yeah, move, virgin. “Oh,” I groaned.

  Ronni’s bedroom door opened and footsteps padded down the hallway, and then pounded down the stairs.

  I threw the covers over my head, wondering if the wife heard me acting like a horny teenage boy. Maybe my moans turned her on and she would come to my room. Please. Please. Please.

  The refrigerator door closed, followed by the garbage disposal grinding up my dick.

  What in all that is unholy came over me to attempt to seduce Ronni? At a bar in Philadelphia, I had drunkenly stared at her wallet photo, wishing I never made a deal with…I was no husband, more like an unwanted guest.

  Misgivings once more churned my stomach, making my stomach growl with nervous hunger. The kitchen was off limits because Ronni was in her dungeon mixing poisons or doing whatever it is wives do when they plunge their hands into the garbage disposal. The only food in the bedroom was a bag of stale airline peanuts, the salt causing an unbearable thirst in my wine-dried mouth.

  There was a bathroom off the bedroom and I shoved my head under the faucet. The mirror reflected water running down my chin. How pathetic to be holding a dirty tissue smudged with semen from having screwed the bedspread. In this light, I appeared ominous—no wonder Ronni acted afraid. Damn Philadelphia, I never should have gone along with the plan! I punched the mirror; shattering the glass and making my reflection appear jagged.

  You deserve to have your face cracked, fool!

  With a shard of mirror, I sliced my neck, just a scratch, to remind me to leave Ronni alone. I can get through these weeks if Ronni keeps her distance, yet my hands shook as I dried them on a towel with the initials BO. An egotist puts his initials on his towels. Once more, I loathed myself for what I plotted for the next weeks.

  I lay beneath the covers shivering, dreading going into the office in the morning and pretending that nothing was different and that I had not changed since Philadelphia.

  I pulled at my face, feeling the imaginary cracks I had seen in the shattered mirror.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs and Ronni’s bedroom door closed.

  There. She turned in her sleep.

  I closed my eyes, imagining Ronni wearing a pink airy thong sliding up the crack of her butt.

  Okay, get some sleep. Quit walking in quicksand.

  What the fu…? A jarring noise screeched from a radio on the night table followed by a voice blaring, “The National Weather Service in Austin has issued a tornado warning for Travis County, Williamson County, and Hays County. There are multiple tornados headed your way! Blow away butthead!”

  Goddamn it was dark like the devil’s assholes—Ohmigosh, I passed out wearing a Darth Vader helmet!

  I ripped the helmet from my sweaty head and felt a stirring in the center of my universe—ah, the force awakened. I slammed the off button of the weather alarm radio, groaning about that part of my body. I had done stupid things in my life, but this fiasco was the most idiotic venture.

  The National Weather Service in Austin issued a tornado up my rear, twirling my insides, causing stress burps, and a ball tightening right below the ribcage.

  For a short time, I could bluff my way into being a good husband. After a couple of weeks, I would be rid of Ronni for good and never have to see her accusing eyes again.

  What a roaring start, nearly raping the wife, idiot!

  It was only two in the morning, still time for a good night’s sleep to help me face the patients in the morning.

  I dreamt of chasing my shadow, which was completely detached with a mind and personality all its own. My shadow laughed wickedly as it ran through a dreary ally punching women, kicking the homeless, and breaking a few necks.

  I finally caught up with my shadow, and we jogged on a Philly street alo
ngside a garbage truck littered with stinking corpses.

  We ran up the steps of the Museum of Art and bounced, punching each other. (Have you ever done shadow punching and lost?) My shadow raised its fist in triumph like Sylvester Stallone in the film Rocky.

  The music to the Rocky movie played in the background as my shadow and I both swung by our necks beneath a tree in Philadelphia, across from the south facade of Independence Hall.

  Odd, no bystanders had cheered our jogging like in the movie, but everyone cheered our hanging. The pigeons were dead in the park.

  The weather alarm radio went off again, waking me from the nightmare.

  Thank God for tornados!

  Chapter 2

  WIFE

  Even the cat was relaxed while Brad was in Philadelphia. Brad named our daughter’s beige and white tabby cat Pussy, thinking it a great joke.

  While Brad was gone, Pussy meditated, sitting in a yoga pose on Brad’s recliner with her eyes closed, legs wide open, whiskers droopy, and tongue hanging out. Pussy crossed her paws in Buddha fashion, her claws retracted.

  I was relaxed enough to meditate with Pussy. There was no Brad yelling, “Ronni, my home looks like a donkey lives here!” Well, Brad, you live here and you are an ass.

  “What’s all this straw on the floor? And cat hair, too! I am going to drown Pussy if you do not keep this house cleaner! My house, Ronni! This is my house! Pussy, quit coughing up hairballs! I am gonna get me a pit bull to clean up your box while you’re using it!”

  Meow!

  Brad dropped his suitcase in the den and Pussy flung her body against the wall, falling to the floor, unconscious.

  Brad must have had fun at the medical conference. His eyes were bloodshot as if he barely survived a weeklong party with nurses jumping from cakes.