Reluctant Cuckold

  Reluctant Cuckold

  David McManus

  Seattle, WA

  Published by Fanny Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information, visit www.fannypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  Reluctant Cuckold

  Copyright © 2012 by David McManus

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-502-4 (Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-503-1 (eBook)

  Produced in the United States of America

  CHAPTER ONE

  “There’s this rumor going around at work.”

  That’s what my wife said.

  That’s how it all began.

  It was the halting way she said it that jarred me to attention.

  Until then, it had been just an ordinary Tuesday night, talking casually over cocktails, about nothing in particular. I swiveled my chair away from the Yankees’ game on the bar TV and watched her sip her gin and tonic before saying, “So what’s the rumor, Ashley?”

  “It’s nothing, really. But you know what a rumor mill it is where I work.”

  “I guess I didn’t realize.”

  “Well yes, and the guys can be even worse.”

  I let her expound before asking, “So what is it this time? The rumor, I mean?”

  “Well, you know the party we were at the other weekend?”

  “The one at your friend’s from work? In the Village?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure, what about it?”

  “Well there’s a rumor that Jim Murta and I hooked up there.”

  “What?” I asked, miffed and incredulous.

  “I know. It really pissed me off, and it is so high-school-ish. So, Craig didn’t say anything to you?”

  “Craig?” I replied. “No, I haven’t talked to him, why?”

  “Nothing. I just figured he’d probably said something to you.”

  “I haven’t talked to him since I hung out with him that night. Who started the rumor? Was it Jim?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure it out. There’s this one notorious gossipmonger Ellen who was there, and I could see her starting the whole stupid thing.”

  “So the rumor is that you and Jim Murta supposedly hooked up, meaning what? Hooked up, how?”

  “You know, hooked up like we kissed or fooled around or something. I don’t know. Ellen’s the jealous, bitchy type. She probably has a thing for Jim, saw us talking for a minute, and goes off telling stories, y’know.”

  “Yeah sure, so you were talking to him? You were talking to Jim at the party?”

  “Yeah I talked to him, but I talked to a lot of people that night.”

  “Of course; it’s a party,” I replied, “but I can discuss it with Craig if you want.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I was thinking, maybe I can help get to the bottom of it. Perhaps he knows who started it.”

  “No that’s OK, I don’t want to make too much of it. It’s more annoying than anything else. I just wanted to tell you.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, “’cause it’s not a problem to call him.”

  “No don’t, I’m fine, it’s no big deal. I can handle it, but I just wanted to let you know and appreciate you listening.”

  “Sure, Ashley, anytime, I’m glad you told me. And if this nonsense continues or any other, please let me know, OK?”

  “I will, but no one takes it seriously. Some new rumor will replace it next week, I’m sure.”

  With that, she put her hand on my knee, asked what was going on in the Yankees’ game, and suggested we get another drink.

  I told her that the Yankees would move into first with a win and she asked me if the pitcher was about to be pulled, and at some point it struck me, that her sudden interest in a baseball game was unusual.

  ****

  As Ashley fell asleep beside me, I started thinking about what she’d said.

  I knew Jim Murta, but only in a “hey, what’s up” kind of way. I’d met him maybe a half dozen times at a few of Ashley’s work parties and happy hours. He was just some junior salesman. I don’t remember Ashley ever mentioning his name.

  I wondered who the hell was spreading this rumor about my wife. And what exactly was meant by “hooked up.” Had someone seen them talking a little too intimately? Or misread a hug as a kiss? Or was someone maliciously trying to smear my wife?

  I had been with Ashley at that party.

  Granted she’d been off talking to her friends, as I’d been with mine. We weren’t keeping tabs on each other, but that’s just how we are. Although the party had been ten days ago, it was still relatively fresh in my memory.

  I began replaying that night in my head, starting from when we’d left our apartment.

  I remembered the mild contention in our conversation during the cab ride down.

  “But suppose there are Red Sox fans there tonight?” she was asking.

  “So what if there are?” I replied. “Look, I know wearing a baseball cap can be frat boy college-y, and no, I’m not trying to look ten years younger. But the Yankees won big today and it’ll be a conversation starter at the party. It’s not like I’ll know many people.”

  “You will too know people.”

  “They’re your work friends,” I said. “C’mon, I’ve met them, what, a handful of times.”

  “Well, Craig’s your friend. He’ll be there.”

  “Yeah, Ashley, I know that, and I’m psyched to see him.”

  “And, you know Tamara.”

  “Oh sure,” I said, “Like she’s going be chewing my ear off. C’mon, please.”

  “Please what?”

  “You and I both know that Tamara could give two craps about anything I have to say. Which is fine. She doesn’t have to like me.”

  “She likes you, Dave. You just need to engage her in things that interest her.”

  “Sure,” I said, “I’ll talk foreign films or pastel drawings. Or whatever boyfriend of the week she’s dating.”

  “OK, fine,” Ashley said, “don’t bother getting to know her.”

  “Look, I’m just saying, she sees me as some corporate finance guy. In her mind, she’s too cool for me. I told her once I liked some Coldplay song and she rolled her eyes like that made me a dork.”

  “I think you’re just overly sensitive,” Ashley said. “Tamara likes you and she doesn’t think you’re a dork, but wearing that Yankee cap tonight—”

  “Fine,” I said, taking it off, “put it in your purse. I won’t wear it, okay?”

  “Good.”

  “Happy, now?” I said, smiling. “I put on jeans, changed my shirt and now you’ve stripped me of beloved Yankee cap.”

  “So much better,” Ashley said. “Now we just tousle your hair a little, and there, you’re good to go. Trust me.”

  “OK,” I said, “I trust your fashion sense. I just thought this party was ultra casual. Didn’t you say there’d be a keg?”

  “Yeah, the party’s casual, but it’s also Saturday night in Manhattan.”

  ****

  Two girls who lived there—work friends of Ashley’s—gave us the tour when we arrived.

  Walking into their sunken living room, I saw the circular staircase and realized it was a duplex.<
br />
  Then I saw all the people already outside on the terrace.

  “This place is huge,” I whispered to Ashley as I put the beer I’d brought in the fridge. “Your two friends are only a couple years out of college, right?”

  “Yeah, they lucked out” she said. “It sure beats the closet studio I had after I graduated.”

  “They can’t be making much more than entry level salaries. How do they freaking afford this place?”

  “Well, it is big, but it’s kind of run-down. This kitchen is like out of the ’70s, and these walls are crying out for some serious Benjamin Moore.”

  “I hear you, but the rent’s got to be—”

  “Well, they have a third roommate who’s away, and they also have rich fathers.”

  “OK, got it,” I said.

  I didn’t proceed further. Ashley could say that about me. I made good money, but if not for my father, we wouldn’t have been able to afford our apartment.

  ****

  Ashley got a big welcome when we walked outside.

  We had just returned from a week-long vacation at my parents’ condo, and her friends were complimenting her on her dark tan.

  I knew about half of the people there—work friends of Ashley’s I’d met before.

  It was a young crowd. Not the kind of party the higher-ups would be invited to. Ashley had recently been promoted to marketing director, but these were Ashley’s peeps—her peers, her friends.

  I made the rounds, saying hello as she said, “You remember my husband, David.”

  Everyone was friendly enough.

  After I gave one of her friends a hug, I stepped back and said, “I love the Yankee cap you’re wearing. Nice hat, isn’t it Ashley?”

  “It looks good on her,” she replied, giving me a playful punch in my side.

  ****

  I remembered moving toward the railing and running into Tamara.

  She was looking her usual gorgeous self, with her long blond layered hair and large breasts practically bursting out of her dress.

  Ashley was finishing up another conversation, and Tamara asked me about our vacation.

  “Yeah,” I said, “it was great, very relaxing.”

  “So I hear you had a Baywatch moment.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “Ashley told you. We were swimming in the ocean when we saw this fin surface about thirty feet away. Suddenly, the theme from Jaws was playing in my head.”

  Tamara smiled and asked, “Did you channel your inner David Hasselhoff?”

  “I can’t really say that. It was more like I channeled my get-us-both-to-shore-and-pronto instinct. Ashley thought it was a porpoise, but I wasn’t taking any chances. But yeah, that’s what it turned out to be.”

  “I’m surprised Ashley didn’t want to go and play with it.”

  “Oh she did,” I said, laughing. “She was bummed when it didn’t return.”

  “You were on the Gulf side, right?”

  “Yeah, we were in Naples. Ever been?”

  “Naples, Italy, yes. Naples, Florida, no.”

  “Naples, Italy,” I said. “We were there on our honeymoon.”

  “I know.”

  “So Ashley showed me some of your photography the other night, and I have to say I really liked—”

  But now Ashley had finished her conversation and turned to Tamara. “What’s up, Miss BFF, did you miss me this week?”

  “You know it, girl. Lunch just wasn’t the same without you.”

  ****

  I turned to look at the view of lower Manhattan and saw a few young salesmen who work with Ashley standing nearby.

  Jim Murta had been one of them—the guy in Ashley’s rumor.

  I asked if any of them had seen the Yankees’ game, and that got the conversation rolling. Then it turned to area restaurants. Having been to virtually every one they mentioned, I offered my opinion, making sure not to dominate the conversation.

  Even though these guys were only probably five years younger, I felt like the seasoned adult, the guy who had been around the block a lot more.

  I knew their type. We have them where I work. Guys who use swagger as a way of compensating for experience. I didn’t begrudge them that. I was established in my career. These guys were still just trying to get noticed

  A few of them began speculating if a hot summer intern was going to show with her friends. When I heard the girl was nineteen, I said, “I like pretty young interns as much as the next guy, but remember there’s an alcohol issue.”

  When I heard the boos start, I smiled and said, “I’m just saying.”

  “So, Dave,” one of them said, “you’re like Mr. Hedge Fund Guy, right?”

  “Yeah,” I deadpanned, “I’m Mr. Hedge Fund Guy, Brian.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, “but I was watching a documentary on Bernie Madoff, and what exactly is a split strike conversion? It sounded cool.”

  “It’s basically a collar,” I replied, then realized I was quickly boring them with details.

  “Anyway,” I said, “it limits loss but also profits. The SEC should have known his returns were phantom. At the time, he gave honest, legitimate hedge funds a black eye.”

  They had asked for stock tips—a question I hated.

  Suddenly Ashley came up and said, “Are you talking shop? Are you all sufficiently bored now?”

  “I was just explaining,” I said, “I’m no Nostradamus. Taking my advice would be like listening to some old timer on what horse is gonna win the Belmont.”

  “Yeah,” Ashley said, “go with the old-timer on the ponies.”

  I appreciated the conversational rescue.

  At the keg we met up with my friend Craig. He and I were friends from college. I’d referred him to Ashley when she told me they were looking for higher-level IT people.

  He was a big Yankees’ fan as well. And when we started in on the thrashing they had just given the Red Sox, Ashley said that was her cue.

  I didn’t mind. It was how we were at parties like this. We’d mingle together, and once in a conversational groove, we’d do our own thing, which I liked about our relationship.

  A few of Craig’s IT guys joined us, and soon we’d formed a group by a corner railing, talking sports as the sun set behind us. They all reported to Craig, so he and I were doing more of the talking, like we were holding court. As the scene became more crowded, I saw Ashley go inside with Tamara. I was perfectly content with the little nook we had, and liked the ambience as the terrace lights turned on.

  ****

  I remembered going in to piss.

  Ashley was sitting on the kitchen counter talking to Tamara, while another girl pointed me to the bathroom. It struck me when I went in, that Ashley was right about the place. Yeah, it was large, but also older, a little ratty. The bathroom needed renovation as well.

  When I returned to the terrace, Craig had introduced me to two British guys who had just arrived, friends of one of his IT boys. We debated American football versus soccer, but in a joking kind of way. One of the Brits was passing around a bottle of Yaegermeister, and I took a swig.

  One of the girls who lived there came by and asked us if we were having a good time. She was not amused when I said, “I love your terrace. You should really think about getting a couple basketball hoops installed on both ends. If someone throws an air ball, oh well, it just falls eleven stories to the sidewalk below.”

  The indoor part of the party had moved to the second floor when I walked in to take another piss. After waiting a while, I wound up knocking on the bathroom door and shaking the lock. Tamara’s voice from inside said, “Dave?”

  “Tamara?”

  “Dave, there’s another bathroom upstairs. Use that one.”

  I was just psyched to learn of a free bathroom. I liked their spiral staircase. And the upstairs bathroom was considerably nicer.

  I heard a lot of talk and laughter from the bedrooms down the hall when I came out. I figured Ashley had mig
rated up there because it sounded like a girls-from-her-job scene.