Caught in the Act Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Epilogue Two

  Copyright © 2018 by Michelle Minikin/MM Creative, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a media retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, excepting of brief quotations for use in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design and Formatting: oh so novel

  All images have been purchased

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Epilogue Two

  About the Author

  Although the author did research California custody laws, you may find mistakes. These are done at the author’s expense, and for creative purposes.

  Prologue

  Liam

  Cheating.

  The act that proves someone’s lust for you is a lie. The very thing that has people—namely the dickwads who can’t keep it in their pants—saying humans aren’t meant for monogamous relationships.

  Cheater.

  The person who can’t keep his dick in said pants, or her legs crossed. Hey, I’m an equal opportunist, although in my line, I definitely see more of the dicks-out-of-pants than legs-spread-wide-open scenarios.

  Infidelity.

  More than just a fancy name for cheating, but the full emotional sucker punch. In my experience, cheating could hurt, but infidelity…now that was the full-deal. Trust was broken. Not a single emotion spared.

  So, now you say, Liam, who broke your heart? Because for me to have this opinion, I must have been on the receiving end, right? Or, maybe you’re thinking I’m remorseful after ruining a forever-kind of relationship. Maybe I was the cheater, and I let the best damn thing of my life walk away from me.

  You’d be wrong on both accounts.

  I’m Liam Hardt, radio personality for a local hits station, but my claim to fame, the reason why my morning show is such a hit, is my twice-daily segment, Caught in the Act.

  The callers are mostly from the immediate San Diego area, but occasionally we get that straggler from the city. They want to catch their partner in the act—these guys and women calling in think they’re being cheated on—and want our help.

  My help.

  So, the cheated-on calls me, I call the alleged cheater, and offer an all-expenses paid, all-inclusive extended weekend at an up-and-coming tropical resort.

  Sounds fancy.

  Once I convince the person on the other end of the line that no, I will not be taking their credit card information and they’re only responsible for incidentals and a review of their stay, I ask a simple question: Who should we note as your guest for the honeymoon suite?

  All the cheater has to do is give the right name as their plus-one.

  The one who called in is always hoping to hear his or her name.

  Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, it’s not their name that is given.

  Some of the stories are harder to hear than others. Some of the stories, you just want to shake the original caller, telling them of course their partner is cheating; you don’t need Caught in the Act to tell you that. It’s in the story; in their words; in the tone behind their voice.

  They know.

  They know that their husbands are double-dipping.

  That their wives are riding a different cowboy.

  That their boyfriends have a few side-chicks.

  But for whatever reason, they want me to bring it to light; to broadcast it from sea to shining sea.

  Or, across the major San Diego area.

  I’ve always been able to move on from the calls, to continue with my day. Once the person is caught, because they usually are the cheating assholes they’re being accused of being, my job is to offer phone numbers to counseling services, hang up, and either play music and talk mindless bullshit until the second Caught in the Act call of my morning, or play the top ten of the hour before calling it a day; after which, I go home, walk the dog, and take a nap.

  I don’t lose sleep over this job.

  At least, I’ve never lost sleep before.

  Never has a caller—and the answering asshole—affected me the way this call did.

  And never have I been more thankful for a cheating bastard, than I was after that call.

  Chapter One

  Liam

  “When we come back, I’ll have Kensley on the line,” I announce, overenunciating the oncoming caller’s name. “I’ll let her tell you her story, but I’ve got a feeling you all will be on her side. Don’t change your dial.” I press the board, sending the station into a commercial segment. At twenty-six, and therefore a product of the digital generation, I’m a big fan of the newer, more modern boards with their integration to the connected laptop, but I can work my way around an old-school manual one if I absolutely need to.

  Once I know for certain everything is clear and good on the listeners end, I cup my headphones and drop them to my shoulders. “You got the girl yet?” I ask across the table.

  Johnson’s my righthand man. Every now and then, he’ll join me on the waves, but mostly he fields phone calls, whether they be requests, contests, inquiries to accuse a significant other of cheating, or, my personal favorite—but only because it makes my man Johnson annoyed as fuck— “date” offers.

  Johnson, first name Michael, has been with the station longer than me, but he and I bonded quickly. We’re about the same age, but he’s married and came to the radio life after taking a step back from the road, where he’d spent God knew how many years as a sound engineer for concerts.

  It was funny, that first year I was here.

  No one knew my face; no one knew who the hell I was. I started at this station, a green tw
enty-two-year-old who liked music and had a good radio voice.

  But damn, the calls started right away.

  These chicks…

  Didn’t even need a face, and they wanted my voice to lull them into blissful orgasm—because we all know that’s what the date offers are really about. The sexy voice had to be paired to a sexy man, or so they all assumed.

  So, my first award show appearance?

  Whish.

  …That was the sound of panties flying.

  Suddenly my mug was plastered all over. Billboards. Buses. I was even offered a few commercial gigs—and not the radio ones we jockeys are most known for. The ladies all fell for my squared, stubbled jaw; the thick, dark eyelashes that made my green eyes pop—or so I’ve been told; and my thick, wavy dark hair.

  On more than one occasion I’ve had offers for some…intimate…hair pulling.

  It’s not even like I keep it long; just one of those in-style high fades with a hard part, long on the top so I can either comb it over—damn, that sounds old—or style it forward, depending on my mood.

  Hell, let’s be honest here. Most of the time I have a ball cap on.

  After my face was broadcast around the San Diego metro area, the calls only got worse, to the point that Johnson threatened to have someone else screen the calls before they even got into the sound room.

  “Yeah, I’ve got her,” Johnson says, glancing up over the computer screens and in my direction. “Sending her over.”

  He lowers his eyes again and I pull my headphones back on, flipping over to the off-air line. “Hey, is this Kensley?”

  There’s a pause, longer than I normally have. I glance back up toward Johnson, a question on my face. Is she there? Did she hang up?

  “The line’s still live,” Johnson tells me, leaning back into his chair, arms crossed over his shirt—a black tee with some band’s logo.

  “Kensley. Hey, it’s Liam Hardt with one-hundred-eight. You there?”

  A hard intake of breath comes through; she’s there. “Um. Yes. Sorry.”

  “No worries, Kens, just making sure you didn’t hang up on me.” I grin, hoping the ease comes off in my words. “You good? We’ll be live in two minutes; I’ll introduce you and ask you to tell your story. We’ll cut to a song break and in that time, get ahold of your guy.” I look over the notes Johnson sent to me, for Kensley’s guy’s name. “Mark.”

  “I-I, um,” her voice hitches. “I think I’m having second thoughts.” I can easily picture this faceless woman frowning, it’s in her tone.

  Many callers have second thoughts. Especially when they know without a doubt that I’ll be proving their fears; and I have zero problem telling them as much.

  “Look, Kensley,” I say, shifting in my seat and leaning into the table, arms crossed, “my guess is you’re having second thoughts because you know your fears are true. Do you really want to stay in a relationship with someone who’s running around behind your back?”

  “It’s not that.” Her voice, even quiet and unsure, is beautiful, but I know that phones and radios distort tones. Those women who fell for my voice before seeing me? They obviously hadn’t Googled some of their favorite radio personalities because we aren’t all a good-looking bunch. “There’s… We have kids,” she whispers. “And I just don’t know what this would do to them.”

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sucker punch.

  How a fucker can run around on his woman when they have children, is absolutely beyond me.

  I school my feelings though; it does no one any good if I’m the one going off. I’m supposed to be the level headed one that keeps the calls from being too depressing.

  “I can’t tell you what to do.” I glance at the countdown of commercials before continuing, “I also can’t tell you from personal experience, but what I can tell you, as someone who’s done these calls four-hundred or so times a year… You need to know. You called me, and to me that says you’re at the end. You’ve maybe tried talking to him and have gotten denials, but you’re still unsure. If you think your man is cheating on you, then Kensley, you owe it to you—hell, you owe it to your kids—to get out of an unhealthy relationship.” I may not have firsthand knowledge on cheating, but I knew a thing or two about relationships. “Whether or not you go through, well, that’s up to you. We offer counseling after, but you know that.”

  I hear her take another breath, letting it out slowly, into the phone.

  The silent whoosh makes my dick twitch.

  What the ever-loving fuck?

  I push against the table, sitting up and shifting in my seat. “We’re going live in thirty; you going on?”

  This time she doesn’t pause, but her voice is still whisper soft. “Yeah.”

  She’s going to have to speak up, and not because the listeners won’t understand her, but because these whispers are doing funny shit to me.

  “Alright, hold on. I’ll introduce you and then we’ll just chat on the radio. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

  Turning my attention back to the board, I adjust the dials to pull out of the commercials and back into the show. “Welcome back. For those of you just joining us, we’re going into your favorite, Caught in the Act, and I have Kensley on the line. She suspects Mark of cheating.” Never one to sit still, I slowly twist my seat left to right as I speak. “Kensley, why don’t you tell us why you think your man’s cheating on you?”

  “Hey. Yeah. Um.” There’s a pause and once again, I hear her deep intake of breath. “So, about three months ago,” suddenly she sounds like a completely different woman. No longer timid, but ready to call the douche out, “my…shit,” my brows lift on their own in my shock, and I look across the way to Johnson, who looks like he’s holding in the same chuckle I have, “I don’t even know what to call him. Oops. Can I swear? I’m sorry. Boyfriend. Yeah. We’ll call him that, because Mark doesn’t believe in marriage, but we’ve been together since our junior year.”

  “College?”

  “No, high school,” she clarifies, pointedly. “So, I don’t know, how long is that…seven, eight years? Anyway, we have kids. A four-year-old and eighteen-month-old. I didn’t really realize it before, but I’ve really been thinking about it with this last disappearing act.”

  “What disappearing act?” I often need to help fill in the holes for listeners, sure, but I’m also intrigued. Always am. Maybe it’s my twelve credits in psych classes.

  “Most recently, and it’s been the biggest one, is he took on an out-of-state job, one that’s going to last a few months.”

  Interesting. “Out of state? We talking nearby, or across the country?”

  “Not far, just in Nevada. Vegas.”

  “Yeah, that sounds promising…” It’s said mostly under my breath, but I’ve no doubt that all of San Diego can hear my sarcasm.

  “He took this job and he said he was working on finding a place we could bring the girls to because he’d be working alongside this client for a year plus; some place near his new job but not like…in Vegas. In the meantime, he’s staying on the Strip. Anytime our oldest wants to call or FaceTime with him, though, he’s not available. And we’ve planned the dates and times, so he knows to expect us.”

  “You said this wasn’t his first disappearing act. What else has he done?”

  “Oh, just little things, like extended business trips. And I never really thought much of them, but I realized they’ve been happening more and more often, and for lengthier times, and they seem to coincide with my pregnancies.”

  “Does he have the type of job that would require these long trips?”

  “Well, yeah. He’s higher up the ladder in a marketing firm, and his trips are always to go talk to potential clients, then work on these projects.”

  “Other than the trips and missed calls, do you have any other reasons why you’d think he’s cheating on you?”

  “No, not really.” Her voice takes on that soft, unsure tone again.

 
“I mean, I think you have a solid case,” I add, not wanting her to feel like she’s jumped the gun. “If I had to go on a business trip, I’d find a way to bring my girl with, or if I had to move out of state, I’d definitely find a way to bring my family with me. I know there are other circumstances but, dang, eight years? That’s a commitment.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, Kensley, we’re going to call him up. You know how these calls work, right? We’ll give good ol’ Mark a call, then offer him an all-inclusive stay at a new resort. All he has to do is give us your name as his guest, and if that’s what he does, well I guess you owe him an apology.” I always say that last line with a little laugh, but rarely does the caller need to apologize. “You ready?”

  “Yes.” I can almost picture her—this faceless, beautiful woman—nodding once in strength. She has this.

  “Alright. You heard the lady. We’ll get Mark on the line, and after some Ed Sheeran swooning and maybe a little bit of Zedd, we’ll get this going.” Probably not my smoothest transition into song, but I’m not worried.

  As the sweet slow-dance-esque song starts, I switch over the mic so I can talk directly to Kensley again. “I’m going to call him. You’re still on board, right? We’re good?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.” This time, her tone is airy, like she’s talking through a sigh.

  Exasperated?

  Ready to be done?

  Tired of it all?

  …And why the hell do I care so much?

  Here are the facts—or what will be facts in the matter of three minutes: the girl’s being cheated on; she has kids; and…well, that’s really it. That’s the extent of what I know of this Kensley, but something about her voice has me wanting to keep her on the line.

  Muting my line to her, I tip my chin up, my attention to Johnson again. “You got his number ready?” I push my right ear pad off and behind my ear so I can hear him better.

  That same bored look on his face, the one that I just attribute to the man, he lifts his brows. “This isn’t my first day on the job.”

  Chuckling, I nod. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just—”

  “Antsy as fuck to get it over with?” he answers, hitting the nail on the head.