The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men Page 4

What the hell is she talking about? Just tell me if the judge awarded him the money.

  "The fact is, the language in the New York State statute pertaining to adultery is very rigid," Ms. Porter continued, her voice still not giving away anything. Which was frustrating to no end. "It specifically defines infidelity as sexual intercourse with someone other than the subject's spouse."

  "And?" I prompted, desperation seeping into my voice. I was convinced that there had to be more to this phone call. She couldn't just call up and drone on about all this legal mumbo jumbo and not have a "but" coming. Now would be the ideal time for her to say something like "But despite all of that, the judge still feels that . . ."

  But she didn't say that. In fact, she didn't say much of anything. All she did was echo my question right back at me. "And what?"

  I felt my heart sink. I had already mentally prepared myself for this outcome. I had played it over and over in my head the entire flight back to L.A. just so I wouldn't be caught off guard. But here I was, stunned nonetheless. And feeling completely desolate.

  I could hear Jamie rummaging through the pantry now, shaking a series of almost-empty cereal boxes to determine if the remaining contents would successfully fill a bowl.

  "So that's it?" I asked, my voice rising higher than I would have liked. I quickly composed myself again. "The judge couldn't do anything? She couldn't make an exception?"

  "Afraid not. Her hands were pretty tied. New York is a fault state, but the language is just too rigid."

  "But that's such bullshit!" I shouted, and then recoiled, immediately regretting the outburst because Jamie's head poked around the cabinet door and he eyed me with apprehension. I turned my back to him and clasped my hand tighter around the phone. I wasn't sure what to say after that. So I just seethed quietly.

  "Look," she said, finally interrupting the heavy silence. "We all know that he cheated, regardless of the way it was defined in the state's legal code. And Mrs. Langley is still eternally grateful for the priceless information that your agency was able to provide about her marriage. Otherwise she would probably still be married to him."

  "Right," I replied diplomatically. I knew I had to get this woman off the phone and go on with my day as quickly as possible. Distraction was the only option for me at this point. And there would be lots of it once I arrived at the office. "Well, thank you for calling, Ms. Porter."

  "Who was that?" Jamie called from the kitchen as soon as I hung up.

  "Oh, no one." I waved my hand in the air and slipped my iPhone back into my briefcase. "Just Mrs. Langley's lawyer."

  "Ah," he responded, as if everything he'd overheard in the last three minutes suddenly made perfect sense to him. He closed the door to the pantry and turned to face me. "Not good news, huh?"

  I shrugged casually. "You know, a lot of technical lawyer stuff. It's all really over my head, actually."

  Jamie shot me a skeptical look. "Well, what did she say about the divorce proceedings? Did the judge make a decision about the division of assets?"

  I shrugged again as I snapped my bag closed. "I guess he's getting off on a technicality."

  Jamie's face fell, and he came over to me and wrapped his arms around my waist. "I'm sorry, baby. That is upsetting."

  I scrunched my nose in confusion, as if I couldn't imagine why he would ever think that this of all things would be capable of upsetting me. "I'm not upset. It's not my problem." I forced out a faint chuckle.

  "Yeah, but I know you were counting on this one. After the last five—"

  "I wasn't counting on it," I insisted, trying to douse each word with credibility as it left my mouth. "Sure, it would have been nice for Mrs. Langley not to have to share everything she's made with her cheating ex-husband, but it doesn't really matter."

  Jamie studied my face. It was obvious he didn't believe me. I felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "Look, I'm really, really late. We can talk more about this tonight, okay?" I grabbed the briefcase and my steel mug of tea and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

  But Jamie wrapped his arms around my waist and held me close to him, our faces only inches apart. "Remember, you didn't go into this business to protect clients' assets or punch holes in prenuptial agreements; you went into it to offer people the truth. And that's exactly what you did for Mrs. Langley."

  I squirmed away from his grasp and hid my escape behind a sip of tea. "I know."

  "She's better off now, regardless of what happened in that courtroom."

  "I know," I repeated, this time with just a bit more indignation in my voice.

  Jamie leaned forward to kiss me on the forehead. "Okay, just making sure. I don't like seeing you upset."

  "I told you, I'm not upset." Another ambiguously true statement.

  "Good. Then I'll see you tonight."

  "Where are we going again?"

  He grinned, quickly forgetting all about the Langleys and their court case, for which I felt overwhelmingly relieved. "It's a surprise."

  I smiled as I made my way to the front door and opened it wide. "Oh, right. I forgot you're being melodramatic about it," I teased with a playful roll of my eyes.

  Jamie shook his head and walked back to the kitchen. "Just meet me here at seven-thirty. And don't be late."

  "I won't!" I called over my shoulder, and shut the door behind me.

  3

  the fantastic five

  Being a fidelity inspector was the only real career I had ever known.

  Sure, there had been jobs before it. In high school, I sold men's boxer shorts and undershirts at the Hanes outlet store in the mall. In college, I became an official Subway sandwich artist, trained in the fine art of processed meats and cheeses. And when I finally graduated at the age of twenty-two, I landed the prestigious and highly coveted analyst job at Stanley Marshall Investment Bank, where my life became a dizzying array of spreadsheets, PowerPoint slides, and working weekends.

  But I never considered any of those temporary professions an actual "career." Because in my mind, a career is something you believe in. Something you work hard to excel at. Something that defines you.

  And I think it's safe to say I never felt defined by men's undershirts, foot-long roast beef subs, or spreadsheets. These were just obstacles in my way of completing each and every day so that I could go home and do something useful with my time.

  But then I stumbled upon a job that was like nothing I'd ever heard of before. In fact, I don't even think most people would call it a job. It's definitely not advertised on Monster.com. And you'll never find it listed in a brochure from your high school guidance counselor or on some form asking you to check the box that most appropriately describes your current occupation. In fact, I didn't even know it existed until I actually became one. To this day, I have no idea if there were others out there like me. Or if maybe I had been the only one. A Lone Ranger in a new frontier, paving the way for anyone who decided to stumble along after me.

  I used to think of myself as kind of a mini-superhero.

  I know it sounds pretty ridiculous. But I did have all the defining characteristics of a female superhero. I had the kick-ass costume (or wardrobe, rather) that effectively accentuated my legs, boobs, or butt depending on the assignment. I had the secret identity that nobody else knew about—my friends and family knew me only by my real name: Jennifer Hunter. But I couldn't very well use that name for my job. It was too risky. I dealt with too many unstable, untrustworthy people. So I came up with a code name: Ashlyn. And that was the name I gave out to all the unsuspecting men I met on a weekly basis.

  And I even had a superpower. I guess technically I still have it. It's the kind of thing that doesn't just go away. I may not be able to leap buildings in a single bound, but what I can do is probably much more appealing to the eighteen to thirty-five female demographic.

  I can decipher any man you put in front of me . . . in less than thirty seconds. I can read them like an open book. I don't know how or when I acquired this particular ski
ll, it just always seemed to be there.

  Clearly, it's something that used to come in handy in my previous line of work.

  Now it comes in handy when I'm preparing an assignment for one of my associates. I get a sort of "sense" about what a man's going to respond to just by talking to his wife. Of course, it's not exactly the same as standing right in front of him and being able to predict what he's going to do next, but I suppose it's still a good use for my so-called ability.

  It doesn't work quite as well when I'm preparing the female fidelity inspections, but I do the best I can.

  The drive from Brentwood to the office can take me anywhere from eight to fifteen minutes depending on traffic and how many red lights I hit along the way. Today, I made it in seven.

  Although I've been known to talk myself out of a few speeding tickets in the past, if a cop had caught me doing seventy down Wilshire Boulevard, I'm fairly sure I would have found myself trying to talk my way out of a jail cell.

  But I was already fifteen minutes late to my morning staff meeting, and I don't like being late for anything unless there's a good reason. And I didn't think Sophie's tilapia meltdown or my boyfriend's sudden craving for a morning quickie constituted a good enough one.

  I rode the elevator to the top floor and walked briskly down the long corridor toward the waiting double glass doors at the end. The same ones that I've walked through every morning for the past year. Suite 1207.

  Hadley, my newly hired twenty-two-year-old assistant, was sitting in her usual seat at the front reception desk under a large chrome-plated sign that read, THE HAWTHORNE AGENCY.

  Hadley was the kind of girl you wouldn't normally look twice at. Her dirty blond hair could have used some highlights, and her large brown eyes could have used a touch more makeup. My guess is she'd probably spent the majority of her life relying on her brains rather than her looks. She was fresh out of college and had been recommended by one of my associates, who assured me she was both hardworking and trustworthy. Obviously, the latter is one of the more important qualifications of this job, given the secretive nature of our business.

  She had been here only a few weeks and was still learning the ropes, but she was eager, well organized, and a quick learner, so I couldn't complain. I'd hired her after my former assistant, Marta, told me she was leaving. Her resignation came as something of a surprise since Marta had been with me from the beginning. But when I tried to talk her out of it, she simply flashed me one of her knowing, motherly smiles and said, "I've helped you get exactly where you needed to go. Now it's time for me to help someone else do the same."

  And I really couldn't argue with that.

  Upon seeing me walk through the door, Hadley jumped out of her seat as if she were rising to greet a foreign dignitary. "Good morning, Ashlyn," she said with bubbling enthusiasm. "That costume you asked for was delivered this morning. I hung it up in the prop closet. And I left all your messages on your desk." Her eyes fell to a paper cup on her desk, filled with steaming hot liquid. "Oh!" she exclaimed, grabbing the cup and holding it out for me. "And I made you some coffee."

  I smiled gratefully at her. "Thanks, Hadley. But I actually only drink tea in the morning. I save my coffee for the afternoon. When I need an energy boost."

  Her large doe eyes blinked a few times as she digested this new information, and I was afraid that she might actually start to cry. But instead she placed the cup back on her desk and began scribbling something in a spiral notebook. "Tea morning. Coffee afternoon," she mumbled as she wrote. Then she looked up at me and smiled. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll get it right next time."

  I had to laugh at her eagerness. "It's no problem. Don't worry about it. Is everyone already inside?" I asked, cocking my head toward the door to my right.

  She nodded, and I headed into the conference room.

  As soon as I entered, conversations faded away and five pairs of eyes focused their attention on me. I took my seat at the head of the table and pulled a stack of glossy crimson folders from my briefcase.

  For the past few months, the success of the agency has grown exponentially. Hardly a week goes by that I don't have at least one assignment for each associate on my staff. And based on the fact that we advertise by word of mouth only, that's a whole lot of referrals being passed around out there. I guess news of a service like this travels fast.

  "Good morning, everyone," I said, pulling my chair up to the table. "My apologies for being so late. Let's get started so we can all get out of here on time."

  To my immediate left sat Lauren Ireland, a tall, slender brunette whom I had gotten to know quite well over the past year. Mostly because she was my first associate and actually part of my inspiration for opening the agency in the first place. After being the beneficiary of my services over a year ago, she was convinced that she wanted to devote her life to helping other women find the answers they were looking for. That's when she came to me and told me she wanted to become a fidelity inspector. And it didn't take long for me to figure out that there were probably others just like her out there. So I set out to recruit them.

  Lauren is also the agency's technical guru. She knows everything there is to know about networking, databases, gadgets, you name it. And those kinds of skills definitely come in handy when she's in the field. The fact that she's beyond stunning and knows how to hack a Linux server makes her irresistible to a lot of men. She's the ideal fantasy for the Bill Gateses of the world.

  Lauren's inherent technological skill set was actually the basis I used for forming the Hawthorne Agency. Because a little less than a year ago, when I was doing this job entirely on my own, I spent a lot of my free time researching and taking crash courses in everything from website development to car engines and poker in order to transform myself into hundreds of different male fantasies. I was constantly struggling to become a near expert in anything and everything in only a week's time. To avoid this kind of struggle when I formed the agency, I made sure that every one of my five talented associates came ready and armed with a unique skill set. That way, no matter what the clients think their husband or wife will respond to, chances are it already exists in this room.

  Take Katie Morgan, for example, seated on my opposite side with her knees propped up against the edge of the table. She's a petite girl in her mid-twenties with shoulder-length blond hair that she often wears pulled back in a ponytail with jaggedly cut bangs sweeping across her forehead. I always know when she enters a room because she is constantly followed by the smell of strawberry bubble gum and the sound of punk pop music blaring from her iPod.

  Katie is our resident guy's girl. She's feisty and sassy, and she loves to drink beer. She's got this cute "girl next door" look about her, but once she opens her mouth, it's quite another story. With her razor-sharp wit and cunning knack for verbal repartee, she can win almost any argument you put in front of her. She's one of those people who can convince you that you're wrong and then somehow also magically convince you at the same time that you should be grateful to her for pointing it out. It's nothing short of a Jedi mind trick. I hired her because she can outmaneuver men at all of their own games: poker, darts, pool, beer pong, fantasy football, even car racing.

  Before joining the Hawthorne Agency, Katie did what every other good-looking blonde under thirty does in this town: She acted. But the few and far between one-liner parts that she did manage to land didn't exactly pay the bills. And when she learned that the money in this job is comparable to the salary of an established soap star, she didn't hesitate for a second. Plus, it gave her the opportunity to put her acquired acting skills to use on a regular basis. And because my "intention to cheat" rules clearly state that all physical intimacy with a subject is limited to what the FCC will allow on network television, I imagine this job is fairly similar to a typical recurring role on a popular daytime soap opera.

  Seated next to Katie was the breathtakingly beautiful Shawna Miller. Although I think every one of my associates is irresistible in his or h
er own way, Shawna possesses the kind of classic, undisputable beauty that never fails to turn heads on the sidewalk. The moment I saw her, I knew she was perfect for this job. She has the kind of look that men lust after. Todd Langley is living proof of that. With long, wavy blond hair, a captivating smile, and the most perfectly straight white teeth I've ever seen, she inevitably cultivates a certain sense of "wow" that follows her everywhere she goes.

  Shawna is also incredibly versatile, which affords me a lot of flexibility when placing her on an assignment. She can play the heartbroken and vulnerable Keira Summers one night and a raging party girl the next. But with her heart-stopping good looks, curves in all the right places, and a tolerance to alcohol that's through the roof, she's usually my go-to associate for most bachelor parties. I've often overheard other members of the staff refer to her affectionately as "the final fling girl." And based on the actions of the soon-to-be husbands she encounters on her assignments, it's a fairly accurate nickname.

  Sitting across the table from Shawna was Cameron Kelly. Cameron is the only male associate at the agency. He looks remarkably like Josh Duhamel, so much so that he is often mistaken for him by fifteen-year-old girls and subsequently finds himself signing a lot of "With Love, Josh Duhamel" autographs whenever he steps foot inside a mall. Obviously, I brought him on because men aren't the only ones who cheat. Yes, the statistics are staggeringly higher, but the bottom line is—women cheat, too. And the high failure rate of his inspections is indisputable proof of that.

  Despite his protests, Cameron often finds himself wearing a uniform of some kind. I've requisitioned uniforms from almost everywhere—the navy, the marines, American Airlines, UPS, even Sparkletts on one occasion when a client insisted that his wife had a thing for the tall, handsome men who carry those five-gallon bottles of water over their shoulders. Apparently, clichés are created for a reason. And I can now tell you firsthand that married women . . . like men in uniform.

  Finally, at the far other end of the table, in her usual place, sat Teresa Song, the sultry Asian siren. At least that's the way some of the other associates like to refer to her. And I have to admit, the title fits her to a tee.