Honestly Unfaithful: #1 Read online

  Copyright @2016 A.L. Wood (Andrea Wood) & DA Byrd

  Published in 2016. All rights reserved. This book is copyright. Apart from the fair purpose of the study, research, or review as permitted by the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced without written permission.

  Honestly Unfaithful is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to the actual, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, and not intended by the author.

  This book is licensed for your purposeful enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it and buy your copy.

  Cover Model Devin Byrd and Kristy Rutherford

  Photo Credit to Golden Czermak of Furious Fotog

  Cover Design to Rachel Olson of No Sweat Graphics

  Editing and Formatting credit to Wendi Lynn from Ready Set Edit

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chaper Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Acknowledgements

  About the Authors

  “This is bullshit,” I say out loud to no one in particular, not that anyone is listening anyway. I’m new here, haven't even had a chance to check out the local hot spots, so to everyone around me I am invisible.

  When you decide to move halfway across the country and transfer into a college where everyone knows each other, you're bound to be stared at while sitting in the waiting room of the administration office at Duke University.

  It’s not like I wanted to move nearly three thousand miles away; Jake had left me no choice. Jake was my boyfriend, as in past tense.

  Was.

  I thought I had it all mapped out. I’d end up marrying my now ex-long-term boyfriend one day. We’d have two children, and we’d live in a modest house while maintaining successful careers. All before we were thirty.

  Jasper, Indiana wasn't a large city, and unless you’ve heard of Scott Rolen—chances are, you haven’t heard of Jasper, either. There, everyone knows everyone. Jake and I grew up together, started dating in middle school, and graduated head over heels in love. We agreed to take a year off after high school.

  We traveled all over the United States for that year, Jake’s parents covering every expense as a part of our graduation gift. When our year was up, we found a small one-bedroom apartment, moved in together, and began college.

  That’s where our future began going slowly downhill.

  It was little things at first. Twenty-one questions if I came home late from a night of studying with a group; accusations if I had to stay later at work. Then, before I knew it, his issues escalated. He lost all trust he had for me and wanted to control everything I did all of the time. It was like a switch was flipped the day I signed my name with his on the lease for our apartment.

  I made excuses.

  That it was just his way of showing me how much he cared.

  Excuses upon excuses.

  Until the night I ran.

  Months of one-sided arguments blew the fuck up. I was always so busy studying or working or being the great girlfriend that I wanted a break. One night out with my girlfriends—Jake knew about it. I had to tell him the exact bar I would be in, the time I would arrive there, and the time I would be leaving. He had to know how I would get home and at what precise time I would be walking through the front door. Everyone's numbers were to be left with him in case he couldn't reach me via my cellphone.

  It was ludicrous, all of it.

  But I did it anyway, because I loved him and I was determined to make us work.

  Flash forward: I’m at the bar and it’s fifteen minutes past the time I said I would be getting home. I unlocked my cell phone to send Jake a text, letting him know that I was sorry for being late and I was on my way. I’m greeted with eighty-seven missed phone calls and fifty-eight unread text messages.

  All from Jake.

  Instead of calling or sending him a text message, I decided to just leave the bar, grab a cab, and get my ass home.

  I predicted that being late would mean I was going home to an all-night one-sided argument where I would have to defend that I was a twenty-one-year-old college student with a boyfriend. Not an old shut-in lady.

  I wasn’t expecting his visceral anger.

  When I got home, Jake must’ve been stewing. Before I knew it, Jake had grabbed hold of me and slammed my head into the wall numerous times. Before I blacked out, the first thought I had was, This is not the man I fell in love with. When I finally stirred awake, I found my wrists tied to the frame of our bed. He was lingering over me with his hands raised as if he were to hit me. I flinched; I didn’t want him to hit me again. But he gestured and screamed in my face that he “wasn’t going to ever let me step foot out of the apartment again, for as long as he lived”.

  I knew I had to find a way to leave. His promise to keep me locked away forever was a real fear.

  I was tied to that bed for two long, arduous days, left to sit in my own filth as punishment for my “transgression” of disobeying his order to come home right away.

  I manage to convince him I wouldn’t leave the house ever again.

  Luckily, he had classes and I was untied. I packed the necessities as fast as I could and ran. Ran as far away as I could before he could find me.

  Now, here I am, waiting to see someone in administration about graduating this year with my degree.

  “Margaret Whitaker?” a middle-aged woman with glasses calls out my name.

  I follow behind her, taking a seat in the chair across from her desk.

  “I see that you are a new transfer and are wanting to graduate a semester early. Is that correct?” she asks while glancing at my transcripts.

  “Yes that’s correct.”

  “Well, to be honest, looking at your files, you’re on the right path for earning all of your credits to graduate early. The only thing that will be in your way is that you need to have a completed internship.”

  “An internship?”

  “Yes, although it is kind of late to apply for one, coincidentally I have had an opening to be serve an internship in the physiology department under Professor Jackson.”

  “But my major doesn't have anything to do with physiology,” I argue. “Please, I need to graduate.”

  They should let me graduate by default because they can't offer an internship that goes along with my degree.

  I can see the sympathy etched on her face. Maybe my desperate pleas will help? “It doesn't have to, honey, you can intern anywhere. As long as you do the internship and receive a letter of completion it will go toward your credits for graduation. Professor Jackson is one of the nicer professors to intern under. He will be patient with you since he knows you are majoring under another department. Now, you can apply and see what will come of it, or you can go back to your dorm room and try to figure this out for yourself. What's it going to be?”

  I shuffle my feet, trying to decide. Having made up my mind, I look back up and reach out for the application.

  Too much. It was too much. I begrudgingly sat in the dark corner of my study. So much was expected of me: to be a good man, a good father and even more so, a good husband. The monotony of my life played out in front of
me. Like always, I can hear my sons playing just outside my office and my wife is in the kitchen diligently working toward making a healthy dinner. That's the routine, it seems—I go to school, teach my classes, schedule out learning plans, drive to pick up the kids that afternoon from school, and then look over lessons, papers, and exams. I take pride in being a teacher. Granted, I could have had a graduate student take these home and grade them for me, but I need the distraction. The distraction from a depressing marriage and the disappointment that crosses my wife’s face when she looks at me. Sometimes she makes me feel empty.

  Judgement is easy for most. You can only see things from the outside. Only seeing half of someone’s story. I wasn’t always this jaded. So maybe before you judge me for the man I am now, you should know a little more about me. My name is Marshall Jackson. I met my wife at nineteen during my sophomore year of college here at Duke University where I played basketball on a full scholarship.

  Upon graduating high school, I came to Duke and became team captain by my senior year. Some say my ambition to be the best far exceeded my natural talent. I could probably agree. I spent every day studying the game. Basketball was my life. It was my everything. My father, Wayne Joseph Jackson, was my coach growing up. He was a great man, always had me dribbling the ball with one hand and reading a book with the other. When I wasn’t practicing with him, sometimes I would sneak a few dribbles with my left hand. My determination and my need to be good at every aspect of the game always took precedence.

  I was nineteen when I met my wife, Denise. I was walking down the hall on my first day of class when I noticed this beautiful brunette sitting in front of me. It wasn't her beauty that caught my eye … okay, you caught me, I was nineteen, and well, let's face it, my thoughts and my intentions were not innocent. My eyes were constantly looking for her every time we had class. I’d catch her eyeing me a few times but she would blush and turn away. As the weeks passed, I realized she wasn’t going to initiate and speak to me first. I was the first freshman to ever be given a starting position, averaging twenty-four points a game and climbing. I was popular, everyone wanted to know and be near me. How could she not want to talk to me?

  I think that’s what made me want Denise in the beginning. I finally got her attention by giving her a small simple smile when she turned her head toward me one day. Let me be clear, even though I was young and in college, I had a very responsible fortitude about myself. My father raised me to be respectable, courteous, and above all, a man in every sense of the word.

  Soon after that first smile, I had Denise agreeing to a first date. We walked the quad like broke college students, then spoke of life and what we wanted out if it. Life was perfect—simple and easy then.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said. “Marshall, I'm pregnant, what do you have to say?”

  I remember hearing this for the first time when I was still just twenty years old. Denise and I had been together for a year. I was in my junior year, and she was still a sophomore. God, we were so young. So much ahead of us. She was staring at me so scared, waiting to see what I would say. For a second, I didn't have a clue what to tell her, but I remembered what my father taught me. I gained my composure, collected myself, and grabbed her by the hand. “I love you. No matter the timing, we’ll be happy together, and I will never leave you or our baby.”

  The promise I made to Denise has haunted me the last few years. I love my family. The love I have for them will never change. But lately, the warm and loving home has felt cold and distant. My wife and I vaguely speak, and when we do it always has something to do with the kids. It’s always about their games, plays, church functions, or tournaments. Now when Denise and I see each other, all I feel is resentment on both sides.

  It didn’t really start to feel this way until I got drafted to go pro. I was drafted in the second round to the Charlotte Hornets.

  To me, getting drafted had been my greatest achievement. I spent all those years practicing day in and day out to make it pro. It shouldn’t mean everything to me, and it saddens me. I feel like my wife and kids should be my everything on and off the court. My feelings shouldn’t change whether I am working at Duke, or playing professionally. I know this. But despite those feelings, and what I should feel, it seems like every night I find myself replaying the events that got me to where I am now. I miss the roar of the crowd, putting on that jersey every Monday and Wednesday night. Those happy memories of playing always got offset with that night. My anger brewing along the surface as I recall that game. I went in for an easy lay-up. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Tim Duncan ran into me trying to defend the goal. The hit was so hard, when I came down and hit the ground, both my knees had popped, tearing my ACL in both knees in addition to tearing my PCL in my left knee. My career was over. My life would never be the same.

  After that, I went back to school, finished my master’s, and got my Ph.D. in physiology. I worked just as hard in school as I did on the court, and now I am the dean in my department of exercise science. But with each passing day, things have gotten to be more boring, more routine.

  I know my wife and I have lost our spark. Sometimes, I want to save it. I just want to grab her, pin her up against the sink, and kiss her just like we did at nineteen. My hand would be on her face and cheek, my other hand sliding down her left side, until her blood rushing flushed her cheeks. My lips and breath hot against hers, passion consuming us. The strength in my hands against her back, holding her flush against me.

  The thought always crosses my mind, but I never seem to be able to act on it. The little ounce of doubt always stops me. Almost knowing that she’d turn me away. The passion has also slowly left me, to where now all that's left is messy thoughts of what ifs.

  Usually I would be in the office by now, having decided to spend the morning at home with my family I realize that its later than I had thought it was.

  I kiss the boys on their foreheads goodbye and yell out to Denise that I’m headed to work. She doesn’t reply.

  ***

  “Dr. Marshall, your 11:00 AM appointment is waiting, do you want me to send her in?” my secretary calls out, interrupting my thoughts. “Yes,” I reply. “Send her in. Wait, what's the appointment for again? I don't seem to have it on my calendar.”

  Beverly, my secretary, stands confused, then answers, “Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Marshall, she is a new transfer. She is here to fill the internship position you posted. I added her to your schedule this morning. I must've forgotten to email you. Do you want me to send her away and reschedule?”

  “That's not necessary, she did meet all the requirements, though, right?” I ask.

  “She did, Dr. Marshall.”

  “Very well, send her in then.”

  Moments later, my current applicant walks in. “Have a seat, my name is Dr. Marshall or Dr. Jackson whichever you prefer,” I say impatiently, wanting to get this interview over with.

  What is she looking at? I look down to see what she’s looking at. She's staring at me as if I have something on my cardigan. I wear my hair kinda short nowadays, to hide the greys that are slowly making their way into my hairline. Despite me not playing anymore, I liked to keep in shape so I am regularly lifting at the campus fitness center four to five times a week; which means I still had some muscularity left. I’m not one of those stuffy professors wearing a tweed jacket and slacks so I always dress casual, more casual than most professors on campus.

  Most of the time I wear a button up, some Levi jeans, and my glasses. I hated them at first, it was a sign of me getting older but they eventually grew on me. I now feel that they make me look distinguished.

  “Are you Margaret Whitaker?” I ask, interrupting her staring.

  “Yes, my name is Maggie,” she finally mumbles.

  She’s very young—seemingly too young for my internship.

  Glancing at her resume, I ask, “In a hurry?”

  She looks puzzled. “In a hurry, Sir?”

  I smirk, referring to her tra
nscripts. “To graduate, of course.”

  She sighs as if I was quizzing her. “No,” she says, “I just know what I want and don't see any point in wasting time to get there.”

  She had hair just past her shoulders, very petite, and at times she seemed very timid it seemed. But the longer she sat there, I could tell she had a sense of confidence about herself, but I couldn't tell if it was for show, or for real. She would look at me in a way I haven't been looked at in a long time. I don't know what it was about her but I know that the feelings she stirred in me were unsettling.

  I can't return the favor; I keep breaking eye contact through the conversation. “So, what makes you think you can do my internship, what experiences do you have in physiology?”

  “None, honestly, it has nothing to do with my major.”

  “Then why apply for it?”

  “I just moved here, transferred here from Indiana, and well, your internship is the only thing standing between graduation and me next May. I would literally do anything to get this position, please. I'll grade all your papers, exams, anything you want.”

  She quickly dropped the confident posture and began to unwillingly pout. I take a deep breath, and look at her. God she’s so young and pretty. Her grades are on par and I need help this semester. This girl is looking at me as if I am her only chance. Her knight and shining armor. “It just so happens we have a research study. I am performing the study over the next two semesters. It will be a lot of hours, and you will have to devote a lot of time to the research. You will go over the lab findings and conduct the actual physical part of the study.”

  “I don't care, I'll do it,” she blurts.

  I get up to welcome her to the team. “Well okay then,” I walk over to shake her hand, “be here tomorrow morning, 6 AM and we'll begin.” She firmly shakes my hand, I immediately notice how soft and warm her hands are and turn to walk her out the door.

  She pauses and has the biggest smile I have seen on her face since the first moment she walked into my office. Before walking out, I see her glancing around the office. I notice that she sees the pictures of my family on the wall first. She is staring at the pictures of my sons on my bookshelf, and my basketball pics of all of my victory celebrations of winning the Final Four and NCAA championship twice. I see her tilt her head at the pics and back to me. The simple gesture shouldn’t have been unnerving. But what troubled me, was when she got just about out the door and I realize she glanced down and took notice of my left hand. My left ring finger, my wedding ring. She locked onto it for a split second, and at that moment I worried what does this mean for me? What does that curious look mean?