The Antisocial Network

All characters are over the age of 18

Wes

As soon as the Southwest flight's wheels touched down at Sacramento International, Wes Hardaway had his cellphone out. "Hi, Honey," he spoke happily when his wife Marlene answered, "I'm back from San Diego. The plane just landed, so by the time I get my bags and the car, I should be home in about an hour. Yep, love you too. Bye."

As the accountant steered his way along I-80 towards Fair Oaks, he thought again how much he disliked business travel. Wes didn't have to do it often, but when he did, it was usually for two or three nights, and he hated to be away from home that long. Unfortunately, his boss, Edith Norton, hated to travel even more than he did, so he was the one who had to make the quarterly trip south to represent the Sacramento office.

But at least he was done with traveling for the next three months.

And maybe now,

he thought hopefully,

Marlene will be willing to start a family.

She'd wanted to wait until her freelance art business was established. From what he'd seen of her work, Wes felt she'd been pretty successful, so he hoped she'd be more open. Working out of their home would make motherhood a lot more manageable - at least that was going to be his argument.

As he drove over Fair Oaks' level streets past the rows of neat ranch homes, he began humming a classic rock number he'd heard on the airport sound system. But the tune quickly disappeared when he pulled into his driveway and discovered his garage door opener wasn't working. Shaking his head in disgust, he parked in the driveway and walked around to the front door. To his consternation, his key wouldn't fit in the lock. He checked to be sure he hadn't inadvertently selected the wrong one, but no, that was indeed the house key.

After trying several more times, he gave up and rang the doorbell. No sound came from within. He tried again, with the same results. "Hey, Honey, it's me," he yelled through the door. "There's something wrong with the lock. Can you let me in?" When that generated no response, he rapped the door sharply with his knuckles, hoping to attract Marlene's attention.

This time he heard movement from within; then his wife's voice came through the door. "The reason your key won't work is because I've had all the locks replaced. The garage door code has been changed too."

He stared at the front door uncomprehendingly. "I don't understand, Marlene. Let me in."

"No, Wes, you can't come in - you don't live here anymore."

"What do you mean I don't live here anymore? Of course I live here - this is my house. What's going on?"

There was a long pause. Then he heard faintly, "Well it's about time." His wife's voice grew louder. "Talk to the man behind you."

Wes turned around to see a non-descript man wearing a baseball hat walking towards him. Before he could speak, the stranger demanded, "Are you Wesley Hardaway?"

"Yes I am, but who . . ."

Before he could finish, the stranger thrust an envelope into his hand. "Wesley Hardaway, you have been served."

"But, but . . . what is this?"

"That, sir, is your copy of your wife's petition for a divorce."

"Divorce!"

"That is correct, Mr. Hardaway. In addition, your wife has requested that I serve you with a copy of this Temporary Restraining Order. It requires you to maintain a distance of at least 200 yards from Mrs. Hardaway at all times."

"What? This is crazy! Why would I need . . ." Wes bit off the words, turned around and began to pound on the front door. "Marlene, let me in. We need to talk about this. What has . . ."

"What seems to be the problem here, Sir?" came a deep voice from behind him, and Wes spun around to find a Sacramento police officer standing on the sidewalk, one hand resting near the holster of his automatic.

Before Wes could splutter an explanation, the stranger in the ball cap spoke for him. "Mr. Hardaway has been just notified that he is the subject of a Temporary Restraining Order, Officer. He is required to move a minimum of 200 yards away from his wife's residence."

With that, the process server walked over to the officer and handed him a copy of the TRO. The black-uniformed cop glanced over the form, then turned to Wes. "Sir, you're going to have to vacate this location immediately. If you don't, I'll have to arrest you for violation of a court order." He looked at the stunned expression on Wes's face. "Sir, do you understand what I said?"

He'd always been taught to respect authority, so Wes blinked several times and then nodded uncertainly. "Yes, Officer, I guess I understand." With that he began to trudge down his walkway back to where his car was parked. His gait was that of a man stunned by a blow to his head, scarcely aware of his surroundings, barely comprehending what was happening. As several neighbors watched, he backed his car out of the driveway, then slowly drove back the way he'd come.

What do I do now?

he wondered, still in a daze.

"You're safe now, Mrs. Hardaway," the policeman yelled through the door. "He's gone."

"Thank you, Officer," came the reply. "I'm just going to stay in the house for a while." The policeman nodded to the door, turned and left, as did the process server.

Marlene

Marlene Hardaway stood inside the front door and took a deep breath, not of relief but exhilaration.

I did it!

she thought exultantly.

He never knew what hit him.

At that moment she felt a pair of strong masculine hands clasp her upper arms. The man stepped closer and whispered in her ear, "You were so powerful with Wes. That's the hottest thing I've ever seen."

She continued to stand facing the front door. "That made you hot, did it?"

"Yes it really did," the man replied.

"It made me hot too. Why don't you find out just how hot I am?"

She felt the man's hands slide down her hips. A moment later he knelt behind her, his fingers running down the outside of her legs. When they reached her ankles, he reversed course and his hands began to rise, taking the hem of her skirt up with them.

As the skirt neared her waist, she widened her stance. "Oh you hot little slut," he chuckled gleefully, "you don't have any panties on!" A second later he added, "And you're already dripping wet!"

"That's right," she husked. "Now, how about showing your appreciation?"

Without a word he stretched his neck until his mouth touched the lips of her pussy. When he felt them, he began to lick her like a cat slurping cream. Marlene reached her hands out to the door to steady herself. "Yes," she breathed, "just like that. Don't stop."

After several minutes of his ministrations, she bent over, still propping herself against the front door. "That's enough," she said urgently. "Now I want you to fuck the shit out of me. Don't make me wait another second - do it now!"

"Yes, Mistress," he responded and scrambled to his feet. Hastily he unzipped his pants and placed his erect cock into position. Grasping her hips, he slammed his entire length into her in one frantic thrust. "Yes!" she yelled ecstatically, "that's what I want. That's what I need. Give it to me - give me what I've earned! Faster, harder, give it all to me!"

The man behind her was every bit as aroused as Marlene, and he began pumping into her like a piston in a runaway engine. It was fortunate that the policeman had already left, because if he had heard their orgasmic screams, he would have broken down the door.

Wes

Wes woke up early the next morning in a state of confusion, not remembering where he was. He'd gotten only a few hours of fitful sleep, and it took him a while to realize he was lying on an unfamiliar bed in some anonymous motel.

It all felt like a dream, or, more accurately a nightmare. He'd spent all afternoon and evening thinking about what had happened when he'd gotten home, trying to make sense of it. When that failed, he began going over everything he could remember about the days and weeks prior. It was maddening: there was nothing he could think of that might have precipitated such a reaction from his wife.

Having drawn a blank, he set his morose thoughts aside for the time being to consider his current situation. The good news was that since he'd been traveling, he had his shaving kit with him. The bad news was that all the clothes he'd taken along were dirty or wrinkled.

And I can't go home to get fresh ones because I'm locked out.

Then an even more depressing thought hit him.

With that damned restraining order, I'll probably have to hire a lawyer even to pick up a clean suit.

. He glanced over at the cheap clock on the nightstand and saw it was too early to try to call a law firm. As he did so, his empty stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten any dinner the night before. Food had to be his first priority, he decided.

He found a fast-food place down the highway that opened early, and he hungrily wolfed down an unhealthy breakfast while making notes of all the tasks he had to perform. The first was one he especially dreaded: calling his boss to let her know he probably wouldn't be in today. Edith Norton was the kind of micro-manager who saw her role as monitoring everything her employees did. Even though she'd sent him to San Diego, she'd resented the fact that Wes had been away. He knew she wouldn't appreciate his absence the first day he was supposed to be back.

He went back to the motel and called Edith's number early, hoping to get away with leaving a voice mail. But of course she answered on the second ring, and her reaction was exactly what Wes had feared. He'd planned to blame his absence on a cold, but she refused to accept that explanation. So, unable to come up with an alternate excuse, he found himself admitting the truth. She was not satisfied with the headlines, and kept asking him questions until he'd been forced to detail the whole horrible event. Her reaction was less than sympathetic: she kept saying "you must have done something to make your wife act that way."

The only way he could get his boss to let him stay away was to warn her that without a change of clothing "I'll probably stink up the place." She huffed and scolded, but finally agreed, warning him, "You'd better be at work tomorrow - in clean clothes."

He cursed under his breath and quickly hung up.

With that unpleasant chore completed, he set about searching for an attorney. There was no shortage of law firms in the state capitol of California, but most of the larger firms didn't even list "family law" as part of their practice. After scrolling helplessly through the online listing, he thought to search for "best family law practice in Sacramento." But when he called the recommended firm, he soon discovered Marlene had already retained them. Wes tried several more recommendations without any luck; none of them could even meet with him for several weeks.

Finally, in desperation, he went searching for a small firm, hoping its attorneys might not be too busy. His first call went to Winston Samuels and Associates, and he was heartened when the secretary told him Mr. Samuels had time available that very afternoon. He made the appointment, but after he hung up, he began to wonder why the lawyer wasn't busier. Nevertheless, he determined to proceed. "I've got to get some help in a hurry," he told himself.

With his first two chores done, he sat back in the uncomfortable motel chair to think and caught sight of his rumpled slacks. He wasn't eager to try out the motel's laundry room. "Probably the easiest thing would be to buy myself a change of clothes for tomorrow," he decided. That prompted him to check his bank account. He was relieved to see that his latest paycheck had been deposited while he was out of town.

Then he thought about his appointment with Winston Samuels. "I wonder how much that's going to cost?" He quickly checked the money market account he and Marlene kept jointly, and was horrified to see it had a balance of one dollar. "Dammit, I could understand her taking half, but to clean out the whole account is just wrong!" he raged. Finally he cooled down enough to add that to his list of things to discuss with his new attorney.

His next task was to drive over to the Target store in Arden for some shopping. He managed to find some slacks and a shirt suitable for the office, then added socks and underwear. Carrying his new purchases in a big red Target bag back to his car, he impulsively decided to drive by his house. Cruising slowly down his block, he tried to peer through his front windows for any signs of life. Seeing none, he sadly drove back to the motel, stopping only to pick up more fast food.

After a lonely lunch in his hotel room, Wes drove downtown to the address of the law firm he'd called. He found the firm located in an older office building only a few blocks from the Capitol Mall. Consulting the directory in the lobby, he took the elevator up to the sixth floor and walked to a glass door with Winston Samuels and Assoc. painted in old-fashioned gilt letters.

When he entered and announced himself, the receptionist invited him to have a seat and then disappeared through a door. A few minutes later she reappeared and asked him to follow her. The woman led Wes to a corner office and opened a door marked "Winston Samuels, Attorney at Law."

The man who shook his hand looked to be well into his sixties, with short, gray-white hair combed straight back and wire-rimmed glasses that hooked around his ears.

Well,

thought Wes,

at least he looks experienced.

With the attorney's encouragement, Wes quickly described his experience at his home and then handed him the papers the process server had given him. Samuels took his time reviewing them, then looked carefully at Wes. "Very well, young man, what is it you'd like me to do for you?"

Wes gave him a pleading look. "Isn't there some way you can get this restraining order lifted? If I could meet with Marlene, I could try to talk her out of this. She's gone off half-cocked, and I don't even know what's wrong."

Samuels steepled his fingers together, then swiveled to look out the window. A few seconds later he turned back to his new client and leaned forward. "If you will permit me, I'd like to share several insights with you."

Wes nodded, and the man began to count off his points on his fingers. "First, in California you cannot prevent a divorce if the other partner wants one. To be blunt, your wishes are irrelevant. Second, by locking you out of your house, your wife has made it very clear that she does not want to discuss her decision with you. Third, she has reinforced her wishes by obtaining a restraining order, effectively precluded the possibility of meeting with you at all, except with her attorney present. Fourth, by seizing your shared bank account she is trying to apply pressure on you to agree to the divorce as quickly as possible. We will get your half of the funds back eventually, but she's hoping you'll feel the financial pressure before then, especially with your added living expenses. Don't forget: you're still responsible for the mortgage, utilities and other expenses needed to maintain the house, even if you're not living there. Finally, you should be aware that your wife has not 'gone off half-cocked' as you put it. She's been planning this for quite some time."

"How can you know that?" Wes burst out.

Samuels eyed him calmly. "Obtaining a restraining order is not something one can accomplish in a day or two. She had to retain an attorney some time ago. It will have taken her attorney time to prepare a petition and present it to the judge for review and approval. Similarly, hiring a process server and having the locks on your house changed also required time to arrange. Clearly she has planned all this out very carefully well in advance."

Wes slumped in his chair. "She never gave me a hint anything was wrong." He shook his head in bewilderment. "She even told me she loved me when I called from the airport!"

The older man showed no reaction.

Wes heaved a sigh. "Well, I guess I'm going to get divorced then." He gave an angry shake of his head. "But I'd still like to know why. What made her decide to end our marriage without even discussing it with me?"

Samuels shook his head. "I can't provide any insight into that, but I may be able to direct you to someone who can. There is a detective agency that our firm uses regularly. They are effective, efficient and reasonably priced. They are also convenient; in fact, they're located on the same floor of this building as we are. I'd be glad to contact them on your behalf if you wish."

"You're damned right I would! I want to find out what's going on."

The attorney picked up his phone and asked the receptionist to make the contact. A few minutes later, she knocked on the door and stuck her head in. "Trevor can see Mr. Hardaway as soon as the two of you have finished."

Half an hour later, Wes was standing outside the offices of Sacramento Confidential Investigations. He noted that the door sign was painted with the same gilt lettering as the attorney's offices.

Uncertainly, he knocked on the door. Almost immediately it was opened by a trim, middle-aged man wearing a sportscoat and slacks. "Come in, Mr. Hardaway," the man greeted him. "I've been expecting you. I'm Trevor Samuels, the head of SCI."

"Nice to meet you," Wes replied politely, shaking his hand. Then he paused. "Did you say 'Trevor Samuels'?" That's the same name as . . .

The detective grinned at him. "Yep, I'm Winston's brother. We both went into the Law, but Win got a law degree while I got a detective's badge. After I left the force, he and I developed a mutually beneficial partnership." He saw the hesitation on Wes' face and hurried on. "But don't let that put you off. I was a detective in San Francisco for twenty-five years before I went out on my own, so I know what I'm doing. Now, come on back to my office and let's talk."

The detective listened silently as Wes recounted his story. "Your brother says I can't stop this divorce," he concluded, "but I'd sure like to know what's really going on. It's bad enough to have your whole life turned upside down. Getting ambushed like that is pouring salt on the wound. It's just so humiliating that she would lock me out and get an order of protection against me. I want to know why she'd do all that."

The detective nodded sagely. "I can certainly understand that, and I'm pretty confident we can get you some answers as to why she's done what she's done. But I don't need to investigate anything to make a good guess why she took out that order of protection. Assuming you're being straight with me and you've never hit or harmed her . . ."

"No, definitely not! I would never do that," Wes burst out.

"In that case, I'm pretty certain your wife is laying the groundwork for her future at your expense." Wes gave him a confused look. "When her friends ask her about the divorce," the detective explained, "all she has to do is say, 'I don't really want to talk about it, but I had to take out an order of protection on Wes.' From that point on, you're the bad guy. Everyone will think they know why she locked you out and filed for divorce. Your reputation goes in the toilet and she, saint that she is, never has to say a single word against you."

Wes' mouth fell open. "I can't believe she would be that spiteful."

Trevor nodded. "She's set the whole thing up very cunningly, Mr. Hardaway. Now the only question is why. I think I can get some answers for you pretty quickly, maybe as soon as in a week."

"That would be great," Wes replied, shaking his hand.

For the rest of the afternoon, Wes did everything his attorney had recommended to protect his financial affairs. But the information he'd learned earlier kept eating away at him.