A Rocky Divorce Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Reviews

  Dedication

  Chapter

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Bonus

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Pandamoon

  A Rocky Divorce

  A Rocky Series of Mysteries

  Book One

  By Matt Coleman

  © 2019 by Matt Coleman

  This book is a work of creative fiction that uses actual publicly known events, situations, and locations as background for the storyline with fictional embellishments as creative license allows. Although the publisher has made every effort to ensure the grammatical integrity of this book was correct at press time, the publisher does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. At Pandamoon, we take great pride in producing quality works that accurately reflect the voice of the author. All the words are the author’s alone.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pandamoon Publishing. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  www.pandamoonpublishing.com

  Jacket design and illustrations © Pandamoon Publishing

  Art Direction by Don Kramer: Pandamoon Publishing

  Editing by Zara Kramer, Rachel Schoenbauer, and Jessica Reino, Pandamoon Publishing

  Pandamoon Publishing and the portrayal of a panda and a moon are registered trademarks of Pandamoon Publishing.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC

  Edition: 1, version 1.00

  Reviews

  “Matt Coleman’s A Rocky Divorce has it all - a can’t miss protagonist in the titular Rocky, razor-sharp prose, and a bonkers, gonzo feel that makes every page an adventure. Don’t miss this one - Coleman’s a name to watch.” ─Alex Segura, acclaimed author of Blackout and Dangerous Ends

  "A Rocky Divorce is a hilarious whodunnit with one of the more original amateur detectives you’ll find. Rocky had me laughing, screaming, and wanting to know who the killer was. A truly awesome addition to the crime writing genre." ─Amina Akhtar, author of #FashionVictim

  “LAUGH OUT LOUD FUNNY! Matt Coleman takes you on a rollercoaster ride with his first book in a new series. You will want to jump in and enjoy the ride. I can’t wait for the next installment to see what Rocky is going to do next.” ─The Write Review

  “Coleman’s signature steady action pace is fully present, along with fantastic one-liners and well-rounded characters that would feel like clichés in less-skilled hands. A Rocky Divorce is a hilarious page-turner with a protagonist that you’ll want to make your best friend, because you wouldn’t want her for an enemy.” ─Penni Jones, author of Kricket

  * * *

  Praise for Juggling Kittens

  "Toss Tom Perotta, Raymond Chandler, and Hunter S. Thompson in the air, and you've got JUGGLING KITTENS: an electric, energized romp through the wilds of Ruddy Creek, Arkansas. When an outcast student goes missing, his doe-eyed middle school teacher takes it upon himself to find him. What ensues is a switchbacking chase from local character to back woods, churches to small town secrets. At once outlandish and heartfelt, hilarious and deeply macabre, this novel explodes with colorful, lively prose and crisp dialogue that will have you turning pages. A riveting, accomplished debut by a terrific new voice. Coleman's substantial talent is one to watch." ─Sara Lippmann, author of Doll Palace: Stories

  "It's sarcastic fun, and features an unsettling mystery. While [the] search for a missing student keeps the pages turning, Coleman's subtle exploration of rural life, education, relationships, parenthood, and America's response to 9/11 is the novel's true selling point." ─Daniel Ford, Writer's Bone

  “Juggling Kittens was absolutely fucking wonderful.” ─David Joy, author of The Line That Held Us

  * * *

  Praise for Graffiti Creek

  “Graffiti Creek by Matt Coleman is a non-stop thrill ride that may be the best adventure/chase novel you read this year. From the opening pages, the action begins and keeps the reader on the edge of their seat all the way through to the climactic finale. However, Graffiti Creek is more than just an action adventure novel. Mr. Coleman takes particular care in bringing forth a nuanced cast of characters; each with a story to tell, each believable in their actions and motivations. Graffiti Creek is also deftly plotted with more twists and turns within the pages than one of Cary Trubody’s many pulse-pounding acts of escape. Mr. Coleman has produced a first-rate thriller. And one that screams to be read in one sitting; those with heart conditions exempted, of course.” ─ Neil A White for Readers’ Favorite

  “Graffiti Creek is stuffed to the covers with action, energy, and daring chase scenes - and also manages to demonstrate a good bit of heart along with its adrenaline.” ─IndieReader

  "[A] book that, besides having a ton of heart and being superbly written, entertains constantly in that deep, brain-tingling way only great fiction can." ─Gabino Iglesias, Wonderland Book Award-winning author of Coyote Songs

  Dedication

  To my wife, Samantha, and her ex-husband’s mistress.

  Without either of you two ladies this book would have never been possible.

  A Rocky Divorce

  Chapter 1

  Raquel Champagnolle Arnold parked sideways across the driveway and chewed on a straw. The straw matched the baby blue of the monogram on her stainless-steel tumbler full of Diet 7-Up. She pulled for a drink but realized her distracted gnawing ruined the straw, so she dropped the cup back into its holder in her console and studied the scene before her. She parked before a quaint little house in a mediocre neighborhood. The house of an office assistant. Maybe a hairdresser. Raquel blocked in a jacked-up Chevy pickup—big and black and teetering on oversized, knobby tires. The man who purchased this truck overcompensated for things in his life. In fact, the same man bought the car pinning in the Silverado—Raquel’s little black Lexus—in an effort to overcompensate for some of those things in his life. Raquel knew both of these to be facts. Because the truck parked in the hairdresser’s driveway belonged to Chet Arnold. Her own husband.

  A little bumper sticker on the shiny chrome displayed the Rocky Horror lips. Chet bought the sticker as a sort of tribute to Raquel, who had gone by Rocky all her life thanks to her father’s love of the cult classic. When Chet first showed the decal to her, she answered his grunt of “sexy, huh?” with a riposte that the lips belonged to a transvestite. A sweet one, but still. Caustic wit served as one of the countless ways Rocky took the proverbial wind out of Chet’s salacity. She realized it. And the awareness gave her a twinge of guilt, even now. The flirtations of a narcissistic asshole worked on a seventeen-year-old high school Rocky, but ten years later? She glanced from the lips to a pair of truck nuts and the twinge of guilt disappeared in an eye roll.

  “Moron.”

  Rocky bounced out of her car, secured her Michael Kors bag in the crook of her arm, and nancied to the front porch. She stopped and straightened her dress. Pushed her sunglasses up into her dark, satiny hair. Then she took in her surroundings. The neighborhood was lower middle, bordering on poor, but safe. Along with too many windchimes, the narrow bungalow houses boasted hanging pots and daisy-shaped flags and all the trimmings of a neighborhood of older residents. The hairdresser tried to keep up with the manicured flower beds by putting out a few pansies and some ornamental rocks. A weak attempt at best. Pegging the hairdresser as young and stupid, an empty space in her sickly rows of flowers advertised the lack of a security sign. Rocky eyed the rocks and found one a little glossier than the rest. She toed the synthetic cobblestone and it flipped over without any trouble, so she knelt and opened a false bottom, fished out a key, and tossed the fake rock into the front yard.

  The front door opened with a quiet sigh. An overwhelming blend of plug-in air freshener and litter box fumes hit Rocky as she walked into the living room. She turned her nose up at the blue plastic box in the corner surrounded by a disgusting array of gravelly litter kicked out all over the floor. The decorative style of the living room screamed eclectic, to put it nicer than Rocky would describe the mess of a space. There were four different grains of wood between the coffee table, media stand, and bookcases, alone. A hideous floral pattern poked out from underneath a tan slipcover battling to stay in place on the couch. These furniture choices belonged to a person used to saying, No, Grandma, don’t put that on the curb. I can use it.

  Rocky wanted to stroll on into the kitchen and just keep right on dressing down the whole set-up in an inner monologue, but faint moaning
coming from the back of the house distracted her. She recognized the sound all too well. A pained, rhythmic grunt—imagine a caveman playing tennis with a sore knee. The instinctive shudder up her spine coincided with the thought of sex for at least the last two years or so. The other sound—the feigned throes of passion, a porn star imitation in lieu of any threat of actual orgasm…well, she knew that sound pretty well, too.

  She clucked her tongue and strolled back toward the open bedroom door, plucking a vase off a low bookshelf on her way. As she rounded the corner, she recognized the hairy backside of Chet, draped over the bent form of a blonde, thrusting into her with all the grace of a seasick dock worker. Although Chet was a bit doughy, the blonde sported a muscular back and slender ass, like maybe someone he met at the gym. The hairdresser theory fell apart, however. A stark hombre—like your drunk aunt would give you when you slept over at her trailer—flopped around with the motion. But shitty hairdresser remained a viable option.

  Rocky palmed the vase and chunked it hard at Chet’s head, connecting with a clunk and sending the vase bouncing off the wall and to the floor. He swore and jump-turned, covering his crotch. Rocky made the face of someone who had just been served spoiled fish. “Plastic? Who the fuck puts out a plastic vase in your living room?”

  Chet shook his head in disbelief. “Rocky? What the fuck? How’d you get in here?”

  Rocky shrugged. “Well, I somehow managed to crack your girlfriend’s top-notch security system. The better question is how’d you get in there? Could you even feel anything, sweetie? If you want to finish, Chet, go ahead. What’s ten more seconds?”

  Chet started fighting with a pair of khakis from the floor, mumbling, “Jesus, Rocky. You’re so stupid.”

  Rocky flew into a rage, grabbing pictures off the wall and throwing them. “I’m stupid? Me? You parked your ginormous truck in front of your girlfriend’s fuck pad!”

  A picture of an older couple shattered over Chet’s head sending glass all over the bed. The shitty hairdresser shot up to avoid flying shards, revealing a pregnant belly.

  Rocky’s eyes turned from almonds into big, hazel saucers. “She’s pregnant?!?”

  Chet waved his hands in front of him, struggling to put on a pale green polo. “It’s not what you think.”

  Rocky laughed. “I think you’re fucking a pregnant girl.”

  The shitty hairdresser squeaked, “It’s not his.”

  Rocky shot her a look. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t get to talk unless you’re asking for directions to the abortion clinic.”

  Chet took a step toward Rocky. “She’s telling the truth. It’s not mine.”

  Rocky oscillated back and forth between them. “So you mean…” She shook her head in twittery little jerks. “You mean you just want to fuck a pregnant girl?”

  Chet cocked his head. “Baby, you know I have some fetishes.”

  The shitty hairdresser nodded. “It’s more common than you think.”

  Rocky pointed a finger at her. “Shut the fuck up, hairdresser.” She gave her a disgusted shudder. “And fucking wax, for Christ’s sake. What are you, a 1970s centerfold?”

  The shitty hairdresser covered herself and stared back, confused. “I’m a waitress.”

  Rocky threw her head back and laughed. “Of course you are.” She threw a small jewelry box into Chet’s stomach and spun on her heels to storm back down the hallway.

  He caught up with her in the living room and grabbed her arm. She spun out of his grip and he threw his hands up in apology. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t touch you. But, baby, just hear me out. Please.”

  Rocky raised her eyebrows.

  Chet nodded with the gentle motion of a man trying to get a leash on a mean stray dog. “This. All this,” he motioned back toward the shitty hairdresser-turned-waitress. “This means nothing. Less than nothing. I love you, baby. You’re everything to me. It’s just—” He paused, waiting for her to cut him off. But she didn’t. Rocky always gave a person plenty of kindling with which to build their own effigies. “It’s just we both know you haven’t been too sexual as of late. And I get that. I mean, you put on a couple of pounds and it’s hard to feel sexual. I understand. But, baby, I have needs. I’ve tried to get you to help me with some of my sexual proclivities. And you’ve never been willing. I feel like you almost wanted me to go looking for it somewhere else. When’s the last time we even had sex? The time you passed out drunk after my office party. You weren’t even awake. I don’t think it counts. And that was over a month ago. I can’t go so long. You have to understand that, right?”

  Rocky gave one calm nod. Her lips tight. “So let me get this straight. The reason you made the choice to fuck a pregnant waitress is because I am too fat and won’t participate in threeways with you. Is this accurate?”

  Chet rolled his eyes in exasperated disgust.

  “And you decided to tell me this in the living room of your girlfriend while she gets dressed in the back room. And to do so using the word proclivities, which you cannot possibly know how to spell or use in any sentence other than the one you just said.”

  Chet shook his head in angry jerks. “Hey. You came here on your own. I didn’t ask you to come here. You made a choice. And do you know how many opportunities to cheat I’ve had? How many times I’ve been faithful to you? I’m one of the faithfullest people I know.”

  Rocky smiled. “And we’re back.”

  Chet’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Why do you have to make a joke about everything? You’re so stupid.”

  Rocky grinned. “Chet. I want a divorce. No jokes.”

  His cheeks and eyes dropped with genuine hurt. “Baby, no. Wait. I love you. Give me another chance. Please.”

  “You’ve had chances, Chet. This is the last one. I want a divorce. And I am going to take fucking everything.”

  Rocky turned to storm out with dramatic flair. She stopped at the sound of Chet chuckling to himself, and she whipped around. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”

  Chet rubbed his chin and shook his head. “What are you going to take, Rock?”

  She shrugged. “Everything. The land—”

  “Is in my dad’s name.”

  She paused. “The—the house.”

  “My name. My dad co-signed. I can switch the deed over to him by morning.”

  Rocky started to pant, in spite of herself.

  Chet smiled. “You have no fucking clue about anything we own. You’ve been perfectly content to shop and prance around in your fancy fucking car and let me take care of every little thing in your life. And now what? Now you think you can live all on your own?” He laughed. “Rocky, you couldn’t make a pile of your own shit without help.”

  Rocky shrunk away and out the door. She hobbled to her car and sat down hard in the driver’s seat. She was not one to cry. Ever. About anything. But she could feel the sting in her eyes. Not about Chet. He could fuck whomever he wanted to fuck. In all honesty, part of her felt relieved. Infidelity gave her a reason. Something tangible to put on a divorce filing. Anything sounded better than “I grew up and realized he isn’t my person.” But he was right. She had allowed this. Not just the affair, which she halfway allowed by being oblivious to him for half their marriage. She didn’t like being fooled, and it didn’t happen often. But she had let the rest happen, too. Her knowledge of their business dealings amounted to a cursory glance at the checking account and a yearly signing of tax returns she never read. Investments. Savings. Retirement. Land. House. Vehicles. She was clueless. Learned helplessness. Willing, learned helplessness. And now here she was: soon to be divorced and walking away with nothing. She had been duped by a complete fucking idiot.

  She got back out of the car and stormed to the door. She whipped it open and found the two of them sitting and talking in hushed tones on the couch. They barely even registered shock when the door flew open. They did show some puzzlement though when she walked over and picked up the cat box by the handle on top. The clasps on the edges sagged, heavier than she expected, but she was able to carry the box out the door. Rocky hoisted the straining plastic up to the open window of Chet’s truck and pushed the whole thing over and in. The lid made a loud thunk and litter spilled out in a rattling whoosh all over the seat and floor. She turned back, brushing off her hands to find them both standing on the porch, staring in stunned silence. Rocky motioned behind her with a jerk of her head. “I made a pile of that shit all by myself.” She left them standing in the same spot as she drove away.