by Devon Scott
Miles pulls on his penis, which is semi-hard. Thoughts drift like tendrils of smoke back to that wonderful evening, the night when he was able to consummate his lustful fantasies with action. Ryan had been so far gone, so consumed with obsession that he would have fucked a stump if he’d thought it belonged to Olivia.
Miles wasn’t stupid….
He’d seen all along what was going down…
Carly had to be a fool for not seeing what was transpiring before her very eyes.
So, Miles took the bull by the horns and took advantage—not the way he had planned it—but sometimes you have to take hold of the situation and seize the moment. And that’s exactly what he did.
He doesn’t regret a thing.
Olivia stirs. She turns on her back, and then sighs heavily before turning to face him, breathe in his face, inches from his own. Still out. Arm draped over his shoulder before dropping to her side. Miles places one hand on hers, caressing the flesh, feathering the curve to her digits as he masturbates with his other. Slowly, methodically, he draws her hand closer.
Inching nearer to his engorged state.
Miles finally places her hand on top of him. Wraps her fingers around his girth.
Tugging at his hardening member with her slender fingers.
Miles is grinning now as he lifts the silken fabric. Finding the space between his wife’s legs, he rubs her with the palm of his hand.
Olivia emits a slight moan, then parts her legs wider.
Miles considers his two lovers: Olivia and Ryan…Ryan and Olivia.
His wife is stirring, eyes fluttering before coming awake, feeling her hand on her husband’s sex.
Miles is thinking, I took Ryan that night and made him mine…just like I’m going to do to you tonight, my love.
Olivia is thinking, My husband is insatiable, but I can feel his cravings tonight, and this is something I can handle.
She smiles in the near darkness and spreads her thighs wider.
One more time…
Chapter 11
The harshness of sudden light makes his head throb. Like a siren in the dead of night, it is piercing, painful. Ryan, head down, glances up quickly. And just the act of doing so makes him dizzy. The bar is vacant. The bartender, Reese, is cleaning up behind him. She is scooping up half-empty beer bottles, placing them on a drab gray tray. A cup of coffee is positioned in front of him. Gingerly, he reaches out for the handle, puts the mug to his lips, and takes a sip. Lukewarm. He grimaces as Reese walks behind him, her hand on his shoulder as she leans in.
“You straight?”
Ryan nods imperceptibly, and then considers the absurdity of the question, considering his present circumstances.
Am I? Am I straight???
“Closing time, man, you gotta get going,” she says softly. “Coffee for the road?”
Ryan turns his head to stare at her. She is standing there, hand on hip, lower lip being mashed by her teeth. He watches her silently, nods. Reese moves behind the bar, removes the coffee mug, and replaces it with a fresh one. “Don’t have any Styrofoam cups here, so this’ll have to do. You can return it next time you’re in the neighborhood. Deal?”
She is only a few yards away, smiling, and Ryan, for the first time since his terrible ordeal, smiles back. He gazes upon her, notes a certain attraction. She is not at all like his wife, who is tall and thin, light skinned, auburn-colored hair that is normally worn flat-ironed and pressed. This woman is the opposite. Reese is shorter, more filled out, but with sensuous curves, a healthy ass, and large breasts. Her look, though, is what Ryan is drinking in now. The way she broods over him silently; the steel in her brow, nose, and tongue erotic, the afro puffs retro—and yet, it all works for her. And works well. The whole package says: sexy, neo soul. For the first time since he ran screaming from Miles’ car, he feels momentary peace.
Eye of the hurricane…
“You okay?” she inquires.
“Yeah, I’m gonna live,” Ryan responds.
“Good, ’cause I was worried about you. You’ve got this…this lost look to you. Like you just lost your best friend.”
Ryan considers her words. In a way, that’s exactly what happened.
“I’ll be alright. Thanks for the hospitality and the drinks.”
“It’s what I do,” Reese answers. She thinks to herself, There is something about this guy that I like…something intriguing.
Ryan rises from the bar, falters, and reaches out for support. Reese is there with a strong hand.
“Whoa—you need to take it slow. Listen, you’re in no condition to drive, so let me call you a cab.”
“Naw, I’m fine,” Ryan says, sucking in a quick breath before standing on his own. He reaches for his wallet and fumbles around inside before pulling out two twenties. “Keep the change,” he mumbles, palming them to the bar.
“You are too kind.” Reese grabs the bills and places them in the register. “I’m serious, man, you can’t drive. I’d take your keys right now, but then you’d have to wait until tomorrow evening to get them back. So, I’m gonna let you go—but only if you promise not to get behind the wheel.”
Ryan is waving her away as he takes several steps from the bar. It is obvious he has consumed too much liquor. His gait is that of an elderly man or someone with a knee injury. Reese comes from behind to join him, leading him to the door and up the stairs to the street. The going is slow. He needs to hold onto the railing for support. His other hand wraps itself around her waist. The air hits him in the face when they reach the street—a stark contrast to the warmth below. He pulls the halves of his jacket closer around him as he shivers involuntarily.
Reese leads him to the curb and says, “Here you go. You can catch a taxi. Shouldn’t be but a few moments before one arrives.”
Ryan glances around. He recognizes the street, but has no recollection of getting here. Automobiles line the road on both sides. Yet he doesn’t see his.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, arms still looped inside his.
“Can’t find my car,” he slurs.
“Told you, no driving. Want me to take your keys?”
She is leaning close to him. Even after a long night of tending bar and slinging beers, she still has a womanly scent. Ryan closes his eyes to lose himself in her scents.
“Not gonna drive,” he responds, his eyes locking with hers. “Just wanna know where I parked, that’s all.”
Reese grins. “Worry about it when you’ve sobered up. Listen, I gotta go—gotta get back inside to close up. It’s been real.”
Ryan attempts a smile. “Yeah, it has.”
She takes a half step away from him; Ryan wobbles; Reese stops.
“You sure you gonna be okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says softly, waiting for her to disappear, “as soon as I locate my ride.”
The dash reads 2:15 A.M. Reese has cranked the engine twice before it fires. She sits in the front seat rubbing her hands together as she attempts to get warm. The heat is set on high, but this is a ten-year-old car, so it’s going to take a few minutes for the interior to warm.
She is bundled in a brown leather jacket with oversize buttons. The worn backpack slung over her frame now sits squeezed between her shoulder and the driver’s side door. Reese takes off slowly down the brown-stained cobblestone alley, which is strewn with overflowing trash bins. She makes a right, cuts through a mostly empty parking lot to the street, then pauses before steering into traffic. She is heading away from the bar, but as she steals a quick glance in her rearview mirror, she spies him.
Curbside, thirty yards or so away.
Coffee mug in hand.
Him.
Unmistakable.
Reese does a quick U-turn, accelerates to where he stands, and leans to roll down the passenger window. It is then that Ryan notices her.
“Dude,” she says playfully, “you can’t stand here all night. Why haven’t you caught a cab?”
Ryan leans his elbows on the open window, grin
s, and shrugs. Takes a sip of the still warm liquid.
“Been trying, but nobody wants to pick up a black man this late!”
Reese eyes him, sucks her teeth, and then reaches over to unlock the door. “Get in,” she says quickly. Ryan does. “And roll up the window,” she adds. “I’m freezing over here.”
She’s still idling near the curb. They turn to face each other.
“Now what?” she asks, realizing she has no clue as to why she’s offering this stranger a ride.
“I dunno. Still don’t know where I parked my car.”
Reese whistles. “Damn. I told you, no driving. Where’s home?” she asks.
Ryan begins to rapidly shake his head. “Naw, the wife wouldn’t appreciate a pretty young thang dropping me off. Nope.”
Reese notices that he pulls incessantly at the ring on his left hand. She considers his words as she stares. Warms a bit when she hears the compliment. “Okay…”
Reese pulls out. Ryan is silent, mug between his palms, staring out the window. She sighs heavily.
Reese is thinking, It is late. I have a stranger in my car. He has nowhere to go. And I have nowhere to take him…
Nowhere, but home.
Chapter 12
Sunlight blazes into the kitchen, warming the dark ceramic tile floor. Olivia is at the sink preparing coffee; Miles is at the counter, halving a muffin, spreading margarine before placing it in the microwave. His wife is glancing out the window, watching the rustling of tree branches, an occasional cardinal checking the birdfeeder for seeds before flying off into the morning sky; Miles is keenly observing the margarine melt.
Another beautiful day—cool, judging by the wind, but delightful nonetheless.
Olivia sighs contentedly. She received a good night’s sleep.
Well rested…well sexed.
A smile paints her full lips. She turns from the window to pour herself a steaming cup of java.
“Want some?” she asks her husband.
“Please.” She pours a second cup.
“So, Miles,” she says, handing him the mug with a smile, “you never finished telling me about last night.”
Miles takes a cautionary sip and swallows before setting the cup down on the counter.
“What about it?” he asks.
“Come on, honey, why do I feel as if I’m pulling teeth over here? Just tell me. How did it go between you and Ryan?”
Miles is silent.
“MILES!” she says, a bit more forceful. Hands on her hips.
“What? Jesus…”
“Miles, I’m tired of having to ask you the same question a thousand times. You said—”
“Look, baby,” he interjects, going over and placing his hand on her waist, drawing her near, “everything’s cool, okay?” he says with a smile, temporarily deflating her sails. “You asked me to take care of it, and I did—it’s done—nothing for you to worry about. Okay?”
“No, Miles, not okay. I need to know what went down. After all, it’s me who’s gonna see him first thing Monday morning when I get to work, and I don’t want any surprises. Okay?”
Miles stares at his wife for a moment, then bends over to kiss her.
“Baby,” he says softly, his lips inches from hers, “I said everything’s cool. We talked, that’s all. Ryan realizes what happened was a mistake. He’s a man—and he fucked up. It happens. But it won’t happen again. You don’t have anything to worry about. We’re all still friends.”
Miles stands back and sips at his coffee. His wife considers him, clad in a robe, 18-hour stubble on his smooth, dark face. She smiles, reaches out to squeeze his hand, shards of last night entering her mind. Glancing at her watch, Olivia winces, realizing she’s got plenty to do. Even though it’s Saturday morning, she’s an executive. Therefore, work never stops.
Hope my husband is right, she muses. Hope this thing is over. Done with for good.
A confrontation with Ryan is the last thing she wants or needs.
And then there’s Carly to worry about.
Let this be the last thing Olivia or anyone hears on the matter.
Please, God, heed my silent prayers. Push it down deep, out of sight, and I will be eternally grateful…
Carly awakes with a start—jolting up, hair disheveled, back and shoulder aching, senses disoriented. It takes her a few moments to adjust to her surroundings. She finds herself on the couch—television across the room tuned to an all-news channel, sound muted, cell phone on the coffee table beside her. She glances quickly to the watch on her wrist…7:17 A.M.
Oh God!
She glances down.
Favorite pair of sweatpants and Cornell sweatshirt in desperate need of ironing.
Flips open the cell. No incoming calls; nothing missed.
She jumps up, almost yelping from the back pain, the byproduct of a terrible sleep on the sofa, and races to the stairs.
“RYAN?” she yells, head tilted upward to their bedroom.
No response.
Stairs taken two at a time.
In high school and college, she ran hurdles.
Carly’s still got skills.
At the top of the stairs, quick left into master bedroom.
Bed unmade.
“Ryan?”
Bathroom—empty.
“Ryan?”
Down the stairs, taken two, three, and then four at a time. She hits the bottom landing with a deafening thud. Skids on the shiny hardwood. Scoops up the cell and is speed-dialing his number as she races for the kitchen. Footfalls on tile as she reaches for the door leading to the garage.
“RYAN, DAMN IT!” Carly screams.
Two-car garage—left stall containing a black Range Rover. Call goes immediately to voice mail. She snaps the cell shut.
“DAMN IT!”
Two-car garage—right stall empty.
“Husband,” she screams to the quiet house, “where the fuck are you?”
Olivia is stuck in Beltway traffic.
Unfuckingbelievable.
How you gonna have traffic jams on a Saturday morning?
Not even 8 A.M.
Only in the nation’s capital.
Her cell chirps. Olivia reaches for it, stealing a quick glance at the screen.
Oh shit.
Carly.
“Hello?”
“Ryan didn’t come home last night.”
No preamble. No formalities this time.
“And he won’t answer his phone!” Carly exclaims.
“Shit, Carly.” Olivia’s mind is racing along with her heart. She can feel the pounding in her chest. Swears Carly can hear it through the phone.
“Miles. Time—what time did he get home?” she asks, words disjointed.
“’Round midnight, Carly,” she says, trying to sound calming.
“Well, mine never showed. You have any idea where they went?”
Olivia swallows hard. This situation between them—Ryan and Olivia—this thing that occurred several weeks ago—something seemingly so innocuous, something she wishes to God she could undo and forget—suddenly looms in front of her.
It haunts her; it can’t be undone; it won’t go away.
This situation threatens to consume everyone she’s close to—her husband, Miles, her best friend, Carly. This thing between them—Ryan and Olivia—spreading like a tumor, growing out of control with each passing minute.
Something about Miles’ way-too-calm demeanor and his reluctance to talk doesn’t add up.
Like he is hiding something.
Like he doesn’t want her to know the truth.
“No, girl. Miles said they…talked…hung out…guy stuff, you know? I don’t like to pry,” Olivia adds.
“Well,” Carly says, beyond frustration, “I want to know. Where the fuck can he be?”
“Calm down, Carly,” Olivia advises. “Please, just calm down. We’ll find him.”
She switches lanes, brakes, heads for the shoulder. An exit several hundred yards away bec
kons her. Olivia takes it.
“Listen, I’m sure he’s fine. I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of this.”
God, Olivia thinks, what if something’s happened to him?
Could Ryan’s disappearance be related to the conversation her husband had with him? Could it possibly all lead back to this thing with him and her?
Jesus.
Olivia needs to come clean now.
A feeling of sudden doom consumes her. She steers right, into a gas station, stopping by a bank of pay phones. Cuts the engine. Pain seizes her at once. She glances out the window, upwards, as if relief will come from the heavens above. It doesn’t. The sky is a mixture of blues and white clouds. Olivia breathes deep, attempting to collect her thoughts.
Carly needs to know.
Now.
No. Carly can’t know.
Not now.
Olivia exhales sharply.
“Carly, everything’s gonna be alright. Let me call Miles,” she says, “find out what he knows.” Olivia speaks rapidly. “I’ll check the office, too—see if anyone’s seen him.”
“You do that,” Carly snaps.
And the line goes dead.
Chapter 13
At the exact moment Olivia’s line goes silent, Ryan awakens.
He senses floors creaking, hears a door closing and a toilet flush.
Ryan rises up slowly to examine his surroundings. Feeling the throbbing in his head, he curses silently.
He finds himself in a darkened room—a small, cramped one—on the couch, covered by a light blanket, his feet pressed against the end of the hard sofa. Clothes still on and rumpled. The smell of cigarette smoke hangs on the fabric like cheap cologne. Looking around the living room, he sees a small TV housed in one of those entertainment centers made from wood veneer—the kind you find in Wal-Mart or Target. Several dozen DVDs are in the cabinet underneath the TV.
Hardwood floors, no carpet. A rattan chair in the corner by the window. A number of potted plants; a few prints hanging on walls—an apparent attempt to add color to the place. Small trinkets and miniature sculptures made of wood and stone adorn the coffee table and are positioned around the room.
