by Devon Scott
He is dizzy as the world spins on its axis.
Ryan has been here exactly fifteen seconds and is now being fellated by this stranger. Reese comes up behind him, wrapping her hands around his waist, closing the gap until she is pressing her breasts seductively against his back. Jennifer’s head bobs rhythmically, taking him deep into her mouth with a longing hunger that surprises him. Her fist grips him decisively, oiling him up and down as she slurps him deep into her throat. She stares up at him as Ryan is mesmerized by her actions.
He can barely stand.
The feeling is indescribable.
He has reached behind to palm Reese’s ass. Ryan kneads the flesh, and she responds by grinding against him, spreading her thighs so Ryan can find her sweet spot. He sticks two fingers inside; Reese gasps as Jennifer continues to suck on him, his mind reeling from the exhilaration.
Ninety seconds.
The pressure within his loins is maddening. He is making love to Jennifer’s lovely mouth, her jiggling breasts heaving as Reese uses her tongue to bathe him from behind. His mind is shattering into a million pieces. He is going insane; he can feel it as the seconds mount. The room continues to spin, candlelight appearing like a kaleidoscope as he is bent forward by a strong hand. Ryan snakes his hand downward until he finds Jennifer’s sex, wet to his touch.
One hundred and ten seconds.
He must taste her. So he does.
On the bed, legs splayed wide, he lowers his face to her knees and kisses her there, working upwards to the space where her thighs meet. He touches her pubic hair with his mouth, letting his tongue run in lazy circles, first concentrating on her clit, and then moving downwards to her opening. She is moaning now, grabbing his head gingerly as she begs him not to stop. And he doesn’t. Increasing his feeding as he reaches for Reese, following the rise of her flesh as he pinches a nipple between his fingers.
Reese moans while parting her legs.
Ryan finds her opening, slipping a finger effortlessly inside. The two women lay side-by-side, legs spread as Ryan pleasures them both. He kisses Jennifer’s sweet spot, then moves over to do the same to Reese’s. Jennifer watches in earnest as his fingers find her core, as he licks at Reese’s folds in the way she used to worship.
Hard and raring to go, Ryan enters Jennifer first. He feels her shudder beneath him as Reese kisses Jennifer’s breasts. They are like this for a while, rocking together on the bed, Ryan enjoying the sensual tempo from this stranger.
After a time he moves to Reese. He fills her in one fluid motion, watching her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure.
His eyes are closed and his head is thrust back as he pummels her without mercy, gripping her as he gives her what she desperately needs, taking what he desperately desires.
Then it’s back to Jennifer, on all fours as her head rests in Reese’s lap.
Fucking her with abandonment, Ryan a missile, a piston thrusting in and out with lightning-fast fury, oblivious to the erotic moans and screams around him.
Fuck Carly, his mind shrieks in silence as he pounds Reese from behind.
Fuck her, Ryan muses again as he releases into the quivering folds of a stranger named Jennifer.
They kiss quietly—Ryan, Reese, and Jennifer—before lying down exhausted and spent.
Ryan fails to notice the blinking red light behind the white orchid in the corner, capturing their escapade on mini-DV.
Chapter 40
Three weeks later…
Carly’s hand rests on her swollen belly. She’s dressed in a pair of men’s sweatpants, size extra large, and a maternity top. Her breasts are engorged. Her back and nipples ache. The tea that sits in front of her tastes bitter. So, too, does the pistachio ice cream embedded with the chocolate chunks. She pushes them aside and struggles to stand, taking in her surroundings. She is in the living room on the first floor, a room she’s come to loathe, like the rest of this house—every square inch of space reminding her of the life she and Ryan used to share.
Carly is exhausted. She’s always exhausted now. Yet, restful sleep eludes her. So, she grabs her BlackBerry off the coffee table and thumbs the control wheel, erasing e-mails as the TV drones on.
It is 11:47 P.M.
At this hour, the room is the color of indigo.
Olivia is on her back, nude, arms stretched overhead, her palms pressing into the cool cherrywood headboard of their bed. Her legs are spread wide, ass off the damp mattress, eyes scrunched shut, as if afraid of what they might see should they suddenly open. The three-hundred-thread count sheet does little to stifle the heat radiating from within.
There are no sounds up here on the second floor, back of the house facing the tall woods. For a moment, she concentrates on the silence, willing herself to hear something—anything. When she does not, she rises, kicking the covers from her clammy form, and goes to the window, thrusting it wide open.
The coolness of night assaults her. So does the sound of nocturnal creatures.
Her nipples harden instantly from the cold, and for a moment, this is all Olivia can grasp and hold onto: the yin and yang of hot and cold, and the similarity of these sexual/asexual desires rooted inside her. The cold air attacking her skin and boiling loins feels good…but only for a few seconds.
Glancing back at the empty bed, Olivia tries not to wonder where her husband lays tonight.
Or worse.
With whom…
While holding her cell to an ear, she fills her lungs with a deep drag before exhaling through her nostrils.
She’s standing in the alley, not because she can’t smoke inside, but because the others are so damn nosy.
“Naw, girl, I’m not good. You know that nigga hasn’t called? Yeah, can you believe it? You’d think after that pussyfest, he’d change his tune. But that’s okay—’cause I got something for his ass.”
She switches ears, takes another drag before tossing the butt away. She watches the orange sparks collide with cobblestone.
“Oh yeah, girl—he’s got a surprise coming! Just you watch. The nigga’s gonna be sorry he forgot about me! Anyhoo, gotta get back to the grind—later!”
Reese snaps her cell shut and reaches for the back door to The Rhyme.
She’s wearing a smile—the first one in about three weeks….
Three-forty A.M.
Darkness is a drug.
It envelops, soothes, and consoles all it touches.
Finally, after hours of fretful tossing, Carly has grown still.
Only to wake to a sound.
It is indistinct, but she perks up immediately, as if she hasn’t been sleeping at all.
Pulse in her neck sprinting, covers clutched close to her breast, head cocked to the side, trying to pinpoint the sound.
There. Again. Softer, but distinct this time.
Definitely something…
She rises quickly, throwing off the comforter and gliding effortlessly on the balls of her feet to the window—pushing the wooden slats slowly aside.
Nothing. The deck and back woods are dead quiet.
To the front of the house now. Slowly, purposefully. Into one of the guest bedrooms. To the window—again, edging wooden slats aside.
A lone, late model vehicle, its running lights on, is pulling away from the curb. D.C. tags, but the numbers are illegible from here. Flash of brake lights before the car hangs a quick left and vanishes.
Taking the steps carefully, Carly surveys the living room and kitchen areas before moving to the front door, face pressed against the wood, taking a quick peek out through beveled glass.
Nothing.
The street is, like the backyard, deathly quiet.
To the alarm in the hallway; all indicator lights a steady green.
Disarming it, she returns to the front door, takes a sharp intake of breath before opening it.
There—down by the corner of the braided welcome mat—a thick package, hastily wrapped in brown grocery bag paper, its ends covered with masking tape.<
br />
Addressed to her.
Carly glances quickly up and down the street as the wind stirs, causing her teeth to chatter.
She hesitates before picking up the package. In this post 9-11 era, it could be a bomb. But her curiosity gets the best of her. So, she reaches for it, and returns to the comfort and safety of her home. Locks the door, resetting the alarm quickly.
Doesn’t breathe until she’s ripped the package open.
A videotape.
No label.
Carly doesn’t cry until she’s viewed its contents….
Chapter 41
“Hello, fucker!”
Ryan is disoriented by the lateness of the hour, but not so much so that he fails to recognize the voice.
“Reese. Do you know what time—”
“Yeah, I know exactly what time it is. Long time no hear, nigga! Three weeks and two days to be exact.”
“First off, I’m not your nigga. Second, I’ve been busy, and it’s really late. What do you want?”
Reese draws in a breath, exhales before speaking.
“Oh, so it’s like that? Nigga gets a shot of some double chocolate pussy and then it’s lights out—radio silence. Okay, cool. A sistah was just ringing you up to say hello and shit. See how the wife is doing.”
Ryan sighs.
“My wife is fine, Reese.”
“Is she? I don’t think so.”
Ryan jolts up in his bed. The apartment where he is staying is cramped, the one bedroom hardly capable of fitting in all of his stuff. Most of his life is stacked neatly in boxes in the living room; the rest is in storage.
“Excuse me?” he says, reaching for the lamp on the nightstand.
“You deaf? I said, I don’t think so. At least not after seeing your ass in action.”
“Just what the fuck are you talking about? I told you to stay away from my wife!”
“Your acting debut. The video, nigga.” A short laugh.
“What video?” Ryan asks, rising from the bed.
“Oh, you know—me, you, Jennifer, New York City. Gotta tell you, you sure were working it that night. You might be an asshole, but you sure can lay the pipe!”
The cell has dropped from his palm, but Reese doesn’t know it yet. It lies on the top folds of his blanket while he races to the kitchen. Snatching up the phone, he dials his home number—well, her home number now since it no longer belongs to him—and waits an excruciatingly long time while the phone rings and rings and rings.
Shit.
Meanwhile, Reese has figured out Ryan’s gone. She unleashed a few “fuck yous” before hanging up.
Back in the bedroom, Ryan grabs his cell and snaps it shut. It rings an instant later.
“If you’re fucking with me, Reese—”
“Oh, we’re way past that, lover. See, I figure the only thing a nigga like you responds to is violence.”
With the phone to his ear, Ryan pulls on a pair of jeans.
“WHAT?”
Reese is calm—almost too calm.
“Violence. It got your attention before; it’s gonna get your attention again.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Miles. And now I’m gonna fuck up everyone you hold dear—gonna fuck them up real bad until you have no one left. Yup, violence is the only answer ’cause you don’t wanna act right!”
“YOU LISTEN TO ME, you cunt, touch my wife and I’ll fuck—”
The avalanche is careening out of control, swallowing everything in its wake—leaving nothing but death.
The line goes dead.
Ryan stares in disbelief at his phone.
Hits speed dial for Carly’s number.
Nothing.
Hits redial.
“Come ON!” he yells to the empty room.
Nothing.
Shit.
Eyes the time…3:57 A.M.
Where the fuck can she be?
Pulls on a sweater and boots. Reaches for his wallet.
Thumbs 911 as he sprints out the door.
“Nine-one-one emergency. Please hold…”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Ryan is in the parking lot, racing for his car. He’s got the engine cranked and heat running before the call goes through.
“I need the police sent to my house—this is an emergency—my wife may be in danger! Hurry!”
Ryan gives the 911 operator the information:
Crazed lover—ex-lover.
Pregnant wife, not picking up the phone.
He’s at least twenty-five minutes out.
No way can he reach her in time.
The operator asks a few questions before dispatching the police.
“A patrol car is on the way, sir.”
Ryan ends the call.
Hits speed dial again.
“Carly, pick up, PICK UP!”
Nothing.
A freight train out of control.
Fuck!
Redial. Again. And again. And again.
Nothing.
Fuck. Fuck!! FUCK!!!
He races the car out of the complex, almost side-swiping a bunch of parked cars in the process.
“Calm down, calm down; don’t kill yourself. Get there in one piece,” Ryan recites to himself.
Glances down at his cell. Where could she be? An immediate pain shoots through his abdomen as he considers the fact that she could be with Tyler Nichols again.
Put it out of your mind!
He contemplates calling Olivia and Miles. Carly could be there, although doubtful.
Takes a few seconds to decide.
Speed dials their number.
After four rings, he hits END and then redials.
Down 16th Street, which is desolate this time of night, thank God, he races through several red lights, knowing he’ll surely be caught on camera at one of these intersections.
Fuck it.
No answer from Olivia and Miles.
No answer from Carly.
WHAT THE FUCK?
Ryan steers onto the Southeast/Southwest Expressway. A few cars share the road with him. Ryan floors the accelerator as he considers his options.
Glances down at his cell while gritting his teeth.
Then makes the call.
“Hello?” The voice is groggy, almost weary.
“Hey, Luther,” Ryan says apologetically, “sorry to wake you.”
Taking 295 south, he steers his vehicle towards Maryland and the home he used to share with his wife.
The speedometer reads 79 mph.
“Ryan? What time is it?”
“Yeah, it’s me—and it’s late. It’s an emergency, or I wouldn’t…wouldn’t have bothered you.”
“What’s the matter?” Luther is wide awake now, voice matter-of-fact and clear.
“That chick I asked you to check out—she’s stalking my wife…threatened her. And this time, I think Carly’s truly in danger!”
“Slow down. How come you never called me back? I left several messages at your home regarding her. Dude, she’s definitely a nut job!”
“WHAT?” Ryan almost screams into the phone. He presses down on the accelerator hard; the car lurches in the cold, dark air.
“I checked her out, just like you asked. Misplaced your cell number, so I left a number of messages at home. That was, like, six, seven months ago, right?”
“Sorry, man, things have been really fucked up—never got them.”
“Okay. Give me the thirty-second version. All of it.”
Ryan does.
“Jesus. Okay, you need to know this: your girl was jailed for assault—twice—and get this—the people she assaulted were dudes!”
“Fuck, I gotta go. Got to reach Carly.”
“Ryan—hang on—let me call this in.”
Luther drops his cell and reaches for his other phone. Punches in a number, and Ryan can hear bits of the conversation.
“Give me your address at home,” Luther commands.
<
br /> Ryan does.
“Okay. I’m back. I’ve got a partner who lives out that way. He’s off-duty but on his way. He’ll check it out and make sure your wife is safe.”
“Thank you. Jesus—assault? Jail—when was this?” Ryan asks.
“Shit, I don’t remember the details, but I believe it was several years ago down in Virginia Beach. She did thirty days the first stint; second time, fucked up this guy she was seeing real bad. Put his ass in the hospital. She did six months in lock up for the crime. Crazy bitch!”
“Luther, I’ve got to get home. I’ve got to reach Carly.”
“Understand, bro. Just don’t do anything stupid. Let law enforcement do their job.”
“Way too late for that,” he whispers before ending the call.
Chapter 42
He arrives at the home he used to share with his wife, back when life was simple and honest—no deceit, no lies. The reddish brick colonial stands majestic in the nighttime air, the cul-de-sac quiet and dark, save for the flashing blue and red lights from the cruiser sitting in the driveway.
Ryan pulls up alongside and cuts the engine before jumping out. A cop’s flashlight is in his face almost immediately.
“I’m the one who phoned this in. I’m the husband.”
“Let me see some identification,” the cop responds.
“Is she safe? Is my wife okay?”
“Sir, identification please.” The cop’s tone is firm.
Ryan pulls his wallet out and proffers his license. The cop shines his light on it for a moment, then back up at Ryan’s face. Satisfied, he returns the license to Ryan.
“No one’s home—or so it seems. The place is locked up tight. Can you let us in?”
Ryan shrugs. “I don’t have the key…” and as an afterthought he adds, “anymore.” Then says, “Let me see if the garage code’s changed.”
