by Lolita Files
“I want my mama!” she cried, and fled from the room.
She raced down the hall, into her bedroom, and slammed the door.
The man was still kneeling on the floor, beside the Easy Bake oven and the open box. He glanced over at the woman.
Unfazed, she got up from the sofa and walked out of the house.
PART TWO TRANSITIONS
THIGHS WIDE SHUT
Bettina stared up at the white ceiling.
There was a curious pattern in the far right corner that had been holding her attention for almost half an hour. The more she looked at it, the surer she became. She opened her eyes and closed them, peering through the fading shadows of dawn, but the shape remained the same, growing clearer the more she examined it. She wondered if she was hallucinating—that maybe she wasn’t seeing what she thought she was.
She looked at the thing again. From where she lay, she could clearly see its outstretched wings. And robe. The only thing missing was the halo. What in the world was an angel doing etched into the corner of her ceiling?
She glanced away for a few seconds, then let her eyes return. She could still see it. How long had it been there? Why hadn’t she ever noticed it before?
Even though the bedroom windows of her Santa Monica condo were closed, the room had an early morning chill. She shifted her eyes over to the large silver-rimmed clock on the far right wall. It was six-thirty. She’d been awake for more than three hours, just lying in the darkness. What had awakened her, she couldn’t remember. All she knew was that something was different.
The man beside her lay on his back, calmly sleeping. Bettina glanced down at him. Beneath the covers he was naked, and so was she. As she watched him, she realized that he might as well have been a stranger. She felt nothing for him, other than being annoyed that he was taking up more than half of her bed.
Devin Orrem was a portfolio manager. He was thirty-seven, tall, light skinned, and ruggedly handsome. Originally from Brooklyn, New York, he had a keen sense of wit and a flashy sense of style. There was a roughness smoldering beneath his surface that had piqued her curiosity.
Devin was wealthy and well-connected, and loved to lavish her with jewelry. He was also married with two kids. He’d spent the last ten nights at Bettina’s place. They’d been playing house—cooking together, sexing it up, and talking about what was going on in their respective worlds. She never once saw him make a call to his wife. If he did, Bettina didn’t care to know about it.
She and Devin had been bonding for the past few nights. He told her about a big deal he had pending that would net him a whopping quarter-million-dollar commission. She told him all about her plans to leave Massey-Weldon and go work for Randall and Steve at Vast Horizons.
Devin’s wife believed he was away on business travel. Bettina wondered what kind of fool his wife, a well-known Beverly Hills Realtor, must be.
Wait a minute, she thought as she studied a glistening droplet of drool that was gathering in the corner of his sleeping mouth. His wife had claim to him and, according to California community property law, rights to half of whatever was his. His wife was no dummy. Bettina realized that she was the one who was the fool.
As she glanced from Devin, to the clock, back to the angel (which now appeared to be hovering in the corner of the ceiling), all she knew was that she wanted him gone. She squinted her eyes, studying the angel again.
Yeah. She definitely wanted Devin gone.
Her bed had seen way too many men. Men who didn’t belong there. Men looking for a temporary hiding place from home. Men looking for good sex without accountability. Looking for what one guy once vulgarly referred to as “the ever-elusive tight black pussy.”
“And it looks like you have it, baby,” he’d said.
She had gone to bed with that man, as repugnant as she found his words. That was two years ago. She couldn’t even remember his name. He was someone important, she thought. She met him at the Shark Bar. He drove a brand-new black Hummer and said he knew Spike Lee. Claimed they were good friends. He would introduce, if she desired.
Of course, no introduction ever came.
But he did, and was never seen or heard from again.
Bettina shuddered, remembering it all.
Devin made a gurgling sound in his sleep. Bettina’s top lip quivered.
Everything was stacked in the favor of men, she realized, and nothing was stacked in hers. The tennis bracelet and diamond pendant Devin had given her were nice, but, when the dust settled, he was going home back to his wife, leaving Bettina alone with nothing but trinkets.
She couldn’t celebrate holidays with trinkets. Trinkets couldn’t hold her close at night. Trinkets couldn’t father children, and they certainly weren’t helping to advance her career. Devin’s being well connected served her no purpose. He wasn’t introducing her to anybody, despite countless promises that he would. He was too jealous to share her at all.
Something about the angel kept disturbing her. She wasn’t sure if it was the outstretched wings, its undeniable shape, or the fact that she had never noticed it there before now. She blinked her eyes rapidly, then looked again. There it was, blatant and bold.
Bettina knew a hint when she saw it.
“Get up,” she said loudly, shaking the man. “Devin. Get up.”
Devin stirred slightly, then rolled away from her. She shook him again, this time harder.
“Devin! Get up!”
He arched his back, stretched, made a groaning sound, and turned in her direction. He reached out, trying to pull her close. She could feel his hardness pressing against her leg.
“Come here, baby,” he whispered. “Gimme summa that good morning love.”
Bettina’s lip instinctively curled in disgust as he touched her.
“Stop it,” she said. “Get up. You’ve got to go home.”
He sleepily nuzzled against her breast, flicking his tongue across her nipple. She shoved him away.
“Devin, get out. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Consciousness began to wash over him. He sat up, eyes blinking.
“What the hell are you talking about?” He frowned. “What happened? Did you have a bad dream?”
“I’ve apparently been having one for some time now. But I’m not asleep anymore. That’s all that matters. Get dressed. Go home.”
She threw the covers aside and slid out of the sprawling four-poster bed. She could sense the warm sensation of his eyes scanning her nakedness, and didn’t like the feeling at all. She walked across the room and grabbed the rose-colored handwoven Japanese silk robe (a gift from Randall, of all people) from the back of the curved beige brocade chaise facing the bed. She slid into the robe and tied it securely around her body. She sat down.
The further away from him, she thought, the better.
Devin, stupefied, sat in the bed, staring at her.
She’s about to give me drama, he feared. This is the part where she tells me I’d better leave my wife, or else. Like I need this shit first thing in the goddamn morning.
“Bettina … baby,” he began, “let’s not do this, okay? You know how I feel. All I need is a little time to get my shit together, and then I’m outta there. Then it’s just you and me, baby.”
Bettina laughed bitterly.
“What are you talking about? I don’t want you! Why would I want a man who would leave his wife and kids, just like that? Once we got together, you’d do the same thing to me!”
“I’m not just leaving them …,” he stammered.
“Exactly,” she quipped, cutting him off. “You’re not leaving them at all, are you?”
Devin sighed, baffled. He dropped his chin to his chest.
Why are women so fucking unpredictable? he mused. She just needs some dick, that’s all. She woke up this morning all bent outta shape, and now all of a sudden I’m the bad guy. A good piece of dick will fix everything.
He grew hard just thinking about it. He couldn’t understand why w
omen didn’t just ask for dick when that was all they really wanted in the first place. They had to take you through all these other machinations, only to end up with a stiff one between their legs. He’d thought Bettina was different, but that was okay. If she wanted him to play macho man, he was more than happy to do it.
Devin threw back the covers. Bettina was relieved.
“Good,” she sighed. “Now get dressed and get out.”
When he stood from the bed, Bettina saw his erection rearing its fiery red head. Devin did his best Mandingo swing as he swaggered towards her.
“What the fuck is the matter with you?!” she screamed. “Get away from me! I told you, I want you to leave!”
“You don’t really mean that, baby,” he crooned, coming closer. “Now come here and let Daddy love you up. I’m gon’ make everything better, just watch and see.”
Bettina, angry and frustrated, sat back on the chaise, pulling her knees protectively up to her chest.
“Don’t come near me, Devin,” she threatened. “I’m serious. I’m not playing with you.”
Devin came over anyway, his penis rock-hard. He leaned down, reaching for her. Bettina, now angry, frustrated, and keyed up, was kangaroo-ready. She kicked him, à la Francine and kindergarten Montessori, square in the middle of his tightly rippled stomach.
Devin, stunned and unsuspecting, fell back into the plushness of the bone Karastan. His erection was blazing. The kick excited him even more and sent what felt like an extra liter of blood to his already-overengorged tool. He’d always wanted to have a fight as a prelude to sex, and Bettina was just the kind of firecracker to give it to him.
He got on his knees and crawled towards her, his hardness stabbing him in the stomach with each move that he made.
Bettina couldn’t believe he didn’t get the message.
“Get out of my house, Devin.!” she screamed. “Before I call the cops! After that, I’m calling your wife! She oughta arrive just after they get here. Then she can see what kind of husband she really has!”
Devin saw the fury in her eyes. It spurred him on. If he was lucky, she might even let him smack her around a little, not just on the ass, like he often did. Perhaps they could have a real fight and he could work her over good, Brooklyn-style.
“Who’s my bitch?” he whispered. He knew Bettina liked it when he called her that. She usually dug her well-manicured nails deeper into his back and buttocks when he said it. Got him in trouble a few times with those nail digs. Pissed his wife off something lovely. She got over it. He’d blamed it on his eager new masseuse.
He kept crawling Bettina’s way.
Bettina sprang from the chaise and ran over to the phone on the nightstand beside the bed. She picked it up and dialed 911.
Devin, still on his knees, followed her with his eyes.
“Yes,” she said plainly, “I’d like to report a disturbance.”
She’s taking this fight shit much too far, he thought.
“Bettina,” he said nervously, “put the phone down.”
“There’s an intruder in my home,” she continued. “I need you to get someone over here as quickly as possible.”
Sweat began to form on Devin’s top lip. His erection, seemingly granite and invincible up to that moment, withered, as if it had been pricked with a pin. Confused, he sat back on the carpeting, the lush new pile chafing his butt.
“Bettina, what do you think you’re doing?”
“No,” she said, ignoring him, “I’m in my bedroom, but I can hear the person moving around inside my condo.”
This bitch is actually calling the cops, he realized.
Devin pushed himself up from the floor and walked towards her. Bettina shot him a look that warned him to stay away. Unsure, he raised his palms and backed up.
“Yes, that’s my address. How long? Okay, thank you.” She hung up the phone.
“The police are on their way. At the most, it’ll take them five or ten minutes to get here. I advise you to get dressed and then get the fuck out.”
Her face was grim. She sat on the side of the bed.
Devin was now concerned.
“Bettina, what’s going on? Why would you call the cops on me? I haven’t done anything to you.”
“I asked you to leave,” she said, “and you didn’t. I asked you nicely. Asked you three or four times. Instead, you come at me with a rock-hard dick, like that’s supposed to do something. Why couldn’t you just go?”
Her face was firm, but her eyes were wet.
Devin, his nakedness now excessive, took a step towards her.
“Stop,” she warned. “Please. For your own sake, put on your clothes and go.”
He sighed heavily, shaking his head in frustration, and walked over to the closet where his suit was hanging. He picked up his boxers from the floor and stepped into them. He picked up a white tank top and pulled it over his head. He slid the mirror-covered door aside and reached for his gray pants.
“I don’t get it,” he muttered, his back to her. “What just happened?”
“Nothing, and everything,” Bettina replied. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”
He slipped into his light blue dress shirt.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he continued, his fingers deftly closing the buttons. “What’s this really about? It’s not about me leaving my wife, is it?”
She shook her head.
“It’s not about you at all. It’s about me. I’m just tired of doing this. I’m tired of men like you passing through my world. Men I don’t even love. Men who don’t even love me.”
Devin, putting his right arm into the sleeve of his jacket, stopped cold. He laughed angrily, suddenly realizing what was going on.
“So that’s what this is about?” he sneered, turning towards her. “You think I don’t love you? What, have you met somebody now that you think is for real? Is that it? Because I’m married, now I’ve got to go?”
Bettina tightened the sash on her robe.
“This isn’t about anybody other than me. I want you out of my life. That’s all there is to it.”
Devin reached inside the closet for his shoes. His socks were tucked inside them. He angrily pulled the socks on. He was bursting with jealousy.
“Where did you meet him?” he demanded. “Huh? At work? At a party? I don’t see how you were able to get anything started. I’ve been here every night for more than a week!”
He wasn’t ready to let go of Bettina. He definitely couldn’t take her being with another man. He’d rather see her dead first.
He stood in front of the closet, boiling inside. Despite everything he knew about her, he felt like she was his. She was so delicately beautiful, like a naïve little girl—the polar opposite of his tough-as-nails, take-no-shit wife. Bettina accommodated him and made him feel like a man. The thought of her making love to someone else made Devin want to rush over, choke her, and snap her beautifully graceful neck in two.
“So what was last night, huh?” he challenged. “A final hoorah? Bust a nut then bus me out?” He began pacing the floor like a cougar. “You think I’m gonna let someone like you use me? You obviously forget who you’re dealing with, my dear!”
Someone like you, Bettina noted. Now what did he mean by that?
Stop kidding yourself, she silently acknowledged. You know exactly what he means.
“It’s not like you haven’t been using me,” she softly replied. “Now go, before the cops get here.”
“Let me tell you something, you little skank.” Devin’s eyes were full of fire as he slipped his feet into his black handmade Italian leather shoes. “I don’t just give away expensive jewelry. Ask my wife. I haven’t given her any in years. And I don’t have casual affairs, either. You meant something to me, and that’s probably more than you can say for all the other men you’ve been with.”
Bettina looked away, not wanting to see or hear him anymore.
“How many of them would be willing to forgive your ugl
y reputation, huh?” Devin asked, now standing over her. “Not one time did I ever let that get in the way. I knew you were a freak. Everybody knows it. But I treated you like a person, not just a pair of legs with a hole between ’em.”
Bettina felt her insides lurch as the bitter taste of bile and irony rose in her throat.
There. He’d said it. The very thing she’d wondered about herself was now brought forth into the light. A freak. She was a Hollywood whore. High-class, high-strung, yes—but nevertheless a well-known, oh-you’ve-had-her-too-did-she-suck-your-so-and-so whore.
All this time, she had fooled herself into believing that everything she’d done was for her career. That people didn’t talk. No one, not really, knew any of her business or just how many men she’d been with.
But that was a lie. That’s all black folks did in LA. Talk. Gossip, gossip, gossip about other people’s business.
What became of her original goal? She had come out here to make it and be a big-time Hollywood writer and producer.
What had become of her?
There was no career to speak of. And she had been making it, all right. Just not the way she’d planned. She couldn’t believe that, for all the five years she’d been here, she had nothing of substance to show for it. Just lots of toys and a condo she owned free and clear, compliments of lover number twenty-eight. (… Or was it lover number forty-two?) There’d been lots of sex and lots of trips and lots of angry wives and vicious girlfriends, two or three private detectives with photos of her in interesting positions along with a few tapes of racy phone conversations, and, oh yeah, a shitload of condoms flushed out into the Pacific. Enough to wrap all that water up into one big balloon.
She snickered pitifully, shaking her head.
She had actually done the math recently. Devin was lover number forty-five, which meant she’d averaged nine men a year since her arrival in LA, each affair with a life span of no more than a month and some days. Actually, some had overlapped. Amazing how generous a man could become in less than a month. Amazing how, with all their generosity, it hadn’t changed her life one infinitesimal bit.
