The Eleventh Commandment

by Lutishia Lovely

  Gabriel looked from Cordella to the master suite window and back to the housekeeper. He then looked down to a wide-eyed Gabe, who was drinking in the conversation as intently as he had the lemonade. “I think I should head to the office,” he said with a smile, reaching for the towel nearby and wiping his forehead. “When the opportunity arises, please give me a call. And don’t worry about the missus, Cordella. It’s my money that pays your salary, not hers. Regarding your employment, I’ll have the final word.”

  A little over an hour later, a shocked but not surprised Gabriel Livingston flipped through his electronic Rolodex. Upon finding the number he wanted, he tapped the screen. “Gregory,” he said, when the call was answered. “Gabriel Livingston.”

  “Dr. Livingston! This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “We’re long overdue for a round or two,” Gabriel said, referring to the golf games that he and fellow doctor Gregory Morgan often enjoyed. “But this is not a social call.”

  “All right, then. What can I do for you?”

  “You can give me your brother Troy’s phone number.”

  “Sure thing. But if you don’t mind me asking, what on earth do you want with my crazy baby brother?”

  “Information. And access to some of his connections through his security firm.”

  “What do you need, Doc?”

  Gabriel’s jaw hardened as he formed his answer. “A private investigator. ASAP.”

  27

  The Juice

  Dr. Gabriel Livingston’s contact with a PI was just beginning, but Tony Johnson’s hour of time with his PT was coming to an end. Sweat ran down his face and over his body as he finished the last repetition of leg lifts on the weight machine.

  “Fifteen,” Vince said. The Los Angeles Sea Lions had trainers for the team, but Tony had hired Vince for additional training.

  “Argh!”

  “Come on, man. Sixteen!”

  Tony gritted his teeth, pulled his chin down to his chest, and lifted the one-hundred-pound weight with his lower leg.

  “Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.”

  Tony kept going.

  “All right, man. That’s enough.”

  After completing twenty-five lifts, Tony let the weights drop with a clang.

  Vince raised a brow. “I’m not working you hard enough?”

  “You’re kicking my ass,” Tony replied, reaching for his towel as he rose from the bench. “But where the average player has to go one extra mile, I have to go ten. This is my last shot, dog. I’ve got to go all out.”

  “Why don’t you let me handle how far you go? I know you feel all powerful”—Vince handed Tony his water bottle as he looked around the weight room—“but don’t overdo it because of the . . .” Vince nodded toward the locker that held Tony’s belongings—among other things.

  “I’m cool, man.”

  “You say that, and you probably believe it.” Vince lowered his voice. “But I gave you a time frame for using, and that time has passed. You’re in good shape, man, with natural ability. Let that be enough.”

  “As soon as I get on the roster, I’ll do just that.” Tony reached out and gave Vince a soul brother’s handshake. “Thanks, man.” He turned and headed for the shower.

  “Tony!”

  He turned around. “Hey, TaShaun.”

  “Coach wants to see you.”

  “Cool.” Tony walked over to the temporary locker he was using, pulled out a fresh T-shirt, and replaced the sweaty one he now wore. He and Vince exchanged looks. “Think this is it?”

  Vince shrugged. “Only one way to find out.” He held out his fist for a pound. “I’m pulling for you, man.”

  Four hours later, Tony placed the key into the lock of his Phoenix abode. “Stacy!” He came around the corner with his hands full. “Baby, where are you?”

  “Shh!” Stacy met Tony as he was about to climb the stairs. She took in the large bouquet of flowers and bottle of bubbly Tony held. Hurrying down the stairs and into the open concept dining area, she whispered, “Sorry, baby, but I just got DJ to sleep. He’s got a cold and has been cranky all day.” She stopped in front of him. Unsure of how he’d react to a hug, she clasped her hands behind her. “I’m so glad to see you. What’s all this?” Tony smiled but said nothing. “Does this mean what I think it means? Did you get the job with the Sea Lions?”

  “Coach said he wants to sign me to a one-year contract. It’s a backup spot, but I’m not worried about that. Once I get on the field I’ll claim what’s mine!”

  Stacy threw her arms around his neck. “Baby, I’m so happy for you!” She rained kisses on his face. “I know how much you’ve been wanting this, praying it would happen. Does this mean I need to start looking for houses in LA?”

  “Unless you want to hang out in this furnace! I know the market’s soft, but I want to put the house up for sale as soon as possible. Hopefully it will sell quickly.”

  “I knew you could do it, baby.” Stacy cupped Tony’s face, adoration shining in her eyes. “I’m happy for you.”

  “I knew you would be. That’s why I bought you these”—he handed her the flowers—“and this.”

  “Thank you, baby.” She walked over and pulled an empty vase from a cabinet. “But you didn’t have to.”

  “Yes, I did. I’ve been an A-number-one jerk these past few months, and I’m sorry.”

  “I forgive you,” Stacy readily told him. “I knew the Tony that’s been here recently wasn’t the one I married. I’m glad to see that the man I love so dearly is back.” She nodded at the champagne. “Is that for me too?”

  “This is for us.” He reached for her hand. “Have you eaten?” Stacy nodded. “I have to be back at work tomorrow. But I wanted to be with you tonight.”

  Stacy went to the cabinet and pulled out two champagne flutes. Then, wordlessly, they mounted the stairs. Once in the master bedroom, Tony popped the champagne cork and poured. He handed a flute to Stacy. “In this crazy, uncertain world that is pro ball, here’s to the only woman I’d want by my side.”

  “And to the only man with whom I’d want to take this journey.”

  They drank in each other with their eyes even as they drank the top-shelf champagne. “Um, this is good, baby.”

  “It tastes all right,” Tony replied, his voice deep and husky, his eyes hooded and black with desire. “But I’d rather drink you, instead.”

  Stacy shivered. When is the last time Tony looked at me like this? Only in this moment did it dawn on her that it had been almost a month since she and Tony had made love, probably the longest time without intimacy since they’d married. In this moment she was very aware of how stress and worry had impacted their lives. In this moment, as Tony’s hand made a lazy journey up her arm, across her shoulder, and down her front where he sought and found a nipple, she knew that there was nothing worth putting their love on hold. As she wrapped her arms around him and lifted her chin for a kiss, she vowed to never let it happen again.

  “I missed you,” she whispered, just before Tony’s full lips covered hers. He moved his head from side to side, creating a delicious friction before his firm tongue demanded entry between her lips. She complied, and the dueling immediately began—swirling, tasting, teasing—all while hands touched skin and bodies rubbed against each other. But both of them had a problem. Too much clothing between them.

  Tony stepped back and made quick work of removing shirt, shorts, boxers, and shoes. After watching him, Stacy reached for the zipper on her jeans and then oh ... so ... slowly pulled it down. Tony stopped in midsip, taking in her toned, lean body, the way her short, curly hairstyle emphasized her big brown eyes now bright with desire. Without breaking eye contact, she leaned over to push the jeans down her legs. Tony hardened with every inch of bared skin. I really do love this girl. As soon as I get my spot back, I’m going to give up the juice. As he continued to watch his wife’s impromptu striptease act, he reached for the bottle and refilled their flutes. By now, Stacy stood
in nothing but a flimsy thong. Tony’s manhood bobbed from side to side as he walked to her. He handed her the glass; they gazed into each other’s eyes as they sipped.

  “Let me take that,” Tony whispered before they’d finished the bubbly, placing both their glasses on the nightstand while backing Stacy up against the bed. He lifted her effortlessly, and placed her in the center of their king-sized paradise. He ran a finger down the center of her body, from her neck to just above her heat, held his hand there while his thumb made light strokes against her nub. Stacy’s breath caught in her throat as her body immediately reacted to Tony’s touch, her hips grinding upward as she became hotter, wetter. He reached for the flute, poured a bit of the chilled liquid on Stacy’s pebbled nipples before sucking first one and then the other into his mouth. She reached for his dick, squeezing, stroking, waiting for it to harden and expand under her ministrations.

  “Baby,” Stacy panted, squirming as she imagined her husband inside her. “I can’t wait. I want you now!”

  Tony smiled as he reached between his legs and stroked himself. He hardened, and with one swift move he entered her and began a vigorous thrusting. That lasted about . . . five seconds. And then he went soft. Movement stopped. But only temporarily because Stacy immediately reached down to lend assistance. Later she’d try and recall another time when Tony had trouble keeping an erection, but for right now she chalked it up to how hard he’d been working and how long they’d gone without sex.

  For the next thirty minutes, both Tony and Stacy tried to get his soldier to stand at attention. But his weapon was seriously AWOL. Even her best oral skills were not enough to wake the sleeping penis.

  “It’s okay,” Stacy whispered, once a thoroughly frustrated Tony had swatted her hand away from his stubbornly limp member. He shifted his weight and lowered his body so that his tongue could do what his dick could not—please his wife. And while he did that well enough, as Stacy listened to the soft sounds of Tony’s breathing, she began to wonder if his erratic mood of the past few months had been solely because of his concerns about work . . . or something, no, make that someone else.

  28

  Back to Malibu

  Several hundred miles from Phoenix, in the tony California beach community of Malibu, someone else was working on a relationship. When not on set, Paz normally paid little attention to his appearance. But he checked his image while passing his den’s mirror-covered wall, giving his hair a quick tousle on the way to the front door.

  “Dee!” He stepped back so that Darius could enter the large foyer.

  “Hey, man.” The men hugged. Darius looked around, nodding his approval. “This place is nice. I forgot how nice the drive is up from Los Angeles.”

  “I know, right? It’s why we put up with all of the inconveniences: traffic, isolation, wildfires. For what’s out back.” Paz placed his hand on Darius’s shoulder, his turquoise blue eyes boring deeply into chocolate brown ones. “I’m really glad you came.” He placed a kiss on Darius’s cheek. A woodsy smell with a hint of citrus wafted from his body. His hand left Darius’s shoulder and traveled down his back, offering a casual tap on the R & B crooner’s taut rump before stepping away. “You look good.”

  “Where is everybody?” Darius took in the man who was slightly taller than he, equally well built, his body being showed off to perfection covered in swim trunks alone. The smooth olive skin was even darker than when he’d last seen him weeks ago, during the Fourth of July concert in Central Park. The concert. A perfect image of Bo’s scowling face flashed across Darius’s mind. But it was quickly replaced by the image of the model-perfect man in front of him. Paz was good people, an A-list star, and someone who made Darius feel good. Not only that, but the chemistry was undeniable. Darius tried hard not to think of this right now. He was here to meet an award-winning producer about possibly scoring the movie in which Paz had already agreed to star. The world mainly knew Darius as a singer, but those close to him knew that he also loved composing music. Writing movie scores would be a wonderful next level for his career and with Quincy Jones being one of his idols, it would bring him one step closer to mirroring a career he admired from afar.

  They walked through a large, open-concept space that was bright and airy. The view was stunning: a large deck framing an infinity pool with a stretch of private beach between it and the vast Pacific Ocean. A dozen or so people milled around the deck while two couples—the guys in swim trunks, the women in thong bikinis—played volleyball on the strip of beach below. Stepping out on the deck, Darius immediately recognized one of the guests as the man who’d costarred with Paz in his latest movie, a reality-TV star, and behind the grill, a face he recognized from Bo’s marathon watching of the Food Channel. Paz introduced him to a couple people on the way to the infinity pool, where a white-haired man lounged on a large tube.

  “Gary, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Gary slowly spun around, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up. A slow smile of recognition spread across his face. “Darius Crenshaw!”

  “Darius,” Paz began, “this is Gary Weiss. Gary, this is the music producer for our next movie.”

  Gary climbed out of the infinity pool and soon the two men were seated and Darius was getting schooled on the operation of the Hollywood machine. Gary was cocky and irreverent, with an encyclopedic knowledge of the industry. Darius liked him right away.

  “Paz says you have some instrumentals?”

  Darius nodded. “I put together a couple pieces with this project in mind.”

  “I’d like to take a listen and ...” Gary’s words died as he became distracted by a sight beyond Darius’s shoulder. “That Paz is a Greek god. I’m as straight as an arrow, but I swear I’d do him in a heartbeat.”

  Darius looked over his shoulder. Heart stopped. Dick jumped. Paz and the couples who’d been playing beach volleyball were now cavorting naked on the private strip of beach, rushing into the ocean and riding the waves back to shore. Even from a distance, Darius could see that Paz’s flaccid member was swinging down by his well-sculpted thighs. He turned to dive into the water and his ass was just as taut and round as Darius had imagined. Get it together, man, he admonished himself. You’ll be drooling in a minute. He abruptly turned back to Gary to find a curious pair of gray eyes looking at him. Taking a moment to recollect himself, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a flash drive. “You were saying that you wanted to hear some of my music?”

  Gary smiled, a knowing “I can keep a secret” sort of smile. “I do,” he said around the grin. “When it comes to this movie, you might be a perfect fit.”

  “Here’re a few cuts. You’ve got my number. After you take a listen, I’d love for us to talk again.” Darius stood and extended his hand.

  Gary stood as he shook it. “You leaving?”

  “Yeah, my flight leaves in a couple hours.”

  “I thought you were local.”

  “I’ve got a place here but lately have been spending most of my time in Phoenix.”

  “Well, I’m glad I met you, Darius. I’ll take a listen and be in touch.”

  “Cool.” Darius spoke to a couple of the guests on his way out, trying very hard not to appear to be doing exactly what he was trying to do: beat a hasty retreat. He couldn’t imagine how he ever thought he could have a casual visit with the man whose torrid texts exchanged on the prepaid phone he’d purchased had kept him so sizzling hot. He’d done what he came here to do. In the future, he’d make sure that he and Paz met in a place where the demigod couldn’t run around naked. That body . . . damn! Picking up his pace, Darius had reached the front door when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

  Darius would know that scent anywhere. He turned around.

  Paz’s blue eyes bore into his. “Leaving without so much as a good-bye to the host?”

  “I was going to call you.” Darius knew his reply was lame, but it was the best he could do.

  “Talking on the phone is one thing
,” Paz replied, licking his lips as he lessened the distance between the two men. “Interacting in person is another.”

  “Paz, I—”

  His excuse was cut short by the feel of a set of firm, smooth lips on his soft, cushy ones; the scent of fresh air and warm sun emanating from a hard body; the fact that the tongue gently pressing its way into Darius’s mouth didn’t belong to his husband; the fact that he didn’t want the kiss to end. He felt his hand on Paz’s back, pressing him closer, and wondered how it got there. He felt Paz’s response, a low, soft moan as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, a hand sliding down from Darius’s back to his backside, pushing them closer together. Darius’s physical response—a hardening, an involuntary grinding, and a wave of heat rising from his core and causing his heart to constrict. His heart. Remember, man? The one that belongs to Bo?

  Darius stepped back, placing a defensive hand up as he did so. “I can’t do this,” he panted, noting the hurt and intense desire in Paz’s eyes before turning quickly away. “I’m married.”

  “I know.” Paz ran a hand through tousled black hair. “I also know that I love you.” Silence enveloped the two men as the sounds of the party, the ones that had faded into silence during their brief romantic exchange, returned. Paz noted that someone was calling his name. “I’m sorry if I upset you,” he said, his voice low and hurried, his accent pronounced. “But I won’t apologize for loving you, Darius.” He stepped forward for another quick peck on Darius’s lips. “Call before you leave town,” he whispered, and then walked back to his guests.

  Darius watched Paz’s sculpted body as he walked away: broad shoulders, narrow waist, hard buns, and long legs. His lips still buzzing from the kiss, he turned and walked outside to the SUV he’d rented. During the scenic, winding drive down Pacific Coast Highway, Paz occupied every corner of his thoughts. Determined to divert this focus, Darius phoned his minister and good friend Derrick Montgomery. When Derrick’s wife, Vivian, informed Darius that her husband was out of town, Darius called a couple members of his band. His drummer’s wife had just lost a family member, counting him out for Friday night drinks. His horn player’s phone went to voice mail. Twice. Deciding against hitting the clubs, Darius finally headed back to his hotel room, planning to try and catch an earlier flight out.