by Risqué
Her life was over. There was nothing she could do to undo this. He’d crossed the line, and somehow she needed to make him pay for lying, cheating, and throwing her away as if she’d been a shitty piece of tissue stuck to his shoe.
The sounds of them beginning to make love again invaded her space, directing her anger to the bitch in there with her man. As he passionately kissed and stroked Eve, she pointed the gun in their direction, blasting it through the closet door. The hollow-point bullet soared through the wooden planks and within a millisecond of an instant invaded Eve’s skull.
Oblivious, he stroked with his eyes closed against his now-still lover, while their invisible guest quietly opened the closet door and slid out of the apartment. A few moments later as she stepped on the elevator, WBLS’ Quiet Storm and his screams created an operatic choir behind her.
Me’ Shell NdegéOcello’s Plantation Lullabies echoed in the background of Gracie Mansion’s master suite as the blue lights shone from the face of the Bose surround-sound stereo that filled the historic bedroom with music.
Monday Smith lay naked in the center of her king-sized bed. She couldn’t believe that here she was again, with a rotating and vibrating lipstick dildo in her hand, and contemplating masturbation, as if she didn’t have a husband. As if she were actually some kind of lonely-ass pathetic freak and not married to the mayor of New York City.
From the outside looking in she was a gem: skin that glowed like Egyptian gold with hints of caramel in its richest form, melting milk chocolate eyes, thick size-twelve hips, and sexy African and perfectly shaped lips.
However, if anyone had paid any attention they would’ve seen that her husband, the recently reelected Mayor Ken yatta Smith, wasn’t shit and he used his charm, wit, power, and position to perfect being a shit. No matter how polished his veneer was in public, in private he was an arrogant, selfish, and ghetto-acting motherfucker.
He’d had numerous affairs, and no matter what Monday did, how beautiful, how successful, or how good at giving head she was, at the end of the night he crept into a world where his mistresses became his wife.
Monday spread her legs and parted her moist and dripping vulva. She massaged the chilling dildo over the hood of her hardening clit. Her body quivered with each vibrating stroke as she circled the dildo’s tip over her clit, over her trembling lips, and then slid it between her slit and let it electrify her cherry.
As her orgasm stirred she massaged a wet fingertip over her nipples and thought about how she needed Kenyatta’s raspy voice to whisper in her ear and his hot breath to land at the base of her neck. She needed him to treat her like she was someone he desired. However, as she lay on the bed amidst the fifteen-hundred–thread count Egyptian cotton sheets with a thrilling, yet unfulfilling, explosion between her thighs, all she had left was a nightly wet spot and a reoccurring thought of how much her husband lied.
“Damn it!” Monday sighed as tears gathered in her eyes. “This is ridiculous!”
She sat up, slid to the edge of the bed, crossed her legs, and reached for a cigarette. As she blew a stream of smoke toward the dark vaulted ceiling she wondered when she’d begun to settle for this kind of treatment. Exactly when did she start accepting Kenyatta’s affairs and playing with herself as a part of their marriage? She wished she could call someone for advice, but whom would she call? No one outside of the political realm would understand that this was about much more than losing a marriage, being unappreciated, and being damaged emotionally. That was the easy shit; she could get therapy for that. But this…this was a whole other level of violated commitment that other people’s mortgages, kids, bills, dogs, and shit couldn’t even fuck wit’.
The average everyday heartbreak had nothing on this. Yeah, she loved her husband, but this…this was about upholding an image, maintaining power, prestige, and position. And Monday wasn’t about to lose her life without a fight. She’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much, climbed too far.
Monday’s heart danced in her chest as she stood in the middle of the carpeted floor, her eyes skipping around the room, wondering just how long he had been stringing her along.
They’d met ten years ago in law school. His smile had captivated her and the attraction was too obvious for either of them to dismiss, so they kicked it and soon found out they had everything in common, from listening to the same music and appreciating the same art to having traveled to the same places. They even had the same sense of humor. In three months they considered it fate and married in a small ceremony.
At first it was perfect. He had political aspirations and she had an unfulfilled yearning for recognition. So along with being in love with him, his rising career was just the mission she needed to become the wife of New York City’s most prestigious politician.
She managed his campaigns and groomed him as he went from community board member to City Council member to state representative, until the day she suggested he run for mayor. He agreed and said he’d always wanted to run New York City, so they put their plan in motion. Monday made sure Kenyatta rubbed elbows only with those who could help him get to the next step. No more hanging out with anyone they couldn’t network and politick with. She made sure he was at all the necessary rallies, supported just the right charities, fed the homeless, held AIDS babies, joined a church, shot basketball with the high school kids in the park, and dressed as Santa to deliver toys to poor children on Christmas. And when election time came, everyone not only knew Kenyatta’s name but also felt they knew what he stood for and had a personal connection with him. He was a shoo-in.
Not long after he was elected to office their marriage began to change, and now here she sat in the cool of the predawn, trying to figure out what the fuck was really going on.
Tired of sulking, Monday showered, climbed back into bed, and drifted to sleep. Hours later she heard the bed creak.
“Monday.”
It was Kenyatta. She felt his weight press down next to her while he tugged a little at the sheet pulled up over her breasts. “Monday, I need you to wake up.” She could tell by the sound of his voice that something was wrong.
She stretched as she lifted her sleep mask off her face. She looked at the clock—7:00 A.M.—and then back at him. “Where have you been, Kenyatta?”
He shook his head, and a muscle in his jaw twitched, a sure sign that he was about to lie. If she knew him as well as she thought she did, he would start by saying he’d been out thinking.
“I’ve been up all night,” he squinted, his honey-glazed face looking as if his mind were recalling a difficult memory, “thinking about some shit.”
Monday sat up. The last time he’d spoken like this, there was a distressed mistress and an abortion they needed to make disappear. Monday looked at him and blinked. “And after you finish telling me what’s on your mind,” she said, stroking his cheek, “I want you to think of another lie to convince me that you weren’t out fucking some bitch all night.”
“Here we go—”
“Or would you rather I smell your dick?”
“This is why we can’t talk.” He hopped off the bed, the wrinkles in his lavender dress shirt swaying with his body as he paced the floor, doing his all to hide that he was a nervous wreck inside. “You’re my wife, not some jump-off, and I’m trying to talk to you. Keep it real with you. I’m trying to drop the political mayoral talk right now and kick it like we used to.”
“What?”
“You know I love you.”
“Kenyatta, please. Just tell me, is it a new bitch or an old resurrected jawn.”
“See?” He pointed at her. “See what you do? And then you wonder why I don’t tell you anything, why we aren’t best friends. It’s because I can’t confide in you anymore. I come to you and tell you that I’ve been up all night and you don’t even care to know why? Instead you get all hyped and shit, and accuse me of some faceless chick? Fuck them bitches in the street. You’re the only woman for me. And I know I haven’t been perfect…” He
paused, walked over to the bed, and kneeled on one knee. “And yeah,” he said calmly, “I have some flaws, but I’ve tried to right my wrongs as best I could.” Monday looked at the hand he’d rested on the bed and wondered why it was shaking.
Kenyatta rose from the floor and continued on. “I stayed up many nights trying to figure out what’s best for the city, my family, and lastly for me. I place everyone’s needs before mine and I’m okay with that, because putting others before me is just the type of man I am.”
Monday stared at him, amazed he was giving a speech. She knew that at any moment he would tell her she was all he needed.
“And you know you’re all I’ve ever needed, and I need you now more than ever.”
Monday’s heart dropped as she folded her arms across her breasts. “Let me smell your dick, so I can get this over with. You’re taking too long to get to the goddamn point, and I don’t have time to talk! I wanna know where you’ve been, because in a minute”—she opened her nightstand drawer, pulled out her .22, and slammed it on the nightstand—“I’ma shoot a bitch!”
Instantly Kenyatta’s mind flashed back to Eve’s death and he wondered where Monday had been last night. He quickly looked around the room. Swallowing the memory of Eve’s blood covering him, he walked over to the nightstand, picked up the gun, and checked the clip.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Monday asked.
“Just making sure you ain’t lost your motherfuckin’ mind last night!”
“Last night? What the hell happened last night?”
Ignoring her question and confirming that the gun hadn’t been fired, he tossed it back into the drawer. “Where you go last night? You went out?”
“I know goddamn well—” Monday paused. “You ain’t questioning me. I don’t know what kinda beam-me-up-Scotty Jedi mind tricks you tryna pull negro, but I’m not the one. Now where yo’ black ass been?”
“Why do you act so damn crazy? You are the mayor’s wife!”
“Motherfuck being the mayor’s wife. The mayor is the reason I’m going the fuck crazy!” She flung her arms in the air. “Now where have you been?”
Kenyatta stared at Monday and thought about how much she flipped. He knew if she didn’t think twice about jumping on him and he made two of her, she wouldn’t hesitate to kill a bitch, but then again…maybe not. He looked into her eyes and saw the hurt reflected in her glance. “I’ve just had some shit on my mind. There’s a lot of pressure at the job right now, being mayor and being responsible for everybody in the city.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t ask for your resumé! I don’t wanna hear that. You’ve been gone since yesterday morning and you walk in here singing some ‘I got too much on my mind’ love song shit at seven o’clock the next morning and you think I’m going to sit here and buy it? Niggah, please. Fuck you think this is?”
“Goddamn, Monday, why can’t you ever just believe anything that I say? You just stress me too much. That’s why I do some of the things I do, because you push me to.” He started pacing the room again.
Monday stared, taken aback. “What the—?” was all she could think to say. She swallowed. Now she knew for sure he was cheating. Because every time, every single time, he acted like this, she knew his feelings were torn because he was back to fucking with some sideline bitch. “Just tell me, which bitch is it this time? Taryn again?”
“Can it ever be what I tell you it is?”
“Donnica?”
“Do you always have to assume it’s someone else?”
“Must be a new bitch!”
“You just never stop, Monday! Damn do you know how much I sacrifice for you?”
“Sacrifice?” Monday was completely floored. “Sacrifice? I’ll tell you what to sacrifice, sacrifice some of them tricks you fuckin’ wit! Sacrifice me always being home alone. Sacrifice that shit, Mr.-Fuckin’-Mayor!”
“Monday, you’re selfish as hell! You know how badly I want a baby, but you refuse to get pregnant, and here I am still standing by you and you don’t even acknowledge that!”
Monday blinked in disbelief. He knew she struggled with her weight. Being that he cheated all the time, she couldn’t take the chance of becoming larger than a size twelve, and even that was too much. Which is how she ended up on a thousand diets. Atkins, Slim-Fast, Jenny Craig, hot dogs, eggs, cabbage, lemonade and cayenne pepper…she even tried the Subway diet, and at the end of the day all she ended up with was an abnormal thyroid and twenty extra pounds to contend with. “I don’t believe you said that!”
“And I don’t believe you keep questioning me. Do you know how you make me feel when you continue to accuse me of things?”
Monday blinked again. Every time they had an argument Kenyatta always twisted the shit around and made himself out to be the victim. “I’m sick of you always fucking up! And I have to deal with the consequences!”
“Step then, Monday! Since you so tired and nothing I do is good enough, then bounce. Catch yo’ ass around. Shit, I’m tired of arguing about how much our marriage means to me. Fuck it. If you tired, then I’m the fuck exhausted!” He flicked his hand as if he’d just performed a magic trick and then he turned his back on her and headed out the room.
Feeling as if he’d just told her to kiss his ass, Monday flew off the bed, pulled her hand back, and slapped the shit out of him. And then without warning she threw her whole body on top of him, fighting him as if she were tussling for her life.
In an effort to get her off of him, he flung her across the room.
She hit a wall and fell to her ass before getting up and storming toward him again. Kenyatta grabbed Monday by the shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. “I need you to get yourself together!” he spat. “I’m trying to save my damn career, this marriage, and protect you—”
“Protect me?” Monday shouted. “How the fuck were you trying to protect me? A blind kindergartner coulda played Superman better than yo’ whack ass! You tryna protect me? Am I being punk’d?” She moved her head from side to side. “Is this a fuckin’ joke? “Why don’t you tell me the truth for once,” Monday seethed, “instead of all this nonsense? If you are going to cheat, then you oughta man up to it!” She waved her hand around the room. “You no-good, worthless piece of gutter rat shit! Unappreciative Uncle Tom motherfucker! I don’t know who the hell voted you in office, yo’ ass doesn’t deserve to be the mayor of Mayberry let alone New York City! And the day you are out of office is the day motherfuckers can get a real politician in here!”
Kenyatta grabbed Monday by her neck and pushed her into the corner of the room. Her words cut through him. He squeezed the sides of her throat. “Who the fuck are you talking to?” He squinted at her, his veins thumping from the sides of his smooth bald head to his thick neck. “Why would you say some shit like that?”
“You need to learn to tell the truth! I wanna know where you’ve been!”
“Let you know the truth? You can’t handle the truth, so don’t fuck wit’ it!”
“You don’t know what I can handle!”
“All right, since you want the truth, let me give you the uncut version. You and I both know that it doesn’t matter how many women I fuck, you ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He pointed to her face. “I’d have to leave yo’ ass for this shit to be over, and I ain’t lettin’ you go. We’ve come too damn far for you to be falling apart. Shit happens and we have to straighten the motherfucker out—”
“Straighten what out?” She tried to wiggle free from his tight embrace.
“We are a team, so if I lose, you do too!” Doing his best to calm himself, he released his grip on her throat and roughly cupped her chin. “And I need you now more than ever. We’ve been together too many years to let bullshit get in between what we have.”
Monday stood there, tears running down her face. She knew this was about more than what he was saying; she just didn’t know what. Not wanting to deal with this any longer, Monday sniffed as she pushed his hands off her a
nd walked away from him.
His eyes trailed behind her. Even in a moment of distress Kenyatta could never deny Monday had a beautiful body. He watched her nipples protrude through her flesh-colored bra as she crawled back into bed.
“Monday, I need you.”
Silence.
“You have nothing to say?”
She didn’t answer and instead placed her sleep mask over her eyes and turned away from him.
As Monday settled her head into the goose-down pillow, Kenyatta went into the master bath, removed his clothes, and stepped into the shower.
As the water slid over his broad shoulders, he thought about all of the things that had happened last night.
He’d called in his cleanup guy, Tracy, an ex-cop on his personal payroll whom he’d hooked up with promotions and kickbacks, to come over to the scene and clean up everything: mop up the blood and move the body.
Perhaps whoever killed Eve really wanted him dead and she just happened to be there. Then there was the question of how they’d gotten into the apartment, when they’d gotten there, and how they even knew the apartment existed when it wasn’t even leased in his name.
He knew he had enemies: the disgruntled employee, Charlie, he’d fired because Charlie didn’t know how to shut the fuck up and questioned the city’s deficit and budget just a little too much, the whistle-blowing cop Kenyatta had fired because he told the media how the state police in Jersey arrested Kenyatta at a Korean sex parlor and that he used the city’s money to pay for the coverup.
Kenyatta swallowed and a million questions took over his mind. He let the water stream over his bald head and run down his face and body. After drowning in his thoughts a half-hour too long he turned the water off, walked out of the shower, and wrapped the bottom half of his body in a plush white towel.
