by Risqué
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Well, Ms. Hudson James is here.”
“Let her know that I’ll be out in a moment.”
“She says she needs to see you now, sir.”
“Tell her I said—”
“Thank you, Mary,” Hudson said as she walked into his office. She stood still and sniffed. The longer side of her mid-length bob swayed as she moved her neck from side to side. The corners of her mouth curled in disgust, causing her smooth coffee-colored skin to wrinkle. She looked at Monday and then to Kenyatta.
“Know what?” she said, closing the office door. “We have more important things to deal with.” Hudson slammed down two newspapers. She pointed to one of the headlines and began to read: “‘Missing Woman Had an Affair with Mayor Kenyatta Smith.’”
Monday felt woozy, while Kenyatta blinked. “What the hell is this?” he questioned in disbelief.
“It’s exactly what it looks like.” Hudson picked up the next newspaper. “The missing woman, Eve Johnson, was Senator Edward Reign’s sister-in-law. His wife is distraught and claims her sister called her daily and told her about an affair with the mayor.”
“I knew it was some bullshit,” Monday said, dazed.
Kenyatta stared off into space and then turned back to Hudson. “Release a written statement saying it isn’t true.”
“Not good enough. You need more than a written statement.”
“Who the fuck is Eve Johnson?” Monday screamed.
“It’s a long story.”
“Make it short.”
“It was nothing. The paper’s lying.” He looked her in the eyes.
Monday glanced at his twitching jaw. “You’re lying.”
“Not now, Monday.”
“Then when?”
“Hudson,” Kenyatta said, ignoring Monday, “why isn’t a written statement good enough?”
“Because, Mayor, you are dealing with a very well-respected senator who’s already not a fan of your politics. And now his wife’s favorite sister is not only missing in your city but also is reported to have raved about an affair with you. A written statement isn’t good enough; you have to hold a press conference.”
Kenyatta glared. “Hell no! We weren’t lovers.”
Monday stared Kenyatta directly in the face and hated that she knew when he was lying. She hated it because underneath all of the superficial bullshit that stopped her from letting go, she needed another reason besides a possessed penis to stay.
Hudson looked at her watch. “I’ll schedule the press conference for an hour from now. And Monday”—Hudson looked at her—“would you like me to go upstairs with you so you can change? Preferably into a gray or navy blue two-piece modest suit and pearls. We can also rehearse what you need to do and how wide you need to smile while you’re standing at his side on TV.”
“TV?” Monday was in disbelief at the thought of being one of those political wives standing by their man while he was sinking in quicksand.
“Yes, TV. It’s important that you’re there. It gives more credence to the mayor’s commitment to finding Eve.”
Coming out of disbelief and no longer speechless, Monday spat, “Do you hear what you’re asking me to do? TV? After what I just found out? Are you serious? I don’t give a fuck if they never find the bitch.” She pointed to the paper.
Hudson looked at Monday, taken aback. “Please don’t say that again. Let’s save the ‘mad black woman’ fits for after the cameras have been packed up, as going off on TV is not an option. You have to do it. Oh—and I just thought of this—while you’re on the air, I want you to make a statement to the family.”
“What?”
“Yes, tell the family that as a wife and member of this community, you are sorry for their misfortune and their time of turmoil. It would seem more sincere coming from a woman than a man. And make your voice tremble a bit, so that the viewers can sense your compassion.”
“Wonderful idea.” Monday batted her eyelashes. “And maybe I should say,” she went on, enunciating every word, “that I sincerely hope your dearly beloved, home-wrecking, two-timing ho-ass bitch of a loved one is dead when she’s found.”
Kenyatta stood stunned for a moment and his knees buckled. “Excuse us.” Kenyatta turned to Hudson.
“What?” Hudson asked. “We need to deal with this.”
“I said excuse us. As a matter of fact, I’ll meet you at City Hall.”
Grudgingly Hudson walked out the door. Once she was gone, Kenyatta turned back to Monday, who spat at him. “Were you fuckin’ that missing-ass bitch?”
Kenyatta sighed. “Monday,” he said softly, holding her hands between his, “listen, baby. I know you’re upset and hurt—”
“Oh, you know this? So tell me, were you fucking her?”
“No.”
She looked at his jaw to see if it would twitch, and when it didn’t, she asked, “Did you know her?”
Kenyatta paused. “I met her once. That’s it, but it was nothing. I don’t even remember what she looks like.”
“So the paper is just making shit up. Out of all the mayors in New York state, this bitch nails Kenyatta Smith as her man.”
“Look, I know it sounds bad, which is why I’m going to do this press conference. I promise that after the conference we can talk about this as much as you want. But right now I need you at my side, for your support as well as our political image.”
“Political image? That’s what this is about?”
“Monday—”
“Fuck your political image!”
“What?” He took a step back. “We have to do this for the public.” It was evident that staying calm was trying. “Image is everything in politics, and you know it.”
“How about this? I will not be going on TV! Not Monday. Not this motherfuckin’ Monday anyway. So you, the public, and that missing bitch can kiss my extra-wide black ass.” Monday slapped herself on her left butt cheek for emphasis.
Kenyatta snatched Monday by the arm. “Understand this: you will do it.” His hot breath ran along the side of her neck. “And you will do it because you don’t have a choice. All of that singsong shit is a front you puttin’ on for your damn self. Now, I understand that you’re hurt, and like I said, we will deal with that later. But right now you will be about your business. I don’t want to hear any more complaining about what you are and are not going to do, because right now that’s not an option. Do you understand me?”
Silence.
“I said, do you understand me?”
Monday snatched her arm away. “Fuck you!”
Flashing lights from the sea of cameras danced in Monday’s eyes as she wondered what everyone present thought of her. She didn’t quite know what to make of herself as she stood side by side with Kenyatta, looking somberly at a man she so desperately wanted to spit on. She gave a half smile and nodded as one of the journalists called her name and snapped her picture when she turned around.
Kenyatta cleared his throat and the crowd of media started to quiet down. He stood behind the podium with his back straight, looking cool and confident. His round gold-framed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, and his gray double-breasted suit was pressed to perfection. He looked directly into the camera and began to speak. “I come humbly before you not only as the mayor of our great city but also as a man who is very hurt by the allegations that I was having an affair with Eve Johnson.”
As if on cue, Monday grabbed his hand and he squeezed hers. “There have been a series of articles in which I’m being accused of knowing this poor woman. Her being missing is an unfortunate situation, but I do not know this woman. And I sincerely hope this is not a political ploy by Senator Reigns and his party.” Monday blinked, and she could see Hudson and the speechwriter glaring at him. It was obvious that line hadn’t been scripted. “Because if so, that is even more unfortunate, as we all know that this is not about political disagreements—this is about human life.”
Kenyatta t
urned to Monday, who gave him a reassuring nod and a small smile. Monday swallowed, then spoke into the microphone on the podium. She could feel him rubbing her back. “I ask you to please remain as dedicated to my husband as I am.” The words felt like nails leaving her mouth. He squeezed her hand, both of them knowing that that wasn’t remotely close to what she was supposed to say. After an awkward moment of silence during which Kenyatta realized that Monday wasn’t going to say anything more, he ended his statement by saying, “Thank you and I bid you farewell.”
Monday stepped away from the podium, her eyes filled with tears. She looked behind her. Kenyatta was talking with Hudson, never once looking her way.
She continued down the hall and felt as though everyone she saw was laughing at her. That they felt about her the same way she did about herself. She wondered how many people watched her on television and said to themselves, “That’s one stupid bitch.” Tears clouded her eyes and her heels clicked against the waxed floors of City Hall.
Suddenly she felt as if she’d hit a brick wall, and “Slow down” floated into her face as she felt someone catch her by the arm.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” Monday looked up and stumbled just a bit. Not enough to fall, but enough to reveal that she was caught off-guard, “Mehki…”
“Are you okay?”
“Uh, yes,” she said, backing out of his embrace. Monday wasn’t sure what made her more uncomfortable, his prolonged embrace or her inability to stop admiring his beauty. He was that blacker-the-berry-sweeter-the-juice type beauty. The color of freshly brewed tea with eyes of a Senegalese king. He stood six-four, with the athletic build of a heavyweight champion topped off with a Denzel swagger: confident, strong, and impressive to everyone who met him, which is why Monday never truly got over him.
Once upon a time, she’d loved Mehki because her heart gave her no choice. He knew her struggles, he knew what it was to blossom from nothing, he knew what it was to dream, and to have a desire to touch the untouchable. He understood her silence, he could decipher her cries, he knew her favorite color, her favorite food, and her favorite things to do. He knew her inside and out, which is why she couldn’t marry him. At the time, she needed to run away from herself and there was no way she could bring him along.
They were in their last year of undergrad and a few months from their wedding date when she’d made love to him one night and he awoke the next morning to find her engagement ring on the tip of his pinky finger and a Dear John letter on the empty side of the bed. Needless to say she never expected to see him again, let alone see him today. “What are you doing here?”
“I have a firm here…well, in Harlem.”
“But what are you doing here?”
“The mayor hired me as his personal attorney.”
Monday blinked. “He did what? Did you…know that he’s my husband?”
“I do now.”
“I ah, need to go.”
Mehki pushed the hair on her shoulders and cupped it behind her ears. “At least this time you’re letting me know up front.”
Instead of responding, Monday turned on her heels and left him standing there.
Monday sipped her third glass of white wine as she stood shifting from one four-inch, strappy Yves Saint Laurent pencil heel to the other, her silver midthigh flapper dress making love to every one of her voluptuous curves.
She smiled mostly with the corners of her lips as a group of political wives discussed how much money they’d contributed to the annual pink-ribbon cancer research gala they were attending.
Though Monday acted as if she were interested in their conversation, she was really watching Kenyatta work the room with his boyish charm. She couldn’t believe that no one seemed to see through his bullshit.
For a moment Monday wondered if she was the one who was insane. Hell, maybe she was Lauryn Hill and this was a sanity convention—which would explain why everyone else here was at ease. Or perhaps this was simply the epitome of democracy.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Smith,” Jocelyn, the wife of the head of transportation, said to Monday. “I just want you to know that I admired the way you stood by your husband at the press conference.”
Monday almost spat her drink out. She started coughing and Jocelyn handed her a tissue. “Thank you,” she said with a scratchy throat.
“It was just so touching,” Harriet, the chief circuit judge’s wife, added her two cents.
“But of course,” Jocelyn remarked, “we certainly don’t believe any of those rumors.”
Monday didn’t have a chance to respond, as just then Hudson walked over. She smiled at the other women before pulling Monday to the side. “Kenyatta will be making a speech momentarily, so he’ll need you soon.”
“What the hell does he need me for?” Monday’s words slurred just a little. “Shit, he’s married to his dick.”
Instantly the circle of women behind them gasped and erupted in snickers.
“Monday,” Kenyatta, who Monday hadn’t known was behind them, said, sounding surprised. He politely took the drink from her hand.
“What?” Monday snatched it back, causing the wine to stir and splash against the sides of the glass.
“Stop it,” Kenyatta said tight lipped.
“Spare me.”
Kenyatta cleared his throat, noticing Bless coming their way.
“Kenyatta.” Bless held his hand out. “Monday, how’s everything?”
“Everything is fine,” Kenyatta said, shaking Bless’ hand and smiling. “But Monday isn’t feeling too well; she may be getting ready to leave.”
“Puh-leeze, I’ve been thrown out of better places by worse people.”
“Listen,” Bless said, obviously uncomfortable, “if you have a moment, I would like to discuss the details of this new contract.”
“Let’s,” Kenyatta said to Bless as he shot Hudson a look that told her to keep an eye on Monday.
Once they were out of earshot, Hudson turned to Monday and curled her upper lip. “I would suggest you rethink the attitude you’ve been displaying.”
Monday continued to sip her drink.
“Monday, do you hear me?”
“Oh, I hear you, but you damn sure aren’t talking to me. I might be a little tipsy, but this is not your auntie’s barbecue, so watch your fuckin’ mouth.”
Not wanting to make a scene, Hudson put her hips in motion and walked toward Kenyatta, who was still speaking with Bless. Once Hudson was standing next to Kenyatta, Monday noticed how he softly ran his thumb across Hudson’s chin. It was a small and subtle gesture that spoke volumes. Suddenly Monday sobered up. She hoped that what her mind, her eyes, and her third chakra, the one in the pit of her stomach, were telling her was mistaken. Perhaps Kenyatta’s fingers running across Hudson’s chin was nothing.
Monday grabbed another glass of wine from a passing tray and chugged it down in one shot. As she reached for another, Kenyatta discreetly took her by the elbow.
“Looks like somebody else’ll be missing tomorrow.” Jocelyn’s voice drifted toward Monday as Kenyatta escorted her toward the ladies’ room.
“Sir, sir,” the valet stuttered, “this—this is the ladies’ room.”
Kenyatta slid a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill into her hand. “Excuse us, please.”
The valet happily obliged, and once she left, Kenyatta locked the door behind her. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he screamed at Monday.
“You and yo’ cheatin’ ass! Got bitches out there laughing at me and shit. ‘Way to go,’” she said mockingly. “‘Stand by your man!’” She wiggled her neck. “No, what I should do is leave your fuckin’ ass.”
“Monday, please. What you need to do is sober the fuck up!”
“And you need to keep your dick in your pants! ’Cause I know you were fuckin’ that Eve bitch!”
Kenyatta frowned. He’d come to hate the sound of Eve’s name. “Monday, this is not the time nor the place for this shit.”
“You know w
hat? You’re right. That’s why I’m taking my ass home.”
Kenyatta pulled Monday back to him just as a knock sounded on the door. “Excuse me. Is anyone breathing in there?” Jocelyn asked.
“We’ll be out in a minute,” Kenyatta called.
He held Monday to his chest. “Why are you doing this?” he said calmly, knowing that the only way to control her was to act concerned and sound sincere.
“Kenyatta, just go ahead.” Monday pushed against his chest.
He grabbed her hand and held it, pressing his forehead against hers. “Baby,” he said, kissing her, “calm down. Fuck them gossiping-ass bitches. They don’t know what goes on in our house. They don’t know how much I love you.” Kenyatta kissed her as she attempted to push away.
“Kenyatta,” Monday weakly protested, “let me go.” He kissed her along the sides of her neck. “Let me go,” she repeated.
“You really want me to let you go?” He eased his hands up her dress and rubbed between her thighs. “You’re not my baby anymore?”
“Would you stop!”
“Oh what, I can’t get any more of that?” He pulled her panties to the side and worked his fingers into her wetness. “I thought you said this shit would always be mine. Ain’t this my pussy?” He rubbed the tip of his thumb against her clit.
“Kenyatta.” She felt herself getting weak.
“Answer me.” He continued to play. “Look at me and tell me it ain’t mine.”
“Kenyatta,” she sighed, hating that this was always the moment he got exactly what he wanted. She was as addicted to giving it to him as he was to taking it. “I’m just tired of this.”
“What I just tell you?” Kenyatta lifted Monday onto the black marble countertop, the length (or lack thereof ) of her dress giving him full access to exactly what he wanted.
“This my pussy?” Kenyatta unzipped his pants and pulled his dick through the slit. Monday stared at Kenyatta’s hardness as he slid the head slowly into her wetness, poking it against her clit and sliding it between her soft walls.
Monday gasped as he pressed her back against the mirror. Just as she started to throw a hard hip back at him, he slid his wet dick out and said, “Look at how I got you wide open.” She looked at his glazed chocolate dick. Her mouth watered and she bit the inside of her cheek.
