The Cheating Curve

by Paula T. Renfroe

  For Sean, every single purchase broke down to either an asset or a liability. The Rogers family were by no means hurting for money, and Sean wanted to keep it that way. Plus, the upkeep of their hundred-year-old brownstone was expensive and ongoing, even after all the renovations they’d already had done.

  Sean had always lived beneath his means but ultimately had given up on trying to get Lang to do the same. He’d settle for her living within her means. But with Lang’s salary alone of $325,000 a year, what that exactly meant still wasn’t quite clear to her. At least she’d stopped hiding receipts from her husband. That had to count for something.

  After waiting on the corner for more than ten minutes, she finally called for car service. Her cell phone vibrated as she climbed into the backseat of the black Lincoln Navigator.

  “Yes?” she answered abruptly. “Take the Manhattan Bridge,” she told the driver.

  “You with your husband?” Dante asked.

  “No, are you with Lisa?” she replied with two parts cynicism and one part curiosity.

  Dante laughed. “No, she left over an hour ago.”

  Lang said nothing.

  “Hello? Lang, you still there?”

  “Yeah. I’m here,” she replied dryly.

  “Come see me,” he said, more commanding than pleading.

  “Oh, so now you wanna see me?” Lang asked sarcastically. “Well, I can’t. My husband’s waiting for me.”

  “Just for a minute,” Dante said, more pleading than commanding. “Stop by real quick.”

  Lang saw no sense in frontin’. She hadn’t stopped thinking about Dante since she’d spied on him earlier.

  “Change of plans,” Lang informed the driver. “Take the Brooklyn Bridge instead.”

  Lang met up with Dante at his loft in DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass). Though she’d been to Dante’s place several times since they’d met, it was still risky. While none of her people, nor Sean’s for that matter, frequented that area too often, it was still Brooklyn. And Brooklyn was always in the house—and on the streets.

  “Listen, I can’t stay long,” Lang said, removing her gold-heeled jeweled thongs as she walked out of the private elevator that opened directly into his loft. Dionne Farris’s “Hopeless” off the Love Jones soundtrack was playing.

  “What was that earlier?” he said, giving her a full-bodied hug, letting his hand linger on her rear end.

  “I think that was a little thing called jealousy,” Lang said, resting her head on his chest and inhaling the Versace Black Jeans cologne he usually wore. It was one of the sexiest scents she’d ever smelled on a man. She loved it so much she’d bought herself a bottle and sprayed it on her panties from time to time.

  “You have a lot of nerve, you know that, right?” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said, breaking away from his embrace and walking toward the floor-to-ceiling window, momentarily captivated by the spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline. “Because I’m married I have no right to feel like that or act like that, blah, blah, blah. Yeah, I know.”

  “No, Langston Neale,” he said, walking behind her, hugging her around her waist and kissing her softly on her neck. “I wasn’t going to say anything like that. You’re entitled to feel the way you feel. I mean I started fucking around with you knowing you were married. I have no right to judge you. But what I started to say was that you had a lot of nerve because I saw you standing across the street from the restaurant lookin’ crazy, sexy, and pissed.”

  “You what?” she said, turning around to face him. Lang was genuinely taken aback.

  “You heard me. I saw you, and I know you saw me. And I’m not gonna front,” he said, wagging his index finger at her nose as if he were scolding a cute puppy. “I was disappointed in you. You handled yourself like one of these young girls out here. I mean, you showed me some real birdlike tendencies.”

  “What?” Lang responded, more than a bit perturbed, not appreciating being likened to a tacky ’round-the-way girl always running off at the mouth, always “clucking” so to speak—hence the fowl implication.

  “Cursing a brother out. Hanging up the phone. I dunno. I guess I expected more from you.”

  “What was I supposed to say, Dante?” Lang asked, placing her hands on her hips.

  “Let’s just say you would have earned more cool points with me if you had just said something to the effect of, ‘Listen, D, I know I have a lot of nerve calling you with this bullshit, but I’m standing across the street watching you have lunch with the next chick, and I’m actually feeling a little way about that,’” Dante said, doing his best Langston Neale Rogers imitation. She laughed. “‘And I’ll admit, I have no idea who she is or what she is to you, but it’s bothering me.’ I would’ve expected something more like that from you. I’m supposed to be the younger one in this relationship. Remember?”

  “Oh, so we’re in a relationship now?” Lang asked, smiling.

  “We’re relating,” Dante responded, smiling back.

  “Oh, yeah, and what difference would it have made if I’d said all that?”

  “Well, for one, I’d have an even higher regard for you, thinking, ‘Now, that’s how a grown-ass woman in control of her emotions deals with an uncomfortable situation,’” he said, moving her hands from her hips and wrapping them around his waist. “Then I would have excused myself from Lisa and let her know that I had to go to speak to someone real important to me and that I’d be back shortly. I would’ve walked across the street, given you the biggest hug and the sweetest kiss and whispered in your ear that you had absolutely nothing to worry about. Oh, and that I found your li’l jealousy thing to be kinda sexy.”

  “I would not have let you do that. No PDA, remember?” Lang reminded.

  “Then I guess I would have lifted up your face up like this,” he said, raising her chin. “Then kissed you here.” He pressed his lips firmly against her forehead and held it there for a minute. She inhaled his cologne again and slipped out of consciousness for just a few seconds.

  Lang sighed. “We’re indoors—private displays of affection are allowed. You can kiss me on my lips now.”

  He lifted her chin again, brought his lips within an inch of hers, closed his eyes, and smiled. Lang stood there with her eyes closed for a full five seconds before she realized he wasn’t going to kiss her.

  She playfully punched him and pushed him away. “I think you get off on making me wait.”

  “I do,” he admitted, still grinning and then pulling her back into his embrace.

  She moved to kiss him on the lips, but he turned his face. She pulled away. He pulled her back into him and sucked on her bottom lip. He gently caressed the top of her lip with his tongue and then finally kissed all of her mouth fully, softly. She moaned. She melted.

  She’d underestimated his kissing skills, thinking like a lot of exceptionally good-looking men that he’d be a lazy kisser. She’d melted the very first time this twenty-three-year-old-something-of-a-man-child had kissed her and every single time since. Everything—every muscle, every fiber and tissue—between her legs was fully engorged. The longer he kissed her, the more intense the sensation stirred, the faster her fluids churned, and the warmer the heat between her legs pulsed until her sugar walls came crashing down in a long, rhythmic explosion. A simple kiss—no, a complicated kiss, a very layered kiss—caused her knees to buckle and her sex muscle to throb involuntarily and uncontrollably. Her bottom lip quivered. He lifted up her tank top and then raised her bra and tongue kissed both her breasts.

  “I want you, Dante,” Lang whined.

  “Soon,” he replied, still tonguing her erect, sweet brown nipples.

  “I’m ready to feel you inside me. I want you so badly,” she breathed.

  “I know,” he said, cupping both of her full breasts in his hands.

  “This can’t go on forever,” she moaned.

  “I know that, too,” he said, stepping back from h
er, leaving her tank top raised and admiring her fully exposed breasts. “I’m familiar with that little corny saying about all good things coming to an end.”

  “Yeah, but we haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet. Let’s make that happen tonight, D,” she said, stepping toward him and placing her hand on his crotch.

  “Nah, not tonight, baby,” he said, moving her hand away and pulling her shirt back down.

  “Ugh. You’re killing me, Dante!” Lang screamed.

  “You can take it.”

  “No, I can’t. I want you.”

  “You can have me.”

  “No, I want you now,” she whined again.

  He shook his head.

  “I’ve never had to wait for dick before.”

  “I know,” he said, smiling.

  “What? What? What is it? You want me to beg for it?” she asked, clearly frustrated.

  He nodded and smiled.

  “Fuck that, Dante,” Lang said, readjusting her underwire bra and top.

  “What? You think you too proud to beg?” he teased.

  “Absolutely. I’ve never had to, and I never will. My name is Langston Neale Rogers, not Lisa what-the-fuck-ever, or did you forget?”

  He laughed. “Nah, I didn’t forget. How could I? You won’t let me.”

  “Fuck you, Dante.”

  “You will.”

  “No, I won’t,” she said, pouting and walking over to her shoes. “I gotta go anyway. I’m horny, you’re not helping, and I’m late for dinner.”

  Dante nodded.

  “Hey, can I ask you a question?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

  “Go for it.”

  “Did you have sex with Lisa?”

  “I did,” he admitted, rubbing his chin.

  “Damn, Dante. That’s fucked up. How long have you known her?”

  “She’s not married.”

  “That wasn’t the question.”

  “She wasn’t playing hard-to-get. As a matter of fact she was throwing her pussy at me. She even paid for lunch. It was the least I could do.”

  “What-the-fuck-ever. I’m outta here,” she said, sliding back into her thongs and pressing the elevator button.

  Dante turned her toward him and kissed her again. Softly. Gently. He sucked her bottom lip and then kissed her lightly.

  “Stop playing with me, Dante. You know what you are? You’re a clit tease,” she said, turning her back to him.

  “I like kissing you,” he admitted. “I didn’t even kiss her, you know?”

  “Is that supposed to make a difference to me?” she asked, insulted, pushing the elevator button again.

  “It should,” he said, blocking the elevator door.

  “Oh, really, and why is that?” she asked with her arms folded.

  “Because I don’t just kiss anybody. I’ve fucked more females than I’ve kissed.”

  “That’s sad,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Nah, not really. I think kissing is way more special, more intimate. Fucking, for me anyway, is mostly recreational.”

  “Now that’s enlightening. That’s the problem with you young boys. You’re so detached and downright emotionless. I guess I’m supposed to feel special that you kiss me. Well, it still takes one to know one. Remember that.”

  “You’re not detached, and neither am I,” Dante said, unfolding her arms.

  “I can be,” she said, refolding them.

  “You are an exceptional lover, though,” he said with a slight chuckle.

  “You wouldn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, let you tell it. I picked up on your sexual energy the moment we made eye contact.”

  “What-the-fuck-ever,” she said, flicking her hand dismissively.

  “You’re not emotionless either. In fact, I think you’re catching feelings.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Lang said, moving Dante out of her way and strutting into the elevator.

  “I’m digging you, Lang,” Dante said right before the elevator closed. “I’m really digging you.”

  Langston left Dante’s loft fully aroused. Back at home she enjoyed a scrumptious dinner and devoured her husband with a side of strawberries and cream for dessert. They made love in the dining room, had sex in the kitchen, fucked in the bathroom, and collapsed on the bedroom floor. This time she did come, over and over and over again, twice with her husband and just once—the last time, in fact—with her husband inside her but with her lover on her mind.

  Chapter 9

  “You have to be either really strong or really weak just to expect and accept that ‘a man’s gonna do what a man’s gonna do.’”

  Aminah ordered a large bottle of Ty Nant mineral water as she waited for Rebekkah Morrison to arrive. Water was Aminah’s beverage of choice. She enjoyed both flat and sparkling water equally. It irked her when people said water had no taste. Good water had no aftertaste whatsoever and was never to be served on the rocks unless the ice cubes were made from the exact same brand of water. Water could be smooth or crisp, effervescent or still. Chilled water served in a frosted glass more than sated Aminah—it delighted her.

  No two waters tasted the same to her. She loved Pellegrino but detested Perrier. Found Poland Spring and even Dasani tolerable. Evian deplorable. Favored Lurisia, Fiji, and Panna. Appreciated Voss. Enjoyed smartwater. Detested both Deer Park and Great Bear, and Aquafina quite frankly made her puke.

  Though Aminah was not a wedding planner by practice or profession, she had received several requests to do them after creating such a spectacular event for Lang and Sean four years ago. She’d turned them all down. The wife of Aaron “Famous” Anderson did not work. Though she was Ivy League–educated, Fame saw that the best use of all that expensive knowledge was in the rearing and the development of their children.

  Initially, Fame even protested Aminah doing Rebekkah’s wedding to Imon Alstar, founder and president of All-Stars Records. However, once she reminded him that he’d done a couple lucrative deals with Imon’s label and this could possibly lead to more, he happily surrendered. And while she and Rebekkah hadn’t been quite chummy in college, they were always cool. In fact, when Rebekkah had relocated from Philadelphia to New York a couple years ago, it was Aminah who’d helped her get acclimated and even brought her to a movie premiere where she’d subsequently met Imon.

  Rebekkah sauntered into the restaurant minutes later wearing a dainty white eyelet sundress, white braided leather flip-flops, a straw tote bag trimmed in white leather, large silver hoop earrings, several sterling-silver bangles on her right wrist, and a dainty silver toe ring. She was a natural beauty—the type of woman who was more lip balm than lip gloss, more wedges than stilettos, more Coach than Gucci.

  Rebekkah spotted Aminah immediately. She was sipping on her second glass of sparkling water still wearing her Oakley sunglasses with the rose-colored lenses inside the dimly lit restaurant located in the rear of the Tribeca Grand Hotel.

  The ladies embraced each other lovingly, ordered their dinner, and fell into a natural rhythm of catch-up conversation.

  “I’ve always loved your locs,” Aminah complimented, sliding her pink camouflage frames on top of her head. “That color looks incredible with your complexion. Who does your hair?”

  She purposefully complimented sisters with natural hair. She loved to see women embracing their own texture and supported them if not physically at least spiritually. She thought they exuded supreme confidence and a regal beauty that deserved more appreciation and validation by the media and society at large.

  “Thanks,” Rebekkah said, brushing the back of her intricately twisted updo. “Debra at the Studio in Bed-Stuy. I was literally terrified of cherry plum, but she convinced me to try something new, something different. Before I let her do this, dark brown was more my idea of a risk.”

  They laughed.

  “I know what you mean,” Aminah said. “My husband would have a fit if I came home with any other color besides jet black, an
d heaven help me if I stopped relaxing my hair….” Aminah caught herself. She hated the way she’d just sounded.

  Rebekkah raised her eyebrow, took a sip of her pinot grigio, and swiftly changed the subject by asking how Lang was doing. “You know we gave her exclusive coverage of our nuptials in Urban Celebrity?”

  “I guess she’s fine,” Aminah replied flatter than her opened bottle of mineral water.

  “You guess? Wait. I thought you two spoke practically every day. When’d that change?”

  “Last week. We had a little falling out over brunch. Obviously, in the twentysomething years we’ve been friends we’ve disagreed before, but this time…” Aminah’s voice trailed off. “I dunno.”

  As tempting and maybe even as necessary as it was for Aminah to vent, she didn’t quite trust Rebekkah enough to violate Lang’s confidence. She’d never done it before and wasn’t about to start now, though the irony of feeling conflicted over her double-dipping friend wasn’t lost on her.

  “Sounds like more than a little fallout? You okay? You wanna talk about it?”

  “Well, you know Lang’s always been stomping up the career path while I’ve been gunning down the family lane,” Aminah said, attempting to “skirt the issue” just a bit. “And I’ll be honest, I just find some of her choices lately to be a little on the selfish side. That’s all.”

  “What choices? Her career choices?”

  “Well, not exac—”

  “But isn’t that the beauty of the time we live in as women?” Rebekkah asked, cutting Aminah off. “We have the freedom to choose our lives and not just deal with some unwanted or forced circumstances. We’re our own prime examples. She’s a dynamic career woman, you’re a happy full-time mother, and I’m a successful single working mom. Oops, correction—newly engaged single working mom. Bam!”

  Rebekkah promptly fanned her three-carat conflict-free diamond ring in front of Aminah’s salad plate, and they both doubled over with laughter. They quickly regained their composure as the waiter refilled Aminah’s water glass and took Rebekkah’s order for another glass of pinot grigio.