by Curtis Bunn
Dear Reader:
Curtis Bunn peeks at the lives of three couples whose wives decide to venture into the world of cheating after dissatisfaction with married life.
Meet Juanita in D.C. who is bored with her humdrum lifestyle with her husband; Stephanie in the Bay Area whose profession leads her to meet a married man at a conference; and Rhonda in Atlanta whose overweight husband is a turn-off. All three delve into risky adventures and cope with unexpected challenges along the way.
Will these tempted wives find that life is greener on the other side? With relationship drama and steamy scenes, this thought-provoking ride explores the psyche of women in their quest for satisfaction.
As always, thanks for supporting myself and the Strebor Books family. We strive to bring you the most cutting-edge, out-of-the-box material on the market. You can find me on Facebook @AuthorZane or you can email me at [email protected].
Blessings,
Publisher
Strebor Books
www.simonandschuster.com
Thank you for downloading this Strebor Books eBook.
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For my single male friends, in the hope that you find a wife made for you—and that you are made for your wife.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
God has blessed me in so many ways over my entire life, and crafting this book was another. I love his grace and power.
I am inspired by the memory of my late father, Edward Earl Bunn, Sr. and grandmother, Nettie Royster. I miss them both emphatically. My mother, Julia Bunn, has been my rock all my life. I’m so grateful for my brothers, Billy and Eddie; and my sister, Tammy.
Curtis Jr. and Gwendolyn (Bunny) are my children, my lifeblood, my heartbeats. I cannot be more proud of them. And I’m proud of my wife, Felita, who is wonderful and dynamic to the tenth power.
My nephew, Gordon, has always been like a second son who has grown into a fine young man. And my niece, Tamayah (Bink Bink) and nephew, Eddie Jr. are blessings that I love so much. My cousins, Greg Agnew and Warren Eggleston, are like my brothers. And I am grateful for my Uncle Al and aunts Thelma and Barbara and Ms. Brenda Brown, who has been like an aunt/second mom much of my life, and cousin Carolyn Keener.
My extended family means the world to me: Blake Rascoe, Shirley and Larry Jordan, Ted and Cecilia Baker, Tony, Erika and Eric Sisco, Ashley Darius and Baker Billings, Avant Baker, Zoe, Channing, Rain and Bell Baker.
Again, Zane, Charmaine Roberts Parker and the entire Strebor Books/Atria/Simon & Schuster family have been great, and I am eternally grateful for you. I’m proud to be a part of the wonderful, talented Strebor family.
I enjoy listing by name the supporters because you all mean so much to me: My ace, Trevor Nigel Lawrence, Keith (Blind) and Delores Gibson, Kerry Muldrow, Randy and Flecia Brown, Sam and Maureen Myers, Ronnie and Tarita Bagley, Tony and Raye Starks, Darryl Washington, Leslie Neland, Darryl (DJ) Johnson, Wanda Newman-Johnson, Lyle Harris, Monya Battle, Karen Turner, Star Rice, Tony (Kilroy) Hall, Marc Davenport, Tami Rice-Mitchell, Brad Corbin, Daphne Grissom, William Mitchell, J.B. Hill and Ericka Newsome-Hill, Clint Crawford, Earle Burke, Robert Diggs, Tony Hodge, Bob and La Detra White, Kent Davis, Wayne Ferguson, Tony & Erika Sisco, Betty Roby, Morechell and Bonita Pryer, Robin and Derrick Nottingham, Kathy Brown, Venus Chapman, Andre Johnson, Nic Mitchell, Tara Ford, Kim Davis, Flecia Brown, Herman Atkins, Greg Willis, Al Whitney, Brian White, Ronnie Akers, Jacques Walden, Dennis Wade, Julian Jackson, Mark Webb, Kelvin Lloyd, Frank Nelson, Hayward Horton, Mark Bartlett, Marvin Burch, Derrick (Nick Lambert), Gerald Mason, Charles E. Johnson, Harry Sykes, Kim Mosley, Steve Nottingham, Joi Edwards, Monica Cooper, Tim and Melanie Lewis, Linda Vestal, Christine Beatty, Ed (Bat) Lewis, Shelia Harrison, David A. Brown, Leslie LeGrande, Rev. Hank Davis, Susan Davis-Wigenton, Donna Richardson, Sheila and Dwight Wilson, Curtis West, Bruce Lee, Val Guilford, Natalie Crawford, Denise Brown Henderson, Nikki Adams, Sherri Polite, Derek T. Dingle, Ramona Palmer, Melzetta Oliver, April Kidd, Warren Jones, Deberah (Sparkle) Williams, Leon H. Carter, Zack Withers, Kevin Davis, Sybil & Leroy Savage, Avis Easley, Demetress Graves, Anna Burch, Najah Aziz, George Hughes, Monica Harris Wade, Nikita Germaine, Yetta Gipson, Mary Knatt, Serena Knight, Denise Taylor, Diana Joseph, Derrick (Tinee) Muldrow, Rick Eley, Marty McNeal, D.L. Cummings, Rob Parker, Cliff Brown, D. Orlando Ledbetter, Garry Howard, Stephen A. Smith, Clifford Benton, Leonard Burnett, Lesley Hanesworth, Sherline Tavenier, Jeri Byrom, E. Franklin Dudley, Skip Grimes, Carla Griffin, Jeff Stevenson, Angela Davis, Ralph Howard, Paul Spencer, Jai Wilson, Garry Raines, Glen Robinson, Dwayne Gray, Jessica Ferguson, Carolyn Glover, David R. Squires, Kim Royster, Keela Starr, Mike Dean, Veda McNeal, Dexter Santos, John Hughes, Mark Lassiter, Tony Carter, Kimberly Frelow, Michele Ship, Michelle Lemon, Zain, Tammy Thompson, Karen Shepherd, Barbara Hopkins, Carmen Carter, Erin Sherrod, Carrie Sherrod, Tawana Turner-Green, Sheryl Williams-Jones, Danny Anderson, Keisha Hutchinson, Olivia Alston, John Hollis, Dorothy (Dot) Harrell, Aggie Nteta, Ursula Renee, Carrie Haley, Anita Wilson, Tim Lewis, Sandra Velazquez, Angelle Owens, Patricia Hale, Pam Cooper, Regina Troy, Denise Thomas, Andre Aldridge, Brenda O’Bryant, Pargeet Wright, Laurie Hunt, Mike Christian, Sid Tutani, Tammy Grier, Roland Louis, April Tarver, Penny Payne, Cynthia Fields, Patricia Hale, LaToya Tokley, Dr. Yvonne Sanders-Butler, Anna Coleman, Alicia Guice, Clara LeRoy, Denise Bethea, Hadjii Hand, Kaira Akita, Petey Franklin, Sibyl Johnson, Shauna Tisdale and The Osagyefuo Amoatia Ofori Panin, King of Akyem Abuakwa Eastern Region of Ghana, West Africa.
Special thanks and love to my great alma mater, Norfolk State University (Class of 1983); the brothers of Alpha Phi Alpha (especially the Notorious E Pi of Norfolk State); Ballou High School (especially the Class of ’79), ALL of Washington, D.C., especially Southeast.
I am also grateful to all the readers and book clubs that have supported my work over the years and to my many literary friends Nick Chiles, Denene Millner, Nathan McCall, Carol Mackey, Linda Duggins, Terrie Williams, Kimberla Lawson Roby, Walter Mosley, Eric Jerome Dickey and Caesar Mason.
I’m sure I left off some names; I ask your forgiveness. If you know me, you know it is an error of the head and perhaps aging, not the heart. J I appreciate and I am grateful for you.
Peace and blessings,
Curtis
“There are no good girls gone wrong. . . just bad girls found out.”
—Mae West
THE ONE MOST LIKELY
CHAPTER ONE
AN ENVIED LIFE
JUANITA
Juanita Chandler was embarrassed by all the attention. Supervisors lauded her for her thorough work in helping her firm retain a lucrative multimillion-dollar contract that appeared would go to a competitor.
She took a meeting with the client’s president, outlined the value of going with her company, assured that she would oversee the execution of the deal, and the day—and deal—were saved.
That’s how Juanita rolled. She got things done. And she did so with grace. She was almost angelic. When it was her time to speak at the company event announcing the new deal after work, Juanita was typically gracious.
“I appreciate the nice words, but they could be said about anyone on this team,” she said. “We have a lot of smart and talented people and we love each other. That is what allows us to be successful. So this thanks goes to everyone, including my husband, Maurice, who gives me amazing support.”
Maurice stood near the back of the room and smil
ed. He’d never expected to win Juanita when they met; she’d seemed too good to be real and as such, too good for him. But she saw the wonder in him, and their two-year courtship had ended in marriage.
“Mommy just got off the stage,” he said into his cell phone to one of their two young boys as he stood in the back of the room. “We’ll be home soon.”
They drove in to work together some mornings, Maurice dropping off Juanita at her marketing firm on K Street before heading to Capitol Hill, where he worked for the city of Washington, D.C.
When they left the office after the celebration and got to the car, Juanita offered to drive. “You’ve had a long day, honey. Sit back and relax.”
Maurice smiled, realizing that he was a lucky man.
At home, Juanita hugged the sitter, who told her, “Your church called. The assistant pastor thanked you for the pies you baked and for stepping in and teaching Sunday School to the kids.”
Juanita thanked her and made a beeline to her sons’ room. They were five and seven, Mo and Juan, and had waited up for their mom before going to sleep. She hugged and kissed them.
“When you wake up, I’ll be the first face you see.” She turned off the light and left the room. “I love you.”
She found her husband in the kitchen, opening a beer. “Here you go.” She handed him a frosted glass. “I put these in here so your beer can be exactly as you like it.”
“You’re wonderful,” he said. “Thank you.”
Juanita smiled. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Maurice nodded his head as he flopped in his chair in the family room and searched for ESPN with the remote control.
Juanita retreated to the bedroom, where she dug into her lush leather bag and pulled out her cell phone. A wave of excitement came over her body. Heat. She searched her contacts for “Wendy,” although she knew no one by that name. It was code. Just in case.
Hey, mister, she started in the text message. Did you think of me today?
Within minutes, “Wendy,” who actually was Brandon, responded. “I thought about you in bed. Thought about it all day.”
Juanita smiled and looked down the hall to make sure her husband was not approaching. Then she responded. I thought about being with you all day, too. I can still feel you all over me.
Before Brandon could respond, she texted him again. What are we doing? What am I doing?
Whatever you’re doing feels great, he answered.
Juanita did not have a response. Goodnight, B. I have to go.
She again checked for Maurice before deleting the string of text messages. Juanita lay back on her bed in her clothes and pondered her life. She had a cherished existence, one that her friends and family admired and envied. She was the woman Jill Scott sang about: living her life like it was golden.
But there was some tarnish. She was unhappy. Not deal-breaker unhappy, but heartbroken unhappy. Unfulfilled. Bored. She’d never expected this for herself, for her marriage. It was the opposite of what she had anticipated. It ate her up.
And no one knew that but her. No one. Not Sandra, her childhood friend and sorority sister. Not her younger biological sister who looked up to her; not her mother, with whom she shared most everything; and certainly not her husband, Maurice, of nine years. It was a take-to-your-grave secret that she trusted only with herself. The mere thought of someone knowing she was less than golden petrified her.
And yet, there she was, embroiled in a secret life that, if revealed, would crush people’s impressions of her and ruin her marriage. But she engaged in it anyway because it gave her thrills in more ways than one, thrills that she did not get at home. Thrills she needed. It also gave her chills, knowing she had fallen short of her purpose. Still, she could not stop herself.
And so, Juanita was riddled with guilt. . . and conflicted. She was so adored and respected, liked and admired, that it bred constant pressure to be the perfect friend, daughter, mother, wife, sister and marketer. It was not an act, either. By all accounts, Juanita was wonderful. And she loved that people loved and admired her.
But she hated that she believed she could not be less than perfect, that she could not misstep, especially to those who loved her the most. She was so magnanimous and giving, so caring and loving, so thoughtful and delightful that any misstep would be viewed as a disaster, a strike against her character. At least that’s how she felt about it.
In the beginning, she had found it liberating to sneak around and communicate with Brandon, her old boyfriend. It was exciting, a break from the norm. They were acts outside of what people expected of her. Deep down, she wanted to be a rebel, to go against the “perceived Juanita.” She had crafted a genuine image and was unable to free herself of it. That’s why she admired Sandra, even as she disagreed with a lot of her actions. Sandra did not show concern about what someone thought of her. Juanita found that audacious. She wished she had some of that in her.
“Girl, please,” Sandra said to Juanita when it was common knowledge among some of their friends that Sandra dated two men at the same time. “If I worried about what people said about me, I wouldn’t leave the house. They probably wish they had something going on in their lives someone would want to talk about.”
Juanita had something going on that would have been the talk for sure. She hadn’t planned for it to go as far as it had. It was not her intention to sleep with Brandon. Not at first. But the more bored she had grown with her perfect life and the perception that she was perfect, the more daring she had become and desperate for adventure. She had tried to convince herself that her flirtations over the phone were innocent since she had no intentions of having sex with him.
In her honest moments, she had admitted to herself that her attraction to Brandon had never diminished. They had been lovers years before she’d met Maurice. Indeed, it was years before she blossomed into a woman beyond reproach.
Brandon treated her without concern of offending her. Where Maurice would refrain from using profanity or handle her delicately and sex her irregularly without imagination, Brandon cursed when he felt like it, handled her firmly and was adventurous in bed.
His persona was more like the Juanita her husband never knew. One day, almost twelve years after last hearing from Brandon, she had run in to one of his close friends at the Farragut Square Metro station in downtown D.C. They’d chatted for a moment and she’d reluctantly taken Brandon’s phone number.
A week passed before she contacted him. But after a trip to Disney World with the family and resistance from her husband when she was feeling particularly amorous, she had gone into her spacious bathroom and cried. She’d admitted to herself that, despite how it looked to everyone else, she was unfulfilled.
She’d texted Brandon the next day. He’d responded the way she needed him to: How the fuck are you? Where the hell you been?
She needed someone to be so indelicate with her. Their weekly flirtations became every-other-day chats on the phone and then every day and then several times a day. Juanita looked forward to hearing from him. And she enjoyed sneaking away to contact him. She enjoyed the adventure, the daring. It provided an edge to her life that was not there. But she vowed not to see him. . . until he challenged her.
“You still can’t control yourself around me? That’s why we can’t meet for a drink?”
That was all it took. She wanted to see Brandon. But she could not be the one who initiated it. And she had to resist when he asked. It had to be work. . . or appear to be work for him to get her to agree. She could not allow him to think she was easy. So she’d resisted, knowing Brandon would persist. And when he did, she’d finally given in.
When she saw him, she melted. Her heart fluttered. She was excited. She tried to pass it off as normal since she had not been in the private company of a man other than her husband in a decade.
It wasn’t so much that he looked even better than he had when they were together in their early-twenties. It was that his presence was commanding. He owned the
room, from the hostess at the restaurant to the waiter to the bartender when they sat at the bar after dinner. He drew people into him. He showed a different personality from her husband, a lively personality. She felt totally comfortable with him that first night. She was ultra-attracted to him.
He did not try to get her into bed, which made her like him more. He looked at photos of her family—but she did not include pictures of Maurice—and talked about old times, caught up on each other’s lives. . . everything other than sex. She was a little disappointed at first; she thought his lack of interest in sex indicated he was not attracted to her. But she quickly dismissed that notion; she kept herself together by being mindful of what she ate and consistently working out. No, Brandon was being respectful—and that turned her on more.
By the end of the month, she was inviting sex. Not with words, but in how she dressed when they met: always in dresses or short skirts with tops that accentuated her body. It became a challenge to make him want her.
Finally, Brandon’s discipline collapsed and he kissed her when he walked her to her car after their fifth time together. It was following lunch at the St. Regis in downtown Washington, D.C., near the White House. Juanita did not resist. She closed her eyes and her senses were heightened. She could smell his Viktor and Rolf Spice Bomb cologne. She felt his heart beat up against her chest. He was intoxicating. She was drunk.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said. “But I want to.”
Brandon could have taken advantage of her. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry. But I gotta tell you, my attraction for you is stronger than ever. Can I ask you something? Why are you here with me?”
Juanita did not have an answer. At least not an answer she wanted to share. Brandon had a hold over her, and she told him the truth.
