by Curtis Bunn
“Do you have a condom?”
As if by magic, Charles had displayed one in his right hand. Stephanie had been wowed by that, but more impressed with what she’d felt between his legs.
“This is what I came for right here,” she’d said, his rock-hard manhood in her grasp.
He’d kissed her again, and she’d aided him in applying the condom. She’d spread her legs and Charles had maneuvered between them. Stephanie had wasted no time. She’d held her breath and flinched when she inserted Charles’ dick. It was full enough and long enough and exactly what Stephanie wanted. Exactly what she needed.
He had been too anxious at first, going deep and hard. She’d slowed him down. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” she’d whispered into his ear.
Charles had slowed his tempo and made love to Stephanie—measured, deep strokes that took her breath away and pleased her at once. In no time, she was begging for that aggression he had shown, thrusting forward as he pumped harder.
He’d held her legs up by her ankles and thrust into her in rapid-fire succession, drawing sustained moans from Stephanie. The sound of their bodies colliding had filled the room. The pleasure of it all got to Charles sooner than he’d wanted. The harder and deeper he’d pounded, the closer he’d come to climaxing. She could feel him swelling inside her, the sign that he was about to cum. “Come on, baby. Give it to me. Give it to me.”
The combination of the pleasure and her words had sent Charles into a frenzy until he’d filled the condom. He’d let down her legs and kissed her deeply, but not long, as he’d sought to catch his breath.
“Oh, my God,” he’d said as he lay on top of her.
“That was. . . oh, my God.”
After a few minutes, he eased off Stephanie and lay beside her.
“That’s it,” he’d said.
“What?”
“I need you to get a divorce.”
They’d laughed.
“You know what’s crazy—or sad? Or both?” Stephanie had asked. “I don’t feel guilty. I hope that doesn’t sound ugly. What I’m saying is I’m so pleased right now that I can’t think of anything negative. And I didn’t even cum.”
“Well, we have to fix that,” he’d said.
“I didn’t expect this to happen when we met.”
“Neither did I. I’m not going to lie; I noticed that you were attractive. But sometimes things do just happen.”
“I don’t feel guilty, but we can’t keep this up. The good news is that you live in Los Angeles. If you lived here, this would be trouble. Right? Tell me, do you feel guilty? Are you thinking about your wife?”
“I don’t think we should be talking about that right after what we just did. I really don’t.”
“You’re right. That’s kind of morbid, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say morbid. Let’s say inopportune.”
“You know what? Now I will have that lunch,” Stephanie had said.
They’d ordered room service and dined by the window. When Charles had gone to take a shower, Stephanie had joined him.
“We’re here now, might as well maximize it,” she’d said.
“Like the alcoholic who’s going to rehab the next day, so he drinks the night before.”
“Yeah, like that.”
Stephanie had taken the soap and washed Charles’ body, paying special attention to his groin area. She’d cleaned and stroked it until it was no longer flaccid. He’d told her where to find the condoms and she’d stepped out of the shower to retrieve one.
With the water pouring down his back, Charles had bent over Stephanie, who used both hands to support herself up against the wall. It was a position that invited intense passion, and he’d discarded any notion of sparing her, penetrating her from various angles with violent thrusts.
She’d held the wall and took the aggression, and had screamed when her body was overcome with sensation. Charles had pumped and pumped until Stephanie had reached the ultimate pleasure.
After gathering herself, she’d embraced Charles as the water covered their bodies.
“That was so good,” she’d said, “that it’s trouble. It’s trouble.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’LL HAVE ANOTHER
RHONDA
It did not get any better for Rhonda when Eric came home with the same attitude that he’d left with. But at least he wanted to talk.
“Look, we need to set something straight,” he began. “I’m a grown-ass man. And I’m your husband. We don’t have any children, so don’t think you can try to treat me like one. You don’t think I know about my weight issues? I don’t need you hounding me. I need you encouraging me.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” She was angry. “As a matter of fact, grown-ass man, you shouldn’t need anything from me. Men do what they have to do.”
Rhonda was particularly weight-conscious because she’d lost an older brother she adored to the effects of obesity when she was a teenager. Lavon was big all the way through college. When his college football career ended, it took him less than two years to go from 310 pounds to 450 pounds. With the weight came diabetes, back problems, and high blood pressure. They added up to him seldom in good health.
She was devastated to see him so sickly at such a young age—all of it a result of being so overweight. Lavon did not mean for it to happen; it just did. With no incentive to exercise, he instead ate. And ate. When he came to visit the family one Thanksgiving, she was astonished at his size.
But she did not say anything, although she heard him wheeze as he ingested his meal and saw him struggle up a flight of steps that their parents negotiated with ease. Rhonda practiced what she wanted to say to Lavon: Big brother, you have to slow down. We want you around. Let’s figure out a way to get this weight thing under control. We love you too much to see you like this.
She thought that would be sensitive enough to share. Her parents had a talk with their son, but Rhonda believed coming from her, the concern would especially register because he knew she looked up to him. Still, she never said a word.
Six months later, Lavon was dead. His body’s vital organs had collapsed. He was twenty-six. Rhonda carried guilt with her the rest of her life that she did not urge her brother to take better care of himself. Her parents and others had told her it was not her fault. It was on Lavon, they’d told her. Those words never eased her pain or guilt.
All these years later, she was not going to let her husband have a similar fate. Not without saying anything.
“If you want to let your health go downhill, you can do that,” she told Eric. “But as your wife, I have a responsibility to you. I’ve seen it before. I told you about Lavon.”
“I’m sorry about your brother, Rhonda,” Eric said. “But I’m not him.”
“You can’t disassociate yourself from him because you have two things in common: me and being overweight. If I’m worrying too much, I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I can’t let this happen again and not say anything.”
“Okay, you’ve said enough. I hear you. Now let me deal with it the way I want to and in my time.”
“Is your time now, because it should be?”
“Okay, I’m done with this. You’ve said what you needed to say. I’ve said what I needed to say. That should be it.”
“It should be about action, not words.”
“Give me a fucking chance to do something. We’re discussing it right now. Damn. I said I will handle it.”
“You think cursing at me is the way to go?”
“I sure the fuck do. You’re getting on my nerves.”
“Okay, it’s like that, huh? Curse at me like I’m some trick off the streets? Okay. Remember that.”
And with that she promised herself that if she did not see improvement in Eric’s eating and workout habits, she would give leaving him strong consideration. She preferred leaving over cheating, but she also said she would not rule out infidelity if she were pushed beyond her level.
This was new thought territory for Rhonda. Their marriage had been one of routine—a routine she approved of, but one that left her wanting more. She was disappointed Eric found their patterns acceptable—dinner at home during the week, a movie on Saturday or a visit to his mother, church on most Sundays and sports on TV in between.
Rhonda’s niece, Anna, who was like the daughter she never birthed, had gotten married two years earlier, and Anna’s marriage was replete with travel to exotic islands and fun events. She was a dozen years younger than Rhonda but doing more in two years of marriage than her aunt had in fourteen years. That frustrated her as much as being an attendee at three friends’ weddings over the summer, friends that married men who were hell-bent on living exciting lives.
She hoped being aggressive with Eric would ignite something in him to do better. But change was slow—too slow for Rhonda. A week passed and Rhonda’s walking cast was removed, but she wanted to boot her husband. Eric showed little effort in modifying his food choices and a lack of an exercise regimen.
Exasperated, she remembered Lorenzo said he was bartending a few nights a week. Rhonda put on a pair of Spanx under a flattering dress and made her way to the Glenn Hotel. She almost always hung out with Olivia. But she did not want Olivia to know her business, especially since she liked Lorenzo, too.
When she arrived at the hotel, she hesitated at the entrance. She felt silly, strange. . . weak, even. She had never pursued a man, adhering to her father’s edict shared with her when she was fourteen: “Pursue a man and he will have all the power. Let him pursue you and you will deal with him from a position of strength, not weakness.”
Rhonda decided to return home, her father’s words permeating her thought process. But before she could turn to leave, Lorenzo emerged from an elevator to her right. He stopped in his tracks and smiled.
She wanted to move, but it was as if her pumps were cemented in the floor.
“Glad to see you,” Lorenzo said as he approached. “I had to take something to the upstairs bar on the roof. How are you?”
He seemed so genuinely happy to see her that her concerns eased by the minute. Still, she felt compelled to lie.
“I’m waiting on my girlfriend—not Olivia—who picked this place to meet. She works across the street, at Turner.”
Usually, Rhonda detested lying. Actually, she detested liars. She did believe in telling a lie in extreme circumstances.
“Cool. I’m glad she did,” Lorenzo said. “Come on over. Let me make you a drink before she gets here.”
“I don’t know,” Rhonda said, extending her deceit. She needed a drink.
“No reason not to,” he said. “You can sit at the bar and watch me make it.”
Finally, she put one foot in front of the other and followed Lorenzo to the right side of the bar, which was empty.
“So what do you like to drink? Tequila? Vodka? Gin? I would suggest vodka,” Lorenzo said. “Tequila is good too. But gin? Had my last sniff of gin about nine years ago. Let’s say I woke up in somebody else’s room in someone else’s house and didn’t remember how I got there or where my left shoe was. Searched this strange house for ten minutes for my other shoe.
“My body felt like I had been in a giant blender. My stomach was queasy. My head was throbbing. It was one of those times that you bargain with God: ‘Make me feel better and I won’t drink again.’ It was bad.”
Rhonda laughed and felt more at ease. Lorenzo’s consideration and humor comforted her. She liked to laugh, but she hadn’t been getting many at home. It felt reinvigorating and made her body feel vibrant.
“You know what?” she said. “I will let you make what you want me to have. That’s a big responsibility, you know?”
“I think I can handle it.”
He began the process, all the while explaining to Rhonda what he was doing.
So, you slice the fresh ginger thinly and then muddle it to bring out the flavors. . .Then you muddle some fresh lemons and then some fresh mint. . . Put in an ounce of vodka and a half-ounce of agave nectar, a natural sweetener. . . Add some ice and then shake it really good.
Rhonda appreciated the undivided attention, and she found herself smiling at Lorenzo as he vigorously shook the concoction.
He placed a martini glass in front of her on a napkin and strained the liquids into it. Then he added a mint leaf that floated on the top of the drink.
“This drink will change your life,” Lorenzo said, smiling.
Rhonda smiled back and thought to herself: Great, because my life needs changing.
She sipped it and a smile creased her face. The martini was refreshing—not sweet, not alcohol strong. It had the ideal blend for her.
“Wow, you’re good,” she said. “This is delicious.”
He nodded his head. “Great. Glad you like it. I’m relieved.”
Lorenzo excused himself as he tended to other drink-seekers. Rhonda sipped on her cocktail, all the while watching with admiration as he engaged customers and fashioned drinks.
By the time he got back to Rhonda, she had already consumed her entire martini.
“You were thirsty, huh?” he cracked.
“What actually happened is I spilled most of it—you know how hard it is to handle these martini glasses.”
“Yeah, spilled it right over those sexy lips,” Lorenzo said, and Rhonda blushed. The attention was flattering and needed. Eric had not only become complacent about his appearance, but also about complimenting his wife. She didn’t consider herself insecure. But she did need to feel appreciated by her husband, at least some time.
“What makes my lips sexy?”
The alcohol took hold.
“Their shape. They are nice and full. The lipstick makes them look moist. I bet they’re soft.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“You want me to know, don’t you?”
“I do,” she said. Those two words made her realize she was tipsy. She’d said those words when she married Eric. Now she was saying them about another man kissing her. The realization sobered her up.
“I’m sorry. I’m way out of line. I shouldn’t be talking like this as a married woman.”
“A little flirting never hurt anyone,” Lorenzo said. “I know you’re a respectable woman.”
“If Eric saw me flirting, he’d be hurt,” she said.
“I’m glad he’s not here,” Lorenzo added.
Before Rhonda could respond, a customer at the other end of the bar caught Lorenzo’s attention. She was an attractive woman who projected an air of familiarity with him. He raised a finger to Rhonda as if to say, “Be right back,” and went to take her order.
He shook the woman’s hand when he got to her and she smiled the way women do when they want to show their interest in a man. And Rhonda was surprised at herself. She was jealous.
She could not take her eyes off them, and in her mind crafted a story that the lady was Lorenzo’s girlfriend—or at least someone he had invited to see him, as he had invited Rhonda. After a few minutes, during which time her angst grew to virtually a boiling point, Lorenzo returned, smiling.
Before Rhonda could say anything, he said, “I’m sorry I left you like that. But that’s my brother’s wife. She and my brother thought they’d drop in and surprise me. He’s parking the car.”
All the tension in Rhonda oozed out as if released from a balloon. “Oh, really,” she said, managing a smile. “That’s nice.”
“Since your friend hasn’t come yet, I’ll make you another drink, if that’s okay. These drinks are on me, by the way.”
“I don’t know where my friend is, but I’m going to call her now. But, yes, another drink sounds great.”
Rhonda pulled out her cell phone and pushed some buttons, feigning as if she called someone. She felt silly about it, but that was the problem with lying: She had to advance the lie, keep it alive, for it to be convincing.
A bar-back told her that the bathroom was upstairs, and she went t
o it as Lorenzo made her second drink. There, in front of the mirror, she stared at herself and wondered how far she would go with this man. Her attraction to him heightened, while her displeasure with her husband rose. She tried to stay on an even keel about the situation. But she made a decision while looking into the mirror: If Lorenzo did not blow it, she would blow him.
She freshened up in the bathroom and made her way down the steps and back to the bar. Lorenzo had another drink waiting for her—and a proposition.
“My shift is over in a few minutes; I wasn’t scheduled to work today, but I wanted to get in a little more time behind the bar. Why don’t you and your friend join me on the rooftop for a drink? There’s a beautiful view from up there and it’s a nice night.”
Who was she to resist? “That sounds nice. But I don’t know where she is. I have called and texted her.”
“If we’re in luck, she won’t come,” Lorenzo said.
Rhonda gave him a look.
“But I do hope she’s all right.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you do, Lorenzo. I’m gonna have to watch you.”
“Please do,” he said. “We can watch each other.”
Rhonda pretended to send a text and accompanied Lorenzo on the rooftop, called the Sky Lounge. The combination of the view—she could see the standout structures of Atlanta’s sprawling skyline: the lit-up Ferris wheel, the prodigious Bank of America building with its gold, pointed top; the cylinder-shaped Westin hotel and virtually any other Atlanta site. It was breathtaking. And the drinks made her more and more aggressive. . . and less the lady she valued being.
“It’s kinda romantic up here, Lorenzo. Is that why you asked me up here?”
“Well,” Lorenzo started, not knowing how he should answer, “it is romantic. I know you’re married, though, so I wasn’t sure if this view mattered to you or not.”
That was the best he could come up with that would not put off Rhonda.
“Everyone likes romance, right?” she said. “I can use a little romance in my life.”
It came out before she could stop herself. That’s what drinking did to Rhonda. She became blunt, flirtatious. That’s why she tried to drink heavily only when she was with Eric.
