On the granite island in the center of the kitchen sat a bowl of fresh fruit and a spinach and tomato omelet on a warming plate for me along with a small dish of homemade applesauce with cinnamon and crispy applewood-smoked bacon for Damon.
“Good morning, Nicole. Breakfast smells wonderful.” I grabbed a piece of the warm bacon off the countertop and then headed down the hallway to the front door of the penthouse to collect the morning newspapers. I swore we must be some of the only people in New York who still got a pile of newspapers in the morning instead of just reading the news online.
I popped the last piece of crispy bacon into my mouth and then flipped through the heavy stack of papers in my arms as I made my way back to the kitchen. I put the newspapers aside on the large island and reached for the New York Daily to put at Damon’s seat; I knew the first thing he would to want to see was how the Gladiators did in last night’s game and see if there were any pictures of his dad. I didn’t particularly care for that paper, a tabloid whose journalistic focus tended to be on gruesome crime dramas playing out in the five boroughs, political sex scandals, and sensational stories about rats overrunning the city, but Marcus said the paper had the best sports reporters in the city. They certainly seemed to love him now that he was a Gladiator, and he got a lot of back covers.
I hadn’t watched the game last night because I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Marcus’s face, so I had no idea if the Gladiators had won. While in a taxi yesterday, I heard ESPN’s Stephen A. Smith on the radio lambasting the Gladiators over three losses in a row after what had seemed to be a hot winning streak. As I grabbed the paper, I noticed that Marcus was on both the front and back covers of the New York Daily. Wow, they must have had quite a game last night. The back cover of the paper, which led into the sports section of the paper, had a huge black-and-white photo of Marcus getting dunked on by Marc Sanford, the Miami Raptors’ seven-foot-four star center, a box with the game’s score 82–67, and the headline “In Your Face! It’s Lights Out for Marcus King!”
Ouch . . . Well, that wouldn’t make Marcus or Kareem too happy. Turning the paper over, I wondered if the loss was so bad that the reporters had continued coverage on the front of the paper.
But there, staring back out at me, was a black-and-white photo of my husband and his mistress.
Below the picture was a bright red headline that screamed, “Sex Scandal! Marcus and Laila Land Reality Show!”
Damon suddenly bounded into the room and climbed up onto the stool next to me.
“Mommy, where’s my paper?” Damon asked as he sifted through the pile of papers on the counter, searching for pictures of his father. Nicole walked over to the island with Damon’s waffles, set the plate in front of him, and poured some syrup on top.
“Thank you, Miss Nicole,” he said. While Damon was momentarily distracted by the plate of warm waffles, I quickly folded the paper in half and put it behind my back.
“Uh, your paper didn’t come today, sweetie,” I said as I turned to Nicole. “Can you get Damon ready and then walk him to school?”
“Of course, Mrs. King. No problem.”
“Thank you, Nicole.” I kissed Damon on the forehead as he happily munched on his waffles, his long legs swinging in the chair.
With a story about Marcus and Laila’s affair in a “credible” paper and not just buzzing around random online blogs, everyone would be after the story now. That meant the paparazzi would be stalking our front door for the “money shot” of the poor pathetic wife who’s just found out her husband is having an affair. I knew without even looking out the window or calling down to the building doorman that hordes of reporters and photographers would be outside, waiting to catch me. I knew I couldn’t risk walking Damon to school as usual.
“If there’s no paper, can I watch SportsCenter?” Damon asked with his mouth full. As Nicole started to reach for the TV remote control on the counter, I grabbed it. She looked at me quizzically for a moment and then turned to the sink to begin washing the waffle maker.
“Uh, sorry, baby. No SportsCenter today. I’ll turn on Nickelodeon for you.” I punched the number to the kids channel into the remote. I couldn’t take the chance that the SportsCenter anchors would cover the games Marcus was playing on and off the court. The sounds of children’s giggles from the TV filled the kitchen, and fortunately Damon was immediately engrossed and forgot about his dad’s game.
I turned to leave before Damon could ask me again about the newspaper and before Nicole could see the tears welling up in my eyes. I walked back to my bedroom, clutching the newspaper to my chest.
Reaching the bedroom at the end of the long hallway, I closed the door behind me and walked over to the bed. Dropping to my knees and sobbing, I unfurled the newspaper and spread it out on the gray silk duvet on the king-size sleigh bed in which Marcus and I had slept and made love throughout our eight-year marriage. The bacon churned inside my stomach as I wiped my tears with the velour cuff of my jacket and began to scan the New York Daily cover story about Marcus and Laila.
Unnamed sources from Glam Network, who spoke exclusively to New York Daily on condition of anonymity, say that video vixen Laila James has just signed a seven-figure reality show deal with the popular network. “Miki [Woods], our head of reality programming, is salivating over this new show and can’t wait to launch it in the summer,” said one employee.
Another source said the rising starlet’s offer price jumped from six figures to seven after Woods saw X-rated text messages from New York Gladiators star Marcus King as well as racy photos of the couple in bed. “Once Miki saw those photos, she worked around the clock to get this deal signed.”
James has been spotted by reporters in recent weeks, entering and exiting luxury hotels in cities where the star power forward Marcus King happens to be playing. Coincidence? We think not.
When reached for comment, James’s agent, Steven Edwards, would only say, “Ms. James is a very busy woman, and she often has meetings all over the country to manage her affairs.” Poor choice of words or a double entendre?
New York Daily reached out to King’s longtime manager and cousin, Kareem Davis, for comment on whether the New York Gladiator would be appearing on the new Glam Network reality show. His response: “Marcus King is focused on one thing and one thing only: bringing the city of New York a championship.”
After last night’s bruising 80–67 loss to the third-place Miami Raptors, the Gladiators’ front office and their fans likely want to see their $50 million power forward focused on the court and not on becoming a reality TV star.
I sank onto the carpeted floor and curled into a ball while crying, my body hot and sweaty, and realized why my husband had been so desperate to reach me this morning.
I stared at my red eyes in the mirror over the bathroom vanity and turned on the faucet to splash cold water on my face. My reflection was pathetic. Dry, puffy face. Dark circles. Frown lines on my forehead. My hair a tangled mess.
What happened to the woman I used to be?
How did I get here?
No answers came from the reflection that stared back at me. I hated myself for being in this situation. And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse with Marcus having an affair, now there was a potential reality show. Now Marcus might truly be wide open over this Laila chick, but I couldn’t imagine that his sexed-out mind was so gone that he’d let his whore do a reality show off his back. That would kill his career.
More importantly, I couldn’t imagine Kareem allowing his star and one-and-only client to destroy his career and Kareem’s sole paycheck in the process. But maybe it wasn’t just an overactive libido guiding Marcus now. Could he actually be in love with this little tramp? What happened to the Road Code?
The thought of my husband being in love with this woman was more than I could bear. I wouldn’t let her have my husband or destroy my family. I was going t
o keep my appointment with Erin to look at houses in New Jersey, which would get me out of the city and away from the paparazzi.
I splashed some more cold water on my face, hoping to take down the puffiness. Reaching for the wide-toothed comb in the side drawer of the vanity, I took down my bun and raked the tool roughly through my tangled locks. The comb scraped along my tender scalp and pulled forcefully at the tangled strands, but I didn’t care. The pain felt good. At least I could feel something. Then I reached for the brush to sweep my hair up into a neater bun and secured it with three bobby pins. A jar of Clarins moisturizer rested on the shelf under the mirror. I dipped my fingers into the cool cream and then rubbed it into my skin. Smoothing down the top of my jogging suit jacket, I decided this was the best I could do with my appearance for today and went back into my walk-in closet to grab my Gucci handbag. I put on dark-tinted Chanel sunglasses to hide my red eyes. All I needed was for a photographer to get a shot of me with red, puffy eyes for their follow-up story. Not today.
I heard the thumping of Damon’s feet running down the hallway to my bedroom. He burst into the room, calling my name.
“Mommy!” he called out in a singsong voice as I walked into the room.
“Yes, baby,” I sniffed, trying to sound normal and hoping my beloved son wouldn’t notice my puffy face and red eyes. I saw that he had his bright yellow backpack and jacket on, ready to go to school.
“I wanted to say bye, Mommy,” Damon said as he threw himself into my arms. I hugged him tightly before he could squirm out of my embrace, eager to head off to school.
“I love you, Damon. Have a great day.” I clung to him a little longer.
“See you later,” he said. He then ran out the door to Nicole so that they could walk to school. The reporters would be disappointed to see Nicole taking Damon to school today and would continue to lie in wait for me, but I wasn’t going to fall into their trap. Luckily, the papers had been pretty good at leaving our son alone.
I grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand. There were more missed calls from Nia. I guess Marcus had decided to stop trying to reach me. I quickly pushed the buttons to call our driver, Alex, whom I had told last night to be waiting for me at eight.
The phone rang. I thought I heard a muffled click on the line, and then Alex answered.
“Yes, Mrs. K.,” Alex said when he answered my call.
“Hi, Alex. Are there reporters outside?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. I also knew that Alex always had a fresh copy of New York Daily with him that he read cover to cover, so no doubt he was aware of why the reporters were stalking the building. But in the few months Alex had worked for us, he had proven himself to be discreet and loyal, so he’d never tip off reporters no matter how hard they tried to cajole or even bribe him for information.
“Yes, ma’am. There are quite a few buzzards out today.”
“OK. There’s been a change in plans. Nicole is going to walk Damon to school, and in about thirty minutes I’m going to drive myself to New Jersey.”
“Are you sure, Mrs. King? I can pull the car into the garage, and the reporters won’t even see you get in.” I appreciated the concern in his voice, but I couldn’t risk following his suggestion.
“Unfortunately, Alex, even if you pick me up in the garage, there will be at least a couple of reporters with cars and TV news trucks that would follow us, and I don’t want them to know where I’m going. So what I need for you to do is create a diversion.”
“A diversion?” he asked as I hurriedly began to gather my things and drop them into an oversize Louis Vuitton tote. I stuffed my feet into some UGG boots I found in the back of my closet.
“Yes, Alex, in thirty minutes I want you to turn on the car engine and get out and open the passenger side door and stand there. The reporters will think you are waiting for me to come out, so they will be focused on the door of the building and won’t see me pull out of the garage behind them.”
“OK, Mrs. King. Is there anything else you need me to do?”
“If you see any of them getting antsy or looking toward the garage, pretend you have a call from me and let them hear you talking.”
“Got it, Mrs. King.”
“Thank you, Alex.”
This plan had to work. I couldn’t face the reporters today.
I headed to the elevator to go down to the garage. When the elevator doors opened, I noticed that Hector, the garage attendant, wasn’t at his post to pull around the car. He must be on one of his extended bathroom breaks. He was a sweet old man but was always complaining about his weak bladder. The restroom for employees was at the rear of the building, so I figured it could be a while before he returned.
I ducked into his tiny office and glanced at the four security monitors, one of which showed the front of the building. There were ten to fifteen reporters and photographers with notepads, cameras, and tape recorders ready to capture the story of the day. They paced back and forth in front of the building like caged lions waiting for feeding time at the zoo. Hate to disappoint you guys, but there will be no meal today.
At exactly the thirty-minute mark Alex got out of the car just as I had instructed. He buttoned the jacket of his black suit, adjusted his dark glasses, and then walked around to the passenger side of the black Mercedes sedan to open the rear door. Reporters rushed to jockey for position in front of the revolving glass doors, making a pathway lined on both sides to the car so that they could be the first to get the photograph and comment from the scorned wife.
I didn’t have much time. If I waited too long, I’d miss my window of opportunity because at any moment the reporters could get antsy and start to think something was up. As luck would have it, Hector, who in addition to battling incontinence was also forgetful, had left open the door to the metal box on the wall that housed all the car keys. I pushed my sunglasses up into my hair, squinted, and hurriedly tried to locate the keys to our new Jaguar XJS convertible, a gift from the Gladiators’ owners when Marcus signed his new contract. I grabbed the keys off the second row from the bottom and noted the space: A4. I hastily jotted down a note for Hector to let him know I took my car and stuck it on the hook for the missing keys so that when he returned, he wouldn’t think someone had stolen the car. No need to give the old man a heart attack.
Our car was at the end of the row, which was dimly lit. I made my way down the row, my steps silent in the soft boots on the concrete floor. I was just about to push the button on the key chain to unlock the door to the car when I noticed a man bent over the windshield in the shadows of the driver’s side of the car.
“Hey, Hector,” I said as I came closer, assuming he was doing his daily windshield washing. Startled, the man turned quickly toward me. I could see immediately that it wasn’t Hector. The man, tall and heavyset with a muscular build, was dressed in dark clothing and had a black knit cap pulled down low over his forehead. His eyes were dark and hard, and there was a shadow of stubble that covered the lower half of his long face. As he began to make his way toward me, I noted that there was a large white envelope in his hand and he was wearing gloves.
I screamed, dropped my bag, and ran back toward the elevators, but the man lumbered quickly across the concrete floor.
“Come back here!” he growled as he caught up with me and tackled me to the ground.
I hit the concrete hard, knocking the air out of me. Before I could catch my breath, he grabbed my shoulder and rolled me onto my back, got on his knees, and straddled me tightly, pressing his thighs into my rib cage. His face was twisted into an angry mask. My screams echoed throughout the garage, and he leaned down to muffle them with one of his large gloved hands. He pressed his weight into me as I gasped for air. I kicked my legs and tried to claw at his face. I struggled against him with all my strength, fighting and bucking beneath him as his other hand roughly moved along the side of my breasts. His hands moved up to en
circle my neck. He pressed his weight down into my pelvis to pin me down to the cold garage floor. I couldn’t move.
As I stared at the roof of the garage, my eyes wide with fear and tears streaming out of the sides of my eyes, I felt his ragged hot breath along my neck. I closed my eyes tightly as he began to squeeze. I knew I was about to die in the garage.
Suddenly there was a voice shouting in the distance. There were footsteps running. And then just as abruptly as the man was on top of me, he jumped off and was gone. I rolled over onto my side, clutching my ribs, coughing and choking, and then there was blessed darkness.
CHAPTER 9
Nia
The cab driver slammed on the brakes at the corner of Park Avenue and Seventy-Fifth Street. In reflex mode, my arm swung out to push MJ back into his seat as his lightweight behind started to hurtle face-first toward the plastic partition that separated us from our driver.
“OK, Jesus, take the wheel for real,” MJ said as he reached for his sunglasses, which had fallen into his lap. “Girl, you saved my life; well, maybe not my life but certainly my gorgeous face.”
Muttering under my breath, I picked up my black Bottega Veneta tote that had tumbled onto the littered floor of the taxi and resisted the urge to tell our driver, Reakwon, whose name I read off the grainy black-and-white photo next to his New York City taxi license, that the brakes in his dirty-ass cab would likely work just as well if the brother lightly pushed down on them as he approached the destination instead of waiting until the last minute and trying to kill us both. My jaw tight, I swiped my American Express corporate card through the credit card reader, skipped the tip, and MJ and I jumped out of the mustard death mobile.
Deuces, Reakwon.
I tossed the heavy tote with braided shoulder straps onto my shoulder and pulled up the black cashmere cowl-neck scarf that was underneath my black Burberry trench coat around my neck and ears against the chilly fall air.
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