by Briana Cole
“You have reached me. You know what to do.”
Dorian felt his blood boiling at the sound of her voice. He had made two attempts to call Reagan from the hotel phone, but to no avail. Reagan was slick and manipulative, and he didn’t know why he expected her to answer, knowing what she was doing.
The beep had him opening his mouth to leave a message, a slew of cuss words and threats already on the tip of his tongue. But then, remembering how Officer Williamson had warned him about trying to contact her, he thought better of it and slammed the phone down.
His work clothes were uncomfortable, and having brought nothing else, Dorian stripped down to his boxer briefs and lay in the stiff hotel sheets. Sleep was out of the question. The uncertainty of the entire situation left his mind and heart restless. His body was hungry, but Dorian felt like food wouldn’t settle in his stomach. So he just lay there, listening to the muffled thumping and bumping of the hotel guests above him.
The cell phone’s vibration was loud against the wood tabletop and Dorian picked it up to read the caller ID. It simply said UNKNOWN. He swiped the screen to answer the call, prepared to dismiss whoever it was.
“Wow. You picked up.”
Dorian sat up at the voice. “Bitch, you’ve got some fucking nerve—”
“Whoa there. You want to calm it down a bit, Dorian? I’m the victim here.” Her laugh echoed in his ear and only heightened his anger.
“Reagan, what the hell are you doing? This shit isn’t funny. You could cost me everything.”
Reagan sucked her teeth. “Well then, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you did it.”
Dorian bit back another curse. He would have to appeal to her emotional side. He had been dealing with Reagan long enough to know. So, she wanted to play games? He could play right along with her. “Baby.” His voice was softer and thick with charm. “How can you do this to me? To us? I thought you loved me?”
“I do, Dorian. But you brought this on yourself.”
“I’m no good in jail, Reagan. If you love me, you’ll drop these charges. You know I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
“But I didn’t mean to.”
Reagan sighed and suddenly she sounded further away. “I’ll drop the charges,” she said with a sigh. “But on one condition.”
“What? Anything, baby.”
“I’ll tell you in person. Meet me tomorrow. I’ll text you the address.”
Dorian had to ignore his anxiety. He wanted this done and over now, but if he had to kiss Reagan’s ass, so be it. “Okay. Don’t forget, Reagan. I want to meet up and settle this.”
“Oh, we will.”
Click.
Dorian pulled the phone away from his ear. No telling what Reagan wanted, but he was prepared to give her damn near anything to make this thing go away. He just hoped he could do whatever she asked, and it wasn’t anything stupid like marry her or give her another child. Otherwise, she was about to have a whole other problem on her hands.
Chapter Twenty-five
The sports bar was in an uproar. Apparently, some basketball game had brought out every man in Atlanta. They nursed shots and Coronas around the crowded bar or sat munching on hot wings at the high-top pub tables. Every seat was in view of an angled flat screen, all showing the same game currently in progress. An occasional three-pointer or foul call had unanimous cheers and slaps of high fives, even a few exchanges of money as the gamblers made good use of the anticipation. A mixture of weed, cologne, and liquor hung in the air like a stale blanket, and someone had turned down the music enough to hear the game announcers.
Dorian’s boys had already arrived and were seated at a high-top table close to the bar. They had apparently been there for a good bit. Bottles of beer, shot glasses, and half-eaten trays of appetizers and chicken bones cluttered the table.
Dorian had debated calling them after he hung up with Reagan. Hell, he had been holding a lot of secrets from them, and at this juncture, it seemed like it was too late to solicit any type of help or advice. But then again, he just needed to vent. They wouldn’t judge. They would keep it real with him. At the end of the day, they had too much history behind them and he hoped they would support him through all this bullshit. The only one he was really concerned about was Myles. Technically, he and Reagan were in some kind of relationship. But Dorian would hate to know he had managed to let her come between their friendship.
“Man, what took you so long?” Roman greeted him first.
Dorian took a seat. “Traffic.”
“What you mean traffic? In your driveway? You live right around the corner,” Myles teased with a laugh.
“I’m not at home,” Dorian said.
His friends stopped laughing, realizing Dorian’s somber mood. It was Neil who finally addressed the elephant in the room.
“You good, my friend?” he asked. “What’s up? Did something happen?”
Dorian flagged a nearby waitress. “Let me get a Corona,” he said. She nodded and flounced off to get his drink. No one said anything else just yet, but he felt all eyes on him, watching and waiting.
He didn’t speak again until he got his beer and nearly finished the bottle in one gulp. Reagan’s words were still fresh on his mind, and he didn’t realize his jaw was clenched until it started to ache.
“I messed up,” he started, keeping his eyes downcast. “And shit has gotten bad.”
He kept his story very basic, giving just the relevant details at first. He met a girl, he used the hall pass with her, he tried to break it off, she wasn’t having it, and now she had the cops on him. For now, he conveniently left out Reagan’s identity. He would stall as long as he could, though it wasn’t like it made the story sound any better.
“She did what?” Roman was frowning as he too was trying to process everything. “That’s some obsessed Fatal Attraction shit, D. How the hell you get tangled up with this chick?”
Dorian took another swig, polishing off his drink. Shit sounded even crazier when he thought of everything in its entirety. He couldn’t believe he had been so damn stupid. And over what? Sex? Lust? There had to be a special pit of hell for guys like him. And to top it off, messing up a good thing—no, a great thing, with his wife.
“Man, the police showed me those pictures of her and had my ass shook because I know she’s lying. That’s the messed-up part.” The images of Reagan’s bruises flashed in his mind and he slammed his fist down on the table, startling all of them. “The hell I’m gon’ do? This bitch is trying to put my ass under the jail.”
“Damn,” Neil muttered, at a loss for words. “You got a lawyer or something?”
“Of course I got a lawyer. That ain’t the point. The fact that I’m even being accused is the bullshit. Do you know what could happen if this gets out? Even just being accused will ruin everything I’ve worked for. I just started my practice not too long ago.”
“And what about Shantae?” Neil mentioned, his voice quiet. “What did she say?”
Dorian shook his head. “She put my ass out. She ain’t trying to hear none of it. I didn’t even get a chance to . . .” He trailed off on a sigh. It didn’t matter. He already knew she was as good as gone. Hearing that kind of news had hurt her in the worst way. Not to mention shattered whatever little trust she had in him. Hall pass or no hall pass, there was no excuse or justification in the world she would accept, he knew.
“The bitch sounds crazy,” Roman said, shaking his head.
“Who is she?” Myles said. “I can get some homegirls to pay her snake ass a visit.”
Dorian sighed. He needed to get it all out. No use still trying to lie about it. “Reagan,” he muttered.
“Huh? What about Reagan?”
Dorian’s eyes already held the apology even before words left his lips. “Bruh, I didn’t even know she was your girl at first. I didn’t . . . I told you I fucked up. She was off-limits.”
Myles’s face remained neutral.
Dorian wouldn’t have known he had even reacted if it wasn’t for the vein throbbing at his temple. His face registered a combination of disbelief and anger. And right there under the surface, pain. Dorian saw it, and it made his own heart ache. His boy really cared for that girl. Even though she wasn’t shit, he loved her anyway.
“Damn,” was all Neil murmured. “Just . . . damn.”
Dorian started to say something but caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He should’ve known it was coming. But still he was too slow and didn’t have time to block the punch before it landed like a piece of steel against his jaw. The rounded knuckles of Myles’s fist were fueled with such force that it sent him flying out of his chair and tumbling to the hardwood floor. Dorian gasped, struggling to take a breath from the brief spasm. He felt dizzy and his face was throbbing as he climbed to his feet, the puffiness of swelling already tightening the skin from his eye to his chin.
And there Myles stood, towering over him, fists clenched, as if daring him to retaliate. If it had been anyone else, he and his boy probably would’ve been throwing blows just like him and Kenny. But Dorian knew he deserved it. So, after picking himself up, he just stood there and waited among the steadily growing crowd surrounding them with anxious eyes and cell phones, ready to capture what they figured was about to go down.
It was quiet. Even the TVs sounded like they had been put on mute because the action in the bar was better. All that could be heard was heavy breathing roaring in his ears, and Dorian realized it was his own. At the continued silence, he chanced speaking again. “I ain’t got no excuse, man,” he said, his palms out in surrender. “I ain’t got nothing left. I’m sorry.”
Myles shook his head, and an expression of pure hatred furrowed his eyebrows. “Reagan is your karma,” he said after a minute or two. “I hope she gives you everything you deserve.”
And with that, he left.
Dorian stooped to pick up his chair, Myles’s last words resonating with him until they left him sick. What if she already had?
Chapter Twenty-six
Dorian hadn’t even bothered trying to sleep. Just lay in bed taking deep puffs of Black & Mild after Black & Mild and getting lost in a daze. His mind felt as stifling and foggy as the smoke, and by the time morning light had broken through the hotel’s blinds, he was in no better shape than when he had checked in the night before.
The glass from his tequila rested on the nightstand beside him. At the time, it was comforting to indulge in the complimentary en-suite bar. But now the mix of alcohol and nicotine had him feeling nauseous, not to mention light-headed.
Dorian put the butt of Black & Mild out in the cluttered ashtray and picked up the phone. He didn’t know what time it was, but the twenty-four-hour room service was a welcome blessing. He didn’t have a piece of appetite, but he needed food in his stomach and a distraction from waiting. Reagan had insisted she would text him a meeting place, but as of yet, his phone was empty of notifications. He wanted so badly to call his wife, but he knew there was no point. Hell, he didn’t even know if he still had a wife. But one thing at a time. Dorian needed to reason with Reagan and get her to drop these ridiculous charges. Then he could beg for Shantae’s forgiveness.
The room service arrived, and Dorian positioned himself on the bed with his omelet. He forked pieces of egg and bacon into his mouth, but he might as well had been eating cardboard. About half was all he could stomach, and he sat back, frowning when there was still no text from Reagan. Maybe she had been bullshitting him during the call. But what the hell kind of games was she playing? Each excruciating second that ticked by with only the deafening silence to lull him had his anger increasing. But outweighing the anger was pure fear. He was scared of this bitch and the power she currently held that could destroy him. The knowledge had his stomach bubbling, no thanks to that dry-ass omelet he had just forced down.
His phone vibrated and Dorian snatched it up. Sure enough, there was a text message from an unknown number. He assumed it was Reagan when he read the simple address, followed by 5:00. Dorian glanced at the clock and rolled his eyes. He had all day to marinate on this bullshit meeting later. He was tempted to text back that they needed to meet earlier, but he didn’t want to risk Reagan throwing up her hands at the whole thing. He hated how he had to play this game by her rules, but he had no choice. For now, he had eight fucking hours to kill.
Dorian ended up going by the house. He had been in his work suit ever since the police took him down to the station for questioning, and he needed a good shower and a fresh change of clothes. More than that, he wanted to see Shantae during the visit. Disappointment had his heart falling when he saw the garage was empty.
She hadn’t touched anything, which was maybe a good sign. No boxes or luggage packed. The bed was neatly made, and there was even the faint smell of coffee still fresh in the air from where she had apparently made some that morning. Dorian hadn’t known what to expect, but his hope was revived when he saw she hadn’t immediately changed the locks, packed up her things, or set fire to his.
Dorian showered and put on some jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. Then, just in case, he tossed a few essentials in a duffel bag, along with another set of clothes. Hopefully after today, he would have a better idea whether he should come back home or make the hotel his temporary living quarters until he found another place to say. Damn Reagan for putting him in this position. But then again, he knew he was just as much to blame. That fact was leaving a bitter-ass taste in his mouth.
Dorian settled down on the couch. It was funny. Shit felt like déjà vu. The night of the hall pass, he was sitting in this same place staring at the Christmas tree, trying to psych himself up to go have sex with Reagan. Now here he was, staring at the same spot. The tree had long since been put away, but just like that damn corner, his life was now empty, thanks to the wrong, crazy-ass woman.
A knock on the door had Dorian snapping out of his daze. He rose, his face creased in curiosity. Who was knocking on their door on a Wednesday afternoon? Instead of the peephole, Dorian bent back the bay window blinds, which gave a perfect angle to the porch. The person was turned away from the window, but Dorian would have recognized the body frame anywhere. Question was, what the hell was Kenny doing at his house?
It was around noon, and one look at his usual business attire let Dorian know he must have come over on his lunch break. When he turned, his face was in full view, so if there had been any lingering doubts as to the visitor’s identity, they were completely erased. Kenny’s face had healed from the fight and his expression carried impatience as he rang the doorbell this time. He then glanced down at his watch and back to the street.
Dorian stood back from the window. A mixture of anger, hurt, and confusion tugged at his heart. So much so that he was tempted to open the door and resolve the uncertainties once and for all. They hadn’t spoken since the fight. Not even a text message. If Dorian was honest with himself, he knew it was his pride, and Kenny, he was sure, was being stubborn, so neither had bothered to initiate contact.
The doorbell rang a few more times before Dorian finally heard footsteps as Kenny stepped off the porch and walked back to his car. Moments later, he drove away. He had come for someone, that’s for sure. Which begged the question, just who was Kenny there to see? Him? Reagan?
Or Shantae?
Dorian pulled up to the address Reagan had texted him. A furniture store? What the hell did she want him to meet her at a furniture store for? It was already five minutes till, so he parked his truck and climbed out.
Reagan was already there, waiting on a bench outside the entrance. She was dressed casually in some jeans and sneakers, and her hands were shoved in the pockets of her short winter coat. Dorian saw from his distance her jaw was still swollen, but even that didn’t stop the smirk that spread when she noticed him walking toward her. For that, he wanted to punch her in her damn face.
“Hey, boo,” she greeted as soon as he was in arm’s length.
“Damn, you’re hostile. You should sit down. And stop being so aggressive before it makes you look even more guilty.”
“What? Makes me look guilty? To who?”
Reagan pursed her lips but didn’t respond. Instead she said, “So what’s up? You called me, wanting to meet. What do you want to talk about?”
“Are you serious? Why the hell did you say I beat you, Reagan? You know damn well that shit isn’t true. Now I could lose my job, my wife—”
“Fuck your job and your wife. What about me?”
“Bitch, what about you? All this bullshit you causing because I didn’t want you?”
To his surprise, Reagan burst into laughter. It sounded somewhat slurred because of her swollen mouth, but that was definitely a laugh seeping between her lips. “Little boy, are you serious right now? You think I went through all of this because of revenge?”
Dorian’s anger dissipated and he stood there confused. If not revenge, then why?
“You are really on your own sack right now,” Reagan went on, seemingly tickled by the whole conversation. “Fuck you, Dorian. You ain’t no damn good anyway. A dog-ass cheater ever since I’ve known you. What the hell am I going to do with you? I can get sex from any damn body.”
“So this?” Dorian gestured to her mouth. “All of this was for what?”
“You can’t be that stupid,” Reagan said. She paused as if waiting for a response and cocked her head to the side. “Well, damn, maybe you are. Money, Dorian. It’s always been about money. And you have plenty of it.”
The pieces were trying to fit, but for some reason, Dorian couldn’t accept the picture it was making. No way that could have been Reagan’s one and only motive.
