Betrayal (10 page)

Ariel was taken aback. It had been awhile since Preston woke her up ready to make love. Though she wasn’t ovulating, she wanted him nonetheless, and scooted her ass toward him, causing his dick to slide in even more. “Ohh, now that’s what I call a ‘wake-up call.’”

Preston turned her over. “Get on your knees.”

Ariel complied, and before she could say
fuck me
, Preston was deep within her, riding her doggy-style, like a man half his age.

He pulled her hips to him for deeper penetration. His libido was on ten, so he grinded into her like a man in lust. Now with additional time on his hands, Preston could focus more attention on his wife, and this morning that’s exactly what he did. He fucked her hard, until his cum squirted into her canal. He then slumped down on the bed in sheer exhaustion. Twenty minutes later, he felt refreshed, and got up to shower for work, leaving Ariel asleep.

When she woke up, Preston was long gone. Though her husband had rocked her morning, she still felt homesick and couldn’t wait to get back to New York.

She tried shopping at the boutiques in Georgetown for new clothes, which usually made her feel better. She tried a spa day at the Four Seasons to rejuvenate her tired muscles, but nothing seemed to bring her out of her funk. Sex with Preston helped, but she knew the real antidote was a long overdue trip home. Days ago she had called the New York office and told her colleague that she would be more than happy to work with him for the next few weeks. After that, she called Amtrak and booked a business-class ticket on the Acela. Her next call was to Meri, regarding her plans to spend time in New York. Ariel decided not to call Mrs. Grant, because she wanted to surprise her foster mother, and if she told Mrs. Grant in advance the older woman would be full of questions as to why Ariel could be away from her husband for so long.

Though she was only going to New York for two weeks at the most, Ariel packed enough clothes to last a month. She still had her Manhattan condo, but was leasing it out to a couple of empty nesters from Connecticut, who had sold their house and moved into the city to begin the second part of their lives. Since her place was occupied, she was going to stay at the firm’s corporate apartment, overlooking Central Park.

Ariel tugged her two oversized suitcases out of the bedroom into the hallway. She struggled with them until she reached the top of the landing. It was at times like this that she wished she still lived in a doorman building on the east side; then all she’d have to do was to call down and have the porter come up and get her bags. But now
lugging her luggage was solely her responsibility. She thought about yelling downstairs for Preston’s help, but he would chastise her for bringing too many clothes, and she didn’t want to hear his ranting, so she just struggled by herself.

She managed to get the bags down the stairs, one at a time, and when she reached the bottom of the landing for the second time, she was exhausted and felt as though she’d put in an hour’s workout at the gym. Ariel put her elbow on the banister and rested a few seconds before taking another step.

“Can you help me take my luggage outside?” Ariel asked, as Michele walked out of the office area.

“Excuse me?”
Michele raised her voice and crossed her arms at the same time. She exhaled hard and said, “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not wearing a doorman’s uniform, and hauling suitcases does not fall under my job description.”

“Michele, I know you’re not a doorman. I was just asking you for a little help,” Ariel said.

“Like the help you were trying to give me when you told your friend Meri that you can’t wait to have me fired?” she said venomously.

Ariel looked shocked. She had no idea that Michele had overheard her conversation. One look at the twisted expression on Michele’s face, and Ariel could tell that she was pissed. She didn’t know what to say to smooth things over, so she didn’t say a word.

“You were so big and bad on the phone with your friend … so what do you have to say now …
Nothing!
” Michele hissed.

Ariel was caught with foot in mouth, and couldn’t deny her words. “Uh, Michele, I seriously think that you misconstrued what I said.”

Michele rolled her eyes, and snapped her neck simultaneously. “You want to talk
seriously?”
she said, quoting Ariel’s word. “How about I seriously think about telling Preston about you and Trey? How’s that for being taken seriously?”

Ariel’s jaw dropped. Ever since she, Trey, and Michele had made their pact to keep quiet, Michele hadn’t uttered a single word about their betrayal. Ariel had misgivings about trusting Michele, but Trey
assured her that Michele would keep their affair a secret. Now the cow was finally confirming her suspicions. “How does telling Preston the truth have anything to do with my conversation? One thing has nothing to do with the other,” Ariel said, in the calm, professional voice that she reserved for clients.

Michele flipped her hair to one side. “Don’t you think I know that they have nothing to do with each other?” She rolled her eyes again.

“Then why would you mention the, the …” Ariel was having a hard time saying the word “… affair?” she whispered.

“I just want you to see what it feels like to be blindsided. Like when I overheard your double-crossing conversation.”

“You wouldn’t!” Ariel said, in a quietly raised voice. She wanted to shout, but she didn’t want to alarm Preston.

“Oh, yes I would! Just try me!”

“Why would you want to hurt Preston like that?”

“Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? You’re the one who hurt him by fucking his son. And now, you’re trying to make me out as the bad guy; isn’t that a bitch?! I’ve got a mind to go into his office right now and tell him everything!” Michele turned toward Preston’s office.

Ariel grabbed her by the arm. “Wait a minute. Don’t be too hasty. At this point, it’ll be your word against mine and Trey’s. I’m sure that Trey isn’t on board with you helping to jog his dad’s memory. So you can go in there and say whatever you want; I’ll just deny everything and you’ll look like a zip-dang fool,” Ariel said calmly, hoping that she’d given Michele food for thought.

Michele was quiet for a few seconds, as if weighing Ariel’s words. She hadn’t thought her plan through. Ariel had a major point, and that was until Preston began to recall what happened on his own, it would be her word against the two of them. Michele knew that she had to tread lightly, until she had an ironclad plan; otherwise she’d be out on her pretty ass, with no job and no man. Since Preston didn’t have a recollection of the forty-eight hours preceding his stroke, he’d probably think that she was making up the entire story just to cause trouble in his marriage. It was no big secret that Michele and Ariel
were adversaries. “Whatever!” was her only comeback. She was caught between a rock and a hard place, but was trying not to let Ariel know that she had won this round. She turned on her heel and strutted away, while she still felt empowered.

Ariel felt weak in the knees, and slumped back on the banister for support. She hadn’t expected a confrontation with Michele and was totally taken off guard. She hadn’t spoken with Trey and had no idea whether or not he would back her up, but she had to play that card; otherwise, Michele probably would have told Preston the truth and nothing but the truth. Since her husband was showing no signs of regaining his memory and their love life was back on track, Ariel felt safe in going to New York, especially now that she had put Michele back in her place. Besides, she’d only be gone for a few weeks—back in time for her next ovulation—and was confident that nothing significant would happen in that time.

“SO, HOW
does it feel to be free from the old ball and chain?” Laird asked Preston. He had stopped by the town house instead of calling, hoping to get a glimpse of Michele, but she was out of the office running errands.

“I wouldn’t exactly call Ariel a ball and chain, but it does feel good not to have to worry about another person. Well, I shouldn’t say worry. What I meant to say is that, it feels good not to have to consult her about dinner every night,” Preston said, clarifying his statement.

“I know exactly what you mean. Most nights Leona is preoccupied with her own agenda, but on those days when she’s at home, she’s asking me about dinner before I’ve even had lunch. What is it with women and food? It seems they’re always trying to feed you something.” Laird chuckled.

“I’m sure it has to do with their maternal instincts.”

“I already have a mother who happily resides miles away in sunny Boca Raton. If anything, I need another lover, not another mother,” Laird said seriously. “Speaking of food, that’s why I stopped by. I’m taking you to dinner, and I’m not taking no for an answer. Since your
wife is out of town and mine has other plans this evening, we’re going to have a boys’ night out.”

“Sounds good to me.” Preston smiled. He was beginning to miss his wife, and was happy for the distraction. “Let me send this e-mail, and I’m ready to go.”

Laird’s midnight blue Mercedes sedan was parked in the driveway, and the two men happily hopped into the car like two college buddies on their way to the local pub. “Where’re we going?” Preston asked, once they were en route.

“A really unique restaurant called À Votre Service.”

“I take it it’s French?” Preston asked.

Laird smiled. “Yes, it’s very French. Hope you’re into international cuisine; thought we’d try something different.” The last time they went to dinner a few months ago, they had gone to a traditional steak and seafood restaurant.

“I love French food. It’ll be a nice change from the usual steak house.”

“Yes, À Votre Service is definitely a nice change. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

The restaurant was tucked away on a quiet Georgetown block, in a century-old town house. A uniformed valet was waiting to park the car the moment they drove up. And as soon as they stepped out of the car, a well-dressed maître d’ appeared at the doorway, and ushered them inside.

The interior was quaint but elegant. There were only about ten tables in the entire restaurant. Preston looked at the tables and noticed that they were not the normal height. They were tall, almost the height of a bar, and were draped in long, ecru linen cloths. Atop each table was a vase of blood orange calla lilies. The deep color of the flowers complemented the burgundy walls and velvet drapes perfectly. Soft lighting emanated from ornate wall sconces, and seductive French music played softly in the background.

Preston looked around. “I think you picked the wrong restaurant,” he whispered to Laird, as they waited to be seated.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because this place is a little too romantic for two straight men going out to get a bite to eat; maybe we should leave and come back with our wives,” Preston suggested. He felt a little uncomfortable. Georgetown was known for having gay establishments, and he didn’t want to be seen having a cozy dinner with another man. The last thing he needed was to get a reputation of being gay.

“Trust me. This isn’t a place we’d want to bring our wives.”

Before Preston could ask why not, the host approached them. “Good evening, Congressman Forester. Should I seat you at your regular table?”

“Yes, please, Jean-Luc.”

Preston and Laird followed Jean-Luc to a choice corner table in the rear of the restaurant. Once they were seated, the host told them that the sommelier would be right over with the wine selections of the evening.

“Look, Laird,” Preston said, leaning in once they were seated, “I’m not in the mood for any wine. Let’s get out of here, before anyone sees us, and head over to Smith and Wollensky and get a nice juicy steak,” he said nervously.

“I thought you said that you were not in the mood for steak tonight. Look, Preston, just relax, and stop being paranoid. Trust me; you’re going to have a great time this evening,” he said, with confidence.

Preston began to fidget in his seat. He was finding it hard to relax. He didn’t want to wind up on somebody’s blog as another down-low politician. He looked around the room, and didn’t see too many women customers. Most of the tables were occupied by men. Though they didn’t appear to be gay, it was suspicious nonetheless.

“Bonjour
, Laird,” a beautiful French woman said, and handed him a leather-bound wine list.

Laird looked at her and licked his lips. She was gorgeous, with flawless porcelain skin, long auburn hair, emerald-green eyes, and a body built like Barbie’s. Her waist was small, her hips round, and her rack was well endowed. Laird put his arm around her tiny middle.
“Bonjour
, Sasha; ç
a va?”
he asked, in a perfect French accent.

“I’ve been good, and you?” she replied, leaning into his embrace.

Preston watched the exchange between them, and it was obvious that Laird was a regular. This woman seemed to know him well enough to refer to him by his first name and let him touch her in an intimate way. Preston knew that Laird was a hound dog and couldn’t help but wonder if he was having an affair with the stunning sommelier.