Don't Ask My Neighbor (5 page)

“I’m sorry, Cody.”

I stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding on to the rail.

“Are you and
Dad ever going to get along?” he asked with disappointment in his voice.

He walked and sat on the steps. I’ve never lied to my son, and I wasn’t going to start tonight.

“One day, I’m sure.”

Actually, I wasn’t sure, but I hoped Cody was satisfied with my response. I didn’t give him an opportunity to ask any follow-up questions.

In the kitchen, I poured another glass of Merlot to settle nerves I allowed Gage to rattle. In times like these, wine was always my best friend. I was looking forward to dinner with the two people I loved the most. They had eaten, and my appetite walked out the door behind Gage. I grabbed my cell phone, accessed my contacts, and settled on his name. As if he were sitting there waiting for his phone to ring, he answered in haste.

“Where have you been?”

“I need to see you,” I demanded when I heard his voice. “Meet me at Degrees Bar and Lounge at the Georgetown Ritz tomorrow. I’ll be there by 7:30.”

After hanging up, I leaned on the counter, draining the wine from the glass and then filling it again. This time I sipped slowly, organizing my thoughts in my head. I still had homework to check, and two kids to tuck in bed. I needed to get my mind right for them.

Seven

_____

Even Though I Hurt You, I Smile

Samantha

I SAT BACK IN THE BURGUNDY leather office chair, reminiscing on a plan I had skillfully executed. I stared at the bouquet of white peonies—he remembered they were my favorite—that sat in
the center of the solid oak desk. I read the attached card with the same smile I sported when I first lay my eyes on my new office; the same smile I wore when I finally laid eyes on this man I had been studying for so long.  His message was simple:

Thank you for making my heart smile this weekend.

Although his message was typed, he signed his name in his own writing. J.B. Graybrourne.

Jelani Brennon Graybourne had already graced the cover of
The American Lawyer Magazine
. That’s where I first came face to face with his rich, confident smile, two years before my second run-in
with Ryle. It was love at first sight, even though, then, the only love that was evident was mine for him. That’s when I took my second vow: J. B. Graybourne would love me in return.

Jelani wore his thirty years well. His brown eyes radiated with innocence. Sporting a well-groomed five o’clock shadow, he looked like he would be good till the very last drop. All I needed was my opportunity to taste him. He sported a yellow Beaufort bow tie and a navy blue suit, leaning against a building’s granite exterior. He was America’s number one bachelor, at least in my book, someone I knew I had to have. He was old and new money, educated, and already a partner at Emanuel, Sullivan and Graybourne, thanks in part to the position his father once held with the firm. Still, he was making a name for himself, even though he didn’t have to. The Graybourne name had already secured his place in the firm and in
the mouths of other lawyers who argued against him. They walked with their A-game in their back pockets, knowing J.B. Graybourne was always armed and very dangerous. His opening statements and closing arguments packed a few punches. He had a few tricks up his sleeves, and though he’s exposed them many times, no one has mastered their execution as well as he did.

“What do you think?” his thunderous voice interrupted my trance.

I stood with my eyes closed and a single flower from the bouquet close to my nose. I looked at him from the side of my eyes and smiled.
How long had he been standing there,
I thought. I had no intention of sharing my thoughts with him.

“They’re beautiful,” I said, breaking my silence.

I sat the flower on the desk beside the vase. I stood from behind the desk and began a suggestive walk toward him, which made him lick his lips and smile. He stared at me from head to toe, and I wondered what he could be thinking that very moment. I leaned against the wall next to him, inhaling his smell of lemon and cool lavender. His scent was an immediate attraction. He stared at me with lustful eyes, and I waited for him to finish undressing me. If I could have assisted him, I would have, but I allowed him to relish in his x-ray view of my nude figure. I enjoyed this seductive play that always happened between us. I was surprised when he kissed me. 

“Have dinner with me tonight?”

He held my face in his hand and traced my mouth with his right thumb.

Had he uttered a question or a command? I had a hard time deciding, but my response was without hesitation, since I was too busy enjoy the tingling sensation in my lips.

“Of course,” I said, grabbing his hand and then bringing my lips to meet his.

I held his bottom lip between mine, before finally letting go. His kisses left me wanting more of him.

“How about 7:30?”

“Do I have to wait that long?”

He turned and smiled, never answering my question. I stood on the outside of the door, watching him walk away; something else I liked to do. His walk was confident and equally stimulating, and I smiled, thinking about the days he took me to the moon and back. I felt my heart beating rapidly as I walked back toward my desk. I could still taste him, and for a long moment, his lingering scent kept him a constant presence in my office. I stood with my hands pressed against the immense office window, admiring the view of Washington, D.C. that sat on the other side of the Potomac. 

After a fast-paced weekend with J.B. and a Monday that found my mind unable to focus on anything that didn’t involve him, Tuesday morning I was running a race with a sea snail, and was losing badly. I hadn’t had my morning cup of coffee. I’m usually on my second cup by 9 a.m., both prepared by Felicia just like I liked it: black, with a teaspoon of cinnamon. I did have my morning dose of J.B.; that was the pick me up I needed. I had been savoring my new position as lead attorney at Emanuel, Sullivan and Graybourne and my role as J.B. Graybourne’s interes
t—a two-year high I had no plans of coming down from. With a little persuasion, J.B. was finally ready to mix business with pleasure, and as I would have it, I was there, ready to be pleased. I had just wrapped up my fourth small criminal case and was heading to court with another high profile case with attorneys Libby Pinder and Rodrigo Dooms.

“Ms. Wells, do you need anything?” Felicia’s girlish voice sounded over the intercom.

“No thanks, Felicia. I’m just going to get settled in here.” 

Truth is, what I needed Felicia couldn’t give me.  As long as she kept my coffee mug filled, stayed her ass behind that desk and away from my man, she was giving me exactly what I wanted. I had nothing to worry about. She’s never gotten as much as half of J.B.’s attention. Why would he even waste time to look in her direction, when he had been busy looking in mine? 

I loved that Felicia was at my beck and call, but sometimes it was at the most inopportune time. She was still sitting at her desk, but I was sure she had an ear in the direction of my office, hoping to hear fragments of my conversation with J.B. I think she lived vicariously through me. I wish I knew better, but there was nothing to prove otherwise. There were no pictures of kids or a husband strategically placed on her desk for anyone to inquire about. Valentine Days came and went, but the only flowers to come across her desk were the ones J.B. sent me, or the ones I used to send myself to make him notice me. She’s never even talked of an ex-husband, and by the looks of her, I was certain she had one or two, driven away by the woman she presented them, thinking she was presenting her best self. Believe me, I’ve seen her best self. 

Felicia Hailey was a concoction of confusion. She was a month removed from her late twenties, but she looked like she was five years into her membership with the forty-and-over club, though I knew some in their forties that didn’t look like she did. Her black-rimmed glasses dominated her small face, and she was in need of a cut and curl, since even I was bored with the long, flat look she wore day in and day out. Thus far, the only other thing I liked about her was her smile, which had a familiarity about it.

I sat back in my chair, allowing my body to sink into the soft burgundy leather. A few years ago, I was sitting in that same chair now occupied by Felicia, asking that same do-you-need-anything question to a lawyer who was often thinking with the wrong head. He thought because he laid the right pipe, and I was stroking his ego with cries of passion and expletives whenever he hit my spot, I wasn’t going to get what I thought I deserved. I figured I had to give something to get something back, and that’s exactly how I played the game. He was a pawn in my chess game, though he played like we were playing checkers.              

I always had a blueprint, a plan I began to set into motion the moment I shook hands with Parker Chandler. While other women relied on their degrees and letters behind their names to climb up this “ladder of success”, and those same letters and degrees to fall back on, I relied on the sweet honey between my legs. I didn’t care who I met, or whose toes or head I stepped on going up, I didn’t p
lan on meeting them coming down—coming down wasn’t part of my plan.             

Parker fell for everything I had to offer, and I dangled whatever I needed to get what I wanted. As smart as he was, I certainly didn’t expect him to fall for the last scheme I had up my sleeve. When he did, I knew I had him right where I wanted him. I had played my cards right. I had winked and batted my eyes when I needed to. I listened when I needed to, stroke his ego and anything else when I had to, and before he or I knew it, he was my right hand man.
             

I had done my research. I compiled scouting reports like a pro basketball team preparing to draft a college standout, or a talented free agent, and as always, I presented myself as the one who could be trusted. I had studied and
analyzed all I could about who I needed to. I knew who I was going to have in my corner from my first hello, and who was going to take much more finesse. Most importantly, I knew where I had to start.

Eight

_______

This Is Serious

Kennalyn 

IT WAS A COOL OCTOBER NIGHT in Washington, D.C. It seemed the season went from summer to winter, but this night reminded me why I loved fall nights in the District. The temperature had cooled from a mild seventy-five degrees to a comfortable sixty-six. It was good baseball weather, since the Washington Nationals were now into their third game of post-season play. I’m not a big baseball fan, but besides RGIII and the Redskins, the Nationals’ playoff birth had been the biggest news in sports since October began.

I made my way down K Street and into the popular Georgetown area. I drove with the windows down slightly, enjoying the fresh autumn breeze. The barrage of patrons who usually busied the Georgetown streets on warm summer nights and weekends was
absent on this Wednesday night. I drove swiftly, avoiding unsynchronized red lights and hidden speeding cameras. Parking was found with little effort, just a few feet from the front entrance of the Ritz Carlton, on South Street.

I walked through the hotel’s first floor lobby, through conversations held in whispers. The intimate, European atmosphere boasted a cornucopia of red, beige, and brown furniture. A baby grand piano sat in the far left corner, against a backdrop of New Bedford bricks, a few feet from the wood-burning fireplace. I carefully made my way to the entrance of Degrees Bar and Lounge in the right corner. In Degrees, red leather sectionals, bar stools, and chairs dominated the décor, adding to its warmth and cozy ambiance. The lights were turned to a dim, but still cast shadows against the walls and on the hardwood floors. I proceeded to seat myself at the last table on the right side.

“Dinner for two?” he asked.

My waiter was a medium-built dark man with a very thick African accent. His name, which he politely presented, was lost in his twang, and I didn’t bother to ask him to repeat it. I liked that he didn’t assume I would be dining alone. After my confirmation, he offered a menu and then placed the other in front of the seat next to me. He immediately busied himself, clearing the extra place settings from the table that had been originally decorated for four, leaving a seat for my guest, who still hadn’t arrived, and me. The flame from a single candle, set in a small red holder in the middle of the table, danced in the gentle, comfortable breeze, and wouldn’t have been noticed otherwise. The music, which dithered between light jazz and contemporary instrumentals, was less than overwhelming, mimicking the simplicity of the décor.

The other guests, all fourteen of them, including the three that sat at the bar, spoke in a very quiet tone. Compared to other weeknights, this Wednesday night wasn’t particularly active. In between his visits to my table and the one other table he serviced, occupied by clean-cut businessmen in Nordstrom suits, my waiter kept the bartender’s company, engaging in small chatter until he was summoned back. The bartender kept his patrons entertained, too, exchanging sports talk with an older couple who sat directly in the middle of the bar, the older gray-haired man dominating the conversation about the Nationals baseball team. When he needed a break from that chatter, he substituted it with flirtatious smiles and a disguised wink at the woman who sat at the end of the bar to the left. The woman, when she wasn’t flirting with her drink, flirted with him, too.

“Something to drink?”

This time the waiter spoke more clearly, breaking the focus on temporary entertainment. He allowed me a moment to peruse the menu, a 16 x 8 sheet of paper with simple cuisines on one side, a long list of fizzing and vanguard wines on the other. I decided to indulge in a glass of Pinot Noir. He retreated to the kitchen area to the right of where I sat and, after a few moments, returned with a bottle and suitable wine glass. I didn’t go through the usual antics of tasting the sample he dispensed. After the night I had, I was ready to smooth over the antics with a few glasses. He was pouring sparingly, when I wanted him to fill the darn glass.

Between sips, I made quick glances at my wristwatch, anticipating that Parker Chandler would be walking through the door at any moment. I also managed to engage in a light conversation with my waiter, just to past the time.

His name was Sekayi, from Zimbabwe. He’d only been in the country a few years, which explained his heavy accent, and hadn’t been back since he came. He was a third-year law student at Georgetown Law. He smiled before he spoke, and his sentences were always complete. He never took his eyes off me. I loved the confidence he presented. A few minutes into our conversation, Parker came strutting in.

“Sorry I’m late,” Parker offered.

“No, you’re not,” I quickly rebutted.

“Traffic.”

That’s the best he could come up with, and he knew I didn’t believe him for one minute. D.C. had its moments when driving from one corner to the next could drive you insane, but tonight was different.

“It’s Wednesday night in D.C.”

“What’s your damn point?” he said, removing his jacket and finally taking his seat to my right.

“Absolutely nothing,” I hastily admitted, just to end our disagreement.

He ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio as soon as he sat. This is what Parker did best whenever he was upset; drink. He was known to put away a few. As slender as he was, he could put them away with little side effects. Tonight he was going a little lighter than usual, but the night was just getting started.

“Thirsty?” I asked, pulling my glass closer to me, and smiled before slowly bringing it to my lips.

“Over it,” he responded with a smile.

“Another long day?”

I could tell Parker was disturbed with whatever transpired in his meeting. It took a lot to get on his bad side, but it was obvious that mission was achieved with relative ease.

“I swear. If I have to pretend to like this bitch one more day, I’m going to explode.” 

When the waiter returned with his drink, Parker took a long sip from his glass, returning it to the table half-empty. 

“What was supposed to have been an hour meeting to discuss the Turner case, turned out to be twenty-five minutes discussing strategies, and two hours pretending to be interested in her tell-all about her rendezvous with J.B. Graybourne. I mean, what makes her think I wanted to hear about that shit, especially when I can’t have him. And as far as I’m concerned, I would look better on his arms than that damn pushover.”

“She got under your skin?”

“That’s putting it lightly. Kennalyn, I swear. I don’t like calling women out of their names, but that bitch makes my skin crawl. Everything she does is done with total disregard to everyone and their feelings. I mean, you should see the way she treats her assistant, Felicia. She is so damn callous, and poor thing just sits there with no retort.”

“I don’t think you should worry about this Felicia person.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at me from the side of his eyes like a skeptic, but he had no reason to doubt. As far as he knew, everything I knew about Felicia, I got from him.

“You said it yourself. Eventually, people learn to respond to Samantha’s heartless treatment. Who knows, maybe she’s taking notes and plotting her sweetest revenge.”

“Hell, someone needs to, ‘cause God knows you’re taking way too long for me. We need to get this bitch, and get her good.”

“Remember, revenge is a dish best served cold.”

“There you go with another one of your damn proverbs again.”

I chuckled. He already thought I was an old woman trapped in a young woman’s body, and that proverb only helped his case. Well, he can blame Grandma Oliphant for that.

“Don’t act like you’re not writing them down,” I smiled. “But, seriously, we can’t rush this. Eventually, she will hang herself; we just need to make sure we give her a long enough rope.”

“How much more Goddamn rope do you want to give her?”

“Look, she already thinks she’s gotten away with what she did to you and this Ryle Lucas guy. She’s in his office, in his chair, looking out his window, acting like she’s got big balls dangling between her legs. She’s giving this Felicia woman everything she can handle, and she thinks she’s got Graybourne hooked on her sweet juices. I think we got her right where we want her.”

“So, I guess we’re not going to throw her stealing your husband and breaking up your happy home in the mix?”

Parker sat back in his chair and stared at me. That was his sly way of reminding me that the people I mentioned weren’t her only victims.

“Trust me, I’m reminded everyday what she took from me.”

After my admission, Parker and I sat in silence. We stared at the sometimes-invisible scars Samantha had left us with. He hated the fact that he allowed Samantha to use him the way she did. He was willing to help her get her payback as long as his involvement could be kept a secret until she was escorted out the same doors that gave her a lukewarm welcome.

I earned Parker’s trust a couple years ago. I’d proven myself with what he deemed classified information, though his disclosure wasn’t planned. Two Long Islands left Parker loose, and he found himself dangling the text message he sent to his ex, Nige
l—a picture text of Nigel’s then boyfriend on Parker’s bed in a compromising position. The boyfriend, who till this day has remained Parker’s little secret, was never on his to-do list, but this was the only way to prove to his ex that the boyfriend he gave his everything, was out there giving his everything to everyone else. He wasn’t acting out of jealousy—at least that’s the argument he’d maintained. As much as Parker hated that love no longer existed between him and Nigel, he wasn’t going to sit back and let anyone break a heart he had always protected, even when protecting his wasn’t high on Nigel’s list of priorities, if it were on there at all.

Before that night, Parker had come close to telling Nigel about infidelities that existed in his relationship, but with no concrete proof, he would only be seen as the jealous man that wanted his ex back. Obviously, he got proof and then some. Parker was a private person. He upheld a squeaky-clean reputation until Samantha Wells came waltzing in. The man sitting in front of me wasn’t the same person who donned his business suits and attaché case, walking into one of the biggest law firms in the D.C. area.

“How’s Nigel?”

A look of dissatisfaction tiptoed onto Parker’s face.

He picked up the menu that lay to his right since he occupied his seat. He took a quick glance and placed it back in the space it claimed.

“If we are going to talk about him, I’m going to need something a hell of a lot stronger than Pinot Grigio.”

Parker raised his hand to summon our waiter back to the table.

“Is the lady and the gentleman ready to order?” Sekayi asked.

He looked over at Parker and then diverted his attention to me.

Parker ordered a State of the Sazera
c—bulleit rye whiskey, absinthe, angostura bitters, and simple syrup. The waiter smiled and then concurred the excellence of his choice. Parker continued his order, adding Pan Roasted Rockfish and baby green and red romaine. The waiter accepted the menu from Parker and then turned again in my direction. I added the New York strip with baby arugula salad and mixed heirloom tomatoes. I waited for him to pull out his pencil and pad from his pockets, but he had committed our order to memory. I handed the waiter my menu, and smiled to confirm I was impressed. Silence befell as soon as he left.

I sat and waited for Parker to entertain my inquiry, but I guess he needed his drink, at least, to help him find his words. I sat and waited with him, until impatience got the best of me.

“Well, how is he?” I asked, reminding him of the topic I had introduced minutes earlier, since he was feigning as if he had forgotten.

“You know if I could breathe for that man, I would.”

“Right. But the question is, would he breathe for you?”

I was almost afraid to ask Parker that question. When it came to Parker and Nigel, I learned to keep my opinions to myself. I had met Nigel only from the descriptions Parker provided, and everything I knew about their relationship, came from Parker’s vantage point. I’ve never heard him use the word “love” unless he was talking about Nigel. It’s been about three years since their split, and a little over two years since he became privy to the fact that Nigel had decided to move on. 

“Him breathing for me was never part of my worries,” Parker responded, and we were silent again.

Sekayi cut through the silence, first filling our glasses with our original drink choice, and then helping a waitress ornament our table with the Rockfish and steak that had us salivating at the mere thought of the juices wrapping around our tongue
s. Parker immediately shoved his fork into his fish and placed a small piece in his mouth. I hated when he ate as if he was watching his damn figure. He could chew on bread and pasta for a year, and it still wouldn’t do anything to him. I envied him for that.

“Let’s say he’s still searching for forgiveness. Maybe he’s still searching for his pride, too.”

“He’s having a hard time forgiving you?”

“But I don’t need his forgiveness. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m satisfied knowing I saved him from…”