Hittin' It Out the Park (25 page)

Cheryl glanced down at her coat. “It's fine,” she said dismissively.

“If you say so,” he said, turning up the air conditioning in the car. “So, where are we heading first?”

“Right here.” Cheryl screeched to a stop in front of the Ritz-Carlton, and jumped out the car, leaving the car running.

Stephen pulled the keys out of the ignition and handed it to the valet. “I wouldn't bother to move it. We'll likely only be a moment.”

He rushed into the lobby right in time to see Cheryl point her finger at the concierge and scream: “No, I don't need any damn help!”

Stephen held his hand up to the man in a reassuring manner. “Thanks, but we know where we're going.” He then ran after Cheryl, barely making it inside the elevator before the doors closed. He stood straight, his hands folded in front of him as the elevator made its way to the nineteenth floor.

Cheryl didn't bother knocking when she reached room 1901; she immediately started kicking. “Bitch, get the fuck out here. Come on out so I can kick your ass!” she screamed. When the door didn't open immediately. she backed up as far as she could and did a couple of flying kicks.

“Cheryl, she's obviously not there, honey,” Stephen said in a soft voice.

“And I guess her pussy-ass bitch boyfriend isn't there, either,” Cheryl screamed, before aiming another flying kick at the door.

“Right,” Stephen said calmly.

“Okay,” Cheryl said, breathing heavily. “Okay. If she's not here, she's got to be somewhere. And we're gonna find her.”

“Right,” Stephen answered, taking her arm and leading her to the elevators.

They got on an elevator going down right as the doors for another elevator opened and three hotel security officers disembarked.

“You know—”

“I don't want to hear it,” Cheryl snarled.

“Right,” Stephen said, through pursed lips.

Cheryl stomped outside to the car, snatched her keys from the valet who rushed toward her and jumped in her car, which was still parked in front of the hotel.

“Sorry, it seems I didn't bring my wallet,” Stephen shouted out the window to the valet as Cheryl once again peeled off. This time Cheryl drove stone-faced and silently, her eyes fixed on the road, concentrating hard. She didn't know where she was going, but somehow she wound up in front of the Four Seasons hotel. She turned the car off and turned to Stephen. “Okay, I'm calm.”

Stephen gave a huge sigh, seemingly of relief. “Cheryl, I'm so glad, because—”

“HOW COULD HE DO THIS TO ME? WITH HER OF ALL PEOPLE?” Cheryl furiously pounded her fists against the dashboard. “WHY, STEPHEN, WHY?” she screamed over and over again until her voice was so hoarse barely a sound came out.

“Oh, honey! Please try and calm down.”

Stephen tried to pull her into his arms, but she fought him off, and then jumped out the car. Somehow one arm had come out of her coat, and it dragged behind her, and the already flimsy nightgown was soaked with tears and perspiration, rendering it see-through. But appearance was the last thing on Cheryl's mind as she stomped over to the hotel lobby desk.

“What room is Sexy Sanchez and Randy Alston in?” she managed to croak out.

“I'm sorry, ma'am. Who are you looking for?” the astonished clerk asked, trying hard to look at her face and not at the nipples protruding from her nightgown.

“Sexy Sanchez and Randy Alston!” she repeated a good deal louder.

The clerk looked down and started tapping keys on a computer hidden by the counter. “I'm sorry, ma'am. We don't have anyone with those names registered with us this evening.”

Cheryl's eyes narrowed. “You're lying.”

“Come on, Cheryl. They're not here.”

“No, Stephen. He's lying. He's lying. Everyone's lying!” Cheryl walked away from the lobby desk, and at first, it seemed she was going to simply stomp out the door. But immediately before reaching it, she grabbed a brass lamp and swung it with all her might against the lobby window.

“Look at that, Stephen. A home run!” She started laughing hysterically. She then swung again, shattering another window, and then another.

“Cheryl, please, they've called the police,” Stephen said, running up to her, but then ducking as Cheryl swung the lamp against one of the oil paintings on the wall. She continued laughing, so hysterically she fell to her knees still holding the lamp. She was still laughing when the police carried her to their van. It was there that she finally blacked out, with a smile on her lips, and her eyes wide open.

W
hile Randy slept like a log, Sexy went into the kitchen and searched through the pockets of his jeans that were lying in a heap on the floor. She couldn't resist pocketing a few hundreds from his wad of cash, and then she took an additional fifty bucks to buy something to eat. The jangle of his keys gave her an idea.
I should take his Maybach and go for a spin. Maybe drive to Philly and show my old roomies, Emma and Arielle, how great my new life is. Randy will never know,
she thought with a giggle.

She glanced at the key ring and was suddenly struck by an even better idea. Her eyes twinkled with glee as she used her phone to check online and discovered there was a twenty-four-hour hardware store within walking distance. With Randy's key ring in hand, she quickly threw on her clothes and hurried out of the apartment.

“How many key copies do you want?” asked a pimply-faced young man whom she'd caught dozing when she'd entered the store.

“Um, how about two?” she replied, figuring she might need a back-up key to Randy's and Cheryl's apartment. She doubted she'd ever have the opportunity to use the key, but she couldn't resist the prospect of having access to Randy's marital abode.

On the way back to her apartment, she picked up a sausage pizza, an orange Gatorade and two bottles of water. She could hear Randy still snoring when she crossed the threshold of her apartment. With the kind of racket he was making, she doubted if she'd get very much sleep tonight. She wished she had bought a TV today, but since she hadn't, she had to resort to playing around online for amusement.

It was fun taking pictures of her new apartment and posting them on Instagram. She even took a picture of Randy, asleep in her bed with his mouth open. Thoughtfully, she cropped out his face before posting the photo that she captioned, “My Baller Boo” on her Instagram page.

She sat out on her terrace until she grew bored of the magnificent view. Sometime around three o'clock in the morning, Sexy finally returned to the bedroom and drifted off to sleep. An hour later, awakened by a full bladder, she drowsily wandered to the bathroom. Suddenly thirsty, she trekked to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. As she reached for the handle of the fridge, she was startled by the blaring ring of a phone. Frowning, she retrieved the phone from Randy's pants where she had returned it after making her spiteful telephone call earlier. There was no doubt in her mind that it was Cheryl blowing up Randy's phone.

That desperate housewife needs to let her husband have some breathing room. Damn! Can't my man get a decent night's sleep without this trick always tracking him down?
She sucked her teeth and with brows furrowed, she peered at the screen. She squinted at the caller ID, which read:
NY-Presbyterian Hospital.
Curious, Sexy brazenly answered Randy's phone.

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Randall Alston, please?”

“Uh, what's this in reference to?”

“I'm calling from New York-Presbyterian Hospital, Department of Psychiatry. There's an emergency concerning Mrs. Cheryl Alston.”

“Really?”

“It's urgent that I speak to Mr. Alston,” said the crisp voice on the other end.

Sexy heaved a sigh. Cheryl had probably faked a suicide attempt simply to lure Randy away from the woman he loved.
What a bitch!
Although it was against her better judgment, Sexy padded to the bedroom and shook Randy until he jolted awake.

“What is it? What's wrong?” he bellowed, wild-eyed, arms flailing. Geez, the way Randy woke up, looking and acting all crazy, wasn't attractive at all. Sexy blamed it on the champagne he had drunk earlier in the evening. Surely, this wasn't his typical way of greeting a new day.

“The psych hospital is on the phone, calling about Cheryl,” Sexy said casually.

Randy bolted upright, and this time his eyes were wide with fright. “Did something happen to Cheryl?”

Momentarily forgetting her role as the loving and supportive side chick, Sexy grimaced in disgust and shrugged one shoulder as she handed Randy his phone.

“Hello?” he said in a desperate tone of voice. “Cheryl has been admitted? Why?” He listened for a moment and then said, “I'll be there right away.” He jumped out of bed and turned in a complete circle, scratching his head as he attempted to orient himself.

“Is Cheryl all right?” Resuming her role, Sexy's words and facial expression were now tinged with concern.

Instead of answering Sexy's question, Randy said gruffly, “Where're my clothes?”

“I'll get them. They're in the kitchen.” Sexy trotted to the kitchen and then returned to the bedroom with Randy's jeans, briefs, and shirt.

Randy snatched his belongings from Sexy's hands. He nearly toppled over, struggling to hastily get into his pants. In less than five minutes, Randy was dressed and racing toward the living room.

At the sound of the slamming front door, Sexy rolled her eyes.
Bastard! I hope that psycho-wife of his smells my pussy on his breath and tastes it on his tongue. If she's only faking being crazy, getting a taste of my pussy on her husband's tongue ought to really send that bitch over the deep end!

*  *  *

Sexy cancelled her appointment with the interior decorator. She was much too stressed out to listen to a prissy-acting bitch talk about color schemes and displaying swatches of fabric. She'd been calling Randy for the past two hours to no avail, and at this point, she didn't give a damn about getting the apartment furnished. Whatever the interior decorator wanted to do with the place was fine with Sexy. All she really needed right now was a new TV and Randy.

Where's my baby? And why isn't he returning my calls? I hate Cheryl and her conniving ways.

Although she was frantically waiting for Randy's call, the ring of her phone startled her, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin. She glanced at the screen and gave a long sigh. It wasn't Randy, it was her mother calling.

“What?” she answered grumpily.

“That's not a proper way to greet a caller. You were raised better than that, Amanda, and you know it.”

“Give it a break, Mom. I don't feel like listening to you bitch about my uncouth ways.”

“Watch your language, young lady,” Clarissa warned.

“Or what? What are you gonna do if I don't watch my language? Put me on punishment? Withhold my allowance?” Sexy emitted a burst of wicked laughter.

“Amanda!”

“Seriously, Mom. What are you gonna do? In case you haven't noticed, I haven't been following your militaristic rules about checking in with weekly phone calls. You don't have any power over me anymore because I don't care about that miserly pittance you were putting in my bank account. I have my own money now, and I don't need yours.”

Clarissa went uncharacteristically silent.

“I hope you didn't call me so I could listen to you breathe over the phone,” Sexy complained.

“What's with you, Amanda? Why're you being so ornery? I called to find out what's a good day for the two of us to go shopping for new school clothes,” Clarissa said in a chipper tone. “Daddy said the sky is the limit. He wants his little girl to get a brand-new wardrobe for her new start in London.”

“You've got to be kidding. I'm not going to school in London or anywhere else.”

“Be reasonable, Mandy,” her mother cajoled. “You have one more year of high school and if you live up to your academic potential while attending the prep school in Europe, Daddy can pull some strings and get you in the University of Pennsylvania or possibly Princeton. He has clout with numerous Ivy League schools across the country.”

“I'm not going back to school.”

Now Clarissa's voice turned to steel. “We had an agreement, Amanda, and I will not have a daughter of mine wandering this earth without a decent education.”

Sexy laughed without mirth. In fact, the sound of her laughter held a ring of malice. “You're right. No daughter of yours will ever walk the earth, period. Wanna know why? Because you don't have a daughter!”

Clarissa gasped. “Why would you say something so cruel?”

“Get real, Mom. The charade is over. I'm adopted and you know it. The thing that puzzles me is why in the world you and Daddy tried to keep it a secret?”

“Oh, my God.” Clarissa began to sob. “I wanted to tell you, but your father thought it best that you didn't know the truth. He didn't want you to grow up feeling inferior.”

“Well, the plan didn't work.”

“Oh, Mandy. I'm so sorry. How'd you find out, sweetheart? We tried to be so careful.”

“I overheard you two discussing my aberrant traits. You said my propensity for stealing had to be a genetic trait—something I must have inherited from my biological parents.”

“Amanda, listen to me, sweetheart. Daddy and I both love you. We chose you—”

“Cut the crap. That's the spiel you give to a four-year-old. What century are you living in? People don't hide the fact that a kid has been adopted. Why couldn't you have been honest with me?”

Clarissa sighed. “We were wrong to withhold that information. Can you forgive us, dear?”

“I don't know. You allowed me to live a lie, telling me I was half Pakistani and half African American. How could you and Daddy live with yourselves after feeding an innocent child so many lies? What am I mixed with, Mom? I mean . . . who exactly am I?”