Scandalicious (14 page)

Sitting behind the wheel of his five-year-old Dodge, Lincoln shifted into drive when he saw the red rear lights of the Navigator. Raheem glided out of the lot. Lincoln waited a few moments before pulling out of his parking slot. With no immediate plan other than to know all he could about the man that knew intimate details about his wife, Lincoln followed the shiny black Navigator.

Even with three cars between them, the big Navigator was hard to miss. Lincoln followed the mechanic to City Avenue, but kept a safe distance. He had to make a sudden left turn when his
nemesis swung onto Monument Road, without bothering to put on his blinkers.
Inconsiderate fucker!

Raheem parked in front of a bar called The Four Corners. Lincoln discreetly parked in the large Pathmark supermarket lot that was across the street from the bar. Hoping that Raheem wouldn’t take too long, Lincoln sat in his car, letting it idle.

The sun had gone down, and the sky was gloomy. Growing tired and irritable after waiting for forty minutes, Lincoln was ready to call it a night. He’d pick up his surveillance activities at a later date. Right now, he wasn’t mentally prepared to sit with cramped legs, while Raheem was having a good time shooting pool, listening to music, flirting with women, and chugging down cold beer.

The moment Lincoln shifted into reverse, Raheem bobbed out of the bar with that infuriatingly cocky walk of his.
Swagger
wasn’t even the word for that nigga’s strut. Lincoln envisioned himself using a baseball bat and giving that wife-fucker a powerful blow to the knee caps. Picturing the mechanic hobbling and limping, a smirk formed on Lincoln’s face.

Tenaciously, Lincoln tailed him through the streets of Philadelphia, while the mechanic made the rounds of various bars. It was after eight o’ clock, when Raheem drove along Lancaster Avenue in West Philadelphia. He made another pit stop—this time he rolled into a small shopping plaza. In addition to the requisite Beauty Supply store, Footlocker and Dollar Store, there were a couple of food options—Chinese food, Popeyes Chicken and Subway—inside the plaza. It was an odd surprise when Raheem, strutting with his chest poked out, strolled into the Save-A-Lot grocery store.
Cheap bastard!

He came out of the store a few minutes later, holding a skimpy, see-through, Save-A-Lot plastic bag, containing a gallon of milk.

Staying in the cut, Lincoln watched with amazement as the mechanic parked his big-ass Navigator on a run-down block that was so narrow, he had to park the monster-vehicle with two tires cranked up on the pavement. This was the only way other cars could get down the slim, one-way street. Raheem let himself into a decaying little house that Lincoln assumed was where Raheem lived with his wife and family.

Lincoln was appalled. Raheem drove a $50,000 vehicle, but he lived on a raggedy little block. This was drug-dealer mentality. Dude’s priorities were all out of order. And Lincoln wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Raheem was hustling—using that mechanic gig as a front. Lincoln worked out an entire scenario in his mind: Raheem had most likely been locked up; he’d learned the mechanic trade while in prison. He’d gotten his current job through some help-a-convict program, but was only working to have proof of income for Uncle Sam.

The dude was criminal minded. Lincoln couldn’t imagine what a refined woman like Chevonne had in common with a street hustler? She’d really gone slumming when she started fooling around with that joker.

Sure, Lincoln was a product of the ghetto. But dammit, he’d elevated himself. What the hell had Raheem done?

Lincoln had rejected the idea of going into couples’ counseling with Chevonne, but now he was giving it some consideration. Not for himself; he didn’t have any mental issues. But Chevonne…Lincoln sighed. His wife really needed some therapy. Chevonne had to be a little messed up in the head to have practically destroyed her family over the likes of a nigga like Raheem!

Over the next few days, Lincoln became obsessed with Raheem, staking out his house at different hours of the day: before work, during his lunch break and after work. He wanted to get a glimpse of the man’s family. But no one ever went in or came out of the house except Raheem.

The more obsessed Lincoln became with his rival, the more passionately he made love to his wife, trying to make sure that he fucked that nigga’s memory clean out of her mind.

“R
elax, baby. Lean with me,” Deon reminded again as he turned a corner with his Harley-Davidson. Scared as hell, Solay’s arms were wrapped tightly around Deon’s waist, holding on for dear life. What the hell was she doing on the back of a bike? And the stupid helmet on her head was not only uncomfortable; it was ruining her hairdo.

Solay should have followed her gut instinct. She shouldn’t have allowed Deon to persuade her to mount his Harley. The moment he’d shown up on his bike, she should have opted to take her own car and meet him at the restaurant.

“You can hang with this, can’t you?” he’d asked, melting her reservations with a big smile that was pure temptation.

Trying to prove that she was down—pretending to possess the spirit of a daring biker chick, she’d agreed to this hell ride.

“Lean!” he instructed in a much more serious tone. Solay tried to, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. Her back was as stiff as a board. She couldn’t bear to see how close they tilted toward the ground every time Deon rounded a corner, and her eyes were shut tight in terror. Basic turns seemed like extreme motorcycle stunts. Deon had cajoled her with the promise of a fun time, but a high-speed motorcycle ride on the expressway seemed to be as bloodcurdling as bungee jumping or parachuting. She promised herself that if she made it off of this death trap with life and limbs intact, she’d never, ever, get on a motorcycle again.

Off the highway now and traveling in regular traffic should
have been less frightening, but Solay’s nerves were terribly rattled.

Ready to jump in a cab and go home, she cracked her eyes open to determine how close they were to their destination. To Solay’s relief they were only a few more blocks away from the Marbar/Marathon Grill on Fortieth and Walnut Street. The moment Deon came to a full stop, Solay planned to yank the dumb-looking helmet off of her head and flag down a cab. For real! She was not a thrill seeker. The only thrills she sought were in the bedroom.

Daredevil that he was, Deon could pop wheelies, do hand-stands, ride side-saddle, and engage in all the death-defying stunts that his heart desired, but Solay would not be joining him as he lived life on the edge.

Solay’s legs were wobbly when she finally got off of the bike. Rolling her eyes, she pulled off her helmet, no longer concerned if her hairstyle had survived the tight-fitting and unattractive headgear. An assemblage of scornful words were lined up on her tongue, but the words began retreating the moment Deon tilted his head and looked at her. His pretty brown eyes held a mixture of adoration and concern. “Aw, was my baby scared?”

“Terrified,” Solay whined. Lips poked out and pouty, she melted into his embrace.

Comforting her, Deon patted her back. “Was this really your first bike ride?”

Lifting her head, she nodded. “My nerves are shot.”

“Well, we’re gonna have to do something about that. You like martinis?”

“Love them.”

“Tell you what—I’ma make sure that you get the extra-large size to calm yourself down.”

Solay felt an overpowering urge to kiss his lips—to caress and run her fingers all over his gorgeous face. Deon had a way about
him—a suave self-assurance combined with delectable good looks, making him impossible to resist.

Solay completely changed her mind about jumping into a cab and leaving in a huff. She decided to wait—hop in a cab after she and Deon enjoyed their dinner and drinks.

The spectacular view at the Marbar Grill was perfect for people-watching and ideal for Deon to keep an eye on his Harley that was parked in front of the restaurant.

Solay had taken a two-hour nap after work and now felt revitalized. She took sips from a mega-size pomegranate martini; Deon nursed a glass of dark beer as they waited for their meal. Focused on getting lots of protein, body-conscious Deon had ordered steak and vegetables. Solay ordered fried jumbo shrimp and French fries. She was content with the natural curves of her body. Having youth on her side, she figured that she could eat whatever she wanted, at least for the next few years.

Their food arrived, and Solay pushed her mega-drink to the side and began pouring ketchup all over her fries and breaded shrimp. “How long have you been working for the agency?” she asked and then bit into a shrimp. She really wanted to know what had prompted him to become a male hoe, but she’d need a little more alcohol to ask such a bold question.

“Not that long,” he responded, his head lowered as he meticulously cut the sirloin steak into small pieces. “I was doing some modeling in New York—”

“Oh, yeah? Print or runway?”

“Both. And I had a few acting gigs while I was out in L.A. Now I’m back home, making ends meet while I figure out my next move.”

No wonder he was so concerned with his body image. “What’s your passion? Acting or modeling?” Solay asked, eyeing him curiously.

“Acting,” he responded with a faint smile. “But I’ve only done small parts, nothing that really showcases my talent.”

“You’ve had training?” Solay leaned forward, waiting for his answer.

“Nah, not really. I had an acting coach for a minute, but he couldn’t tell me nothing; that was a waste of time. I’ma natural. True story.” A proud, fleeting smile turned up the corners of his mouth. Then his expression turned serious. “But anyway, something big finally came through for me, but now the producers are talking about they got budgeting issues.” He sighed and shook his head. “Shit is on hold…indefinitely. So you know—I do what I do. It’s called survival, baby.” He shrugged and became silent, indicating that he was through with the subject.

Solay couldn’t picture Deon handling a major acting role. First of all, he wasn’t particularly articulate. She didn’t know much about the film industry, but she imagined that actors needed to have a strong command of the English language. As far as modeling…well, Deon had a body on him. Whew, Lawd! But still, she simply didn’t peg him as a professional actor. Too many rough edges. Was he lying, making up an excuse for renting out that big, pretty dick?

She was on the verge of playing detective and asking him if he’d appeared in any movies that she might have seen, but when she glanced at Deon, his gloomy expression gave her a change of heart. It was obvious that his acting career was a sensitive subject. Solay thought it best not to pry.

It was none of her business, anyway. It wasn’t as if she and Deon were making future plans. She was merely filling the sex void in her life…and having a good time in the process.

“You killing them fries,” Deon said, ending the tense silence between them.

Solay smiled, relieved that Deon’s somber mood had passed.

“Want some more?” he asked.

Before Solay could respond, Deon had beckoned the waiter. He motioned toward the few remaining French fries on her plate. “Get her some more of them joints. Refill her drink and bring her another order of shrimp, too.”

The waiter nodded and whisked away.

Wow, Deon knew how to take charge. She liked that. Solay laughed. “As you can see, I can eat.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with it. Your body is tight, ma. Filled out in all the right places.”

“Thanks.” She lowered her eyes, feeling flushed and tingly by the compliment—and the sexy sound of his voice. Deon was too smooth. He had her blushing and carrying on. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she dug the shit out of him. Damn, damn, damn. What had she gotten herself into? Was there even a definition for their relationship?
Whoa,
she cautioned herself. She had to be careful throwing around the word,
relationship
…even if spoken only in her own mind. Whatever it was that she and Deon were doing, it was by no stretch of the imagination…a relationship.