The Cheating Curve (10 page)

“So what, Lang?” Aminah asked, clearly agitated. “So Sean isn’t a walking billboard for consumerism. He learned to make his money work for him at a real early age so he could afford to teach. That makes him hotter than some pussy-hound record exec in a Purple Label suit.”

Lang raised her eyebrow, thinking about the last time she’d seen Usher in a RyanKenny button-up and matching cuff links. He looked amazing. She was so distracted by the thought of him, she was missing Aminah’s point. Lang shook her head, made a left onto Fulton Street, and tuned back into Aminah.

“But you, you like for people to know you have money.”

“Okay.
And.
So do you,” Lang said defensively

“I like well-made goods, yes,” Aminah clarified. “I like quality products. I can appreciate the craftsmanship of—”

“Bullshit, you’re a label whore just like me,” Lang said, pointing at Aminah.

They both laughed.

“Okay, but you also like drama,” Aminah continued. “You thrive off it. You like tension and friction masked as excitement. That scares me about you, Lang.”

“I know, I do like a little tension,” Lang admitted, grinning devilishly.

“No, you like a lot of drama,” Aminah corrected. “You think a relationship is boring without it. I think that’s what that young boy Dante picked up on.”

“You think?” Lang asked, surprised that Aminah had even mentioned his name. “He said he picked up on my radiant sexual energy,” she said, winding her hips on the leather car seat, imitating her favorite stripper move.

“Well, that, too.”

They both laughed again. Lang made a left turn onto Lewis Avenue. She made a quick stop into Bread Stuy café for a small cup of decaf to go. The aromatic coffee scent and yummy pastry smells lured them directly through the front door. Fortunately, they weren’t planning on staying, as all the seats were occupied, including the wooden bench out front and the sprinkling of chairs on the outdoor patio. Some of the patrons appeared to be waiting for a table at the restaurant next door.

Bread Stuy was the ideal place to wait, too. The spirited blend of classic soul, contemporary West African, good R and B, and classic jazz tunes playing in the background, combined with the flavorful conversations, transported you from a late summer afternoon in Stuyvesant Heights to this temporary utopia that magically expunged the mundane act of waiting.

Aminah spotted the divine-looking red-velvet cupcakes behind the glass encasement. She bought six of them for herself, Fame, their children, and her parents to enjoy after a late dinner in Sag Harbor. Lang placed the lid on her small cup of decaf and purchased the remaining two cupcakes for Sean. The sour-cream-frosted pastries were his favorite, and Bread Stuy didn’t bake them every day. Sean would be ecstatic.

“Are you ever going to learn to appreciate what you do have, Lang?” Aminah asked as Lang held open the coffee-shop door for her. “I mean, did you have to respond to Dante? He’s exceptionally good-looking. I’ll give you that. I saw that from across the street. But as far as I’m concerned, the minute you gave him your number, you cheated on Sean.”

“First of all, I didn’t
give
my number to him,” Lang said back inside her BMW. “He took my phone and called his own phone. Remember?”

“But you let him,” Aminah said.

“Okay, yeah, I did, but I dunno…” Lang paused. “I thought it was cute and clever, and, besides, it turned me on.”

“But the minute you let him in, you violated Sean.”

“It wasn’t that serious, Minah, damn.”

“Okay, now you really sound like Fame. ‘
It was just head. It meant nothing.’
Are you fuckin’ kidding me, Lang?”

“All right, all right, Aminah, calm down,” Lang said, turning down her tree-lined block. “I thought we were having a nice afternoon. Damn.”

“We were, but you know what? It was a mistake. Sunday brunching isn’t going to change the fact that what you’re doing is deceitful. And that’s not a judgment. That’s the truth. Cheating on your spouse is undisputedly wrong. And then you wanna know why I’d be a better wife to Sean than you? Between you and Fame, I don’t know who’s worse. It’s all about you. Can’t stand either one of you right now. Lemme outta this car. Fucking selfish. That’s what you both are.”

“Damn, Minah, you act like I don’t love my own husband,” Lang said, parallel parking three cars behind Aminah’s Range Rover. “You know I do.”

“I do, huh?” Aminah asked, unbuckling her seatbelt in haste. “Then act like it.”

“And I’m ending this thing with Dante,” Lang said, grabbing Aminah’s arm before she got out of the car.

Aminah looked down at Lang’s hand like it was contaminated. Lang released her grip immediately.

“Oh, yeah? Why don’t I believe you?” Aminah asked before slamming the door and stomping up the block with her box of cupcakes in tow, speeding off inside her sparkling clean truck.

“I
really didn’t mean to offend you,” Rebekkah apologized.

Aminah couldn’t believe she was on the phone with this chick. It had been two months since they’d lunched, and already Aminah’s autumn routine was in full swing. Every morning she awakened at five
AM
to alternate between jogging and power walking on her treadmill for forty minutes, followed by twenty minutes of squats and crunches. Usually, by the time she was done showering, Fame would walk through the door from a night in the studio and immediately cook breakfast while Aminah and the children dressed.

The Andersons almost always ate breakfast together. Once Fame got his family out the door, he’d hop in the shower, collapse on their Pratesi sheets, and sleep until it was time to pick up Alia.

Aminah took a sip of her lemon water and then cleared her throat. “Rebekkah, you’ve apologized enough. I accepted your apology over a month ago. I’ve got to pick up my son by three o’clock, so…”

“Oh, right,” Rebekkah said, glancing at her watch. “Aminah, I really need to talk to someone who really understands what I’m about to get into. Everyone around me just sees, you know, the money, the prestige, the award shows. Me? I’m afraid of the post-show.” She laughed nervously.

Aminah appreciated Rebekkah’s honesty, though she doubted she could offer her any real advice. For reasons unclear to herself, she was willing to offer her some personal insight.

“Being married to a celebrity, whether he’s Hollywood or your local friendly neighborhood ghetto celeb, has its challenges,” Aminah explained.

Rebekkah let out a soft chuckle.

“No, really, I’m serious,” Aminah continued. “Fame loves the accolades. He thrives on the attention. And, I mean, really, girl, you’re about to marry someone who renamed himself Imon Alstar—please. You can’t tell me you didn’t have a clue.”

“I hear you,” Rebekkah said, nodding.

“So what’s the problem then?”

“I don’t like the feeling that I’m expected to have this special tolerance of infidelity,” Rebekkah admitted.

“Listen, Rebekkah, as difficult as this may be for you to understand, I don’t possess some special forbearance for cheating. For rumors, maybe I’ve developed a thick skin. I’ll cop to that.”

“Am I crazy for wanting my man to be faithful to me, Aminah?” Rebekkah asked, teetering on sounding hysterical.

“No, not at all,” Aminah responded calmly. “This life’s not for everybody. It looks very glamorous, and I’m not gonna lie to you, it is, but it comes at a cost.”

“But why sell yourself short?” Rebekkah asked, at risk of offending Aminah once again. Rebekkah had to ask—this conversation would tell her whether she could marry Imon. “I don’t get that.”

“Not that I owe you any sort of explanation, but what is it that you’re assuming I’m not getting back?” Aminah asked curiously.

“Loyalty,” Rebekkah said bluntly.

Aminah took a deep breath. She was angrier with herself than she was with Rebekkah. She wanted to kick herself for being back in the exact same spot justifying her marriage to some lonely hearted woman who couldn’t even properly strut in her Christian Louboutins, let alone walk a good mile in them.

“Fame is loyal to our family,” Aminah said confidently. “Divorce is simply not an option for us. We’re both committed to that. You know, you said you wanted to speak with me to weigh the pros and cons of marrying Imon, and somehow, once again, we’ve managed to get back to me and my husband. Listen, Rebekkah, let me make this painfully clear to you: my marital status is not questionable, and my marriage is not in jeopardy. You’re the thirty-eight-year-old single mother with only one possible marriage carrot stick dangling in front of her.”

Aminah’s last little comment had just enough sting in it for Rebekkah to put her own situation in perspective. She’d been approaching this subject with Aminah completely wrong.

“I apologize, Aminah. I have absolutely no right to judge you and your situation.”

“It is not a situation, Rebekkah,” Aminah corrected. “It’s a marriage.”

“You’re absolutely correct. I’m sorry. Please don’t hang up, Aminah. Let me put all my cards on the table.”

“Please do and make it quick,” Aminah said, reaching for her keys. It was time to pick up Amir.

“I realize the likelihood that he’ll cheat on me is really high, and yet I still want to marry this man. There is a lack of sanity in that decision, don’t you think? It’s like deliberately walking into on-coming traffic and hoping you’ll not only survive but not end up a paraplegic,” Rebekkah said, tearing.

“Rebekkah, I don’t want to misrepresent this life to you. We’ve had—”

“Where’s your pride, girl?” Rebekkah asked. She couldn’t accept this loyal-to-family crap Aminah was feeding her. “Your love for yourself?”

“Well, Sade once said love is stronger than pride,” Aminah said, shaking her head, quietly admonishing herself. “And my love for myself is definitely strong. It just doesn’t keep me warm enough in the midnight hour, on my birthday, on Christmas, or at my children’s recitals. Let me ask you something, Rebekkah, would you say that Coretta Scott King lacked pride for staying with Dr. King? Does it make him any less of a great man because he cheated on his wife? He was human, an extraordinary human being, but we’re all fallible.”

“No, I wouldn’t, but Fame is no Dr. King,” Rebekkah refuted.

“That’s not my point, but are you implying that only men of a certain caliber get a pass? How about Camille Cosby? Does it make her contributions to Spelman any less valuable because Bill had a child outside their marriage? What about Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis? I don’t know about you, but when I see Camille, Coretta, Jackie O, Hillary even, I see beauty, grace, and poise, not stupidity. I see loyalty, not naïveté. Please don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. All these so-called independent women who say they don’t need a man, for some reason, seem to want mine,” Aminah continued. “What is that about? I love my husband and my family—why am I being persecuted and crucified for doing whatever is necessary to keep my family together? I applaud you and all the other sisters out there for being able to raise your children without fathers in the homes. I’m sure you’ve had your struggles, but I never wanted that heavy cross or anything remotely resembling it.”

For the first time since she’d lunched with Aminah, Rebekkah didn’t feel an ounce of pity for her. Clearly, Minah was nobody’s fool. Though Rebekkah had mistakenly assumed so, Aminah was nobody’s trophy wife either. She was a poised sister determined to keep her family healthy and harmonious at a time when families were about as extinct as a Patrick Kelly original.

“I hear you, Aminah. I’m sorry, I—”

“Rebekkah, I’m not the one with the issues here,” Aminah said, interrupting Rebekkah’s fourth apology. “I know who I’m married to.
You
sought
me
out, remember?”

“Yeah, I did,” Rebekkah admitted sheepishly. “You’re right.”

Aminah grabbed her Balenciaga bag before heading out her front door. It was almost time to pick up Amir from the School at Columbia University. Fame paid $24,000 a year for their son to attend the elite and progressive elementary school, and Aminah liked to get there early enough to make sure her presence was acknowledged. Plus, Fame wanted to make sure they were getting their money’s worth and to reinforce to the school that Amir had proactive parents in his life. He did the same thing for Alia at the UN International School in Jamaica Estates.

“So what’s it going to be for you and Imon?” Aminah asked before she hung up the phone. “I do or I don’t?”

Rebekkah closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “I do.”

L
angston glanced at the glowing clock tower above Madison Square Park outside her office window. It read 10:05
PM
, and she’d just put in a full twelve-hour day. While October was just a week away from ending in New York City, at
Urban Celebrity
it was already January, as they’d just finished closing the New Year’s issue narrowly on schedule.

In spite of her exhaustingly long day of modifying heds, deks, and captions, clashing with the creative director over the cover, meeting with the publisher about new media kits, and fitting in her custom Brazilian Basic Bikini Combo, Lang was more lusty than tired.

Oddly enough, the intimate hair-removal procedure had been more ecstasy than agony for Lang. Right after she’d wiped herself with the sanitizing towelette, donned the paper thong, and spread her legs wider than her mouth when she said “ah” for her dentist, that small yet powerful muscle between her legs throbbed.

The sensation of the warm wax smoothed on the most intimate parts of her anatomy, followed by the immediate sting of her tiny pubic hairs being ripped from their individual follicles was the ultimate combination of pain and pleasure for Lang. She got off on it.

At the end of the day, after Lang and Merrick said good night to the art director, they made their way to the ladies’ room to freshen up. Lang usually treated Merrick to dinner and drinks after a long, hard closing of the magazine, but tonight Lang was using her as arm candy, and since they were skipping their late night meal, she granted Merrick a three-day weekend instead.

Dante had invited Lang to a party at Duvet a couple nights ago, but she wasn’t sure she could stand to be around him in a club full of cushy beds, which was why Merrick was her date tonight. It had officially been six months since Lang and Dante had met, and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t had the satisfaction of feeling all of him inside her yet. She refused to beg and was finally starting to realize that some things just weren’t meant to be, and apparently sex with Dante was one of them.

Lang and Merrick strutted to the front of the line at the club. The publicist with the guest list air-kissed Lang on both cheeks, complimented her on her Bottega Veneta bag, and lifted the velvet rope. A burly security guard asked Lang if he could get a free subscription. Lang kissed him on the cheek and told him to give his information to Merrick.

Lang easily maneuvered her way through the packed club to their reserved bed. She kicked off her pumps and swung both of her long legs onto the comfy pillow-covered, white-sheeted bed, careful not to expose her raisin-colored Brazilian panties. She surveyed the room, nodding her head to Doug E. Fresh’s classic “All the Way to Heaven.”

Lang wanted to be in the ideal position to spot Dante first. Standing exceptionally fine at six-five, he was impossible to miss. She waved Merrick over, and no more than three minutes later two delicate flutes and an ice bucket of Veuve Clicquot were placed in front of them.

“Nice,” Merrick said, reaching for her glass. “Who sent this over?”

“He asked to remain anonymous,” the leggy blond waitress replied. “Handsome though and an excellent tipper.”

“Looks like somebody has an admirer,” Merrick said, nudging her boss. “And he knows your favorite champagne, too. Damn, can a single sister get some love?”

“Aw, Merrick,” Lang said, giving her a one-hand shoulder hug. She adored Merrick. She especially loved that the twenty-three-year-old trilingual born in Korea and raised in Manhattan referred to herself as a sister. Merrick was as doting as she was driven. She anticipated practically all of Lang’s needs both personally and professionally and didn’t complain about the strenuous workload or the late hours.

Unbeknownst to Merrick, Lang was grooming her for the executive editor position. Her intention was to promote Merrick to associate editor before the year was out, advance her to senior editor shortly thereafter, and, once she’d proven herself (which she would), the executive editor position was all hers.

“Hey, there’s Dante Lawrence,” Merrick pointed out to Lang.

Lang gagged on her second glass of Veuve. “Who?” she asked, trying her damnedest not to sound as shocked as she felt.

“Remember? I told you about him,” Merrick reminded Lang. “
Black Enterprise
and
The Sun
did a story on him. His parents come from, like, old New England money, and he developed this urban-warfare-game software while still in high school, interned for Electronic Arts during college, and graduated from Stanford with this ridiculous multi-million-dollar developer’s deal or something like that.”

“Right, right,” Lang said, recalling the conversation but not remembering Merrick ever mentioning the young game developer’s name. She’d quietly convinced herself that Dante was a basketball player sitting out the season, but more honestly she’d believed he was something a little less legitimate and therefore had no desire whatsoever to know how he got his money. “He looks like a drug dealer.”

Merrick laughed. “Oh, Lang, drug dealers are so eighties. Brothers are making big money legitimately nowadays. I sure wouldn’t mind being hooked up with him, that’s for sure.”

“Really?” Lang asked with a devious glint in her eye. “I’ll go introduce myself. Then I’ll send him over to you, and you can take it from there.”

Lang sauntered right up to Dante at the frosty glacieresque bar.

He smiled and leaned his mouth close to her ear. “You coming home with me tonight?” he asked seductively.

Lang took a step back. “Actually, I came over here first to thank you for the bottle, and also because my assistant is attracted to you,” she said, pointing over to Merrick.

Merrick lifted her glass and tossed back her long, shiny black hair.

“She’s pretty,” Dante acknowledged. “But I got my eye on someone else.” He scanned Lang from head to toe.

“Really now? Have you had your eye on this someone for a while?”

“I have.”

“So you just window shopping or you gonna purchase the merchandise?”

“I wasn’t aware the merchandise was available for purchase,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “I was told it’d been bought already.”

“Yet you still have your eye on it?”

“Not the wisest thing, I know, but I just can’t seem to take my eyes off it.”

It took all of Lang’s self-restraint not to reach out and touch Dante. However, he didn’t have a problem rubbing his hand up and down her arm. Lang knew Merrick was watching them, so she asked Dante to join them on their bed. He declined and turned toward his right instead.

“Langston Rogers, this is my boy, Vince Campbell,” Dante said, introducing her to the tall honey-brown Allen Iverson–Carmelo Anthony combo standing next to him. “I’m sure he’d love to meet Merrick.”

Lang escorted Vince over to Merrick, who smiled immediately. Once they were engaged in a flirtatious banter that excluded her, Lang made her way back over to Dante.

“How come you never told me you were, like, a software developer?”

“How come you never asked?” he replied, taking a small sip of the now very diluted Hennessy he’d been nursing all night.

“I didn’t think I wanted to know.”

“But I bet you made your own assumptions.”

Lang glanced down at the floor sheepishly before shrugging her shoulders.

“Uh-huh, you thought I was a street pharmacist or something.”

She nodded her head.

“I think I should be offended,” he said, placing his snifter back on the bar. “A black man can’t drive an Escalade and own a loft without—”

“I apologize,” Lang said, cutting off his sociopolitical monologue before he got his LV loafers scuffed stepping up on his soapbox. She hadn’t meant any harm. “I guess the real truth is I just didn’t want to get to know you like that.”

“Yet you wanna have sex with me like that?”

Lang nodded.

“You never answered my other question,” Dante reminded Lang.

“What question was that?” Lang asked, playing dumb.

“Are you leaving here with me?”

“I don’t like having my clit teased. It’s been six months—”

“I know how long it’s been, Lang,” Dante interrupted. “You still think you’re too proud to beg?”

“What-the-fuck-ever, Dante. My initials aren’t TLC,” Lang said, walking away.

Dante quickly grabbed her hand and pulled her back. “Come home with me.”

“Why should I, Dante, huh? What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll bet you a case of Cris that you’ll be begging before the night’s over.”

“You know it’s gotta be Veuve for me to even consider it worth my time,” Lang said, smiling mischievously.

“Veuve for you, Cris for me.”

“Bet.”

Thirty-five minutes later Merrick called for two cars—one for her, the other for Lang. Dante stayed behind at the bar with Vince.

“See you on Tuesday,” Merrick said outside the club, reminding Lang of her three-day weekend.

“Enjoy it,” Lang said, hugging her assistant before climbing into the back of the Lincoln Navigator.

“Change of plans,” Lang told the driver. “I’m going to DUMBO, not the Stuy.”

Twenty minutes later Lang listened to her messages as she waited for Dante in the back of the parked Navigator in front of his loft. She’d missed two calls from Sean.

Sean was used to his wife working late at the magazine, particularly during production, so he had no reason to be suspicious. He also knew she usually took Merrick out after closing an issue, so he knew not to expect her home any time soon.

Hey, baby, I know you’re working late and beating yourself up about nailing all the style forecasts and celebrity coupling predictions for the New Year. Um, let me see if I get this right.
He laughed.
Beyoncé and Jay will stay together but definitely won’t be getting married this year. Wedges are in, and so is the color turquoise. Did I get that right?

He’s such a good listener,
Lang thought as she grew tired of waiting for Dante. It’d been twenty-five minutes already.

Sean laughed again.

Anyway, I have a nice surprise for you when you get home. So promise me you’ll call me when you’re on your way home. Okay, baby? I love you. See you soon.

“What am I doing?” Lang asked out loud as she dialed Dante. “I’ve got a good man at home, and I’m chasing behind this boy.”

His phone went straight to voice mail.

“Listen, Dante. This thing we’ve been doin’ has been, um, fun, I guess. But I’ve got too much at stake to risk it all for some half-ass thrills. Once again you’ve got me waiting for you. And for what? A kiss here. A touch there. Please. I get way more than that, better than that, at home. So I’m out. For good.”

Lang tapped the headrest of the driver’s seat. “Please take me to Stuyvesant Avenue and…”

The piercing xenon headlights from Dante’s Escalade interrupted her instructions.

The driver turned on his ignition.

“On second thought…”

Dante tapped on the window. Lang rolled it down halfway.

“Listen, I just left you a—”

“Get out the car,” Dante instructed.

“No, D, if you would—”

“I’m not gonna repeat myself,” Dante said, opening the door. “I’m finally gonna give you what you want. Now we can do it right here, or you can bring your sexy ass upstairs.”

An hour and a half later a completely different driver in a black Suburban waited for Langston to wave from the stoop of her brownstone. He nodded his head and pulled off.

Lang unlocked and turned the knob to the front door and then the inside hallway door. She tried to shake from her mind what had just ended less than thirty minutes ago, but it wasn’t dissipating that easily. She stood in front of her glazed mahogany staircase, knowing Sean was anxiously awaiting her. He’d told her so when she’d called to let him know she was finally on her way home.

The musky, erotic scent of sandalwood met her at the foot of the steps and escorted her to the top of the staircase where the renowned Toots Thielemans’s legendary harmonica lured her outside the door of her bathroom. It sounded to Lang like Toots’s “Obi” had just finished, and now his sexy “Felicia and Bianca” was just beginning. Next was “O Cantador.” “Bluesette” was still Lang’s all-time favorite. She’d have to wait until the very end of
The Brasil Project
to hear it though.

She stood.

On the other side of the door, a steamy, hot bubble bath anticipated her arrival. An eager Sean, donned in loose-fitting boxers, awaited her, too. Carol’s Daughter’s A Jasmine Evening bath salts filled the porcelain antique tub. Small white votives lined the floor, accompanied by sandalwood-scented candles surrounding the tub. An uncorked, chilled bottle of Veuve sat nearby in a silver bucket.

She opened the door carefully.

“Happy New Year, baby,” Sean said, handing his wife a flute and then tongue kissing her softly.

Champagne. Damn. She owed Dante a case of Cristal.

Sean lifted off his wife’s cashmere sweater and unhooked her bra. He kissed her gently on her forehead, her cheek, and then lingered at the crook in her neck. He nuzzled her there.

“Please, Dante, please.”

“Please what, baby?”

Langston shook her head and moaned for Sean’s pleasure, not her own. She was too numb with memories of Dante to feel present.

Sean traced his warm tongue along his wife’s delicate collarbone, softly kissed on her chest, and gently sucked on her right nipple—the more responsive one—and then her left.

“Please take me.”

“Take you where? I’m not understanding you, Lang. If there’s somewhere you want me to take you, you need to be real specific.”

Sean slowly slid his tongue down his wife’s taut stomach. He kissed around her belly button as he easily unzipped her skirt and slid off her panties and each of her sheer thigh-highs. He tongued her belly button as he squeezed her ass.

“Please fuck me, Dante.”

“Say that again.”

“Please fuck me, Dante.”