The Eleventh Commandment (14 page)

G
abriel walked out of his dressing room dressed in white: polo shirt, cargo shorts, crew socks, and tennis shoes. Sporting contacts instead of the glasses he preferred gave him a younger look, even as the spray of freckles across his nose was more visible. He crossed over to the bed and looked down upon a still-sleeping Frieda.
What is going on with you, huh, Frieda? What is going on with us?

He sat on the bed and lightly touched her shoulder. “Frieda.” She shook off his hand and burrowed further into the covers. “Frieda,” he said a bit more loudly, removing the covers as well.

Frieda's face was in a scowl as she turned over, her sleep-filled eyes squinting against the room's bright light. “What is it, Gabriel?” she asked testily, glancing at the clock. “Why are you waking me up?”

Gabriel bit back a retort, choosing instead to stay focused on his mission. “I thought we might get in a tennis lesson, and play a game or two. It's not often that I have free time and I don't have to be at work for another three hours.”

Frieda eyed her husband, noted his freshly shaven face and hooded eyes. Sometimes she really wished she had more feelings for the man. He was . . . as society labeled them . . . a good guy: great provider, father, and doctor. If she let him, he'd probably be a good husband too. Problem was . . . she liked bad boys. “I told you. I don't like doing stuff I'm not good at.”

“You're only not good at it because you don't practice. You have natural athletic ability, hon. But more than learning the game, I'd just really like to spend some time with you. We don't do much together anymore, Frieda. We're living more like roommates and less like husband and wife.”

“That's because you work all the time!” Frieda exclaimed, immediately taking the offensive.

“You're right,” Gabriel readily agreed, not taking the bait. “And I'm going to do something about that.”

You are? Aw, hell. Please don't cut into my time with Clark.
“What are you going to do?”

“In the fall, we have another doctor and a couple interns coming on board. I'm going to request a reduction in my hours so that I can spend more time with my wife and son.” He reached out and rubbed Frieda's exposed arm. “Would you like that?”

“As long as my bank account stays the same.”

“Is that what's most important to you? The lifestyle that my hard work affords?”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it?”

“Look,” Frieda said, flopping onto her stomach and closing her eyes. “I can't argue without eight hours of sleep. Please turn out the light and close the door on your way out.”

For a long moment, Gabriel continued sitting on the bed, gazing at his wife, who he was sure feigned sleep. Snippets of their past four years together wafted across his mind's eye: Disneyland with Gabe; vacations to Hawaii, Fiji, and a Caribbean cruise; strained dinners with his mother; a lone encounter with Frieda's mom. Undoubtedly the best times were those where their son was the center of attention. The vacations were mostly spent apart. Frieda didn't like golf, reading, or water sports such as snorkeling or skiing, and Gabriel didn't like excessive drinking or clubs. Times spent together when at home were even harder to recall. They didn't like the same TV shows or movies, so companionable viewing was a no go. More often than not when they were both home, Gabriel would either be reading in his study, watching TV, or playing online chess (another passion for which Frieda held no interest). Frieda, on the other hand, would usually hole up in the master suite talking on the phone, taking long bubble baths in their soaking tub, or sleeping. It was not the type of marriage he'd envisioned, nor the type he wanted.

After retrieving his racket, work scrubs, duffel, and other items for when he left for the office, Gabriel quietly closed the door and sought out the sunshine of his life, Gabriel Jr.

“Good morning, Daddy!” Gabe immediately ran for his father's knees as Gabriel rounded the corner.

Gabriel scooped him up. “Good morning, son.”

“You playing tennis?” Gabe reached for the racket.

“Yes. Would you like to join me?”

“Yes!”

“Okay, buddy. Let's go.”

Father and son enjoyed a half hour filled with Gabe hitting balls and Gabriel chasing them down. It wasn't the workout he'd envisioned, but the doctor worked up a slight sweat and more than that, enjoyed some quality time with his son. As Gabriel chased his son around the tennis court, Cordella walked to the edge of it bearing a tray of ice cold lemonade. Gabe switched courses and made a beeline for the refreshing-looking brew.

“How'd you know I was thirsty, Cordella?” Gabriel gave the small, plastic cup to Gabe before reaching for the tall glass and taking a long swallow. “This is perfect, absolutely delicious.”

“You're welcome, Doctor.”

“You take good care of me, Cordella, and excellent care of my son. I appreciate you.”

“You are a good man, Doctor. You deserve—” Cordella stopped, turned her spouting mouth into a fine, hard line.

Gabriel's eyes narrowed. “Is there something you'd like to share with me, Cordella?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Cordella truthfully answered. “But it is not my place.”

“Why don't you let me determine where your place is.”

“Not only that, Doctor,” Cordella continued, with furtive glances toward the side patio and up to the master suite window that faced the backyard. “But the missus has warned me to mind my own business and not speak to you regarding her . . . activities. I could be fired for speaking out of turn.”

Gabriel looked from Cordella to the master suite window and back to the housekeeper. He then looked down to a wide-eyed Gabe, who was drinking in the conversation as intently as he had the lemonade. “I think I should head to the office,” he said with a smile, reaching for the towel nearby and wiping his forehead. “When the opportunity arises, please give me a call. And don't worry about the missus, Cordella. It's my money that pays your salary, not hers. Regarding your employment, I'll have the final word.”

A little over an hour later, a shocked but not surprised Gabriel Livingston flipped through his electronic Rolodex. Upon finding the number he wanted, he tapped the screen. “Gregory,” he said, when the call was answered. “Gabriel Livingston.”

“Dr. Livingston! This is a pleasant surprise.”

“We're long overdue for a round or two,” Gabriel said, referring to the golf games that he and fellow doctor Gregory Morgan often enjoyed. “But this is not a social call.”

“All right, then. What can I do for you?”

“You can give me your brother Troy's phone number.”

“Sure thing. But if you don't mind me asking, what on earth do you want with my crazy baby brother?”

“Information. And access to some of his connections through his security firm.”

“What do you need, Doc?”

Gabriel's jaw hardened as he formed his answer. “A private investigator. ASAP.”

D
r. Gabriel Livingston's contact with a PI was just beginning, but Tony Johnson's hour of time with his PT was coming to an end. Sweat ran down his face and over his body as he finished the last repetition of leg lifts on the weight machine.

“Fifteen,” Vince said. The Los Angeles Sea Lions had trainers for the team, but Tony had hired Vince for additional training.

“Argh!”

“Come on, man. Sixteen!”

Tony gritted his teeth, pulled his chin down to his chest, and lifted the one-hundred-pound weight with his lower leg.

“Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.”

Tony kept going.

“All right, man. That's enough.”

After completing twenty-five lifts, Tony let the weights drop with a clang.

Vince raised a brow. “I'm not working you hard enough?”

“You're kicking my ass,” Tony replied, reaching for his towel as he rose from the bench. “But where the average player has to go one extra mile, I have to go ten. This is my last shot, dog. I've got to go all out.”

“Why don't you let me handle how far you go? I know you feel all powerful”—Vince handed Tony his water bottle as he looked around the weight room—“but don't overdo it because of the . . .” Vince nodded toward the locker that held Tony's belongings—among other things.

“I'm cool, man.”

“You say that, and you probably believe it.” Vince lowered his voice. “But I gave you a time frame for using, and that time has passed. You're in good shape, man, with natural ability. Let that be enough.”

“As soon as I get on the roster, I'll do just that.” Tony reached out and gave Vince a soul brother's handshake. “Thanks, man.” He turned and headed for the shower.

“Tony!”

He turned around. “Hey, TaShaun.”

“Coach wants to see you.”

“Cool.” Tony walked over to the temporary locker he was using, pulled out a fresh T-shirt, and replaced the sweaty one he now wore. He and Vince exchanged looks. “Think this is it?”

Vince shrugged. “Only one way to find out.” He held out his fist for a pound. “I'm pulling for you, man.”

Four hours later, Tony placed the key into the lock of his Phoenix abode. “Stacy!” He came around the corner with his hands full. “Baby, where are you?”

“Shh!” Stacy met Tony as he was about to climb the stairs. She took in the large bouquet of flowers and bottle of bubbly Tony held. Hurrying down the stairs and into the open concept dining area, she whispered, “Sorry, baby, but I just got DJ to sleep. He's got a cold and has been cranky all day.” She stopped in front of him. Unsure of how he'd react to a hug, she clasped her hands behind her. “I'm so glad to see you. What's all this?” Tony smiled but said nothing. “Does this mean what I think it means? Did you get the job with the Sea Lions?”

“Coach said he wants to sign me to a one-year contract. It's a backup spot, but I'm not worried about that. Once I get on the field I'll claim what's mine!”

Stacy threw her arms around his neck. “Baby, I'm so happy for you!” She rained kisses on his face. “I know how much you've been wanting this, praying it would happen. Does this mean I need to start looking for houses in LA?”

“Unless you want to hang out in this furnace! I know the market's soft, but I want to put the house up for sale as soon as possible. Hopefully it will sell quickly.”

“I knew you could do it, baby.” Stacy cupped Tony's face, adoration shining in her eyes. “I'm happy for you.”

“I knew you would be. That's why I bought you these”—he handed her the flowers—“and this.”

“Thank you, baby.” She walked over and pulled an empty vase from a cabinet. “But you didn't have to.”

“Yes, I did. I've been an A-number-one jerk these past few months, and I'm sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Stacy readily told him. “I knew the Tony that's been here recently wasn't the one I married. I'm glad to see that the man I love so dearly is back.” She nodded at the champagne. “Is that for me too?”

“This is for us.” He reached for her hand. “Have you eaten?” Stacy nodded. “I have to be back at work tomorrow. But I wanted to be with you tonight.”

Stacy went to the cabinet and pulled out two champagne flutes. Then, wordlessly, they mounted the stairs. Once in the master bedroom, Tony popped the champagne cork and poured. He handed a flute to Stacy. “In this crazy, uncertain world that is pro ball, here's to the only woman I'd want by my side.”

“And to the only man with whom I'd want to take this journey.”

They drank in each other with their eyes even as they drank the top-shelf champagne. “Um, this is good, baby.”

“It tastes all right,” Tony replied, his voice deep and husky, his eyes hooded and black with desire. “But I'd rather drink you, instead.”

Stacy shivered.
When is the last time Tony looked at me like this?
Only in this moment did it dawn on her that it had been almost a month since she and Tony had made love, probably the longest time without intimacy since they'd married. In this moment she was very aware of how stress and worry had impacted their lives. In this moment, as Tony's hand made a lazy journey up her arm, across her shoulder, and down her front where he sought and found a nipple, she knew that there was nothing worth putting their love on hold. As she wrapped her arms around him and lifted her chin for a kiss, she vowed to never let it happen again.

“I missed you,” she whispered, just before Tony's full lips covered hers. He moved his head from side to side, creating a delicious friction before his firm tongue demanded entry between her lips. She complied, and the dueling immediately began—swirling, tasting, teasing—all while hands touched skin and bodies rubbed against each other. But both of them had a problem. Too much clothing between them.

Tony stepped back and made quick work of removing shirt, shorts, boxers, and shoes. After watching him, Stacy reached for the zipper on her jeans and then oh ... so ... slowly pulled it down. Tony stopped in midsip, taking in her toned, lean body, the way her short, curly hairstyle emphasized her big brown eyes now bright with desire. Without breaking eye contact, she leaned over to push the jeans down her legs. Tony hardened with every inch of bared skin.
I really do love this girl. As soon as I get my spot back, I'm going to give up the juice.
As he continued to watch his wife's impromptu striptease act, he reached for the bottle and refilled their flutes. By now, Stacy stood in nothing but a flimsy thong. Tony's manhood bobbed from side to side as he walked to her. He handed her the glass; they gazed into each other's eyes as they sipped.

“Let me take that,” Tony whispered before they'd finished the bubbly, placing both their glasses on the nightstand while backing Stacy up against the bed. He lifted her effortlessly, and placed her in the center of their king-sized paradise. He ran a finger down the center of her body, from her neck to just above her heat, held his hand there while his thumb made light strokes against her nub. Stacy's breath caught in her throat as her body immediately reacted to Tony's touch, her hips grinding upward as she became hotter, wetter. He reached for the flute, poured a bit of the chilled liquid on Stacy's pebbled nipples before sucking first one and then the other into his mouth. She reached for his dick, squeezing, stroking, waiting for it to harden and expand under her ministrations.

“Baby,” Stacy panted, squirming as she imagined her husband inside her. “I can't wait. I want you now!”

Tony smiled as he reached between his legs and stroked himself. He hardened, and with one swift move he entered her and began a vigorous thrusting. That lasted about . . . five seconds. And then he went soft. Movement stopped. But only temporarily because Stacy immediately reached down to lend assistance. Later she'd try and recall another time when Tony had trouble keeping an erection, but for right now she chalked it up to how hard he'd been working and how long they'd gone without sex.

For the next thirty minutes, both Tony and Stacy tried to get his soldier to stand at attention. But his weapon was seriously AWOL. Even her best oral skills were not enough to wake the sleeping penis.

“It's okay,” Stacy whispered, once a thoroughly frustrated Tony had swatted her hand away from his stubbornly limp member. He shifted his weight and lowered his body so that his tongue could do what his dick could not—please his wife. And while he did that well enough, as Stacy listened to the soft sounds of Tony's breathing, she began to wonder if his erratic mood of the past few months had been solely because of his concerns about work . . . or something, no, make that some
one
else.