Unfaithful (3 page)

The interior of the sedan is warm. He scans the dash, noting the time. Over an hour late to this preordained meeting, his eyes pan across Miles’ smooth, shadowy face. Even dappled in darkness, he is ruggedly handsome—strong angular lines, piercing eyes, inviting smile. He knows why she chose him.

Miles is chewing on an unlit cigar, the image propelling him back to the party—and to her, clad only in a man’s button-down shirt—her wares spilling out enticingly.

Stop it.

That precious moment, captured eternally in mid-flight, emblazoned in his mind like a high-resolution photograph, is gone forever.

Never to return.

He understands that now, yet ponders how everything went wrong so quickly.

Back to the present. He’s late.

Miles’ clenched jaw line tells him so, and that the man in the driver’s seat is not amused.

Patience running thin.

Gas tank on reserve.

He’s been driving around the city, attempting without success to find a solution to this problem.

His situation.

But situations like this don’t have easily defined solutions or answers.

He’s been avoiding Miles as if he were the plague, knowing he has to face his demons, his nemesis, sooner rather than later.

However, he never counted on it all crashing down this soon.

“Hey,” he mutters, breaking the silence.

Miles turns the radio down, glancing his way.

“Expected to see you about an hour ago.”

He grins nervously. Raises his shoulders as if to imply that shit happens.

Miles clears his throat, then lowers the window and chucks out his now-cold cigar. Turns to Ryan and says, “Time we talked, you and I, don’t you think?”

He merely grunts.

Miles launches. “I’m aware of this…this thing with Olivia. Have known for some time, actually.” He pauses, glances over at the passenger side, at the figure whose stare is riveted to his clenched hands, heart racing, afraid to breathe. Afraid not to—unsure of which is worse.

They are in a quiet park at The Point, a hundred yards from a lazy river, airport lights twinkling in the background. A huge sculpture is buried in the sand and dirt to their left, an outstretched hand reaching for the sky, veined and grotesque. At least it appears that way from his vantage point.

“Can’t blame you, actually. I mean, look at her—what an incredible woman she is.”

He listens. Wonders for a brief instant how this will end.

Knife in the heart?

Fingers gripping his neck until life ebbs away?

His candle blown out—way too soon?

“Even though you’ve got someone beautiful at home, a man’s gotta roam, right? In the genes—innate to all males, handed down, species to species, since long before dinosaurs roamed the earth.”

He continues.

“You’re obsessing. Can’t help yourself. Over your head. In too deep.” Miles turns his body to stare at him, giving him his full profile. “Understand what I’m saying?”

He nods silently.

“Problem is, you’re obsessing over the wrong one.”

Sharp glance his way.

“I don’t understand,” Ryan says, finding his breath, fighting the demons that live within.

“Obsession—it’s a terrible thing. Makes one lose sight of what they’re searching for.”

Slow, sharp exhale. Resolve—resolve to settle this thing, this situation, no matter what, no matter how fucked up it is, regardless of the outcome, like men—man to man.

“Listen, Miles, I didn’t come here—”

“You need to know she wasn’t the one who tasted you,” Miles says.

He is rising out of his seat now, anger bubbling to the surface, unfettered. Facing Miles, he swallows hard.

“Just what are you talking about?!” he yells incredulously. “What the fuck are you saying?”

“I think you know. Search deep within your soul, and I trust you’ll uncover the truth. I have—and I’m in a better place because of it. The truth, as someone once said, will set you free.” Miles grins, emits a sharp laugh.

“You’re crazy, you know that, Miles? What shit have you smoked?”

“Am I? I think you know it wasn’t Olivia who took you deep into her mouth that night after the party…”

Split-second pause.

A smile—not wicked, but filled with something else Ryan’s yet to comprehend.

“It was me that night, Ryan. Yours truly. Me.”

Then Ryan is scrambling out of the car and running full force, arms flailing; branches and vines are stinging his face and cheeks as he sprints blindly into the darkness, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent scream. And Miles sits patiently, fingers tapping to some unnamed, noiseless beat, waiting for him to return, as he knows he will, sooner rather than later, to face his passions and his demons—two opposite ends of the same, god-damned spectrum—the same way he has—like a man….

She can still taste the salt air on her tongue—that is if she concentrates real hard, closes her eyes, shuts out the cacophony of noise coming from the machines in her office—three-quarter-inch tape; digital video; DVD player; audio; high-definition plasma screen hanging on one wall opposite her desk; another flat-screen on a stand to her left; laptop docked behind her, all vying for her attention. Her senses are on overload—what she’s come to expect as a television producer. For a moment, she forces everything to grind to a halt and pushes it down defiantly, leaning back in her executive chair as she swivels, glancing out the picturesque window without really seeing the steel and concrete beyond.

Instead, she recalls the way warm, coarse sand felt on her toes as she maneuvered between lapping waves. Ryan’s fingers interlaced with hers as they walked the shore every morning, his brown skin a stark contrast to the white sand beneath their feet. Ryan cracking jokes, stopping every several feet to bend down, examine a shell, a smooth piece of colored glass, or discarded beer bottle fragments caressed by Caribbean seas. Leaning in, he runs a hand along the small of her back, kissing her neck at the spot that makes her instantly weak, under her chin just off the mid-line, knees faltering from his feather-like touch, and Miles rushing up behind them, patting her ass playfully as he directs them to “get a room” before taking off at a dead run. Olivia’s not far behind, clad in a neon bikini, her muscular calves flexing and locs flying as she digs into the sand, attempting to gain on her husband. Ryan and Carly follow close behind, refusing to give up this daily ritual to Miles.

Later, they all sprawl onto hard-packed sand, panting and sweating, laughing and boasting of previous nights, drinking binges featuring liberal amounts of Mount Gay rum and “wukkin’ up,” that high-energy gyrating dance that Olivia and Carly have come to fancy—their husbands and Bajan (locals), too! Racing mini mokes across the island along meandering roads that turn back on themselves as acres of sugarcane pass them by; hour-long naps in oversize hammocks strung between silk cotton trees; and gin rummy played on the veranda of their ocean-front villa.

These thoughts alone make her smile.

The cottage she shared with her husband for nine days was breathtaking: open air, vaulted ceilings, an explosion of colors, whitewashed hallways; orange rust living room and pale yellow dining room both beachside; cinnamon red study/library and vibrant blue bedroom. Carly could lose herself in any of these rooms and the eclectic artwork of Barbados natives for hours, while sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor leafing through a Zane novel, Ryan’s face in her lap, eyes closed, a pair of headphones adorning his head as he bops to melodic jazz. In the evening, they dined on couscous and fried flying fish, made love on an overstuffed mattress, windows and drapes thrown open to the elements, slow spins from a ceiling fan, sea sounds invading their domain, washing over their damp bodies as Carly used a goose-down pillow to suppress her orgasmic-filled cries. Later, they’d meet Miles and Olivia at the bar, and the ladies would exchange knowing glances, as if their respective passion moans had carried between villas.

The phone on her desk buzzes. Carly checks the caller ID—an associate producer—and ignores it. It is not her husband. Not Ryan. Her eyes flicker over the darkness outside her window that is spreading like a cloud. Fourteen hours in the office, and still no end in sight.

A moment later, the cell on her hip vibrates. She hits mute to squelch it; again it’s not him.

A few moments more…

That’s all she needs today.

Sun-ripe days spent with her husband and best friends, Miles and Olivia, sightseeing, snorkeling, dancing, shopping, tanning, eating, laughing, playing—dazzling starry nights filled with rum drinking, catamaran cruises, and partying till dawn.

She recalls their last night on the island at an outdoor restaurant in Bridgetown, the four of them dining under the stars as live music played on in the background. Miles stood, a thin wineglass filled with merlot.

“To best of friends,” he said, his low voice carrying across the expanse of sand as if on wings of doves.

“Hear, hear.” They toasted each other and drank silently, each of them lost in memories of the previous week. When Miles sat, flattening his napkin against his linen pants, Carly cleared her throat.

“I want to say something.”

All eyes were upon her. It was as if all conversation among the dining patrons ceased for that split second.

“This week has been so incredible. I can’t begin to put into words how I feel. I mean, it’s been so long since I’ve taken a real vacation, with work and everything. But my baby here,” she said, reaching out to stroke Ryan’s forearm, “knew just what the doctor ordered.” Her husband beamed. “And, inviting our best friends in the whole wide world was nothing short of genius.”

Ryan nodded. “Listen to the woman!” he yelled, having had a bit too much to drink.

“I’m serious,” she said, voice cut down a notch, eyes capturing each one’s gaze in turn. “Y’all my family—and I love you like you’re my own. So thank you for this; thank you for everything.”

Hugs.

Tears shed.

Memories of their vacation together spilled on that final evening like lukewarm tea.

Memories that would be etched into their psyches…forever.

They would walk along the beach with its waning breeze one final time, the four of them gazing to the heavens above, silent with their thoughts of the previous week, and contemplation of their place among the stars.

And afterwards still, they found themselves wukkin’ up, one last time…’til dawn….

“Hey, girl!”

Olivia’s heart skips a beat as she presses the phone to her ear. For a brief moment, her breath is caught in her throat—and she imagines her body lying on a gurney in a whitewashed emergency room stall; a green, pulsating line on the monitor dipping dangerously low; the pained, anguished look on the attending physician’s face before Olivia blinks the thought away. She gulps a quick breath.

“Carly.”

It’s after ten on a Friday night and Carly’s still in the office finishing up the edits for a segment she’s producing—something akin to MTV’s
The Assistant
, but with a darker shade of skin tone.

She’s used to the long hours, the frantic, hectic life of working in television—the network on 24/7…executives always looking for fresh new ideas, competition for viewers’ attention always something fierce. Still, it’s Friday, and she was hoping to spend some quality time with Ryan at some point…at least before the night was through.

He had called her earlier saying he and Miles were meeting. Was vague as to the particulars. Nothing new there. Ryan tended not to provide all the details of his comings and goings unless forced to. Not that he was trying to hide anything. Just his way.

“What’s new? Haven’t talked to you in a minute,” Carly says, trying to dance around the real reason for her call.

She had tried to reach Ryan, but to no avail. He hadn’t answered his cell. She left a message earlier—about an hour ago, around nine—and called twice since then, but the calls went straight to voice mail, which was strange.

Perhaps he and Miles are just in a bar someplace with lousy reception.

Happens all the time, doesn’t it?

“Not much,” Olivia responds, willing herself to calm down. Since this
thing
with Ryan surfaced, she hasn’t communicated with Carly much, other than a quick “hi” and “bye.” She feels guilty—incredibly guilty for her role in all of this—for leading him on. She’s replayed that evening after the party over and over in her mind, examining it from every angle until her head hurt. Then, exhausted from the analysis—and with little wiggle room left—she went to Miles and told him with as little detail as she could muster that Ryan was becoming infatuated with her—that the night of the party she had indeed led him on—the alcohol talking way too loud; she quickly assured her husband while leaving out the sordid details of Ryan’s hands traveling the length of her torso, his touch finding his way inside her.

And her hand discovering all of him…

“Been busy, as I’m sure you are.” Olivia is in the kitchen, refrigerator door open, reaching for a can of Diet Coke when the memories come flooding back.

This is my best friend I’m talking to.

And I violated her trust.

I was intimate with
her
man…

Stop it,
she tells herself as she takes a quick gulp.

“I hear you,” Carly replies. “I’m still at the office, if you can believe that. BET is kicking my black ass without no let up in sight!”

“Damn, girl, sorry to hear that. It’s Friday. Can’t they let a sistah breathe?” Olivia asks while moving into the living room and taking a seat on the couch. The room is dim, quiet, empty.

Just like that night several weeks ago.

Miles has yet to return.

“As soon as I finish this piece, I’m outta here! Until then, call me Aunt Jemima, ’cause to them I’m just a light-skinned slave girl!” Carly chuckles to herself. Olivia is grateful for the reprieve. “Anyway, listen. I know Ryan and Miles are hanging out tonight…” She lets the sentence hang, as if her words were a road that suddenly ends, cars in an instant finding themselves hurtling through dusty air as if suspended by threads.

“Yeah,” Olivia says, putting the can on the coffee table, “boys’ night out. You know how they do.”

Carly did. But Ryan almost always answered his cell.

“Just wondering if you’d heard from your better half. Haven’t heard from mine, and I’m trying to figure out when to expect him home.”

“Naw, girl. You know how those two get when they’re together. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’re out at Camelot’s or someplace like that!” She’s referring to the strip club located on M Street, not far from the White House.

“Those fools better not be,” Carly replies teasingly. “Alright, girl…well, if you hear from them anytime soon, have my man holla at his woman. Okay?”

“I got you, girl.”

“I know you do.”

The line goes dead.

A minute or two after the end of their conversation, Olivia’s breathing returns to normal.

Miles returns home a little after midnight. Olivia’s upstairs in their bedroom, TV on, watching Lifetime. She hears the closing of the front door, keys thrown onto the hallway table before he heads deeper into the house. She mutes the volume, listening. Moments later, she hears his footsteps on the stairs. When he enters the bedroom, she smiles.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey, yourself!”

Miles is dressed casually, yet stylishly. A pair of auburn pleated slacks, boots, and an off-white, oversize, button-down made of some foreign fabric that feels like silk. His locs are thick and held in a ponytail by a wide band. His chocolate skin is rich and luxurious, and Olivia finds herself sucking in a breath involuntarily. Her husband is looking so delicious that, for a second, she gets jealous, thinking of all the women who probably hit on him during the evening. The moment passes as he bends down, kissing her lightly on the lips.

“How’s your night?” he asks while beginning a slow undress. The shirt comes off first, floating to the carpeted floor. Olivia watches him silently before responding.

“Good. Waiting for you, that’s all.”

Miles gives her a doubting look.

“Meaning what?” he asks, turning to face her. His upper body is still well conditioned considering his age—not from frequent exercising, but because Miles is predisposed to good genes. “You knew I was meeting Ryan tonight. Hell, it was your idea that I have a word with him.”

Olivia retreats backwards into the comfort of the pillows. Her husband is right, of course. It had been
her
idea. She knew that her trying to talk to Ryan was not going to cut it. Therefore, she changed tactics.

“So, baby, how did it go?” she asks cautiously.

Miles had slipped off his pants and retreated to their walk-in closet to hang them, his ass and thigh muscles tight in the black boxer briefs he wears. Olivia feels a pang at her insides. Her husband still looks good—damn good.

He returns without responding, the front of his boxer briefs filled with a bulge that makes Olivia beam. She eyes him silently as he moves away from the bed toward the master bath. When he reaches the doorframe, she speaks.

“Not gonna answer me?” she says cautiously.

Miles turns. His facial expression is neutral, but something about him seems preoccupied.

“What do you want me to say? I spoke to him like you asked of me. Told him that this
obsession
with my wife was something he needed to get a handle on.” Miles steps out of view and into the master bath, a large room with black tile, dark gray wallpaper, vaulted ceiling, skylight, and a raised soaking tub equipped with a separate shower stall enclosed by clear glass on two sides.

Olivia feels the tension in her gut radiate outward. She raises her voice to be heard over the din of the shower he’s begun.

“Baby? You didn’t say
obsession
, did you? Tell me you didn’t use that word!” A few seconds pass. Then a few more. Olivia resists blurting out her dissatisfaction, but this minimalist communication style of his is not working for her right now. She counts to three silently and then says, “BABY?”

Louder this time.

Miles walks out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. His boxer briefs are gone. He is nude. Olivia blinks, eyes traveling down his torso, quickly dispensing with his belly and waist. She never ceases to marvel at his manhood—which is, in her humble opinion, a true work of art. She smiles as she eyes his penis, knowing he will be aroused soon, if she has anything to do with it.

“WHAT?” he says, deflating any thoughts of intimacy and passion. He is staring at her as if she uttered something completely ridiculous. “What the hell is this, the third degree?”

“No, baby—”

“Look,” he says, one hand on his hip as he interrupts her, “you asked me to handle it, and now you’re attempting to dissect every single word? No—I’m not having that.”

Miles glares at her for a second, and for that moment, Olivia’s thoughts are transported back to her childhood—when her daddy used to chastise her for doing something wrong. It was the same stare—almost the same pose—hand on hip, index finger outstretched toward her. Olivia gulps and remains silent. Satisfied there won’t be further discussion, Miles pivots on his heels and returns to the bathroom.

The door slams shut.

Or perhaps she just imagines it does.

Olivia remains in bed, alone, not moving, and quiet. Her mind is racing, thoughts ping-ponging between Miles, Ryan, and Carly.

Husband, lover, best friend…

Jesus.