Wrong Chance (2 page)

She raised the .45 automatic to her temple and quickly realized the weapon was much too heavy to hold there while she choked up the raw nerve it took to pull the trigger. Switching positions, she gripped the polished handle with both hands and shoved the barrel under her chin like she had seen on TV. Better. Comfortable.
I can do this.

There was no way she could come clean and stick around for the aftermath. He would snap; it most certainly would be nasty.

She clicked the safety off like a pro.

Tears rimmed her eyes, obscuring her vision of the baby crib.

She eased the hammer back, building up the grit.

She curled her trembling finger around the trigger.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and swore to herself that she'd do it on the count of three. End the lies. Escape the consequences. Get it over with. Check out. Her armpits were soaked with anxiety.

One.

She squeezed her radiant golden eyes shut.

“Two.” This time she counted out loud, as if that would make the transition to three easier.

The phone rang once and frightened the shit out of her. She almost shot herself too soon. Their answering machine took the call. Her recorded voice said, “Hello, this is Cashmaire Fox.” His: “And the one and only Chance Fox.” Together, the perfect couple said, “We're not home. Leave us a message at the sound of the beep.” Then the machine beeped.

“Cash, I've been sort of poking around with a few thoughts.” It was him on the line: Chance Fox. “Since I'm a career moron, thinking isn't my most effective suit.”

Cash opened her eyes. A single tear leaked and splashed onto her
hand, as she visualized Chance while he spoke: blond dreadlocks pulled into a neat ponytail that pronounced a face so handsome that everyone considered him a pretty man.

“You're right about me not spending enough friggin' time in the dungeon. I just get caught up in my work and missing you bums me out…”

Cash listened to the rhythm of his breathing while he searched his mind for more words.

“While our crumb snatcher bakes in your oven, I'll be beside you the entire time. You're all I have and I love you.” He sighed. “So I'll be at doctor visits, Lamaze class, and the whole nine yards.” Then: “I leased a building ten minutes away from the dungeon. I'm opening my veterinarian practice there so I can always be near you and our little dude.”

Cashmaire wished he would shut up. He was making it difficult to get to number three. She had to pull the trigger. She just had to, didn't she?

“Honest to goodness, dudette, you're the chick I've dreamed about my whole life: honest, intelligent, and gorgeous. Damn, I'm getting a serious boner just telling you how I feel. I mean…your idea of a perfect world—strange, I know—coincides perfectly with mine. Forgive me for not being attentive to your needs. You are important to me. Family means everything. I love you and our son so much. There are no lengths I won't go through to keep our family together or to eliminate anyone who tries to destroy our perfect world.” Then: “Law 15: Crush Your Enemy Totally.”

Cash dropped the .45 automatic and crumpled into a pile of tears and regret.

C
ashmaire Fox was an extremely gorgeous bitch. The problem was she knew it. Her mannerisms and attitude and personality oozed
top-notch
bitch. Her black hair was perfect by everyone's standards. Lustrous, controlled, not a split hair or strand out of place, and it flowed down to her tramp stamp, the ankh tattoo on the small of her back. Her body was magnificent. A case study. A prototype. Not-so-blessed women envied and tried to imitate her God-given curves and delicate shape with expensive plastic surgery. Cash was the chick that other women hated, wishing they were fortunate enough to be born with good looks, a great ass, and a set of to-die-for tits.

And powerful men did their damnedest to exploit and acquire her feminine gifts. She turned down
Playboy
two years in a row, stalling for a multimillion-dollar paycheck. Anything less was an indecent proposal for a bitch of her caliber. Back in 2008, she and Chance attended a party at the Playboy mansion. Hugh Hefner went on and on about how Cashmaire looked like Paula Patton to the highest superlative. “Pure estrogen,” Hugh had said about seven times in under two minutes. He promised Cashmaire that he wouldn't give up until she became
the
centerfold of all time. Hugh had never lain eyes on unadulterated beauty until Cashmaire sashayed onto his property.

Now Cashmaire turned away from her reflection in a Barnes & Noble showcase window and flipped up the collar of her shearling to keep the October chill at bay. She was no fool. None of her physical attributes would save her pretty little ass now. Speaking into her cell phone with an unsteady voice, she said, “I screwed up, Jazz. Everything is falling apart. Please tell me it's safe for you to talk.”

Her best friend sighed. “Leon isn't around me, but—”

“Good. I hate that abusive bastard. Jazz, I'm really falling apart.”

“Girl,” Jazz said in a rushed tone, “sit your high-yellow tail down somewhere. You're not falling apart. Let me call you back. I'm at the Convention Center in the middle of a book signing.”

Cashmaire focused on Jazz's new novel,
Two Weeks' Notice,
through the bookstore's showcase window. Her suspense thriller's presence in the establishment flaunted her
New York Times
bestseller status, pushing other new releases of the genre to mere obscurity. A life-size picture of Jazz holding the book towered over Cashmaire. Jazz was a slender beauty with an espresso complexion and a milk-colored smile. Her silky black bob cut framed her pretty face. Her mesmerizing eyes lured fans and new readers into the store. Cashmaire couldn't believe a picture like this existed of Jazz. Made Cash wonder what Jazz's publicist did to get her to agree to the photo shoot that inspired such a memorable picture. It was a complete makeover from Jazz's uninspiring norm. Things had really changed since their college days. Back then it was Jazz who showcased her beauty and Cash who hid hers behind drab clothing. Their roles flipped when Leon broke Jazz and Chance empowered Cash.

Cashmaire thought about Chance and turned away from her best friend's adorable image into a cold breeze that reddened the
tip of her nose. An icy finger crept up her spine. She started pacing because her nerves were kicking a huge dent in her ass.

“You can't call me back,” Cash said.

“And why not?”

“Because I'm at Hopkins International Airport.”

They sparred in silence; Cashmaire felt herself winning.

“Excuse me? You're here in Cleveland and didn't tell me you were coming?”

“News to me too,” Cashmaire said barely above a whisper.

“Are you serious?”

“I'm in trouble. Come get me before I lose it.”

“Well, this is a plus. This means I won't be getting my butt kicked tonight. Leon won't hit me when witnesses are around.” Jazz sighed. “Chill out. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Hurry, okay?” Cashmaire shoved the phone in her deep pockets and bundled herself against the cold. There was no turning back now. In nineteen minutes, she would reveal the secret she was certain would destroy her marriage, devastate a good man's life, and perhaps interrupt her loving friendship with Jazz. Cashmaire headed inside the terminal in search of a coffee shop. She wanted to be good and hopped up on caffeine while she figured out the best approach to lift the burden of such a nasty secret.

S
omething foul strangled the pit of Jazz Smith's stomach and sent an irritating sensation along her nerve endings. She masked her absorbing brown eyes with a pair of dollar-store sunglasses and put her foot on the accelerator. The sleek automobile followed the command without effort. When Jazz turned into the airport's arrival-and-pickup section, the foulness in her core turned sour. Cashmaire, her best friend of eleven years, the only soul who knew what had happened to her July 22, 2001, was nothing close to a “spur of the moment” woman.

Cashmaire's typical Type A personality didn't allow for any spontaneity. Her meticulous planning was downright anal. So this unplanned visit absolutely scared the heebie-jeebies out of Jazz. And what had Cashmaire meant by she was in trouble? As Jazz eased the car to a stop, she prayed that everything was alright.

As usual, another unanswered prayer; it was no fucking surprise, though. Jazz knew her petition had been rejected when she looked through the throng of travelers and internalized the pitiful look etched in Cashmaire's face. Jazz sighed and shook her head. She wished she could write a formal grievance to God for neglecting His responsibilities as far as her prayer requests were concerned. This God relationship was totally unfair. He was nothing but a damn control freak.

Cashmaire's beautiful manila complexion was minus its ever-present luster. That gave Jazz the creeps. Cashmaire's body language didn't sing, didn't demand the spotlight like normal. Something had Cashmaire spooked.

Jazz tapped the horn, then she reached across the seat to open the passenger's door as her friend reluctantly approached. Cashmaire eased into the seat and burst into tears. Jazz couldn't help but notice that Cashmaire was still the prettiest woman she'd ever seen, even when she was sad and mascara-stained tears ran down her face.

I can handle whatever this is, Jazz thought.

N
ot many blocks away from Howard University, Chance Fox hit a joint he'd scored off some street kids as he strolled up North Capitol and rounded the corner onto Seaton Place. He held his breath as the powerful reefer smoke saturated his lungs, then tossed the roach into the wind before it burnt his fingertips again. His wife found reefer burns to be unattractive and she closed her legs every time she saw them. Still, he should have hit the joint once more. He told himself to grab another bag before he caught his flight home.

A fantastic high was a satisfying self-indulgence after a long and grueling day of protesting against human atrocities on Capitol Hill. He shook his head in disgust as a cold breeze nibbled on his ears and reddened his white cheeks. How could the nitwit policy-makers consider passing bills in support of legalizing gay marriages when God declared same-sex relations forbidden? Didn't the jerks know that the Lord rained brimstone and fire on Sodom and Gomorrah for the same indulgences? Surely the shitheads didn't think their congressional power was superior to God. Families didn't come from loins of the same gender. Two patriarchs had no moral right raising an impressionable child in a homosexual family structure as if it were normal and the child wouldn't be affected. The fucks. And that pissed Chance off, so he protested every chance he got.

Chance pulled his backpack off and stepped through the door of Liberian Orphanage. Immediately he spotted the reverend chatting it up with an acne-face receptionist bimbo with platinum blonde hair and cheap clothes. He and the reverend made eye contact and smiled. Chance crossed the room and shook the reverend's hand. “Nice to see you again, Reverend.” Chance removed a football from his backpack, a well-worn copy of
The 48 Laws of POWER
stuck out the bag. “Where are the little dudes? I wanna toss the pigskin around with them before it gets dark.”

“Come sit with me a moment, son.” The reverend led Chance to a set of soft leather chairs in front of a defunct fireplace. “You reek of marijuana and your eyes are glassy.”

“You know me, dude.” Chance shrugged.

The reverend nodded. “Yes, I have come to know you. We purchased a new furnace and had the roof repaired with the last check you and your wife donated. Thank you, and don't forget to thank the missus for me.”

“Oh shit, dude, I almost forgot.” Chance dug in his backpack and fished out an envelope stuffed with cash. “Here, take it. I know you'll put it to good use for the boys. And that's between me and you, if you get my meaning.”

The reverend nodded while fingering the envelope. “Why do you do it, Chance?”

“Gee whiz, dude, it's only money. We have more than—”

“I'm not speaking about the money, son. I'm referring to the causes you involve yourself in and showing up here every month to spend time with these children.”

Chance shrugged a
why does it matter?
“I believe in what I believe in and that's all there is to it. The boys here have no family. I grew up without a father, so if I can come here and put a smile on their
face, do things that a man would do with them so they'll have memories of someone giving two shits about them, then it'll take a security guard to keep me away from here. But I'll just kick a dent in his ass and make him quit.”

The reverend cracked a smile. “You're gonna be a great father. How far along is Mrs. Fox?”

“She isn't showing yet. That means a lot coming from you, dude. You believing I'll be a decent dad.” Chance rose from the chair. “Where are they?”

“Right through those doors. They just finished supper and are now watching
Avatar.”

Chance pushed through the door with the football in hand. “Who's up for a game of catch?”

“Chance, you came back.” A little black kid from West Africa jumped in his arms as the other boys rushed to hug him.

C
ashmaire did her damndest to stop her hands from shaking. Coffee spilt over the rim of the Starbucks cup. When Jazz's shiny Mercedes SL600 crawled to a stop, Cashmaire seriously considered becoming a coward, tucking tail, and fleeing back to Denver where she could keep her secret safe. Hell, she'd kept it under lock and key for the last eighteen years of her ambiguous life. Then she'd only have to lie her way out of the lies she'd already told Chance.