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Getting Even
Kayla Perrin


For the past year, self-proclaimed Black American Princess Claudia has been planning her perfect wedding, destined to be the event in Atlanta's black society.But when her prince gets cold feet, she's stunned and humiliated. She's done things in the bedroom with this man that her mother would disown her for! Annelise is frustrated. How long can a woman go without getting some from her husband? The man she supported through law school, who she signed a prenup for. But it seems the man who used to want it all the time is still getting it. . . from another woman. Thank goodness their devotedly single friend Lishelle has a couch to spare.But when The Guy Who Got Away in college reappears in her life, she starts envisioning a walk down the aisle. Ignoring her friends' advice, she agrees to guarantee his bank loans for a new business. A girl's got to invest in her future husband, right? But once he gets his hands on her money, he disappears.After a little digging, the women discover that the jerks they've trusted have betrayed them in ways they'd never imagined. As the scorned friends bitch over a bottle of wine, an idea begins to take shape — letting these weasels slink quietly out of their lives is too good for them. These women want revenge.







PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF

kayla perrin

“[A] writer that everyone should read.”

—Eric Jerome Dickey

“…[a] fun diversion.”

—Publishers Weekly on Gimme an O!

“This is not just a story of female bonding and friendship but a skillfully written combination of romance and mystery.”

—Booklist on The Sisters of Theta Phi Kappa

“…a delicious cocktail with a lot of zing…secrets, lies and alibis.”

—Essence on The Sisters of Theta Phi Kappa

“…start this book early in the day—this one won’t rest on your nightstand until it is finished!”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on If You Want Me

“Kayla Perrin has her finger on the pulse of male/female relationships and she does an excellent job of examining it.”

—Literary Times on Again, My Love

“This is a story you will read in one sitting. Superb!!”

—Rendezvous on Everlasting Love

“The character development is stellar…[it] enthralls to the last page.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on The Delta Sisters


This one’s for my single friends—some divorced, some never married. Mary and Marissa in Atlanta, Nicole in Hamilton and Allette in Toronto—to name a few. Keep standing proud and never settle for less than you deserve!



And it’s also for you—my loyal readers. In particular, this is for my readers who have given their hearts in love, and had them trampled on in a serious way. I know how much that hurts, that the pain can be overwhelming.



Sometimes the only thing that makes you feel better is the thought of revenge. Often tricky to execute in real life, but in fiction everything’s game. So if you’ve had your heart broken (especially in a low-down, dirty way), here’s a little vicarious revenge to help ease the pain—to make you laugh, and perhaps cry, but most of all to help you realize that life without the jerk is oh, so much better.



Trust me, I know.



Now, enjoy!




Getting Even

kayla perrin









FOOL FOR LOVE




Chapter One


Claudia

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but if you ask me, that’s a load of bull. Hands down, that gold-lined path travels through his libido.

I should know. Right now, I’m practically dying of embarrassment as I sit in a north Atlanta restaurant with the man of my dreams, Adam Hart. I’m trying to look nonchalant beside him in our booth, sipping a margarita through a straw, while Adam has his hand between my legs. His fingers tickle my skin as they inch farther up my thighs.

“Adam,” I admonish playfully as his fingers skirt my panties. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”

“Don’t I look serious to you?”

He does look serious—which is exactly the problem. He is entirely too serious about this naughty bit of foreplay. “Sweetheart, you know how much I love this, but—”

“What, this?”

My eyelids flutter as he strokes my nub.

“Mmm,” I moan softly. Then look up in horror as the waiter appears at our table. My face flames, and I wonder if my pale brown skin registers any blush of my embarrassment. I squeeze my legs together, but that does nothing to stop Adam’s fingers.

“Have you decided what you’d like?” the waiter asks. I’m not sure if there’s a knowing glint in his eye. If not, he must think Adam and I are so in love that we can’t bear to be physically apart from each other. Why else would we be sharing the same side of a booth, practically glued at the hip?

“Um,” I begin. I haven’t even looked at the menu. “I think we need a few more minutes.”

“I know what I want,” Adam says. He’s looking at me though, not at the waiter, and I want to smack him. No, that’s a lie. I want to take him outside and get busy with him in the back seat of his Mercedes SUV. I really do enjoy Adam’s obvious lust for me. I’m just not comfortable with how much he likes to display it in public.

“New York steak,” Adam continues. “Rare. I like it red.”

“I’ll have the same,” I say, hoping to hell that I’m not blushing. “Medium well.”

“Rice or baked potato?”

“Rice,” both Adam and I respond.

The waiter scribbles notes on a pad. “That comes with soup or salad—”

“Two house salads to start,” I interject, cutting off the waiter. “And an order of garlic bread. Also, a half liter of Chardonnay.”

“Make it a bottle,” Adam says.

My eyes meet his in surprise. His gaze is smoky, and as he bites down on his bottom lip, I feel an excited shiver dance across my shoulders. I know what he wants. To get me drunk so I’m more likely to be less inhibited.

I wonder what he wants me to try this time.

“That’s everything?” the waiter asks.

I have all but forgotten about the waiter. I look up at the college kid and grin. “That’s plenty.”

Thank the Lord, the waiter turns and walks away. He doesn’t know me, but still I let out a relieved breath. The reason I like to come here is that it’s far from the Buckhead neighborhood where Adam and I live. If I get caught doing something scandalous here, at least no one will know who I am. And because it’s a Monday night, this place isn’t as busy as it would be on the weekend.

“Now.” Adam smiles at me as his fingers explore my nether region. “Where were we?”

I push his hand away, feeling slightly annoyed at his one-track mind, considering everything we need to discuss. “Adam, seriously. We need to talk.”

He pouts a little but finally relents. “All right.” He sits back against the booth. “Let’s talk.”

Now I smile from ear to ear. I am absolutely crazy about Adam, but it’s possible, if only slightly, that I’m even more crazy about our upcoming wedding.

You see, I’m almost thirty, and for a while I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get married or die a spinster. What self-respecting woman still uses the term spinster, you ask? You haven’t met my high-society, Black-American Princess friends. Not to mention my mother, who has been dreaming of my wedding since the time I was in her womb. In most respects I have a fairly cushy life, but if I don’t get married, I’ll never live that one down.

But I am getting married. In six weeks, I will become Mrs. Adam Hart. For the past year, I’ve been busy planning every detail of our lavish wedding. As far as I’m concerned, it’s going to be the most spectacular wedding Atlanta society has ever seen.

Notice I didn’t say “Adam and I” have been planning the wedding. Unfortunately, Adam is a man—which is to say that he’s not the least bit interested in the intricate details that go into pulling off a wedding as elaborate as ours will be. He thinks the big day is more of a fairy tale for the bride, and I can’t say he’s wrong.

But I have to tell you, there’s nothing remotely fun about planning the fairy-tale wedding. It’s a lot of headaches and hard work. And there are things I need to know now, considering our big day is fast approaching.

I take my planner out of my Gucci tote and open it. “Diana needs to meet with us this weekend to go over all the wedding details. I made a tentative appointment for 10:00 a.m. on Saturday. Will that work for you?”

“Sure.”

“I know we had all the colors pretty much picked out, but I’m going back and forth over the bridesmaid dresses. I found out Rebecca Morrison’s bridesmaids will be wearing buttercup yellow, and considering our weddings are two weeks apart—” I stop when Adam begins stroking the inside of my wrist. “Are you listening to me?”

“You want to change the colors?”

“I’m considering it, yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“But I know you and the groomsmen have already picked out your tuxes.” Not to mention that the dresses have already been made and it will be a great expense for the designer to make new ones.

“So we’ll change the color of the flower we wear on our lapel.” He shrugs nonchalantly, as if to say I’m making a big deal out of nothing.

Maybe I am, but this wedding business is stressful. I decide to leave the subject of colors alone until our meeting with the wedding planner. But, there is another pressing matter. “You know how in the reply cards we gave people the chance to say whether they wanted red snapper or duck?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, the phone calls have started. People are wondering why there isn’t a beef option. It’s like they expect this to be some sort of backyard buffet instead of a five-star wedding. They’re driving me and my mother nuts, but now I’m wondering if we shouldn’t have a beef entrée as an option, as well.” Rolling my eyes, I groan.

“How hard will it be to have beef?”

“I don’t know. I guess not that hard. As long as we get the count a couple weeks before the wedding.” Diana has arranged a fantastic lineup of chefs for our big day—straight from Commander’s Palace in New Orleans. “But maybe we should put our foot down. There’ll be eight courses. No one’s gonna starve.”

“If it’s no big deal,” Adam begins, covering my hands with his, “then we’ll have a beef entrée.”

“Are you sure, honey? What if it’s more complicated?”

“But we want everyone happy. Let’s have the variety. It’ll cost more, but that’s not a concern.”

“No. No, you’re right.” I relax in my seat. My father’s not worried about the cost, so why am I? “I do want everyone to be happy.” So happy that they’ll talk about our wedding for months after the grand event….

“I don’t know why you’re getting so stressed. Seems like everything’s in order.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You haven’t been doing the planning.”

I give Adam a look of reproof, and in response he plants a soft kiss on my lips. “You know I love you for it.”

“You’d better.”

“I promise you, our honeymoon will be the perfect reward for all your hard work.”

Right now, the honeymoon seems like some mythical fantasy that will never come to pass. “When will you tell me where we’re going?”

“When we get there.”

I should be excited, but I’m not. I think the idea of the honeymoon will really excite me once I know that all the kinks in our wedding plans are ironed out.

Adam releases my hands to reach for my margarita. He samples it and as I watch him, I can’t help thinking how truly hot he is. He’s six foot two, has closely cropped hair and perfect golden-brown skin. Adam is the kind of guy who commands attention whenever he walks into a room. Even here, at this eatery, I’ve seen the surreptitious and even brazen glances some of the other women have thrown his way.

But I’m not worried. They can look all they like. Adam isn’t going anywhere. He has no need to. I more than please my man in the bedroom.

As an attractive sister gives Adam a lingering look, I place a hand on his leg under the table.

“Mmm,” is his soft response.

“I love you, Adam Hart,” I whisper.

“I love you, Claudia Fisher.”

“I know.” I blow out a huff of air. “That’s why it’s been killing me to keep this from you.” Adam looks at me in alarm, and I realize how he has construed my words. “It’s not bad news,” I quickly assure him. “In fact, it’s the best news.”

“You’ve got my attention.”

Excitement bubbles up inside me. What I’m about to tell Adam is absolutely the most thrilling news. The perfect touch to make our wedding forever memorable—and the talk of Atlanta.

“Remember I told you I had a surprise for you?”

“Yes,” Adam replies.

“I wasn’t planning to tell you about this until the rehearsal dinner, but I’m so excited, I can’t wait that long.”

“What is it, baby?”

“You’re never going to believe who’ll be singing at our wedding. I’m so blown away by this, I could just die!”

Adam’s eyes are on fire with curiosity. “Tell me.”

“Babyface! Can you believe it?”

Adam plants a serious lip-lock on me, tongue and all, and I don’t even care. When we finally break for air, he asks, “How? When?”

“My cousin came through for me.” Morgan Fisher, one of my many cousins, is an executive at Palm Records in Los Angeles. He knows Babyface personally, but that wasn’t a guarantee that he’d be available to sing at the wedding.

“Oh, man.” Adam smiles from ear to ear. “The Babyface?”

“The one and only. Isn’t it fabulous?”

“You’re fabulous.” Adam’s tone changes, grows deeper. I can read what he’s thinking in his eyes. He wants to get me naked.

The waiter appears with our wine. He opens the bottle, pours some wine into a glass, and Adam samples it. “Very good,” Adam tells the waiter.

When we are alone again, Adam raises his wineglass. “To us,” he says. “And a very bright future.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I say, then clink my glass against my fiancé’s, knowing that I am the luckiest girl in the world.

Again, Adam slips a hand between my legs and says, “Come on, baby. Let me make you come.”

“Adam…” I protest weakly.

But he’s already stroking me, with much more determination, and against my own resolve, I am getting very wet.

“Do you know how much I love it when you’re wet like this?” he asks hotly against my ear. He slips a finger inside me and wiggles it around. “Let me taste you. Please, baby…”

I moan softly. “Right here?”

“God, yes.”

He pulls his hand away from me and lifts it to his face. He inhales the scent of my essence, groaning his delight, then slowly puts the finger in his mouth. It’s enough to almost make me orgasm.

“Damn, I love you,” he utters, then slips his hand between my legs once more. Now he goes in for the kill, putting two fingers inside me while stroking my nub with his thumb.

“How do you always do this to me?” I ask. “Make me so fucking horny?”

His movements are faster, and I’m sure people know what’s going on. How could they not?

Oh, damn. I’m so close…

I close my legs around his hand and bury my face against his shoulder. “That’s it, baby. You know I own you.”

And then I come. And come. And come.

I bite down on Adam’s shoulder. It’s an effort to keep any sound from escaping my mouth. I pray anyone within earshot only thinks I’m laughing.

“You two must be celebrating something.”

I whip my gaze up to see the waiter standing at our table. Adam keeps a firm hand wrapped around my waist so I can’t move apart from him. His other hand is still in my panties.

“Um, yes,” I answer shakily. I’m still light-headed from the aftermath of my orgasm. “We’re getting married.”

“Ah,” the waiter coos and places the garlic bread on the table. “Congratulations.”

Only when the waiter disappears do I dare move away from Adam. He grins at me, victorious, knowing he has conquered me sexually once again.

And I can’t help it. I grin back at him.

I love this man.



A little over an hour later—at least I think it’s an hour later (I can’t be sure, since I had the lion’s share of the wine)—I am holding on tight to Adam’s arm as he’s driving along the 285 perimeter around Atlanta. It seems we’ve been going around and around for ages, but I could be wrong, considering my head’s in a fog. I can barely keep my eyes open, but when Adam veers suddenly to the right, I perk up. I see that he is taking an exit several miles from my home.

“Hey,” I say.

He squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry, babe.”

“Where are we going?”

He glances at me and flashes a playful grin. “You had a surprise for me. Now it’s my turn to surprise you.”

I eye Adam warily. He’s not big on romantic surprises. Besides, what on earth can he be surprising me with in the middle of nowhere? Unless he’s going to…

As the answer hits me, I am almost sobered with the excitement.

“Adam,” I squeal, “you didn’t!” Of course, I’m hoping he did. I look around expectantly, hoping to see large suburban houses with sprawling lawns and aged oaks any second now. I thought for sure we’d stay in Buckhead, but maybe he’s decided that we’ll live in Duluth.

But as we continue to drive, the industrial landscape doesn’t change, and I’m a bit confused. This area isn’t only industrial, it’s fairly run-down. Not exactly the neighborhood where Adam would buy a house.

Growing nervous, I grip Adam’s hand.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he tells me. “You’ll see what it is when we get there.”

I am more than surprised when Adam turns into the driveway of a large, one-story gray building. At least a hundred yards long, it’s got to be some sort of warehouse. I can’t imagine why he’d be bringing me here, unless he wants an isolated place to make out. Which irritates me, since I already gave him a blow job in the restaurant parking lot. At least, I think I did. The memory is kind of blurry. In any case, I’m not in the mood to get kinky out here.

“Adam, I think you should take me home.”

“Don’t worry.”

He travels the length of the building, then turns left around the corner. Suddenly a row of cars comes into view. Lexuses, Jaguars, BMWs. What is this place? Some kind of club?

I ask him.

“Yeah, it’s a club.”

“But I thought…” I snuggle against my man. “I thought we were heading back to your place before you take me home.”

Adam pulls up next to a Ford Explorer and parks the car. “I think you’ll like this.”

I frown slightly as Adam disentangles himself from me and exits the vehicle. Moments later, he opens my door and offers me his hand. I’m not convinced I’m going to like whatever’s inside, but Adam is grinning at me like a fool.

Shaking my head at him, I let him help me out of the SUV. We walk hand in hand to a door at the back of the building. This is not the kind of club I normally go to. I’m partial to the classy joints in my Buckhead neighborhood. Clubs with a piano bar, a live jazz band. This one is…well, secretive is the only word that comes to mind.

I cling to Adam as we step into the entrance. This place is weird, all right. Barely lit, the foyer area is completely blocked off from the rest of the place. I can hear soulful, seductive music coming through the walls—the only real indication that something’s going on here. I feel the way people must have felt during the days of prohibition, sneaking into speakeasies after dark—like I’m doing something illegal.

There’s a big-breasted cashier in a very small cubicle, and Adam hands her two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. She doesn’t give him any change back. That’s more money than we’ve ever paid to get into any club. I wonder again just what kind of surprise this is.

The bouncer opens a heavy metal door for us, and the light is almost blinding as it streaks into the foyer. Adam steps forward and I walk with him into the club—and then I stop dead in my tracks.

I am so stunned, I’m not sure what to think. I close my eyes in case I’m hallucinating. But when I open them, I see the same shocking images, and I know that what’s going on is very real.

Everywhere—and I mean everywhere—there are people engaged in sex acts. Immediately before me on a mattress on the floor, a woman is sandwiched between two men. To the right of that trio, a woman is on her knees giving a man a blow job. And beyond them, a man has a woman braced against a wall and he’s ramming her hard from behind.

My God. This is sick. It’s like I’m in a room with animals that are gorging on sex.

I feel a surge of panic. I’m light-headed, yes, but not so drunk that I don’t wonder why Adam has brought me here. This is no ordinary club. I’m not even sure it’s legal. The absurd icing on the cake is the group of partially dressed people dancing on the dance floor, as if they’re completely oblivious to the acts of illicit sex surrounding them. “Adam—”

“We can just watch if that makes you feel better.”

My mouth nearly hits the floor as I look up at him. I expected him to say many things, but not the words I just heard. Surely he has to be as shocked as I am, as disgusted that we are in some kind of sex club.

Instead, he’s staring at me with a hopeful look in his eyes, and his palm is sweaty.

God help me, he’s excited.

But I am not. “You knew what this place was before you brought me here?” I ask him, outraged.

“Someone told me about it, and I wanted to check it out.”

My head is spinning, and I’m not sure what to think. “Great,” I say. “You’ve seen it. Can we go now?”

Adam pulls me close and slides his hands over my butt. “Come on, Claudia. Doesn’t this turn you on?”

“Turn me on?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “All these people—having hot, wild sex.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Sex is natural, babe. Beautiful. Why shouldn’t people openly express how they feel about one another?”

If my mother could see me now, she’d drop dead on the spot. Forget my mother, I’m about to drop dead. If anyone I know ever saw me in this place, I would never live it down. Besides, I’m not into watching other people having sex.

“I want to leave,” I tell Adam.

With a finger, he guides my head to the left. “Look at that woman right there,” he says softly. “Look at the expression on her face as that guy is going down on her.” The woman is biting on her finger and her eyes are rolling backward. “She’s given herself over completely to the experience.”

I watch the woman, listen to her—then I swallow. Disgusted with myself for even looking, I jerk my gaze away. “And she probably doesn’t even know the guy.” I’ve only heard about swingers, never seen them up close and personal like I am now. “Adam, honestly—I’m not comfortable here.”

Adam all but ignores me as he takes my hand and guides it to his erection. My God, he’s rock hard. I’m not sure if I should be appalled or accept the reality that getting a hard-on in this environment is only natural.

A man and a woman, nicely dressed like Adam and I are, saunter in our direction. Alarm shoots through me when the woman, an older white lady, checks me out from head to toe. I lean against Adam, hoping he’ll protect me. From exactly what, I’m not sure.

“Hello,” the woman says.

“Not interested,” I reply quickly, wrapping my arms around Adam’s torso. I step to my right, dragging Adam with me. Adam shrugs as the couple continues to walk by us.

“I know you’re apprehensive,” Adam begins.

“That doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling.”

“Let’s find a corner.”

“What?” I shake my head. “Adam, no.”

“Just for a little while.”

My heart takes a nosedive into the pit of despair. I have done so many things to please Adam sexually, it’s like a slap in the face that he wants to get off while watching others.

He gives me a soft peck on the lips. “I know this is crazy. But we’ll be married soon. And I just want to…try something really different…just one time. Before we say ‘I do’ and commit to each other forever.”

I’m not exactly sure what Adam means. Worse, I’m afraid to ask. Does he want us to get freaky with some other couple and in the morning pretend it didn’t happen?

Because of Adam’s insatiable appetite for sex, I have done a lot of things that I otherwise wouldn’t have. Things I am embarrassed to admit. From exhibitionist-type sex to sex so kinky it would make my grandmother roll over in her grave, I have done my part to make my man happy. I’m a woman of the new millennium and I’m hardly a prude. But swapping partners—that’s a whole other story.

“We’ll have a drink, watch a little.”

“I’m not screwing some other guy. And I sure as hell don’t want to watch you screw some other woman.”

Adam squeezes my hand. “No, no. That’s not what this is about, sweetheart. This is about us. You and me. About the two of us experiencing all that’s out there before we settle down in marriage.”

“Are you unhappy with me?” I ask, dreading the reality that despite everything I try, I somehow fail to please him.

“No, of course not. You have my heart, and you always will. But we won’t be young forever. I don’t want us to have any regrets.”

“Regret that we never swapped couples?” I ask incredulously.

“I don’t want the day to come when we wish we’d tried something and regret having held back. This is about being open to new experiences.”

I really don’t know what to say to Adam. I’m getting that uneasy feeling, though, the one I get when I think I might lose him.

“I don’t want to be with anyone else,” he assures me. “I just want to watch…then I want to go down on you….”

Brazenly—or perhaps not so brazenly given the environment—Adam slips a hand up my skirt. He strokes me with his thumb, and despite my reservations, I feel a zap of excitement.

“I want to eat you with everyone watching,” he adds in a husky voice. “And then, I want to make love to you.”

I’m not sure about this, not sure at all. No, that’s a lie—I am sure. Sure that I don’t want to do this. But I think about my sister, whose husband left her because he said she was a prude, and I wonder if Adam would leave me over something like this. And if he did leave me because of my aversion to swingers’ clubs, then he’s not really the guy I think he is. But still, we’re engaged. I’ve got a lot invested in my wedding day and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t happen as planned.

“Just one time?” I ask.

His smile is like a neon sign, it’s so friggin’ bright. “One time, baby.”

I sigh softly as I let Adam lead me to a dark corner. And then I rationalize the fact that I’m going along with this: It’s just a crazy fantasy. Once he’s made it a reality, he’ll move on and we won’t have to deal with this again.




Chapter Two


Annelise

I am in the zone.

“Yes! Oh God, yes!” A rush of excitement flows through me and my breathing picks up speed. I love this part—the moment when we are completely in tune with each other. There is a comfort level now, and neither of us is holding anything back. The flow and rhythm is steady, and I am moving rapidly toward the moment of total satisfaction.

I press my finger on the camera’s trigger and snap a round of shots. “Wonderful. Now, get a little closer. That’s right. You love this woman. Let it shine from your soul. Angle your head, Mark.” I glide toward him and guide his head in the direction I want. “Oh, that’s it.” I actually moan my pleasure. “Now hold that pose, and smile.”

I am holding the camera; I prefer this to mounting it on a tripod. I am much freer this way, free to explore different angles. I step backward, then move from left to right until I am satisfied. I look through the viewfinder, adjust the focus and voilà: perfection. The camera loves this couple.

I click off a few more shots of Mark and Robin in yet another perfect pose. I’ve gotten several photos, but I am not quite finished. The next shot will be the moment, the thrilling denouement.

“Turn slightly, both of you. Look at each other. Less of a smile, more of a romantic gaze.” God, there is so much honesty between them. “Yes, that’s absolutely perfect.”

I hold down the trigger and don’t let go until I’ve finished the roll. I was so born to do this. Photography is in my blood.

I lower the camera from my face. “That was great,” I tell Mark and Robin, feeling the high that comes from a great session. “The pictures will be fabulous.”

Robin grins from ear to ear. “You think so?”

“Absolutely. The camera loved you.”

“I can’t wait to see them.” Robin turns to Mark and nuzzles her nose with his.

I watch them for a moment, their happiness giving me a warm feeling in my chest. There’s nothing quite like capturing two people in love on film. I love the way their eyes convey everything that’s in their souls.

This particular couple has recently gotten engaged. That’s why they’re here at my studio—to take pictures they’ll use for an engagement announcement.

That’s also why they’re so openly affectionate. There’s hardly a moment when one isn’t touching the other. Even as they get up from the sofa, their hands are linked. As much as I enjoy seeing happy couples together, a feeling of longing stirs in my gut.

“Can we see the proofs now?”

I shake my head as I place the camera on a table near the set. “Call me old-fashioned, but I’m not a fan of digital photography. When you see physical proofs, you get a much better idea of what your prints will look like.”

Robin nods, but she looks a little disappointed. “How soon will they be ready?”

It has been a busy week at the studio. “Oh, probably around nine or ten days.”

“That long?” She looks from me to Mark in alarm. She is clearly eager to announce her engagement.

“I do offer two rush options. Three days or five.”

“Three,” Robin tells me without hesitation. “We’d like to get the announcement out right away.”

Ah, young love. I try to remember a time my husband and I were so in love. When each hour apart from each other seemed like an excruciating eternity.

The memory is fuzzy, but it’s there. Ten years ago, when we were both in college, before Charles went to law school. There was an easiness between us then. We laughed a lot, joked a lot.

Had a lot of sex.

Forget Charles, I tell myself. I do not want to think about him right now, not when I’m feeling such a high.

So I throw myself back into work, giving Robin and Mark an array of times when they can come back and view the proofs. They decide, pay me a deposit and I see them to the door. Arm in arm, the two descend the studio’s steps. I watch them climb into a BMW, and even give a little wave. It’s the personal touches that keep people coming back.

Once they drive away, I sigh softly and step back into the studio. Despite my desire to cling to my high, now that I am alone, my mood plummets.

It’s so easy to forget about my troubles when I’m in that perfect zone. But I remember them now. Seeing love in its purest form always makes me ponder my own love life. I think of the contrasts: Mark and Robin so happy, so affectionate. Charles and I so miserable, so distant.

I’ve been married to Charles for five years now, and most of it has been happy. But lately, over the last fourteen months, there has been a drastic change in our relationship. You see, Charles went from being loving and affectionate to cold and remote. He hasn’t touched me in over a year.

Oh we kiss, we hug. With about as much passion as a brother and sister. If I try to get closer to him, take our interaction beyond the platonic, Charles pulls away.

He tells me it’s stress, which I do understand. My husband is a civil-litigation attorney and has a lot on his plate. I’m not at all insensitive to that. But fourteen months? I thought sex was supposed to be a great stress reliever.

I get so frustrated that at times I simply want to give up. But then I think, how can I give up? This is the man I love more than anything. I’ll be married to him forever. And forever is a long time to go without getting any sex.

When I pressure him, he immediately shuts down, so I have tried to do subtle things to get his interest. Like give him a back rub, or reach for his hand as we sit on the couch together. But even that doesn’t work. Because just when I think he’s sufficiently relaxed and I might hit a home run, he’ll give me a chaste kiss and tell me he’s going to bed.

This happened last night.

The night before that, Charles went to bed after I did. He didn’t curl up next to me. He never does. It’s like there’s a line down the middle of our bed and he doesn’t want to cross it.

I cried this morning as I asked him if he still wants to be married to me. He assured me that he does—then kissed me on the forehead before heading out the door.

Truly, I am at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do. But I can’t throw in the towel. I have to find a way to help us reconnect as a couple.

Today, I am more determined than ever to get some love from my husband. I was thinking about ways to make that happen as I drove to the studio, and came up with the conclusion that I have to do something different. Something drastically different.

I’m thinking scented candles and wine and a completely relaxing environment. You’re probably thinking no big deal. And you’re right. But I’m going to up the ante by wearing something scandalous. The kind of outfit my husband won’t be able to resist me in.

We used to do this sort of thing in the early days of our marriage, but somewhere along the way I guess we got stale. Boring.

Great sex is on my mind as I lock up the studio. It’s a small space, one room and an office area in a strip mall-type building. It’s all I can afford in order to make a marginal profit doing the job I love. But the landscape out back is lush and beautiful and free—I use it often when taking photos.

This month has been a good one for me, with more weddings than I expected. Thankfully, I have a few extra dollars to spend. And I am going to spend them on spicing up my marriage.

There is one person who can probably help me in my quest. My sister. As I get behind the wheel of my Jetta, I’m already dialing her number on my cell phone. My sister and I don’t talk very often. We don’t exactly see eye to eye. But this is an emergency. I need her expertise.

I’ve always been the good girl. Samera’s always been the whore.

I love her in spite of it, and I can hardly blame her for her choices. My mother is a religious nut—if I haven’t said so before. Sent my sister right into the sex trade, while for a long time I thought that even feeling sexual desire would send me straight to hell.

For the past six years, Samera has worked as a stripper. She prefers “exotic dancer” but I like to call a spade a spade.

Samera’s phone rings and I wait. “Hello,” she says cheerfully when she answers after three rings.

“Hey, Sam. It’s me.”

She pauses for a moment, then says, “Annie. Wow, this is a surprise.”

“I know. Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I’ve been busy with work.”

“I hear you. I’ve been busy, too. Are you finally making decent money?”

What she really wants to know is if I’m making enough money to be self-sufficient. Samera hates the idea that if Charles and I were to split, I wouldn’t be able to support myself.

“Things are looking up,” I tell her. I don’t add, “Just barely.”

“Because if things aren’t going well, you know I can always get you work at the club.”

I chuckle sarcastically, like I always do. This is a running joke between us—though I don’t particularly find it funny. It’s Samera’s way of saying she thinks I’m a prude. Of course, she doesn’t think she’s loose. She says she’s sexually liberated.

“How about we settle on lunch instead?” I suggest. “Sometime soon. It’s been way too long.”

“You’re on, sis.”

It remains to be seen if this will happen. “Listen,” I say. “The reason I’m calling. I need to ask a favor.”

“Sure.”

“This is going to sound weird, but where can I find an adult store?”

“An adult store? You mean like JCPenney?”

She knows exactly what I mean. “No, a store that sells…stuff. You know.”

“You mean a sex shop?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Samera laughs. “I swear, Annie, I can see you turning red. I don’t know why you get so embarrassed. This is the new millennium. Women are allowed to say sex without fear of being persecuted.”

“I don’t need a lecture. Just directions.”

“What do you want exactly? Videos? Toys?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of sexy lingerie. I want to spice things up with Charles.” As I say this, I envision a laughing devil with a pitchfork. Believe me, it’s hard to undo eighteen years of my mother’s conditioning.

“Why not come by the club? That’ll get you both in the mood.”

“No thanks.” I wouldn’t be caught dead in a strip joint with Charles. That’s not the drastically different I had in mind. “I just want to find a place where I can buy some naughty stuff. Lace and feathers. Maybe even crotchless underwear.”

“Oh, my. You are serious.”

“You can stop your snickering. I haven’t been living under a rock.”

“Okay, okay.” Samera settles down. “Crotchless is great, by the way. Always gets a guy in the mood. So are edible undies. There was one time when I bought them for this guy I was seeing and let me tell—”

“Too much information,” I announce, cutting my sister off. Samera often gets carried away, telling me details I don’t want to know. “I just want to know where I can find a place to buy some stuff.”

“Where are you? Coming from the studio?”

“Yep.”

“There’s a place in Sugarloaf that I highly recommend. It’s on your way home. I get a ton of my stuff there. It’s called A Little Naughty. Corner of John and Hibiscus.”

Now that Samera’s said this, I get a mental image of this shop. I’ve driven by it but haven’t consciously noticed it. “I think I know the place,” I say.

“It’s got everything you could possibly dream of. Ask for Suzie. Tell her I sent you and she’ll give you a discount.”

I wonder how much stuff my sister buys there. Actually, I don’t want to know. “Thanks a bunch, sis. Listen, I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“You don’t have to stay with Charles if he doesn’t appreciate you. And if this doesn’t get him aroused, I’d seriously start wondering if he’s not screwing around.”

“Bye.” I roll my eyes as I end the call, remembering exactly why we don’t talk that often. Between her implying that I’m a docile wife who’s far too sexually inexperienced and her often brazen suggestion that I dump my husband, I can only take so much of her. I love Samera, but our lives are as different as night and day. She’s single and doesn’t believe in marriage, much less monogamy. She’s more into what men can give her, since she says she’s been burned too many times. I, on the other hand, would never think of being with a man for his money. Samera thinks I’m setting myself up for failure, especially since she knows that Charles isn’t giving me any love these days.

Thirty minutes later, I’m pulling into the strip mall at the corner of John and Hibiscus Streets. Right away I see the neon-pink lights and naughtily dressed mannequin in the window. The sun is already disappearing on the horizon, but nonetheless, I slip my sunglasses on as I exit my car. I don’t want to chance being recognized.

I enter the store and for what seems like minutes, I just stand there, checking it all out. I’m experiencing sensory overload. There’s lots of skimpy lingerie to my left, but nothing I haven’t seen before. It’s the stuff to my right that makes me blush.

There’s a wall with dildos on display—some so large I can’t imagine any woman ever buying one. And apparently they come in all the colors of the rainbow, which makes me wonder if they’re flavored like Life Savers.

“Hi!” A petite brunette bounces toward me. She has a piercing in her eyebrow and is into dark makeup. “Can I help you?”

“I’m…just looking.”

Her eyes narrow, as if she’s trying to decide if she knows me. “You look really familiar. Have you been here before?”

“Me? God, no.” Then it hits me. “You’re probably confusing me with my sister. Samera Peyton.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Are you Suzie?”

“Uh-huh. Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you find?”

I know this is a sex shop, but I don’t want this cute little thing getting a visual image of what I might be doing later. I shake my head. “Not right now, anyway. But I’ll let you know.”

I turn and wander to the left, heading toward the safe-looking lingerie I have no intention of buying. Not that that really makes much sense when I think about it. Suzie will see what I purchase soon enough.

“Relax,” I whisper to myself as I finger a lacy black teddy. “You’re a grown woman. You’re allowed to have good sex.”

Hell, I’d take mediocre sex right now. That sad reality has me forgetting about my reservations and I forge ahead to find the raunchiest piece of lingerie here. I find panties with no crotch, bras with feathers at the nipple. I hang on to both like they’re the answers to all my problems.

When I see a maid’s outfit on a mannequin, I can’t help but laugh. But once I stop chuckling, I take a closer look. This maid’s outfit is barely there. Talk about stepping out of your comfort zone to do something different. In this uniform, I can role-play. I can be a lousy cook, or suck at dusting.

And Charles can spank me, then punish me with his piercing shaft….

I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing out loud. I’ve been reading way too many historical romances.

I continue to browse. There’s also a mannequin in leather, wearing a dog collar and holding a whip. That’s an idea. I could always whip Charles for being a bad boy. But I can’t quite imagine him on all fours with his butt in the air. I pick up a package with the maid’s uniform and stuff it under my arm. I even choose a black wig. If I’m going to role-play, I may as well go all out.

Fifteen minutes in this place and I’m feeling like a different woman. So much so that when I stroll toward the cash register—passing through an aisle full of vibrators—I stop and take a gander. I more than take a gander, actually, but hey, I’m curious. The shaft that gets my attention is long, thick and blue (an odd color given its lifelike dimensions but I’m not about to ask why). I pick it up and examine it through the packaging.

“Oooh, I love that one.”

I jump with fright, dropping the blue penis and my crotchless underwear to the floor. Cute little Suzie doesn’t miss a beat. She quickly scoops my items up.

Knowing that my face is flaming, I accept the items but don’t meet her eyes.

“There’s also this,” Suzie says. She picks up a display penis that’s extremely huge. “This one feels so real. Touch it.”

God forgive me, I say to myself. Then I touch the proffered penis and am surprised at just how soft it is. “Nice,” I mumble, for lack of something more appropriate to say.

“The balls even move on this one, giving added stimulation. And it has three speed levels, depending on what you prefer.”

I know I’m as red as a beet. “Um…I think I’ll stick with this stuff.” I lift the lingerie items. There’s no way I can bring another penis into my house, even if I could use it. What would my husband say?

Suzie leads the way to the register and I follow her. I know this is the new millennium, but this place is so…sinful. I can hardly believe I’m really here. I feel a rush of guilt and consider going to confession.

“You might want to try some of these.” Suzie points to a bin with small tubes. “Flavored lubricant,” she announces proudly. “Personally, I like the raspberry best.”

Good Lord, she looks way too young to have tried all this stuff. I’m about to tell her I’m not interested, but I suddenly change my mind. How much have I missed out on? Too much, clearly. I want to catch up, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I pick up a handful of the tubes. “Can’t get too much of these.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

I’m actually chuckling, enjoying this moment, when I sense someone to my right. Turning, I nearly die of horror when I see a total hottie standing a few feet away from me. How long has he been here, and how did I not see him before?

Worse, how much of my conversation has he heard?

He grins as he meets my gaze.

God help me, he thinks I’m a freak. I quickly pay for my items and rush out of the store.



Nine o’clock and still no Charles.

What seemed like a good idea three hours ago seems utterly foolish right now. I’m lying on the sofa wearing that ridiculous maid’s uniform and the even more ridiculous wig, only half paying attention to some pathetic reality dating show. The meat loaf I prepared is lukewarm in the oven.

Not even so much as a phone call to tell me he’d be late.

I could have changed—in fact I almost did—but I want Charles to see what I’ve done to try to seduce him. And if I’m entirely honest, I guess a part of me still hopes that he’ll walk through the door, see me half-naked and perk right up—then ravish me until I can’t even blink.

Like that’s gonna happen. Why the hell do I bother? Maybe my sister’s right. Maybe Charles is having some torrid affair.

The cordless phone is at the foot of the sofa, nice and close to me, because I’d hoped Charles would call. Now I lift it and punch in the digits to one of my girlfriend’s. I desperately need to hear a friendly voice right now.

“Hello?”

Thank God, Lishelle is home. She’s a newscaster and sometimes works through the evening. I met her at Spelman, the same place I met my other best friend, Claudia Fisher. I think they took pity on me—one of the few white girls who had the guts to go to a predominantly black school. I didn’t care about any of that, of course. I wanted to experience life at an all-girl college, probably to please my mother who was worried about all the temptation I’d face on a regular college campus.

“Hey, Lishelle,” I say, pulling the wig off. “It’s Annelise.”

“What’s up, girl?”

I sigh softly. “Nothing much. Just sitting here watching some TV and I thought I’d call.” I don’t want to talk about Charles. I’m depressed enough as it is. “Did you get a message from Claudia today?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“So there is another fitting on Saturday?”

“You know that girl’s tripping. The way she’s going through dresses and designers, I’m not sure anything will be good enough for her.”

“She’s got to make up her mind soon. The wedding’s on May twenty-seventh.” I lift my head when I hear the doorknob turning. Charles. My heart slams against my chest. “Lishelle, I have to go.”

“What?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell her, then disconnect the call.

My whole seduction scene has been ruined, and I’m now confused about what to do. Simply stand up and greet my husband, or lie provocatively on the sofa?

The decision is made for me. I don’t have time to get up. I toss the wig across the room, then fluff my blond hair. Drawing in a deep breath, I bend one leg at the knee and ease up onto my elbows. As Charles comes into view, I whisper, “Hi.”

Charles stops dead in his tracks, as though he is surprised to see me. I guess he is, because he’s got the stack of mail from the hall table in his hands and he must have been looking at that.

“Hi,” I say again, this time adding a smile.

“Hey.”

Charles glances to the left, at the row of candles burning on the table. I wait for his reaction…

He goes back to sifting through the mail.

The mail! I’m dressed like a French slut and he’s concerned with the mail!

I sit up, not sure if I should scream or cry. Really, I want to pummel him.

“Charles,” I say, noting the hint of exasperation in my voice.

He makes his way around the sofa and sits beside me. My heart lifts. Maybe there’s hope after all.

I lean into him and kiss his cheek. “I missed you, sweetheart.”

“It’s been a long day.” His eyes roam over me. “What are you wearing?”

Yes! I think. He’s noticing me. He’s getting turned on. We’re going to have wild, passionate sex right here on the sofa.

“Just a little something I picked up today.” Now I press my mouth to his. I open my lips and move them over his lips. Instantly I’m getting hot…until I realize I may as well be kissing a dead fish.

My shoulders slump in defeat. “Charles…”

“God, I’m sorry. But honestly, Ann, I’ve had a long day. My head is pounding.”

I tune out the rest of his spiel. I can probably recite it by heart if I have to.

I don’t want to give up, but how can I fight this? Before Charles even walks through the door he’s thinking of ways to reject me. What happened to the man who used to write me poetry, sing to me off-key? I miss that man.

“There’s meat loaf in the oven.”

Charles makes a sound of derision. “Meat loaf? You know I’m not big on red meat.”

The nerve of this man! I embarrass myself at a sex shop, come home and slave over a meal for him, and he doesn’t even care? I want to smother him to death with the sofa cushion.

“Sorry,” I say. “It was…” My voice trails off. I don’t want to tell him I made an easy meal because I was hoping he’d come home early and ravish me.

“I already ate, anyway,” he tells me.

Then, to add insult to injury, Charles reaches for the remote and starts channel surfing. This is poor, overworked Charles, so friggin’ tired that he can’t even give me a decent kiss, yet he’s up for watching TV. Why isn’t he taking two aspirin and heading straight to bed?

Charles finds a soccer game. Since when does he like soccer?

I can’t help wondering if it’s me he doesn’t like.

It hurts being rejected. Like you’ve reached inside yourself and given your very soul to someone and they spit on it. That’s how I feel. And it sucks.

Tears well up in my eyes, but my dear husband doesn’t notice. I’ve seen talk of this on Oprah, read about it in magazines, women wondering What happened to the passion? Never once in my wildest dreams would I have thought I would be one of those women.

“Oh, you moron!” Charles shouts, as if he even knows what’s going on in the game. But at least with soccer, he’s willing to pick a team and play.

Me—I’m left standing on the sidelines.

Silently, I rise from the sofa and disappear from the room.




Chapter Three


Lishelle

I am not in the mood for this.

I pop the lid on my bottle of Motrin and drop two capsules into my mouth. I down the pills with water, then lean forward on my desk and groan.

Believe me, I’ve had a stressful enough day at the television station. I certainly didn’t need a call from him.

Him being my ex-husband. I have just gotten off the phone with the jerk, and I swear, he must be on a mission to make my life miserable. There’s a reason I divorced him, although he doesn’t seem to get it. And he should, considering his girlfriend showed up on our doorstep two and a half years ago carrying their child.

Do you believe that my ex actually wants a second chance with me?

But then, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. David literally believes he’s God’s gift to women. I’m sure he’s deluded himself into thinking that without him, I’ve been utterly unhappy. Which is so far from reality, let me make that perfectly clear. There was the obvious sadness when we split, but mostly, I felt free.

You see, I always sensed something was wrong in our relationship, even if I wasn’t sure what. And when I learned that he was screwing around on me, everything suddenly made sense. If he was ever faithful to me after our wedding, it was probably for about three minutes. It’s amazing the stuff people are willing to tell you once the divorce papers have been signed. I only wish these friends and family members had seen it wise to give me this information before I married the man.

Somewhere along the way, though, it seems I’ve gotten some poetic justice. As I always knew he would, David has come to his senses and realized that I am the best thing that ever happened to him. Though the divorce became final over a year ago, he wants me back in a bad way.

I can’t tell you how much pleasure it gives me to be able to reject him.

That thought makes me smile, and I sit up straight. I eye my phone warily though, hoping it won’t ring again. I am getting tired of David’s phone calls. I’ve changed my home number and my cell number, but the bad thing is he knows where I work. I can’t quite escape that one. I’m a prominent newscaster at Channel Four news.

In the last couple years, I’ve advanced from field reporter to news anchor. I can’t help but wonder if this is why David wants me back. I have a more prestigious role at the news station, one that’s giving me fame and more money. Funny that this might interest David now, because he never liked me pursuing my dream before. In fact, he once told me that he was tired of hearing his police colleagues tell him they had seen me on the news.

Karen—the woman he’d cheated with—is a teacher. Nice and safe for David; i.e., noncompetitive in terms of his job.

I have to give Karen credit, though. Apparently even she has a limit to what she will put up with. Guess she finally realized that my ex is a worthless cheater and worthless cheaters aren’t even faithful to their mistresses. Bet she now wishes she’d found an unattached man to get involved with. I do take some pleasure in this. And why shouldn’t I? I’ve never understood how some women get off on being home wreckers.

David will never admit it, but I heard through the grapevine that Karen left with their child while he was at work. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall when David returned home.

Anyway, enough about my ex. Despite my long-winded rant, I really don’t think about him. He called to say that he has changed, that if I give him another chance I will see, but I am so not going there again. He thinks it’s because there’s someone else in my life. This time, I let him believe that.

The truth is, there’s no one special in my life. I hate to say it, but the men I meet these days are losers with a capital L. If they’re not starstruck because of who I am, then they’re just plain weirdos. For the most part, if the man is someone a self-respecting woman wouldn’t be caught dead with, then you can bet he’ll hit on me. Trust me, it never fails.

There’s something about being on television that makes people think they know you. And when guys think they know you, they’re much more forward. For example, a few weeks ago at a fund-raising event, a well-dressed black man approached me and passed me a note. It read, “You and me, outside in the gazebo in five minutes.”

Needless to say, I didn’t make that date.

I have such shitty luck with men that I have sworn off dating. I really have. What’s the point? There’s not one decent single guy out there.

But Rhonda, a camerawoman at the station, tells me I’m wrong. She swears that she’s got the perfect man for me—her cousin.

I’m not particularly interested in seeing this guy, but Rhonda has been on my case about it for months. So, despite my obvious bad luck with men, I have decided I am a glutton for punishment and have accepted a date with Rhonda’s cousin for this evening. I put off meeting Trevor for months—until I realized that Rhonda wasn’t going to drop the issue.

There is a knock on my dressing-room door. “Come in,” I call.

Rhonda pokes her head through the door. “Hey, Lishelle.”

“Hey.”

“I love your hair like that.”

I tuck some locks behind my ear. I’m still a bit self-conscious about it. When it comes to hair, I’m pretty conservative. I keep it nape length, and never color it anything other than black. At least I hadn’t. All that changed last weekend when my stylist urged me to do something different. I caved under pressure and allowed her to add some auburn highlights. Believe me, I started having a panic attack once I’d passed the point of no return. But Jenny, my stylist, promised me it would complement my skin tone. And she was right.

“Thanks,” I say to Rhonda.

“Trevor will be impressed.” She winks.

But will I be impressed with Trevor? For Rhonda’s sake, I hope so. She’s been trying for so long to get us together.

“What time are you meeting him?” she asks.

“Eight o’clock.” That will give me a little time to freshen up after the newscast is over. I plan to meet Trevor at a restaurant downtown. He offered to pick me up, but I politely declined. If I have my own car and things don’t go well, I can leave.

I’m jaded, can you tell?

“You’ll have a good time,” Rhonda assures me. “Trevor really is a sweetheart.”

“I hope so.”

Rhonda gives me a smile then disappears. Knowing I have work to do, I force myself out of my chair. I still have to get my hair and makeup done, and after that, it’s showtime.



Two hours later, my head is still pounding. I’m at the restaurant now, sitting in my car in the parking lot, dreading the thought of going inside. I just don’t know if I should do this. Knowing my luck, this date will cap off a stressful day with even more stress. I should probably just go home and go to bed.

But I am here already, resigned to my fate. I may as well try to enjoy myself. There are worse ways to spend a Thursday night than meeting a potential new boyfriend.

I apply more lipstick before getting out of the car. Then, as I walk up to the restaurant door, my stomach flutters with nerves. I hope I’m not making a mistake. Really, it’s not like I need a man, although I admit that having one might be nice.

“Hello,” I say to the male host once I’m inside. “I’m meeting someone. Crenshaw. Trevor.”

The host peruses his open schedule book. “Ah, yes. Right this way.”

My hands sweat on my Louis Vuitton clutch as I follow the host through the Macaroni Grill. This was Trevor’s choice, and a good one. It’s casual but upscale and has great food.

“Here you go.”

“Thank—” The rest of the word dies on my lips as I see a man rise. For a moment, I am stunned. Pleasantly stunned.

So this is Trevor. Wow. He is tall, very well groomed. A gorgeous dark-skinned brother. I am definitely impressed.

“Lishelle, hello.”

God, that smile must have broken countless hearts.

“You found the place okay?”

I force myself to speak. “Yes, yes, I did.” I smile awkwardly. “Hi.”

I extend my hand, but Trevor steps toward me and gives me a hug instead. “It’s so good to meet you. Believe me, I’m a fan.”

I smile bashfully and wave off his compliment. (I really did smile bashfully. Sheesh, what’s come over me?)

Without missing a beat, Trevor pulls out my chair for me. As I sit, I can’t help thinking that his mama must have raised him right.

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering some wine,” he tells me, and gestures to the chilled carafe. “It’s white, Riesling.”

“Lovely,” I practically sing. Lovely? Lord, when was the last time I used that word? Really, I need to tamp down on my overexcitement. Trevor is going to think I’ve been dating men from Mars.

Which isn’t exactly a stretch.

Trevor pours me a glass, then lifts his own glass in a toast. He touches it to mine and says, “To new friendships.”

“To new friendships,” I echo, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I have finally hit pay dirt.



Two glasses of wine later, I’m feeling very relaxed. And headache free. Accepting this date with Trevor is probably the best thing I’ve done in a long, long time. I’m even thinking of inviting him home, depending on how things progress. This isn’t like me, but you have to understand, I haven’t had sex in ages, and the fact that I’m sitting across from an eligible man has sent my libido into overdrive.

Trevor has been telling me about what it’s like to work as a lawyer. (Did I tell you I’m intrigued by the legal profession? Especially when it comes to fine-looking brothers who do their best to keep creeps off the streets?) I’m sipping wine and grinning like a fool, hanging on to his every word.

“I couldn’t believe this guy. It was like, every single one of his neighbors testified to the fact that they saw him chasing the guy with a knife, heard him uttering death threats, and he totally denied it. No defense, just a straight denial. And when he fired his lawyer and proceeded to defend himself…Even the jury could hardly keep their laughter under control.”

Trevor laughs, and I do, too. It might be interesting to see Trevor in action—in court. And I’m definitely thinking that it would be very interesting to see him in action in the bedroom.

“Ah, well.” Trevor’s laughter subsides. “Enough about me. I want to hear all about you.”

“Me?” I point to myself, as if there’s any question as to whom he’s referring. “Oh, there’s not much to tell. Certainly nothing as interesting as what you’ve told me.”

Trevor tilts his head ever so slightly and says, “I seriously doubt that.”

I draw in a deep breath to keep my erratic heart under control. “I…I guess I do have some interesting stories. Mostly from earlier in my career, when I was a field reporter.” The truth is, I have a lot of interesting stories. But I’d rather talk about me and Trevor and whether he’s doing anything later. It’s not exactly the time to bring up this suggestion, though. “What do you want to hear about? The streakers or the death threats?”

“Death threats?”

“Oh, yeah. I was covering a story about a feud between two business owners. One guy had a cleaning business in town for twenty years. The new guy set up shop and was stealing his customers. When I asked the new guy about his business practices, he shoved my cameraman to the ground and vowed to slit my throat.”

“Whoa.”

“Nothing came of it. But there have been other instances like that, and I’ve been worried more than a few times. There are some crazy people out there.”

“What else?”

“More stories?”

Trevor shakes his head. “No, tell me about you. Your life.”

My heart flutters. Okay, so he likes me. That’s good to know, because I really like him. “Well,” I begin, “I’m from Idaho.”

“Idaho?” Trevor looks at me like I’m nuts.

“Yep.”

“Wow,” he says. “I didn’t know there were black folks in Idaho.” There are laugh lines around his eyes as he smiles.

“That’s the first thing people always say, but yes, there definitely are.”

“Atlanta’s a far way from Idaho. Why’d you move here?”

“Because I always knew there was something bigger and better out there. Not to knock Boise, but I craved big-city life. I also wanted to go to a black college, and there aren’t any there. I applied to Spelman, got accepted, and the rest is history.”

“Any regrets?”

I wonder if he’s talking about my moving to Atlanta or about us. “No. No regrets.”

“Good,” Trevor says.

Maybe it’s the wine, but my tongue is suddenly feeling loose. I lean across the table and say, “You know, I’m really glad that Rhonda matched us up. Before this, I was pretty jaded about dating. Seems I kept meeting the same type of man—the wrong one.”

“Same here,” Trevor says. “The wrong woman, I mean.”

Trevor and I share a chuckle. As our laughter dies, I glance away, wondering if I should invite him home now. No, not yet. There’s no need to rush.

So instead I ask, “When was your last relationship?” Depending on what he says, I’ll get an idea of where his head is at. If he’s hung up on someone else. As much as I want to have sex, I don’t want a one-night stand.

“It’s been a while for me,” he answers. “Four months.”

“That’s not so long,” I comment. I hope he’s over this woman. “Were you in love?”

Trevor shrugs. “I thought I was, but in the end I realized I wasn’t.”

He’s being a bit evasive. I wonder if I should be concerned. Then again, he might not want to talk about it because it was a bad breakup.

“Ever been married?” I ask.

“Nope. What about you?”

“Oh yeah. But thankfully, I came to my senses.” I force a grin. I don’t want him thinking I’m bitter. “He was the wrong man, but hey, it happens.”

I notice that Trevor’s eyes have shifted to beyond my shoulder. He seems to have tuned me out. Oh, shit. I sounded like a moron and now he’s turned off.

But his eyes linger, and I realize he’s not avoiding me but looking at something else. Or someone else.

I quickly glance over my shoulder and peruse the restaurant. I see a family of four, two young couples, a table with two men.

Damn, I’m obviously being paranoid, but it’s easy to be paranoid when you’ve dated the men I have.

When I turn back to Trevor, he is grinning at me. I have his undivided attention again.

He reaches for the bottle of wine and pours the dregs into my glass. “I don’t know you very well, but I feel confident in saying that it’s your husband’s loss.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” I agree.

I see the waitress coming toward us and I finish off my wine. The evening is going better than planned and I’m not ready for it to end. I’m thinking that maybe I’ll throw caution to the wind and have a specialty coffee. I can always stay at Trevor’s place, or he at mine, and get my car in the morning.

“Have you had a chance to check out the dessert menu?” the waitress asks.

“I’ll have a Baileys coffee,” I tell her.

“Nothing for me,” Trevor says, but he’s not looking at the waitress. He’s looking past her.

Now I know I’m missing something. Trevor is definitely preoccupied. Either he’s suddenly not digging me, or there’s someone here that he knows.

“Trevor,” I begin slowly. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure,” he answers quickly, but his body language says he is lying. His jawline is tense, and he suddenly looks irritated.

I’m confused. “Trevor, did I say something wrong?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“You seem…upset.”

Trevor shakes his head, but his eyes wander. This time, I follow his line of sight. It lands on a well-dressed white man sitting at a table with an Asian man. The white man is staring at Trevor.

I turn back to Trevor. “Do you know that guy? Oh, God. Don’t tell me you prosecuted him in court.”

“I think we should go.” Trevor is already rising and reaching into his jacket pocket. “Where’s that waitress?”

My stomach tightens painfully. God help me, I’m in a restaurant with a madman who was charming enough to convince a jury to acquit him. I can see why—the guy who is eyeing Trevor doesn’t look as if he could hurt a fly.

But I know better than that. There is no specific look for the criminal. If only they boasted fangs and bulging eyes.

Trevor drags a hand over his face, and as I watch him, I’m really starting to freak out. Just what is this madman going to do? I envision the broadcast on the eleven o’clock news. Local prosecutor gunned down in revenge killing.

There is relief on Trevor’s face when he spots the waitress. Without waiting a second, he marches toward her. As he does so, I slowly stand. I don’t know if this matters to killers, but I’m guessing that no sudden movement is a good plan of action.

The seconds that pass seem like hours. I want to take off, but I can’t just leave Trevor. If the situation were reversed, I wouldn’t want him leaving me.

When Trevor returns to me, I’m ready to hustle. We start for the door, heading to safety. But God help us, it’s too late. The madman jumps to his feet as we near his table. My entire body freezes as I’m seized with fright.

I do the first thing I can think of—take cover behind Trevor. What can I say? He’s not my man. I’m not ready to die for him.

“Trevor,” the white man says.

“Not now,” Trevor replies, moving past the other man.

The guy grabs Trevor’s arm, stopping him. “Look, I know what I said. But I’ve had time to think—”

“I said not now,” Trevor hisses.

Trevor starts walking again, and I’m right beside him.

“Please don’t walk away from me.”

Those words make me halt. The guy almost sounds…I shake my head, dismissing the thought. Clearly, this man is not some deranged criminal. He obviously knows Trevor, but I have no clue how.

Trevor breezes into the lobby. The white man follows him. I lag behind a little, observing this confusing situation.

The man reaches for Trevor’s hand. Trevor hesitates a moment before yanking his hand away.

Whoa, wait a minute. Did that just happen?

Oh, shit. Shit!

“We’ll talk later, Brian,” Trevor says.

“When?” Brian demands. “You’ve already been avoiding me.”

Trevor meets my eyes, and I can tell he’s mortified that I’m witnessing this. Brian looks at me, too. But it’s not so much a look as it is a leer, the kind another woman gives you when she’s possessive over her man.

I snort my disgust and make my way around them.

“Lishelle, wait,” Trevor says.

“I don’t think so,” I reply.

And then I all but run out of the restaurant.



By the time I get to Claudia’s place, I’m exhausted. Winded, like I’ve run a friggin’ marathon. My heart hasn’t stopped beating since I hightailed it out of the restaurant.

I’m about to knock on her door, but it opens before I can. Although Claudia shares a place in Buckhead with Adam, she’s living with her parents until her wedding. (Don’t ask why. Something about appearances.) She has her own apartment within their mammoth house, where she used to live before things got serious with Adam. Thank God that apartment has a separate entrance. I don’t want anyone else witnessing me in my frazzled state.

Claudia swings the door open and eyes me with concern. “Sweetie, what is it?”

I feel a little foolish for having called her in such a panic, but damn, I needed someone to talk to after what happened.

I walk past her into the house. “Do me a favor. If you ever hear me say that I’m going on another date, shoot me.”

“That bad?”

I drop my clutch onto the hall table. “Fuck, yeah.”

The reality of tonight hits me anew and I want to scream. Instead, I growl a little and move farther into the house. I stop short when I see Annelise sitting on the couch. “Oh. Hi.”

“Annelise was here when you called,” Claudia explains. “She decided to stay, figuring you might need both of us.”

Despite my shaky nerves, my spirits lift a little. These two women ground me. I love them to death, and I know that they love me. They’d drop everything for me if I needed them to.

“I appreciate it,” I say.

Annelise makes her way toward me and snakes an arm around my waist. “What happened?”

“Let’s just say, I thought my date was going to make the eleven o’clock news.”

“Whoa.” This from Claudia. “Why?”

We all sit on the sofa and I spend the next few minutes telling them everything, and by the time I’m done, Annelise is snickering and Claudia is roaring with laughter.

“It’s not funny,” I tell them. “You don’t know how afraid I was.”

“Oh, shit.” Claudia’s eyes are tearing. “Too much drama for me.”

“For you? I’m the one who was caught in the middle of this guy’s sexual identity drama. Hell, the brother didn’t even know if he was straight or not. I should have known. He was much too pretty. And the Kenneth Cole shoes. They should have been a dead giveaway.”

“God, how scary,” Annelise says. “Dating a guy who goes both ways.” She shudders.

“Thank God I didn’t sleep with him.” Now I shudder. “This had to be a sign. Obviously, I’m supposed to stop dating.”

“Don’t say that,” Annelise tells me. “There’s a great guy out there for you. I know you’ll find him.”

“Ha!” Both Claudia and Annelise shoot me looks of concern. “Don’t look at me like that. You both don’t know what it’s like. You have men. Trying to find the right one—my God, it’s so hard.”

“I know,” Annelise says. “But you can’t give up.”

“Why not? Dating these days is like Russian roulette. I think I’d rather put a gun to my head and be done with it.”

“I think you need a glass of wine.” Annelise dashes off in the direction of the kitchen.

“Make it a scotch, honey.”

With Annelise out of view, I turn to Claudia. I’m feeling much better and want to think about something positive. “So. Saturday night? You sure you’ve made a decision about the dresses this time?”

“No, but I can’t straddle the fence much longer. The wedding is only five weeks away.”

“For what it’s worth, I love the pastel mauve fabric you showed me. I think it’s much better than the yellow.”

“Really?” Claudia’s eyes light up.

“Of course. I look better in the mauve.”

Now her smile fizzles. She absolutely hates the idea that if she commits to one color, it will be the wrong one.

I reach for her hand and squeeze it. “Relax. The mauve is the right color. It’ll look great on everyone.”

“You’re sure?”

God, she is such a typical Gemini. Unable to make a decision. I still can’t believe she planned a wedding for two days after her thirtieth birthday. But according to her, it’s the best way to celebrate this milestone.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I tell her. I don’t bother to mention that I liked the first color as much, or that will send her world into a tizzy.

“What I want to know,” I continue, “is if you’re ready for this wedding? You left me a message saying you wanted to talk about Adam.”

Claudia motions for me to drop the subject as Annelise reappears. I eye her suspiciously, but she’s now reaching for her drink from the coffee table. Her demeanor gives nothing away.

“Here you go.” Annelise passes me the scotch. For herself, she has a glass full of wine.

“What do you say that for tonight we forget about men and concentrate on us?” Annelise suggests.

“Sounds like a plan,” Claudia agrees.

“I’ll drink to that,” I say. And then I down my scotch.




Chapter Four


Claudia

Nearly a full week has passed since I went to that sex club with Adam, and I have to say, he’s been really sweet to me. On Tuesday, the very next day, he surprised me with a diamond tennis bracelet, set in platinum. On Wednesday, he gave me this Dior purse I told him I was dying to have—the Vintage Flowers Bag. Yesterday evening, he took me to this park near his brownstone where we had a totally romantic dinner. I swear, I fell in love with him all over again as he fed me chocolate-covered strawberries. He specifically thanked me for working so hard on our wedding, and promised me that it was all worth it because we’re going to have such a wonderful life together.

I couldn’t have had a better week with him. So I’m really surprised tonight, as I’m lying naked on top of him in his bed, when he guides my body off of his, reaches under the bed and produces a fairly large, gift-wrapped box.

Another gift. I can get used to this treatment.

A smile breaks out on my face. “Adam, what is this?”

“Open it.”

Taking the box from him, I sit up. I pull at the ribbon, then the gold wrapping, giggling the entire time. But when I lift the lid and pull out all the tissue paper, my smile fizzles. In fact, my stomach tightens with immense disappointment.

“It’s my gift to you,” he says while gently stroking my arm.

It’s a huge dildo. And I mean huge. It’s got straps on it, as well, so there’s no doubt that this is a strap-on.

But Adam already has a penis. One I’m very happy with.

“I don’t get it,” I admit.

“You remember what we saw last week—at that club?”

How can I forget? My eyes are still burning. “I saw lots of stuff.”

“Remember that woman in the cage, and the guy she was with?”

The visual hits me in the face. Yes, I remember. The woman was wearing the strap-on and screwing the guy from behind.

“Adam…” I laugh nervously as I look at him. “Come on, you don’t want me to do that…do you?”

He sucks on the tip of my finger. “If you want to try it, I’m up for it.”

I stare at him in total disbelief. “Are you gay?” It’s the only thing I can think of to ask. Especially after Lishelle’s disastrous date.

He throws his head back and roars with laughter. “Gay? Me? Come on, you know better than that.”

“Then why…” My voice trails off and I shake my head.

“There’s a whole sexual world out there that we have yet to discover. I want to discover it all with you.”

“Are you unhappy with me?” I can’t help blurting.

Adam’s smile is full of love as he gazes at me, and he frames my face with his hands. “Of course not. I have so much love for you, so much passion, that I want to try everything with you. That’s what this is about.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I want us to have the kind of relationship where we can try anything, knowing it will bring us closer together. And I never want you to be timid about suggesting anything to me, because whatever you want to try, I’ll be game.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

I swallow as I gaze into the box. “I’m not so sure I’m comfortable—” I lift the strap-on “—with this.”

“It’s not a world we’ve experienced before. Who knows? Changing roles…it might be fun.”

I really don’t know what’s gotten into Adam. It’s like he’s become a freak.

Or is it me who’s a complete prude? But how can I be a prude? Adam and I have tried every position. We’ve had sex in public places, tried a myriad of sex toys and watched sex videos together. He even convinced me to try anal sex—something I haven’t dared to tell a soul. I thought I would hate every second of it, but I liked it. It was taboo and dirty and turned me on more than I expected.

But this?

I drop the strap-on back into the box and move it behind us. Then I stretch my body out on Adam’s. “Sweetie,” I purr in his ear. “I like being the girl.”

“And I like being the guy. Nothing’s gonna change that. But I saw how much that woman in the cage enjoyed the way she was doing that guy…and I thought…I want that for you. A different kind of sexual pleasure.”

I make a sound of derision.

“Hold on to it until you become comfortable,” Adam tells me. “Maybe you never will, but you never know.”

I don’t see that happening. The truth is, the things I’ve tried with Adam I would never have suggested. And quite frankly, while we don’t do it often, I don’t care if we never watch another porn video. And I certainly don’t want to go to another sex club. Adam turns me on. Him alone. Everything about him.

“I’ll tell you right now, I’m not bringing that thing to my parents’ place. We’ll keep it here. I can just imagine what would happen if the cleaner stumbled upon it, or worse—my mother!”

I laugh, and to my relief, Adam does, too. But Lord, I hope he forgets about this strap-on thing. I can’t help wondering if he’s going through some sort of sexual crisis with all the weird and different stuff he’s wanted us to try in the past few months. I pray this phase passes soon, and we can start our lives in the wedded bliss I’ve dreamed of since I was a child.



Is Diana staring at me weirdly? I can’t help wondering the next morning as we sit across from her in my parents’ backyard. We’re getting together with the wedding planner this morning to go over the final menu. It’s decision day. The week before the wedding, we fly the chefs up from New Orleans to prepare all the items on the menu for us to sample. If there’s anything we don’t like, we can change our minds then, but we need a pretty solid idea of what we’re going with today.

Diana, a graying woman in her late fifties who looks a lot like Diane Keaton, slips her glasses on and opens her planner. “So for appetizers you’re going with the five tomato mozzarella salad, the gumbo and the petite couchon baton. What about the main course? Were you still hoping for beef?”

I look at Adam. He’s wearing dark glasses so no one can see his eyes. But I already know what they look like. Red. He got high this morning before we came to meet Diana.

It’s one other change in him I don’t like. In the past year, Adam’s weed smoking has gotten excessive. He says he needs to relax because he’s so stressed with all the planning for the wedding, as well as his aspirations to run for mayor. I understand that, but there’s a limit for everything.

I ask, “What do you think, Adam?”

“I told you what I think. Let’s have beef.”

I face Diana. “My mother and I have been getting calls. People are wondering why there isn’t a beef option.”

“Those people aren’t planning a wedding for six hundred guests.”

“I know, but—”

“Can I make a suggestion?” she asks.

“Of course,” I answer.

“You’ve got onion-crusted American red snapper and pecan smoked Muscovy duck breast. That’s an excellent menu, certainly satisfactory for even the most discriminating eater. If you want to add anything else, I’d suggest another appetizer. The truffled soft-shell crab bisque. There’s plenty of choice for everyone.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I am right,” Diana assures me. “If anyone wants to complain, tell them to come to me.” She smiles sweetly, a smile that says she’s been planning weddings for over thirty years and knows her stuff.

“Can we make a decision on this, Adam?”

“Whatever you suggest is fine.”

I roll my eyes slightly. I swear, I wish he’d get more involved.

“What about the dessert?” Diana asks.

“The best part,” I say. “I think I’ll gain ten pounds before my honeymoon.”

Diana lifts the sheet with the dessert items and their descriptions. Adam and I have a copy of the same sheet to peruse. “Lemon flan,” Diana reads. “Chocolate-fudge Sheba, crème brûlée, Commander’s pecan pie à la mode, praline parfait, Creole bread pudding soufflé and Creole cream-cheese cheesecake.” She lowers the sheet. “You’re choosing two.”

I glance at Adam, but he’s not even looking our way. His gaze is off in the direction of the woods behind my parents’ house.

I reach for his leg under the table.

“Honey?”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds great.”

Great, he’s not even paying attention! I hide my embarrassment by quickly saying, “We’ll do the Creole bread pudding soufflé and crème brûlée.” I nod. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Diana scribbles some notes.

Is that the right choice? I wonder. “Wait. You know what—if they’re preparing a sampling menu for us, why don’t you add the lemon flan and praline parfait to the list. That way, we can see what we like best before the wedding.”

“No problem.” Diana makes more notes. “You’re paying big bucks for perfection, and I assure you you’ll have perfection.”

At the price she’s charging, we most certainly should have perfection.

“Now for the fun part.”

“Oh?” I say.

“I have a surprise for you.”

I squeeze Adam’s hand. “A surprise. Isn’t that exciting, Adam?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s great.”

Diana removes her glasses, pushes her chair back and stands. “Let’s head to the pool-area bar, because you two lovebirds are going to create your own drink.”

“Our own drink?” I can’t help smiling.

“I brought in a mixologist today and he’ll work with you to concoct a cocktail specifically for you and your guests that they’ll enjoy as they arrive at the reception.”

“That sounds amazing.” I look to Adam, who’s got a cheesy smile on his face. “I had no clue.”

“I like to add some personal touches of my own,” Diana tells us.

Adam and I get up. We follow Diana to the pool area in my parents’ vast backyard. They have a full bar there housed in a Caribbean-style hut. Behind the bar’s counter, I see a white man with shoulder-length blond hair. He’s tanned and looks as if he just stepped off a beach. He’s the type I associate with surfers and a carefree lifestyle.

“I’m gonna like this,” Adam proclaims.

At least he’s interested again. No surprise there. With the amount of drinks we’ll sample, I’m sure we’ll have a nice buzz before noon.

“I’ll leave you two to Jason,” Diana announces, “and I’ll head back into the house, as I have some things to go over with your parents.”

Adam and I slip onto bar stools. Jason extends his hand and we take turns shaking it as we introduce ourselves.

“Jason, you look like you flew in from Hawaii last night,” I can’t help commenting.

Jason chuckles. “Nope, I’m from Atlanta. I work at a bar in Buckhead.”

“Adam and I live in Buckhead.”

“Have you been to Apple?”

“No. That’s the piano bar, right? We keep meaning to check it out. Don’t we, Adam?”

“Yeah,” he responds, and I’m sure Jason must realize he’s high.

“Why don’t you?” Jason asks. “That’s where I am almost every day of the week.”

Jason’s eyes linger on mine, and I wonder if he’s just hit on me.

Adam, however, is oblivious. He reaches for my hand. I can’t help gazing at him with affection. I like when he’s amorous with me.

But Adam doesn’t just link fingers with me, he pulls my hand toward him, stopping only when it’s on his crotch.

Oh my God. He’s hard.

My face flushing, I quickly glance away. “Jason, what do you have for us?”

“Yes, what indeed?” Adam asks.

Jason shrugs. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Oh, we’re pretty risqué. Like to live life on the edge. I’m sure whatever you suggest will excite us.”

OhmyGodtellmeheisn’tpropositioningthebartender!

“I was thinking something fruity,” I quickly tell Jason. “Maybe with vodka, or rum. Something that will make me think of lazy days on an island beach.”

“Got ya.”

Jason spins around and grabs some bottles. If he thought there was anything strange about Adam’s words, he’s chosen to ignore it.

Thank the Lord.

I lift my sunglasses and glare at Adam. He flashes me a devilish smile, one that confirms my worst fear.

What’s happened to you, Adam? I wonder.

What’s happened to the man I love?



On Monday, I’m still feeling very weird about what happened on the weekend with the bartender. I could stay home and ruminate by myself, but instead I call Annelise and see if she wants to get together for dinner. Nothing fancy, just dinner at my place. Lishelle’s working, or I would have invited her, too.

But maybe it’s good that it’s just me and Annelise. Not only do we have to discuss the wedding photography, I’ve decided to confide in her about my concerns over Adam. Originally, I figured I might broach the subject of Adam’s bizarre sexual appetite with Lishelle, but considering Annelise is in a relationship, she might be the better one to discuss this with. Because I have to talk to someone, or I’m gonna go out of my mind.

I swallow my bite of Caesar salad, then put down my fork. “Annelise,” I say cautiously.

She looks up from her salad. “Yeah?”

I think of how best to phrase what I want to ask, but there’s only one way to say it. I’ve got to say it straight. “Does Charles ever want…really kinky sex?”

Annelise’s eyes widen in surprise. “Why do you ask that?”

“I just…” I lean forward and whisper, as though there’s a fly on the wall that could hear us. “Adam is into all kinds of weird stuff lately. I’m hoping it’s a phase. But I’m also wondering…is it me? Am I uncomfortable with it because I’m a prude or something? I know times have changed drastically even in ten years, so maybe it is me. Then again…” I blow out a breath. “I know it’s a personal question, but has Charles ever been into…weird stuff? And if so, did he get over it? I guess I want to hear that it won’t last forever.”

Annelise clears her throat. “Wow. That was—”

“A mouthful, I know. And probably too much information. But I need to know if I’m obsessing over this, or if perhaps I need to be more sexually liberated.”

Annelise’s fork clinks against her plate as she lowers it. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I have no experience in that department.”

“Damn,” I mutter. “So Adam is a freak—that’s what you think?”

“You haven’t said enough for me to form an opinion. Just how ‘kinky’ are we talking?”

I can’t meet her inquiring gaze. “Anal sex,” I admit shamefully. “Having sex in public places. Not that anyone would see us,” I quickly point out, “but there’s the threat of getting caught. That threat really turns him on. Then on Friday night…” I let out a heavy sigh. “He bought me a strap-on. As a present for me.”

Annelise’s eyes bulge. “What?”

“I know. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

“But I don’t get—”

“He said he wants me to do him.” Now I meet Annelise’s blue-eyed gaze. “Can you believe it?”

Annelise shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Not really.”

I groan my dissatisfaction. “I knew it. I knew this was over the top.” I push my salad away, no longer hungry. “And please, don’t mention this to Lishelle. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”

“Honey, I only wish I had your problem.”

Now my eyes widen. “What?”

“Maybe a strap-on is a little freaky, but at least Adam wants to have sex with you. Experience it all with you. I’d love it if I had that in my life.”

“Okay, I’m a little lost. No, a lot lost.”

Annelise sighs softly. “I haven’t said anything before because…well, because it’s been too painful. But Charles hasn’t slept with me in over fourteen months.”

I’m so stunned, I can’t even speak.

“Yeah, it’s true. My husband doesn’t even want to touch me. It’s a real boost to my self-esteem, let me tell you.”

“Oh my God.” I reach across the table to cover Annelise’s hand. “Honey.”

“It’s driving me nuts. I’m at my wit’s end. I’m trying so hard, but he’s always so tired, so stressed. And when I touch him, it’s like he’s a block of stone.”

“I had no clue.”

“I didn’t want to say anything, but since we’re talking about sex. I welcome any suggestions you might have.”

“You could always borrow my strap-on.”

That gets a smile from Annelise. We both laugh.

Then I ask, “What have you tried?”

“Candles, nice dinners, wine. All that. Stuff to relax him and get him in the mood. But nothing’s been working. So, last week, I went to a…a sex shop. I picked up this slutty French maid’s outfit. It was raunchy, let me tell you.”

“That didn’t work?” I ask in surprise. I don’t know a man alive who doesn’t get turned on by the French maid fantasy.

Annelise shakes her head in disappointment. “He completely ignored me. Turned on a soccer game, and I don’t think he even likes soccer.”

“Wow. This calls for drastic measures.”

“I know, but what?”

Going to a swingers’ club…. But I don’t dare suggest that because I can’t admit to anyone that I went there with Adam, albeit unwillingly.

“I don’t know,” I say after a moment. “Let me think about it. In the meantime, I hope his stress level lessens. He is working on that big case.”

“I know, I know. Believe me, I know. And I feel for all those people who got sick from Kitler’s Cookies. I support all the hard work he’s doing. But isn’t sex supposed to be a great stress reliever?”

“I thought so. For Adam it definitely is.”

Annelise sighs softly, and she looks so disheartened that I can’t help but feel bad for her.

“Well,” I begin, “if this is work related, then it won’t go on forever. I know that’s not much comfort now, but tomorrow’s another day. Don’t give up hope.”

“I’m hanging in there,” she says. But she sounds as if she could burst into tears any moment.

Here I was, thinking I had it bad because Adam’s sexual appetite is endless. But maybe I don’t have it bad at all.

Sure, he wants to try everything, but like Annelise said, at least he’s trying it with me. He obviously trusts me with his fantasies, and that says a lot.

Yeah, I guess I’ve been a bit of a prude. Nothing is shameless between committed partners—between two people who love each other with their whole hearts and souls.




Chapter Five


Annelise

All that talk about sex with Claudia over dinner has me totally hot and bothered and completely frustrated. So the first thing I do when I head back home and find that Charles is still at work is lock myself in the bedroom and masturbate.

I imagine that I’m with the Charles from the early days of our relationship. The Charles who was always passionate for me, even when I woke up next to him with morning breath. The Charles who would slip his hand down my pants on a ride at an amusement park, or undo my blouse and fondle my breasts in a movie theatre. The Charles who would know with just a look that I was ready to make love.

“Charles, Charles, Charles,” I mutter as I touch myself, imagining it’s his fingers on me, his tongue tracing circles around my nipple.

I cry out as I climax, happily riding the sensuous wave—but only for a moment. Because immediately afterward I feel cold and empty. So cold and empty I could cry.

I have a husband, damn it. Why do I have to pleasure myself, when I have a man who’s young and should be wild about me?

“Forget Charles,” I tell myself and climb off the bed. I head to the bathroom and start the shower. Maybe cool water will help put out the fire inside me.

Ten minutes later, I step out of the shower and towel off. I try to forget about sex, but even as I apply scented lotion to my legs, I can’t help but think of the way Charles used to do this for me, his hands moving over my body with aching slowness.

Surely Oprah will help get my mind off sex. For an hour I can feel better about myself by observing others’ miserable lives. I quickly dress in a T-shirt and shorts, then head to the living room to queue up the VCR. I tape Oprah daily.

I rewind the tape for several seconds, then stop and hit play. When the show comes on, Oprah is looking thoughtfully at a teary-eyed woman.

“So what do you think happened?” Oprah asks the dark-haired woman. “Why did the passion in your marriage die?”

The woman looks downright confused. “I don’t know.”

“You have to know,” Oprah insists. “When you think about your marriage, your life—and I’m sure you have—you have to have at least an idea of what went wrong.”

That’s not fair, Oprah, I think. Maybe she doesn’t know. I’m living proof that things can go sour and a person has no clue why.

“The children,” the woman finally answers. “I suppose once the children came along, that’s when the spark started to fizzle.”

“I’ve said this once,” Oprah begins, “I’ll say it again. Women often put themselves last when the children come along. They get so caught up in mothering, they forget their own needs as women.”

“Not all the time,” I say to the TV. I know without a doubt that if Charles and I were to have children, I’d still make room for an active sex life. As it is, we have no kids, so what’s Charles’s damn excuse?

Stretched out on the sofa, I continue to watch the show, though I’m not sure why. This isn’t exactly making me forget about my dismal situation with my husband. But on the bright side, as I watch a series of women talk about their passionless marriages, I know I’m not alone.

I sit up when Oprah announces that she has a surprise for her guests. She does the best surprises.

“I know you’re all here today because you want help,” Oprah says. “And I want to help you regain the passion your marriages are missing. That’s why I’m sending you and your spouses on a four-day getaway to the romantic Canyon Ranch Spa in Tucson, Arizona!”

The couples burst into full-blown smiles and the audience rowdily applauds.

“This spa has everything you can possibly think of for couples. Classes on kissing. How to create exceptional sex.” The audience hoots and hollers. “If you can’t reconnect sexually with your partner after this four-day weekend, then I don’t think you ever will.”

Oh my God. This is it. The answer I’ve been waiting for.

Of course! How could I have been so narrow-minded?

When was the last time Charles and I took a trip together? About a year and a half ago, and we had really great sex then. I have to get Charles away from work, take him on a romantic trip to this place designed for lovers, and there’s no way we won’t recapture what’s missing in our relationship.

I jump off the sofa and head toward the home office. I intend to find out everything there is to know about the Canyon Ranch Spa. I don’t care what it costs. I’d pay any amount to get Charles alone somewhere where the entire object of the place is to have sex.

If nothing else, I’ll be able to figure out once and for all if my husband is attracted to me. If we’re alone together in a sexual paradise and he still can’t get it up, then I’ll have to…

Truthfully, I don’t want to think about what I’ll have to do. I don’t want to be in a loveless marriage, and I do want to have children.

All of which I’m sure will happen, just as soon as Charles and I recharge our marriage. And I’m rearing to go. But I can hear Charles’s protests that work will keep him at home. He puts in more hours than one would think humanly possible.

I know it’s going to be hard to get him away from work, but I’m going to try. One weekend is all we need.

I type in the words Canyon Ranch Spa.

As the page loads, I’m instantly impressed. This place is stunning. Outdoor Jacuzzi tubs, palm trees…This is romantic at its best.

I look heavenward and utter, “Thank you, God.”



Hours later, I can’t sleep.

Beside me, Charles is lightly snoring. He hasn’t touched me, of course, despite the red negligee I’m wearing. I know priests who couldn’t resist me in this outfit, yet Charles is painfully oblivious.

I stroke his arm. “Charles.”

He doesn’t move, so this time I shake his shoulder. I don’t care that it’s two in the morning. I want to make love, or at least talk to him.

“Charles.”

“Hmm?” he finally mutters.

“Sorry to wake you up,” I tell him. But I’m not. I need to talk to him about this, and it has to be now.

“What is it?” he asks in a sleep-filled voice.

“I was wondering…wondering if you might be able to take some time off work soon.”

“What?”

“There’s this place I found out about, and I’d like us to go. It’s in Arizona.”

Charles groans. “Can’t we talk about this in the morning?”

“I guess so…But I’m excited. Do you know when you will have some time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you check tomorrow?”

“What’s this about?”

Now I hesitate. “It’s about us reconnecting. Going away together so we get out of the routine we’re in.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

My heart is beating hard as I edge my body closer to his. It shouldn’t be, damn it. This is my husband. I should feel one hundred percent comfortable holding him in the night, comfortable slipping my body onto his, comfortable taking his penis into my hands…But I don’t, because I’m afraid he’ll reject me.

Slowly, I slip an arm around him, settling my hand on his warm stomach. My fingers tease the hairs around his navel.

I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until Charles does something that he hasn’t done in a long time.

He places a hand over mine.

A surge of warmth rushes through my body. I release the breath I was holding on a low moan. The ache inside me is so intense as I trail a finger down past his belly button, straight toward his groin. I feel the mass of hair and already I’m getting wet.

Finally, Charles and I are going to make love.

I cover him with my hand and as soon as I do, he covers my hand again. I press my lips against his shoulder. “Oh, Charles…”

He pries my fingers off of him.

“Ann, it’s two in the morning. I’m tired.”

I stifle my moan of disappointment as I roll over, but I can’t stop the tears filling my eyes.



I’m obviously desperate.

That explains what I’m doing here this afternoon, at my sister’s workplace, instead of at my studio developing the film I’m supposed to. I absolutely hate coming here, because I don’t agree with my sister’s lifestyle, but I have to face it—she gets laid and I don’t, so there’s clearly a thing or two I can learn from her.

Despite the eighty-five-degree weather, I’m wearing a scarf wrapped around my head, and the biggest, darkest sunglasses I own when I walk into the Pleasure Dome, the club where Samera works. When I called and didn’t get her at home or on her cell, I figured she had to be working, because even if she’s on a hot date, she always answers her cell.

The club is dark and smoky, just the way I’d expect a place like this to be. In the middle of the room, a large stage is illuminated with fluorescent blue lighting. For a Wednesday afternoon, I’m surprised that there’s more than a handful of men in the place, and I have to look around to find a table that’s unoccupied. It’s to the very far right of the stage. I keep my eyes focused on the table as I head toward it.

Only when I’m safely seated do I check out the stripper onstage. The woman performing has long black hair and is wearing a garter belt with no panties. The garter is stuffed with cash. I suspect the long black hair that hangs to her ass is a wig. Probably a French maid’s outfit, I think with chagrin, remembering my embarrassment over how Charles completely rejected me.

The woman does this lazy sexy-type walk to the pole onstage. She wraps a leg around it and does this gyrating thing against it, as if it’s a huge penis. I watch her, both mortified and fascinated by the way she moves. After swinging around the pole, she eases her body forward and presses the pole between her very large and obviously fake breasts.

Finally, I slip my sunglasses off, because they’re straining my eyes in the dimly lit room. Surreptitiously, I watch the guys watching her. No man in the place can take his eyes off her. And I have to say, there’s something about the way she’s using the pole that is utterly erotic. Funny, I can see what she’s doing as erotic today, as opposed to before, when I saw it all as filthy and sinful.

Gripping the pole with both hands, the stripper bends her body backward with the ease of a contortionist, giving the guys what must be a delicious view of her heavy breasts. Oh yeah, the men are mesmerized. I even see one of them lick his lips.

Maybe I need to get a pole like this in our bedroom. Surely Charles couldn’t reject me if I were to do this sort of seductive dance. The idea seems absurd, but it’s not half-bad. I could get Samera to teach me the basics…

Now the dancer slides all the way down the pole until she is on the floor. On all fours, she does this catlike crawl to the edge of the stage. It’s all part of her routine, but I can’t help chuckling at how she collects the pile of cash on the stage. A few more extended legs and back arching and gentle caresses of some men’s faces, and then the stripper gets to her feet and makes her exit.

My eyes dart around the club. There are a few topless women working the floor, serving drinks, but my sister isn’t one of them.

The slow music comes to an end, and the loud, pulsing beat of Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty” fills the club. The next stripper, with wild blond hair and wearing a red leather minidress unzipped to her navel, hurries onto the stage brandishing a whip. It takes me only a moment to realize that it’s my sister.

Her skirt is so short that as she passes me, I see more of her ass than of the red leather. She’s also got these thigh-high shiny black boots on, the kind with spiked heels that must be at least four inches. How she even walks on those things let alone dances in them is beyond me.

The men hoot and howl in appreciation, and Samera slaps her whip against the stage. I glance away. Oh, Sammie. Why do you do it? Why make yourself an object like this?

When I look her way again, money is flying onto the stage. A lot of money. Which pretty much answers the question of why she does it—or at least that’s what I like to tell myself.

Because I know Samera also loves her job. Long before she got paid to take off her clothes, she got off on wearing skimpy outfits and watching men’s reactions to her. She especially had fun with our mother’s second husband, teasing the poor guy until he broke down and screwed her. My mother kicked them both out, screaming about how they’d both burn in hell for what they’d done. I figure that Samera had heard so often that she was going to burn in hell, she figured she might as well enjoy the rest of her life in the most explicitly sexual way possible.

Doing a slow twirl, Samera completely unzips her dress. She teases the guys with views of her bountiful bosom—also enhanced by the help of surgery. Surgery I accompanied her to, and tried to talk her out of all the way to the clinic.

I turn my head. I’m not comfortable watching Samera like this. It’s like my mother’s internal dialogue is stuck in my head, and I can’t get past thinking that what Samera’s doing is completely sinful. I feel awful for her, so awful I’m almost tempted to pray for her soul.

Snap!

I jump at the sound of the whip, and my eyes fly to the stage. There’s Samera, her breasts exposed, the dress gone, and only a black piece of leather covering her crotch.

Her eyes light up with recognition as our eyes connect. I give a small wave.

She heads off toward the front of the stage, her hips moving in an exaggerated sexual movement. She grabs the pole and twists around it, then bends onto her haunches, giving the men a view of the contrast of pale ass against black leather. When she goes onto all fours, I turn away again and pretend to be absorbed in a search for something that’s inside my purse.

I know Samera’s routine is over when I hear the round of applause. Now I look back to the stage. Except for the boots, Samera is completely naked. She winks at me as she exits.

How does she do it? Strut naked like that in front of strangers? I don’t get it.

A few minutes later, Samera comes running out from the back area of the club and straight for me. I stand, and she throws herself at me, hugging me hard.

“Annie, what are you doing here?”

I’m not sure what to say. “We said we’d get together for lunch, remember?”

“And you want to do that here?”

As Samera and I pull apart, I take in what she’s wearing. A white cutoff T-shirt that shows the bottom of her breasts. Instead of a skirt, she’s wearing skintight leather pants and those spiked plastic-looking shoes I call hooker heels.

“Well…sure,” I tell her. “Why not?”

Samera eyes me with suspicion. “You’ve either lost your mind or you’ve found your wild side. And why are you wearing a scarf on your head?”

“Oh, this. I…” I can’t think of a decent thing to say, and pull the scarf off my head.

She takes my hand. “Come on. Let’s sit down.”

“Are you finished?” I ask her as we sit at the table I’d occupied a moment earlier.

“God, no. I’ve got four more sets to do. But I have around half an hour to spare. Now tell me, what’s up? Because I know something must be up for you to be here right now.”

I blow out a hard breath. “You’re right.”

“Charles?” she guesses, scowling as she does.

I’m not going to lie. “Yeah.”

“What’s the jerk done this time?”

“It’s what he hasn’t done. We’re still not having sex.” It’s strange that I don’t mind sharing this intimate detail with Samera when we’re not very close.

Like I said, I’m desperate.

“What do you mean you’re not having sex?” Samera asks in disbelief. “Didn’t you buy all sorts of toys and stuff to use with him last week?”

“Not all sorts, but I did buy an outfit. Something I thought would turn him on, and it didn’t. This really trampy French maid’s out—”

“He’s fucking someone else. You know that now, don’t you?”

“No,” I say adamantly. “I don’t know that. What I know is that my husband is very busy, and somewhere along the way we’ve lost our connection. He’s so busy, he’s forgotten about sex. But it’s not a reason to walk away from my marriage, even if right now it feels like we’ll never make love again. I just need…help.”

“What do you want me to do?”

What indeed? “I don’t know.”

“I’m sure you have something in mind. Or you wouldn’t be here. You could have called me, asked for directions to more shops.”

“Okay. I’m desperate. I guess I thought I’d come here and watch…and pick up some pointers.” My admission surprises me as much as Samera. “And if you have any tips on how to turn things around with Charles and save my marriage, I’m all ears.”

“I don’t know what kind of tips I can give you. From everything I know, you get naked for a guy and he can’t help but get hard for you.”

“I think that works in a relationship when it’s new, fresh. But Charles and I have been married for years. I guess…” It pains me to even think what I’m about to say, because I never thought it would happen to us. “I guess things have gotten stale.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t believe in marriage. Nor long-term relationships.”

“Sammie.” God, I sound whiny. I hate how pathetic I sound, but I can’t help it. I’m as desperate as any of the women on Desperate Housewives, and I’m about to lose my mind.

“All right. Let me think. The toys didn’t work.”

“It was a French maid’s outfit, and maybe it was too conservative. Maybe I have to go all out and become really skanky.”

I stop talking when a topless waitress appears at our table. I feel so embarrassed for the woman, I want to use my scarf to cover her breasts. At least they look real, which is a plus. Why can’t men like women the way they naturally are? We have to take them the way they are.

“Molly,” Samera coos. “This is my sister, Annelise.”

“Hi.” Molly gives me a bright smile, as if I’m a long-lost friend or something.

“What do you want to drink?” Samera asks.

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“Get her a sex on the beach,” Samera tells her, then laughs. “I bet you’d like that right about now, wouldn’t you?”

I grin—painfully—until Molly waltzes away. Then I say, “You don’t have to announce to the world that I’m not getting laid.”

“Relax. Molly doesn’t know anything, and even if she did, she could care less.”

I suppose Samera’s right. “Can you teach me some of those slutty moves you girls do with the pole?”

“They’re not slutty. They’re artistic.”

“That’s what I meant,” I say. I flash Samera a sugary smile, and then we both chuckle.

“Oh, Annie. I know we’re not close, but I hate what Charles is doing to you. Making you doubt your sexual power. You’re better off without him.”

“Sammie, please.” I know my sister feels this way. She made it clear how much she disliked Charles on our wedding day when she cornered me in the bathroom and told me that it wasn’t too late to annul my marriage. Those were the days that Charles and I screwed like rabbits. “Will you teach me to use the pole or not?”

“I can teach you, but maybe what you need to do is make a big change—not just in the bedroom.”

“Huh?”

“You know—change everything about yourself. Start wearing low-cut blouses and tight jeans and strappy sandals all the time.” Samera’s eyes slowly roam over me. “Let’s face it—oversized T-shirts and baggy jeans don’t exactly get most guys in the mood. Is this how you always dress?”

“No.” Yes. “Well, some of the time.” At Samera’s doubtful scowl, I admit, “Okay, most of the time. But I want to be comfortable. When I’m at the studio, I get on the floor, on the grass, or climb a tree—whatever’s necessary for the best shot. I need to be able to move.”

“Do you want to get laid or don’t you?”

“I want to get laid,” I reply without hesitation.

“Then trust me. Make a change. A big one. Get some kick-ass skintight black leather pants. And a lot of tight, short skirts. Guys love that. It’s easy access, and pretty much wherever you are, all you need to do is bend over for a quickie.”

“Sammie!” I exclaim, mortified that she’d do such things in public. But then I think about my dismal situation, and I can’t deny that if I were out with Charles and he wanted me badly enough to sneak off into a bathroom and give it to me in a dingy stall, I would feel so loved.

Molly appears, breasts bouncing. She places my drink on the table. Then she heads off to deal with some guys at a nearby table who are calling out to her. Thankfully.

“You ought to try sex in public before you knock it,” Samera comments.

“I’d have sex on national TV right now if it meant Charles could get it up.”

“That’d send Mama right to her grave!” A sharp burst of laughter escapes Samera, but as her laughter dies, I see something in her eyes—something that says she misses our mother. “You talk to her lately?”

“Mama?”

She nods.

“About a week ago. She was heading off to some bible something or other in California.”

“You mean they let her out of the compound in Alabama?”

“Sounded like it was a group trip.”

“When is she gonna realize that those fucking assholes are cult leaders?” Samera shakes her head. “Religious freaks. I can’t stand them.”

“She seems happy.” And that’s the best I can hope for, really. I know she’s had a hard life. Personally, I think she suffered some childhood trauma that’s had her searching for peace ever since. I only talk to my mother once in a while, mostly when she has a moment to call me. She’s thrown herself one hundred percent into this new church family of hers, and she doesn’t have much time for me anymore. It’s just as well. I can only take so much of her fire-and-brimstone talk.

Samera scowls. “Forget Mama. You came to talk about Charles.”

Oh, Samera talks a good game, as if she doesn’t care one bit about our mother, but I know she’s does. And I know she was hurt when my mother cut her out of her life. Yet another person who rejected her the way our father rejected both of us when we were little kids.

But it’s not a subject I want to discuss now, even if I think it’d do Samera good. Instead, I say, “Sexy clothes, huh? You think that will do the trick?”

“Not just sexy. Trampy. And don’t just wear them around the house. Wear them when you leave to hang with your girlfriends. That’ll make Charles wonder who you’re going to meet. Seriously, give guys a little competition and you’ll see how fast they try and get you in bed.”

“You might just be right.” When we were dating, if Charles noticed another guy looking at me, he always held me a little tighter.

“I am right. And you know it, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

“Look, sweetie. Lana’s just finished her routine, which means I have to go back and get ready. But you stay and finish your drink. It’s on me.”

We both stand and hug. “I love you, Sammie.” And I do. With all my heart. Regardless of how little we see each other, she’s always in my heart. As her older sister by four years, there’s a part of me that’s very protective of her, even though she’s the one who could probably kick butt to save my ass.

“I love you, too. And one more piece of advice?”

We pull apart. “Sure.”

“Start checking Charles’s clothes. Check his wallet, his car. Everything.”

“Sam—”

“I’m serious. See if that motherfucker’s got phone numbers hidden and a secret stash of condoms. Because a guy’s a guy. If he’s not fucking his wife, then he’s fucking someone else.”




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