Hittin' It Out the Park (18 page)

“You think I talk like T.I.?” Randy laughed heartily. “That's a new one—I never heard that before.”

After Randy parked, they walked along Broadway. Sexy suddenly tugged at his hand. “Ooo, let's go in here,” she urged, pulling him into a three-level video arcade.

Randy didn't require much persuasion. “Wow, this is the bomb,” he enthused, clearly impressed as he peered around the environment of the high-tech gaming center. Amidst swirling lights and techno music, Sexy and Randy were like two kids, racing from one activity to the next. They put on headsets for Virtual Pac-Man, cocked shotguns as they played Total Recoil, and tested their skills in the laser maze, laughing uproariously as they wove their way through a complex web of laser light beams.

Worn-out and ravenous, they peeled themselves off the Virtual Hang Glider and went upstairs to the venue's eatery. Entering the cybercafe where patrons were hunched over computers, munching on cheesecake, crepes, and some were guzzling beer, Sexy was suddenly famished.

“I smell burgers—yum!” Filled with youthful exuberance, Sexy rushed ahead to the food counter.

“You're like a little kid,” Randy remarked when he caught up with Sexy. They both ordered cheeseburgers with mushrooms and fried onions. At their table, when Sexy bit into her burger, ketchup oozed out the corner of her mouth. Reflexively, Randy reached over and dabbed at the ketchup with his thumb. Sexy stopped chewing. Momentarily suspended in time, they both stared into each other's eyes.

Randy broke their gaze, and self-consciously picked up a napkin and wiped away the ketchup on his thumb.

“It's getting late. We'd better get those T-shirts and head home,” Sexy commented in a sad tone of voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“What's wrong?” Randy leaned forward, his brow creased in concern.

Sexy frowned. “Nothing's wrong.”

“Why do you look so sad all of a sudden?”

“Well, I had so much fun today, and it reminded me of times when life was simpler. When I didn't have to be around so many fake people. A time when I didn't have to worry about fitting in with the Yankees wives, or using the correct utensils when dining at elegant places . . . you know what I mean?”

Randy nodded. “I do. I wish I could simply play ball and not be concerned about the cut of my suit or letting my country grammar slip out.”

Sexy reached out and caressed the top of Randy's hand. “We're more alike than I realized. Two small-town, ordinary people tossed into a world of pretentious New Yorkers.”

Randy nodded and then slid his hand from beneath Sexy's stroking fingertips.

They left the arcade and instead of buying souvenirs, they went straight to Randy's car. Randy was pensive during the drive to Sexy's hotel.

“Hey, Randy, I have an idea,” she piped in, sounding upbeat and bubbly.

“What's on your mind?”

“Have you been to the Empire State Building?”

“Nah.”

“Me either. Wanna check it out tomorrow?”

“Uh, no. Cheryl wouldn't like that.”

“Why not? We're only friends . . . it's not like we'll be doing anything wrong.”

Randy thought for a while and then said, “You're right. And you're a lot of fun, Sexy. Yeah, let's go for it.”

He glided to a stop in front of the Ritz-Carlton hotel. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, smiling at her.

Sexy leaned over to give Randy a quick peck on the cheek. But somehow, their lips met, and what was intended as a friendly gesture, turned into an actual kiss. Although there was no tongue involved, Randy's lips lingered upon hers and the tenderness of the kiss caused her heartbeat to quicken.

“I didn't mean that. I'm sorry,” Randy muttered after abruptly pulling away. Looking troubled, he dropped his head and let out a groan.

“Don't worry about that kiss, Randy. We're only friends . . . it didn't mean anything,” she said nonchalantly. Randy popped the trunk and they both exited the car. Standing near the open trunk, Sexy retrieved her shopping bags and then gave a fluttery hand wave. “See you tomorrow, Randy.”

“Leave me alone,” Cheryl shouted at the top of her lungs. “I hate you.”

“Babe, I'm sorry. I really am,” Randy said, continuing to knock on the bathroom door. “Aw, please come on out.”

Cheryl slammed the toilet seat down and sat down, butt-naked, as tears rolled down her face.
This can't be happening. Not to me. How could he?

“Cheryl, come on now,” Randy pleaded on the other side of the door. “Give me a chance to explain!”

Explain? How could he possibly explain? How could he have done this to her? And here she was the perfect wife. Well, maybe not the perfect wife, but as perfect as she could possibly be. Yes, she spent a lot of money, but then he had a lot of money, and he never complained. And hadn't she polished him up? Given him a makeover—got rid of the horrid Jheri curl, sent him to one of the best dermatologists in the city to get rid of the acne, bought him a whole new wardrobe, and sent him for diction lessons? Sure, it was his money that paid for it all, but it was all at her urging.

And she'd never denied him sex. She'd given him loads of sex. Incredible sex. Mind-blowing sex. Sex that had him crying with gratitude afterward.

She'd even forgiven him for that ridiculous night in the club with that tramp a few weeks earlier. Well, okay, not forgiven him, but at least she had stopped holding it over his head after she blasted him when they got home that night.

And this is how he repaid her?

“Cheryl, I swear, if you don't unlock this bathroom door, I'm going to call a locksmith.”

“Oh? Is it really a locksmith you want to call? Not your girlfriend?” Cheryl shouted.

“Oh, come on,” Randy whined.

“It's not like you have some aversion to calling her!” Cheryl jumped up and stomped her bare foot on the cold marble floor. “You called me her name while I was down on my knees sucking your dick!”

“Baby, please! I said I'm sorry, and I so mean it.”

Cheryl could hear the tears in Randy's voice. Yes, he was sorry. He hadn't meant to call her Sexy. But that didn't make it okay. Nothing could make it okay. She sank back down onto the toilet seat and buried her face in her hands, sobbing loud and uncontrollably.

“Cheryl, baby, I love you. Please don't cry,” Randy said, through his own sobs. “I've never wanted to hurt you, and I'm so sorry I have. You've got to forgive me, baby. You have got to. Don't you know you're my whole world? I'd die without you, Cheryl, baby.”

That damn slut! How did she manage to get into Randy's head? Cheryl had to admit that the girl was pretty. No, truth be told, she was downright beautiful. But Randy had been around plenty of beautiful girls since becoming one of the Yankees' most valuable members. What was it about Sexy? She was crass, crude, and well . . . a slut. Randy had never been attracted to women like that before. Why now? And why Sexy?

She could hear Randy slump to the floor outside the bathroom. “I don't know what else to say, Cheryl,” he said dismally. “I messed up. And I don't know what to do about it.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I don't deserve for you to forgive me,” his voice started breaking again, “but I'm hoping you will. I'm hoping you know how much I love you and—”

Cheryl wrapped a towel around herself and then quietly opened the door. “And I love you, too.” She sat down on the floor next to her husband. “I don't forgive you, but I love you.”

Randy pulled her into his arms, squeezing her so hard she had to pull away in order to breathe. “So what's going on, Randy?” she asked wearily.

“What do you mean, babe?”

“With that girl.” She let out a loud sigh. “What's going on between you and Sexy? You say you love me, and I do believe you . . . but what's up? Do you love her, too?”

“Aw, hell nah, Cheryl,” Randy said in a whiny voice. “I don't believe you could even ask me something like that.”

“Like what? It's not like all the indications aren't there. You two have been texting—”

“She started texting me,” Randy protested. “I texted her back and asked how she even got my number.”

“So you're saying that you only texted her that once?”

Randy hung his head and said nothing.

Cheryl sighed, tears welling up in her eyes again. “Exactly. And then I call to tell you I have to miss one of your games to hang out with Stephen and damn if you don't go out to a club with Miss Thang—”

“I told you I didn't go there with her,” Randy said. “The owner of the club was at our game a couple of days before that night, and we got to talking, and I promised I'd stop in one evening. Since you were with Stephen, and I didn't have anything to do after I got back from Baltimore, I thought I'd stop by. I didn't know she was going to be there. And I sure as hell didn't know she was going to slip me a mickey.”

“That's right, she slipped you a mickey, she and I have physically fought twice, and yet with all that, you still can't get her off your mind,” Cheryl said angrily. “What is it? Don't I satisfy you anymore, Randy?”

“No, babe, it's not like that at all,” Randy said quickly.

“Then how is it?” Cheryl asked, standing up; the towel she'd wrapped around herself fell to the floor. “How is it that I'm giving you a blow job and you moan, ‘Oh, Sexy, yeah.' Exactly how does that come about?”

She walked into the living room, not waiting for an answer. Picking up the remote, she clicked on the television, but immediately muted it, then snuggled into a corner of the plush white, crushed-velvet sofa, pulled her legs up into her chest, and arms folded around them. She stared at the television screen, but saw nothing as she rocked back and forth thinking about Randy, Sexy, herself, and her marriage. Everything had been going so well, she thought, and they had been so happy. But then, somehow, Sexy Sanchez entered the picture.

I guess the only thing to do is to get her out of his head. I guess I'm going to have to—
Cheryl shook her head. She hated to even think of it . . . but the thing is, it had worked in the past. She closed her eyes, and struggled to come up with another idea. She didn't realize she'd fallen to sleep until she heard, “Babe, come to bed.”

Cheryl woke to Randy's gentle caresses on her face. She stretched, and then said in a little-girl voice and a fake pout: “Don't wanna.”

She smiled inwardly as Randy's face broke out in a huge grin. He knew this was her indication to him that she was back to being his loving wife, and was ready to play games.

“Well, then, I'm going to have to carry you to bed.” Randy scooped her up from the couch and gallantly carried her into the bedroom as she giggled, and put up a playful struggle.

*  *  *

“I'm getting ready to walk in my door now. How soon can you get here?” Cheryl unlocked the door, and placed the bags from her latest shopping spree on the floor in the foyer. “Fifteen minutes? Great!”

Cheryl quickly called Randy, after hanging up, and made sure practice wouldn't be over for an hour; she was on a mission, and she needed privacy.

“Come on in.” Cheryl waited until the man walked in, then peered into the hallway before closing the apartment door behind him.

“I can't stay long. I have another appointment in another hour.” The man sat down on the plush velvet sofa without waiting to be asked. He set a black leather satchel next to him, and then leaned back; spreading his arms out over the back of the sofa as if claiming it, forcing Cheryl to sit on the matching overstuffed armchair. Not that she would have it any other way. Dwayne Ligon was someone perfect for the business she needed done, but was not someone she wanted to be close to in any other way. He was tall, dark, and undeniably handsome, but the air of danger around him—accented by a long thin scar on his left cheek—was anything but appealing.

“You want something to drink, Ligon?”

“Naw, ma, I'm good.” The toothpick in his mouth switched from one side to the other. “But you go ahead and do you.”

They had met while she was a teenager, and a working girl. She was entering a Washington, D.C. restaurant with a “date” as he was casually strolling out. She noticed him because of the scar, but also because he wore a long black leather coat, though it was early spring. Minutes after she and her date were seated and there was a commotion, someone found a wealthy stockbroker in a stall in the men's room. Shot in the head.

The next time she saw him was a few months later when she was leaving her Harlem apartment building heading to the store. He was standing on the stoop with his arms crossed, as if waiting for someone. Her eyes widened, but she tried to keep them focused in front of her. Before she turned the corner, she turned to look at him and almost had a heart attack when she saw that he was staring intently at her as if trying to remember where he'd seen her. She decided not to go home that night.

When she did return to her building a few days later, she was relieved not to see him. She rang for the elevator, but when the doors opened, the man with the scar was inside, along with the body of a local small-time dealer. She ran outside, leaned over the stoop and started vomiting. As soon as she halfway recovered, she ran down the block—not sure where she was going but wanting to put distance between her and the gruesome sight she'd seen. Not looking where she was going, it was no wonder she ran into someone. Cheryl gasped when she saw who it was.

“Sorry,” she said, trying to now move past him.

He grabbed her by the arm, slightly twisting it as he removed her pocketbook from her shoulder. With one hand, he reached inside and pulled out her school ID. He looked at it, and then slipped it into his pocket. “If I don't hear anything bad, I'll figure I owe you one, Cheryl Blanton. If I
do
hear anything bad, I'll figure I owe you one.”