Hittin' It Out the Park (23 page)

“Nothing much.” Cheryl nuzzled her husband's neck. “How gallant you were for coming to the rescue when their car broke down in Jersey yesterday.” She kissed him lightly on the neck. “I told her that she and Brent need to spend some of the millions the Yankees pay them on a car that can make it a hundred miles without breaking down.”

“Aw, honey, you know Brent woulda did the same for me.”

“Would have done the same for you.”

“Huh?”

Cheryl lightly tapped her finger against Randy's cheek. “A little reminder about your grammar, babe.”

“Um, yeah. Sorry.” Randy gently disengaged himself, and walked over to the window. “I don't know why it's so important to you that I talk like a northerner, though. I don't mind people knowing I'm a hick from Eufala, Alabama.”

“Baby, I love your Southern accent, you know that,” Cheryl said, going over and hugging him from the back. “But being from the South doesn't mean you shouldn't use good English. We talked about it, remember? After all, when you give statements to the press—”

“Isn't that what your friend, Stephen, is for?” Randy said, a growl in his voice. “To make sure my statements come out right?”

“Yes, and no,” Cheryl said slowly. “He can't always correct statements you've already made. He's not equipped with a time machine.”

“Well, what's he good for then?” Randy snapped.

Cheryl let go of him and backed up. “Randy, what's wrong with you today? Why are you acting so crabby?”

Randy shook his head, then turned around, a weak smile on his face. “Aw, I'm sorry, babe. I guess I didn't get enough sleep.”

Cheryl nodded. “I guess not. You didn't get in until almost three in the morning.”

“But I called and let you know—”

“I know, I know! Randy, calm down!” Cheryl was trying not to get irritated, but now Randy was getting on her nerves. “I'm not upset, babe. I was merely saying I understand you not getting enough sleep is why you're crabby. But don't take it out on me. What did I do?”

For a moment, it looked like Randy was going to go at her again, but he suddenly stopped and let out a sigh. “Yeah, I'm tired, and I got a lot on my mind, I guess. Sorry, babe.”

“What's got you worried, babe?” Cheryl asked softly. Damn, had the Yusef/Sexy situation absorbed her so much that she'd been missing cues about her own husband? “Tell me about it.”

“It's really nothing. Coca-Cola is offering me five hundred thousand dollars for a one-year endorsement, but Pepsi is offering a hundred thousand more.”

“And this is a problem, why?”

“Well, Danny wants me to take the Pepsi deal, of course—”

“Of course.”

“The thing is, I don't drink Pepsi; I drink Coke. Everyone in Eufala does.” Randy's face broke into the sheepish grin that Cheryl loved so much. “I'd feel like a hypocrite taking Pepsi's money and then sneaking Cokes behind their backs.”

Cheryl giggled in relief. “Is that all?” She started caressing his chest. “Well, you tell your big-time agent, Mr. Danny Archer, that my baby has morals and would never do anything dishonest.”

“I love you, Cheryl,” Randy said, kissing her.

“I know you do, baby. I love you, too.” Cheryl kissed his neck, as she began unbuckling his belt. When he'd come home so very late last night, she had been too tired to welcome him home properly when he finally got into bed. But stimulated by all this talk about endorsements and money, her juices were now flowing like a faucet. And there was no time like the present . . . but to her surprise, Randy gently held her hands, stopping her from unzipping him.

“I'm sorry, Cheryl. I'm really tired.”

His words were apologetic, but there was something else in his eyes she couldn't read. And he had never, ever, turned her down.
What the hell's up?
“That tired?” she asked with a lightness in her voice that she didn't really feel.

“Yeah. And actually, I gotta go right back out. I promised Brent I'd go back to Jersey with him to take a look at his car and see what's wrong with it. I'll probably be gone all day.”

Cheryl's eyebrow shot up. “Really? You're going to Jersey, again? Why didn't Brent get the car towed when it broke down last night?”

Randy shrugged as he refastened his pants.

“It's odd that Mila didn't mention that you and Brent were going to work on the car. I wonder why she didn't say anything.”

“Maybe Brent didn't tell her. I don't know.”

Cheryl frowned. “I'm only saying—”

Randy let loose a loud sigh. “Cheryl, if you don't believe me, why don't you call Brent? Or call Mila; I don't care.”

Cheryl backed toward the table and picked up her cell phone, never taking her eyes off Randy. She'd been too tired to fuck Randy when he came in, and she'd also been too tired to check his cell phone, either.
Had Sexy gotten in touch with him? Was he planning on spending the rest of the day with that little hooker?

“Hey, Mila. What's up?” she said when her friend picked up the phone.

“Girl, not a damn thing. What's up with you?”

“Nothing. I wanted to see if you and Brent wanted to go over to Stefano's this evening for some Italian with Randy and me. An early dinner, and maybe a show? We haven't done the couples' thing in a minute.”

“Oh, Randy didn't tell you?” The surprise in Mila's voice was genuine. “He and Brent are supposed to go back to Jersey this afternoon to look at the car. You know how men are. As much money as they've got, they want to tinker with the damn thing themselves instead of letting the professionals handle it. Serves us right for both marrying country boys, huh? But, yeah, if they get back in time, I think it's a great idea.”

“Satisfied now?” Randy asked when Cheryl hung up.

Cheryl bit her lip, feeling stupid, but saying nothing.

“Well,” Randy shrugged, “I'm glad you didn't come right out and accuse me of lying. Thanks for that, at least.”

“Sorry,” Cheryl said in a low voice. “I guess, well, I've been under a bit of a strain, too. It's not easy forgetting . . . you know.”

Randy lowered his eyes. “I know.”

“Forgive me, Randy?” Cheryl's voice broke as she talked. “I really don't want you to think I don't trust you.”

“Yeah, baby, of course.” Randy rubbed her back for a moment, then pulled her tightly into this arms. “Look, we've been a little crazy lately, and it's my fault. I apologize, Cheryl. I really do. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I'm sorry if I don't always show it.”

“You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, too, babe.”
You really are. You really are.
“And I love you, Randy, like I've never loved anyone else.”

“I'm going to make it up to you, babe, okay?”

Cheryl smiled and nodded.
God, I'm so stupid! He messed up once, yeah, but who hasn't? I'm going to lose him if I hold too tight. Damn that Sexy! God, I hope she's okay.
Cheryl grimaced, angry at herself for her conflicting emotions. Then it occurred to her, maybe Randy wasn't acting strange because of Sexy, but because of Yusef. Had he told Randy about their conversation? She'd asked him not to . . . but you never know.

“Cheryl?”

“Yes, babe,” she answered, her face nuzzled in his chest.

“I really want you to know that you shouldn't hold what happened against Sexy. It was my fault, not hers, babe.”

Cheryl strained to control herself. “If you say so.”

“I'm serious, Cheryl. I'm not suggesting you guys should become friends or anything, but, well, I don't want you to think too bad of her. She's really not a bad girl.”

“Yeah, she's the typical girl next door,” Cheryl said, moving away from him. “That is, if you happen to live next door to a whorehouse.”

Randy sighed. “Okay. Well, anyway. I'm going to change into some jeans and go get Brent so we can get to Jersey before we lose the sunlight.”

*  *  *

“Cheryl!”

“Hey, what's up, Stephen?”

“Gurllllll . . . you'd better wake the hell up,” Stephen said urgently into the telephone.

“Why? What's wrong?” Cheryl glanced at the clock. 11:35 p.m. She jumped and looked around. And Randy wasn't home. “What's wrong?” she said, more urgently this time.

“You're not gonna believe this! I just got off the telephone, and . . . girl, I'm telling you you're not going to believe this . . . but Jocko's dead.”

“What?!” Cheryl sank back down on the bed. “When? How?”

“I just got off the phone with him—”

“I thought you said he was dead!”

Stephen snorted. “Not Jocko, Raphael.”

“Oh.”

“I got off the phone with him a couple of minutes ago, and he said he'd just found out, but that it happened around ten o'clock.”

“What happened around ten o'clock?”

“My God, haven't you been listening? Jocko died!”

“I have been listening, Stephen. But how did he die?” Cheryl shouted into the telephone.

“Oh. Sorry.” Stephen chuckled. “Hit-and-run right in front of his house.”

“Oh my God,” Cheryl said in a hoarse whisper. “I can't believe it.”
I paid Ligon to rough him up, not kill him! What went wrong?

“Are you okay, Cheryl? I thought you might be surprised; you sound downright upset.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it's kinda too bad he was killed, but it's also kinda good, too. At least for you, if you know what I mean,” Stephen explained. “You don't have to worry about him trying to hit you up anymore.”

“Right, of course,” Cheryl said, her mind racing. She hadn't told Stephen about Jocko's subsequent contact, or her hiring Dwayne Ligon, and now she was glad she hadn't. She didn't want anyone to know she was involved in a murder. “But he probably wouldn't have bothered me again, anyway. Poor guy. I hope he didn't suffer too much. Do you know if he died instantly?” Not that it mattered, really. The bottom line was he was dead, and it was her fault. How could she live with herself?

“I have no idea. I guess it'll be in the morning newspaper.”

“Yeah, you're right. Well, look, I'm going to get to bed,” Cheryl said, faking a yawn. “Talk to you in the morning.”

“Okay, darling. Give young country boy a goodnight kiss for me and tell him I'm sorry for waking you up.”

Cheryl hung up, and briefly wondered where “young country boy” was, but that was the least of her concerns at the moment. She reached over and turned on the radio, tuning into WINS-AM, the New York City all-news station. It only took fifteen minutes before the story she was both waiting for and dreading came over the airwaves.

Police report that a Washington Heights man was the victim of a fatal hit-and-run about 9:48 this evening. Forty-five-year-old Jack Fagin was rushed to the hospital after being hit on Amsterdam Avenue but was dead on arrival. Witnesses tell police that the car which hit Fagin was a Gray Ford Taurus. Police say they have the license plate of the car and are currently looking for the driver.

Cheryl's hand flew to her mouth, and she struggled to stop herself from hyperventilating. They have the license plate? How long would it be, then, for them to catch Ligon? And could she really trust that he wouldn't rat her out to help save his own skin?

Cheryl Blanton Alston had always considered herself a strong woman who could think her way out of any situation, but all the lies and secrets . . . it was becoming too much. The secret of the baby she'd sold. The lie about her age. The secret about Sexy being her child. Now this.

Cheryl looked over at Randy's side of the bed and began to sob. Now, if never before, she needed to be held—tightly—in her husband's arms.

T
he real estate agent walked Sexy and Randy through the attractive, one-bedroom apartment on the prestigious Upper East Side. As they moved through the rooms, the agent pointed out the amenities and services that the luxury property offered.

“I don't want to sound ungrateful, but although this building is awesome, I'm not feeling this particular apartment. It's too small,” Sexy said quietly to Randy.

He patted Sexy on the shoulder soothingly and said to the agent, “She likes the building, but do you have something roomier?”

The real estate agent brightened. “I certainly do. All of our residences are distinctive, with their own unique charm, and there's an exquisite three-bedroom on the twenty-fourth floor with an expansive view, a large gourmet kitchen, floor-to-ceiling windows, and it even has a terrace.”

“Let's take a look at that one,” Sexy said, smiling. Randy may have thought they were shopping for an apartment exclusively for her, but Sexy was intent on finding a spectacular place for the two of them. A place where Randy would be proud to invite his friends. A place that he would soon call home.

The moment the real estate agent opened the front door of apartment 2417, revealing an expansive apartment with high ceilings and unique architecture, Sexy turned to Randy and said, “I want this one.”

“You haven't even looked around,” Randy said with a chuckle.

“It's beautiful. I love it!” Childlike, Sexy ran through the spacious apartment, squealing and twirling around in utter delight. Her happiness was infectious, creating bright smiles on both Randy's and the agent's faces.

After the lease was signed, the agent asked Sexy if she needed the assistance of an interior decorator.

“Yes, if Randy doesn't mind the added expense,” Sexy said, looking up inquiringly at Randy.

“I don't mind at all.”

“Yay!” Sexy exclaimed, her eyes twinkling as she clapped her hands. “But, I want to decorate the master bedroom, myself. I don't want to have to sleep on the floor, tonight.”