Murder on the Down Low (15 page)

She ignored him and started scanning the restaurant. “I wonder who she’s here with.”

“None of your business,” Jefferson said.

“She might be on a date with O’Reilly.”

“And so what if she is?” He sounded annoyed. “It’s none of your business.”

Vernetta tried to eat, but kept glancing toward the restroom. “Uh . . . I gotta go to the ladies’ room.”

“No, you don’t. We came here to—”

Vernetta slid out of the booth before Jefferson could stop her. When she opened the restroom door and stepped inside, she found Haley standing in front of the mirror applying that too-red lipstick.

“Hi, Haley.”

Haley actually jumped, dropping the lipstick tube on the countertop.

“I’m sorry.” Vernetta picked up the tube and handed it back to her. “I didn’t mean to startle you. How are you doing?”

“Oh . . . hi. I’m . . . fine.” She snapped the cap on the lipstick tube and started digging around in her purse.

“You come here often?”

“Uh . . . no.” It was clear Haley did not want to talk.

“Me neither. My husband picked it out of the Zagat’s Guide. It’s our first time here. What a coincidence running into you.”

Haley ignored her, pulled a makeup bag from her purse and dabbed powder on her face. Her skin now had that bronzy tanning salon glow.

Vernetta took a paper towel from the metal container on the wall and dabbed at an oily spot on her forehead. She was determined to get a look at Haley’s dinner date, so she wasn’t leaving the restroom until Haley did. But Haley appeared to be in no hurry to go.

After brushing her hair, Haley pulled out her phone and pretended to make a call. Vernetta knew she was pretending because she had tried to check her voicemail when she first arrived, but couldn’t get a signal. They both had the same O’Reilly & Finney-issued cell phone.

Vernetta thought about going into one of the stalls, but was afraid Haley would make a break for it. As Haley continued with her fake call, Vernetta conceded that she would have to leave first.

When Jefferson saw his wife whiz past their booth, he threw his napkin on the table in frustration.

Vernetta scanned the crowded restaurant again, convinced that she was going to spot O’Reilly. She was about to give up and return to her table when she saw him sitting at the bar.
I knew he was screwing that girl! What an idiot!

Walking up behind him, she tapped him on the shoulder. “Funny seeing you here,” she said playfully.

He had just taken a swallow of his drink. “Vernetta, uh . . . hey.” He gave her a stiff hug. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” she said. “You won’t believe who I just saw in the ladies’ room. Haley.”

He took a sip of his drink. “Is that right?”

Vernetta waited for O’Reilly to acknowledge that they were there together, but he didn’t. Instead, he started telling her a funny story about a run-in he’d had with an obnoxious opposing counsel. Vernetta wasn’t interested, but pretended to be. She was determined to stay planted until Haley rejoined him. She wondered what excuse they would use to explain why they were out together.

“You better get back to your husband,” O’Reilly said, after he had finished his rather lengthy tale.

Vernetta wondered why Haley hadn’t returned yet. When she turned to look for her, she realized her mistake. Her back was facing the entrance of the restaurant. O’Reilly had kept her talking so Haley could escape.

She left O’Reilly, then checked the bathroom. Haley wasn’t there. She reluctantly returned to her table.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Jefferson said, before Vernetta could open her mouth.

“Why?”

“’Cuz I don’t care if O’Reilly is screwing that girl. We were in the middle of having a nice evening out for the first time since I don’t know when and that’s where I want to pick things up.”

“But—”

“But nothing. If you say one more word to me about Haley or O’Reilly or that damn law firm, we’re going home.” He looked mad enough to march out of the restaurant and leave her sitting right there.

Vernetta took a bite of her now cold halibut and mulled over the situation. As an associate, she had an obligation to report inappropriate behavior that could potentially create liability for the firm. Most of the sexual harassment cases she had litigated over the years involved consensual relationships gone bad. When O’Reilly dumped Haley—and he surely would—she’d probably try to profit from O’Reilly’s lapse in judgment by suing the firm for sexual harassment.

But there was no way Vernetta could breathe a word of this to anybody at the firm. They would both deny it anyway. O’Reilly would be furious, which would mean the end of her career.

Vernetta took another bite of her halibut and focused her energy on getting her husband salivating what was left of her date night.

A
frown darkened Clayton’s face the minute Special announced that they were having dinner guests. But when she mentioned that Nichelle had specifically requested his famous jambalaya, his ego kicked in. Suddenly, having dinner guests sounded like a great idea.

Clayton loved taking over her kitchen and was a far better cook than Special would ever be. While he prepared the jambalaya, Special whipped up a Caesar salad and garlic bread.

“You know,” Clayton said, as he stood at the sink deveining the shrimp, “if I could have any job in the world, I’d be a chef in a five-star restaurant.”

Chef?
“I know you like to cook, but that’s not exactly a very manly job.”

“A job don’t define me, baby,
I
  define me. I happen to enjoy cooking, and I’m damn good at it.”

Special turned back to chopping up the romaine lettuce. She knew a couple of chefs and she was pretty sure they were straight. She stopped chopping.
God, please don’t let this man be gay
.

They finished preparing dinner with an hour to spare before Nichelle and Jamal were scheduled to arrive.

As Clayton stood shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving, Special sidled up behind him. “I like that sexy five o’clock shadow of yours. Gives you that George Michael look.”

Almost instantly, she regretted the comparison.
Wasn’t he the one arrested for lewd conduct in a public restroom?

She pressed her face against his back and slid her hands below the waistband of his boxers.

“I love it,” Clayton said.

“You know, it’s not true what they say about old men,” Special joked. “You got it worse than a twenty year old.”

“Forty-one is not old, baby.” He wiped the shaving cream from his face with a towel, then turned around to face her.

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Nichelle and Jamal will be here soon,” she said between kisses. “So we better not start anything.”

“You already started it so now
I
gotta finish it.” He took her hand and pulled her into the bedroom.

Special had another test she planned to try out on Clayton later tonight. But now was as good a time as any. “I’ve got something new for us to try out,” she said sheepishly.

Clayton smiled and reached for a condom from the bedside table.

“Hold on, cowboy. We’ll get to that. First, let me show you what I read in
Cosmo
,”she lied.

Clayton raised an eyebrow. “
Cosmo,
huh? I hope it’s really freaky.”

She instructed him to lay on his side and Special did the same, facing him. She began kissing his neck, slowly moving down his body. He moaned when her lips teasingly tugged his left nipple.

“I think I’m going to like this a
whole
lot.”

As she licked and kissed her way down the rest of his body, she reached out with her left hand and began massaging his rear end. When she knew he was good and relaxed and really into it, she extended her arm a little further and tried to slip her middle finger between his butt cheeks.

“What the—” Clayton clutched her wrist in a grip tight enough to snap it in two. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Ow!” Special yelled. “Let go! You’re hurting me.”

Clayton apparently hadn’t realized how tight he was grabbing her wrist. He released it and sat up. “What the hell was
that
about?”

“I told you,” Special said, massaging her sore arm. “It was something I read in
Cosmo.
I thought it might turn you on.”

“If that’s what
Cosmo’s
telling you to do, you need to cancel your damn subscription. You need to start reading
Essence.
I know they’re not telling you to stick a finger up a brother’s ass.” He climbed out of bed. “I’m getting dressed. You’ve killed my mood.”

As Clayton stormed out of the room, Special exhaled in relief. Her coworker claimed that gay men liked having a finger or a vibrator eased up their rear end. Clayton had passed that test with flying colors.

But then she remembered Chapter 11 of
On the Down Low
and her joy evaporated
.
According to the book, some DL men were tops, while others were bottoms. Tops only gave anal sex and never allowed themselves to be penetrated.
Maybe Clayton was a top.

Special checked the time. Nichelle and Jamal would be arriving shortly. She anxiously mumbled a quick prayer that Clayton would pass her final test.

F
rom the moment they were introduced, Jamal and Clayton bonded like long lost frat brothers.

“Man, you put your foot in that jambalaya,” Jamal said. They had finished the main course and were enjoying a chocolate cake Nichelle had picked up.

“I would have to agree with you, my brother.” Clayton extended his fist and Jamal did the same, bumping his against Clayton’s.

Clayton turned to Special. “I wish I could’ve been here for Maya’s services.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know you would’ve made it if you could have.”

“I don’t get that brother Eugene,” Clayton said, shaking his head. “I never woulda thought he was a booty buster. I really don’t understand the gay thing. With all the fine women in this city, it just don’t make sense.”

Really?
Special knew from reading
On the Down Low
that a man’s gay bashing didn’t mean he wasn’t gay. Clayton could just be perfecting his cover.

Nichelle nervously eyed Special. “So how long are you two going to continue doing this long-distance thing?” she asked Clayton.

“Funny you should bring that up.” He reached over and took Special’s hand in his. “I was going to save this for later, but I might as well tell you now. There’s an opening in our L.A. office. I was thinking about asking for a transfer. But only if you’re down with it.”

Special nearly knocked her wineglass from the table. “Of course, I’m down with it!” She hugged and kissed him at the same time.

“Okay, then I guess I’ll be packing up and moving to L.A. in a few weeks.” He clinked his glass against hers.

Special couldn’t be happier that Clayton was leaving D.C., the black gay capital of the world, next to Atlanta. “Why don’t you two go into the living room while Nichelle and I clean up.”

Nichelle cleared the table, while Special peered into the living room every few seconds.

Jamal was sitting next to Clayton on the couch, a respectable distance between them. The two men were laughing and joking, seemingly having a good time.

“He can’t find out if Clayton is gay just by talking to him, can he?” Special whispered to Nichelle. “He needs to brush up against him or something.”

Nichelle sighed. After putting the dishes away, the foursome spent the next hour playing Bid Whist.

“Okay, man, I’m out.” Jamal threw down his cards. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you marked the deck.”

Clayton smiled. “A seven-no trump will do it every time, my brother. Sure you don’t wanna go to Boston with me just one more time?”

Jamal laughed and held up his white napkin in surrender.

“Excuse me for a second.” Clayton stood up, then stretched. “Gotta take a leak.”

As soon as she heard the bathroom door close, Special pulled Jamal into the kitchen. “So what do you think?”

Jamal shrugged. “Well—”

Special gripped his arm. “Oh, my God! Well, what?”

“I think he’s probably straight.”

“
Probably?
” Special exclaimed. “I need to know for sure! Is he gay or not?”

Instead of answering, Jamal mumbled under his breath. “Damn.”

At the same time, Nichelle hung her head. Special turned around and saw Clayton staring blankly at the three of them.

Nobody said a word.

Clayton finally broke the silence. “You think I’m gay?”

Special was usually good at lying on the fly, but her brain had quit on her. “No, Clayton . . . I . . . uh.”

“You what? You brought this dude over here to try to hit on me or something?” He glared at Jamal. “So you’re a punk like Eugene?”

Jamal’s fingers balled into fists. “I’m outta here. I never should’ve let you two talk me into this.” He started toward the door.

“No, hold up, man. Talk you into what?”

Jamal pointed at Special. “Your girl here thought you might be gay and asked me to check you out. But don’t worry. I told her you were cool.”

Clayton’s eyes burned into Special like high-speed lasers.

She ran over and grabbed his hand. “Clayton, I’m sorry. Since Maya died, I’ve just been super paranoid.”

Nichelle picked up her purse from the counter. “We’re leaving.” She gave Special an I-told-you-so look and led Jamal out of the apartment.

Clayton remained glued to the same spot, a dumbstruck expression etched on his face. “You think I’m gay?”

“No, I just—”

He stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

“Wait,” Special said, running after him. “Let me explain. I—”

“You don’t have to explain a damn thing.” He pulled his bag from the closet, tossed it onto the bed and unzipped it with such force it almost ripped.

Special couldn’t believe everything had gotten out of control so fast. “No, Clayton, I don’t want you to leave!”

“I don’t see why not. You think I’m a punk! I’m getting the hell out of here. For your sake and mine.”