Naughty or Nice (2 page)

Antonio Barrera popped up on the caller ID. My husband was calling.

Numbness ran through me. The room turned colder.

I didn't answer. Just paced the suite, phone glowing, vibrating in my hand.

When the vibrating was done, I held the phone another minute. It didn't beep; he didn't leave a voice message. Minutes later I called him back. I let it ring once, long enough for my cellular number to display on his caller ID. Then I hung up. Our way of communicating without talking. His:
Are you okay? I miss you.
Mine:
Life is great. I'm doing okay.

I held down the red button until the cell phone turned off.

I kept going back to the ad that stirred me, read it over and over.

ARE YOU A WOMAN BETRAYED? I'M A MAN CHEATED ON TRYING TO UNDERSTAND HIS PAIN. ISO HAND-HOLDING AND PASSION. ONLY THE SERIOUS NEED APPLY.

I stared at that screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, moving in bicycle motions, like anxious legs suspended in air, getting closer to the keys with each breath.

I clicked the ad.

The stranger's objective was for consenting adults to meet and “To get together during the day and both go home with a smile and a twinkle in our eyes. This would be my first time
being involved in an indiscretion. My purpose is not to hurt anyone, but there comes a time when the pain has to be stopped. I'm searching for that excitement again, that special feeling of passion. I need passionate kisses, hand-holding, cuddling. Maybe I am dreaming.”

I mumbled, “Excitement. Searching for excitement.”

My fingers in my locks, I walked away from the computer, showered, looked over my changing body, pinched more than an inch of fat, damned how the pounds had come on so fast, damned Tony and that skinny bitch. When I made it through that wave of anger and sadness, I washed my face with a special gel, then smoothed on skin renewal booster before using a cream around my eyes and lips to keep my skin from wrinkling too soon, tied a satin scarf over my locks, put on my pajamas and thick socks.

I cleaned up my room, folded my gray uniform, flossed again, packed everything I wouldn't need, kept moving so I could keep unwanted thoughts from clinging to my mind.

There was only so much I could do.

I went back to my computer. I was about to turn it off.

ONLY THE SERIOUS NEED APPLY.

I typed in my e-mail address, paused, then typed in my message.

FROM: BIRD I AM A WOMAN BETRAYED. I HAVE BEEN CHEATED ON. I DON'T UNDERSTAND. NOT SURE IF I EVER WILL. I CANNOT FLY. I CANNOT SIT. I AM RESTLESS.

T
he tears came as soon as I hit
ENTER
.

Regret became the platinum ring around my throat.

Head in my hands, eyes closed, I remembered when Momma used to stress over men. Couldn't remember all the uncles we had until she found the man who loved her unconditionally.

When I was much younger, I asked Momma what was marriage all about.

She said, “The end.”

Then I asked what that meant. She smiled and gave no answer.

“Does that mean it's about children, getting a big house, stuff like that?”

“Children ain't guaranteed. A house ain't home. In the big picture, it's about the end.”

“I'm confused. You gonna tell me what that means?”

“Momma can't do all of your thinking for you, Livvy. You'll figure that out on your own. All you need to know is this, when all is said and done, it's about the end.”

“That's okay. I'll ask Frankie.”

“If Miss Know It All had a clue, she wouldn't keep getting herself in situations. Momma say don't do it, Frankie does it anyway, and you're following right behind her. You might as well ask Tommie. Hell, Tommie is the only one who listens and might ever figure it out.”

“Tommie's like . . . She's not old enough to know nothing about nothing.”

“You still arguing instead of listening.”

“I am listening.”

She said, “Grown folks are often blind to what a child sees.”

“You sound like that old man on
Kung Fu
.”

My thoughts moved away from Momma, back to my husband. For a while I closed my eyes and wished I could go back in time to the day before I met him, change everything.

I was twenty-two. That year I'd gone solo to this Halloween party in Ladera Heights, the biggest house at the end of the block with a huge backyard overlooking La Cienega Boulevard. An adults-only party thrown by this mogul in the music industry who did it up big time. Either dim lighting or tea lights were everywhere. African art, both sculptures and paintings. Stuffed cats and jack-o'-lanterns lining the walkways. Spooky and sexy all at once.

And inside, on both levels, it was pretty dark. Dry ice machines created smoke. Lots of exotic foods and plenty of booze, enough alcohol to make everyone want to sign up for rehab by sunrise. Costumes ranged from the absurd to the near childish, fantasies and fetishes represented in full force: schoolgirl uniforms, bondage clothes, and adult versions of superhero costumes.

I had on my devil costume: leather bustier and leather pants. Every man I walked by would tell me that he had been bad and wanted to visit my hot spot.

As soon as I made it to the room that was the official dance floor for the party, I saw a sister in a big Afro, miniskirt, and thigh-high boots on the dance floor doing her thing.

That was Frankie. My other big and tall sister.

I made my way through the crowd and asked her, “You supposed to be Angela Davis?”

“I'm Foxy Brown.”

“You look like Angela Davis.”

“Whatever.”

“Some of these sisters are kinda skanky.”

“They have prizes for best costumes.”

“Is naked a costume?”

“It is tonight. The most naked girl with the best body always wins.”

“Damn. So this the kinda place you hang out at.”

“Stop cock-blocking and dance with somebody.”

I started dancing with someone dressed like a pimp: pink polyester suit with a red shirt, matching hat, white patent leather stack-heel shoes with goldfish in the heels, the whole nine.

I told him, “Nice costume.”

“What costume?”

“Oh shit. Never mind.”

Me and Frankie were side by side, rocking the room McBroom style.

Frankie told me that it was the kind of party where schoolteachers wore masks and makeup, had three shots and let the whore in them run free.
Blackula
was playing on television screens in almost every room. Music was loud, bumping hard, lots of nasty dancing, and with all the masks and costumes, you didn't know who you were dancing with. It was like Mardi Gras.

Then I saw Dracula, his foreign eyes watching me. Golden skin, wavy hair slicked back.

Dracula adjusted his mask, followed me. The living dead followed the fallen angel.

Drink in hand, I left Frankie on the floor and strolled outside, admired the property and moved beyond the waterfalls in the backyard. A circular bar with bartenders in costumes was in the far corner. People were grabbing drinks and vanishing out into that private part of the yard, only their laughs and sensual sounds letting you know what spots were already taken.

The golden-skinned Dracula in the midnight mask stayed on my footsteps.

I stumbled over a woman. She had on a cat's mask, a black
see-through cat suit, her hair funky and Afrocentric. Cat Woman with dark skin. She was on her knees, pleasing Batman.

He jerked. “Ouch.”

I shrieked. “Oh, damn . . . oh, damn . . . I am so so so sorry.”

Cat Woman laughed and I saw her braces. She went back to handling her business.

I was so embarrassed, had never seen anything like that, and I broke away from my wide-eyed stare and hurried back to the rest of the party, pretty much ran into Dracula. He had his mask pulled back, showing his chiseled face. His hair was wavy, combed back.

I told him, “You might not want to go over there.”

“Pretty wild, huh?”

“Think I almost made Batman get circumcised by Cat Woman.”

Again, I walked away. When I was at the back door, I looked back. He had an accent that sounded provocative. He'd only said a few words, but they were hot, sensual.

He was so different from what I was used to. Very erotic.

I smiled, held the door open. Dracula pulled his cape away and followed.

He asked, “What's your name?”

“Beelzebub. Where you from?”

“Transylvania.”

We played that game and laughed our way to the pool room. A lady dressed like a witch was on the pool table with her legs wrapped around a shirtless man in army fatigues. G.I. Joe was tonguing and grinding the hell out of the Wicked Witch of the West in front of a room filled with French maids, Spider-man, Darth Vader, and Wonder Woman.

That wasn't my kind of party, but I loved it all the same.

Dracula followed me wherever I went. He brought me drinks, food, spoiled me.

He said, “I want to know all about you.”

“Not much to know.”

He asked me what I did for a living. I told him that I had just
started working as an educator for Dermalogica, a skincare company. He told me that he was a vascular surgeon at UCLA.

“What's a vascular surgeon?”

“I operate on the cardiovascular system. Routine operations.”

“Like what?”

“Arterial blood vessel bypass surgery, repair of abdominal aortic aneurysms, insertion of synthetic grafts for dialysis access.”

“With all those ten-dollar words, bet you did good on your SAT.”

Again he asked me my name. I told him I was Olivia, but people called me Livvy.

His name was Antonio, but everyone called him Tony.

Anonymity was gone and we were no longer strangers.

I told him I was from Inglewood by way of good old South Central.

He was born in Quito, Ecuador, raised in Hermosa Beach since he was a teenager.

I said, “That explains the accent.”

“You have the accent.”

We danced a little while, and for a few songs he taught me how to salsa.

Then we walked around the side of the house. A basketball and a hoop were there.

I picked up the ball, dribbled, wanted to drive in for a layup, but shot from where I was.

Swoosh.

He said, “Easy shot with nobody guarding you.”

I groaned. “If I didn't have on heels and leather . . .”

I was slimmer, quicker back then, an insecure woman who used arrogance as her shield.

He didn't back away. “Sounds like shorty is a shit talker.”

“Shorty? You're barely taller than I am.”

“Tall enough to . . . Damn you're quick.”

“Shit, think I just broke my heel.”

I didn't. I took my pumps off anyway, put them to the side, walked the driveway barefoot and picked up the ball, dribbled, did a few crossovers, went to the free-throw line, got my shoulders square to the basket, cocked my right wrist, left hand on the side of the ball and right hand behind, right foot in front of left, feet shoulder-wide, focused on the whole basket.

Swoosh.

He clapped his hands. “Impressive.”

“You don't want none of this.”

He grinned like he wanted all of this. I chewed my bottom lip and blushed.

Right about then, Frankie came outside looking for me. I introduced her to Tony.

She asked, “You have any brothers?”

I gave her the look, the one that told her to stop cock-blocking.

She left, laughing, drink in hand, wagging her ass back toward the party.

A slow record came on and we danced the dance of people high on the spirits. Tony flattered me, touched me, put his face close to mine, his beard grazing my neck as he whispered in my ear, his accent so provocative and as erotic as his words, as stimulating as his promises. He put his heavy hand on my shoulder, let his fingers trace down my back to my butt.

We kissed.

And just like that, we became inseparable.

 

You've got mail.

That came from my computer, startled me. It was the response from a man betrayed.

I e-mailed him again. He had insomnia, was stressing. Just like me.

He invited me into a private chat room.

In the back of my mind, I heard Momma telling me that it was about the end.