Sinful (6 page)

Sally made sure that Rosalind left the store before calling off the dogs. She didn't know Chandelle possessed street savvy beneath her polished veneer. “Wow, I'm impressed,” she ranted upon returning. “The sistah's got skills,” she joked. “Call me on Tuesday. I'll have a package waiting for you.”

Chandelle was so angry with Dior that she could spit nails. “Yeah, thanks, Sally,” she groaned, while catching her breath. “But right now someone's got a lot of explaining to do.”

After Chandelle literally dragged her to the car by the nape of her neck, Dior did explain, as best she could, how she managed to get her life jammed up in lustful, triangular vice. “I know you're mad at me, Chandelle, but you didn't have to pull me out here like I was a stupid kid. I never planned on getting involved with the Jennings past looking after their two children. When Rosalind's husband, Paul, started peeping the way I walked, it was kinda cute. I mean, he is rich and fine for his age. As white boys go, he's even a little sexy.”

“Rich, fine, and sexy?” Chandelle shouted. “It sounds like you were feeling this man. No wonder his loony wife went ballistic on you and kicked your butt out of her house.”

Dior's eyes drifted toward the floorboard. She drew her lips together and pouted. “Shoot, if you're gonna stay on me for something I'm not into anymore, then you can forget talking about it.”

“Nah, that ain't even it,” argued Chandelle. “You're going to spill it all so I'll know exactly what you've snatched me into.”

When Dior continued brooding, Chandelle squinted furiously, then popped her on the back of the head with an open hand.

“Oouch, girl,” Dior whined. “Why'd you hit me?”

“Because somebody needed to tell you to stop acting like the stupid kid you claim that you're not,” Chandelle barked sternly. “Don't make me tell you twice.”

Dior flinched when Chandelle's eyes narrowed again. “Okay, I get it. I—I got it. Humph, that's why I kept all of this from you, because I knew you'd snap. Sure, I like being watched and it felt good that the man treated me like I was somebody. Rosalind was extra nice to me too,” Dior said, thinking back. “It was a trip when she came to me that first night, in my room off the kitchen. I just figured she was trying to check on me at first, talking about how handsome her man was and how he could go on for hours in the sheets. I laughed because it was funny imagining them two slapping skins, all off rhythm and bumping into each other like two whack dancers looking for the perfect beat. Then she asked me what I thought about him, you know, if I was attracted to white men and stuff like that. I told her he was all right and real sweet when he wanted to be.” Dior glanced up at Chandelle, who was peering straight ahead with the car running. “That's when he started buying me things, like shoes and blouses and other little trinkets. Rosalind was cool with it because she's the one who brought them to me. One evening, she poured two glasses of wine and then said that she was going on up to bed early. I told her she was forgetting her glass, but she just kept on going up the steps to the second floor. I was ready to chill with the TV and get my drink on alone…didn't matter to me. A few minutes later, Paul comes floating downstairs in some silk pj's. He was fresh from the shower because his hair was still wet.” Dior looked up at Chandelle again, this time she was looking back at her, attentive and disturbed.

“I think I've heard enough,” she said softly, deciding to forego hearing whatever happened next.

“There's not too much more to it anyway. We drank on a few bottles, told jokes we knew, and then started kissing. Paul told me that Rosalind was cool with it as long as we didn't sneak, and how her leaving the wine was the signal. Humph, I didn't know anything about rich folks' freak games, but it seemed all right so I went with it. They doubled my pay and Rosalind started pouring three glasses of wine.” Dior didn't have the guts to glance up to see what kind of face Chandelle was making then, neither did she have the stomach to share how their private episodes eventually included other adventurous couples from within their gated community. Before Dior knew it, she was in way over her head.

Chandelle found it difficult to string two words together. Her riddled emotions came out in a labored groan. “Don't hate me,” Dior said, uncharacteristically solemn and still like a repentant sinner who had eased her burdened soul.

Chandelle knew what feeling alone could do to a woman lost and seeking something to hold on to, even if it was morally appalling to others. She fully related. “I could never hate you, Dior, you're family,” she told her. “Although I do feel sorry for you…for the hole you're carrying around inside. You need to be around your people and you need to find a way to fill it.”

D
uring the two weeks since Dior made herself at home in the Hutchins's small apartment, she had been on her best behavior. She also took pride in tidying up, and helping Chandelle with dinner and the dishes. Other than the tedious chore of riffling through the job classifieds every morning in the newspaper and following up on leads every afternoon, Dior was comfortable with her duties in the household and her status as the “unemployed third wheel” in their relationship. However, comfort took a backseat to Dior's personal aspirations when she got it in her mind that she was due for a promotion. With Chandelle spending half of her leisure time running back and forth to the home design stores searching for items to jazz up the new home she and Marvin had been approved for and the other half running down Marvin for pulling extra shifts and then subsequently hanging out with his coworkers after that, it allowed an opportunity for evil intent to creep in and shake up an otherwise manageable living condition.

Chandelle climbed out of bed, after having had the most difficult time understanding why Marvin all of a sudden decided that it was so important to go out palling around with the boys more than he had in the past. “Marvin, wake up,” she snapped angrily, nudging him in the ribs with the palm of her hand. “Marvin, you know you hear me. We need to talk.”

“Not now, I'm trying to sleep,” he grunted irritably.

“Get up and talk to me,” Chandelle demanded. “Is there something bothering you, something you want to tell me?” she prodded. “You're changing on me and I don't like it. I also don't see why all of the dudes you run with are single,” she argued, while getting dressed for work. “Single dogs are always on the prowl behind the nastiest tail they can find.”

“You need to stall all that, Chandelle,” Marvin mumbled, with the covers pulled over his head to mute the overhead light she'd flicked on for the sole purpose of annoying him.

“You need to start coming home at a decent hour,” she fired back.

“Keep your voice down,” he ordered, poking his head out to exhibit his displeasure to her sharing their business with the neighbors, as well as giving their houseguest an earful. “'Sides, I know way more married dogs on the hunt than the dudes I hang with.”

“And that's another thing,” Chandelle said, refusing to rein in the volume. “I can't come up with a single reason why you have to hang out with
the dudes
in the first place. They're not putting any money in your pocket, and don't get me to talking about what else they can't do for you.” She folded her arms and threw her head back in utter disdain of the way he'd been carrying on lately. When she felt the old cantankerous Chandelle fighting its way to the surface, she swallowed hard to stifle it. “I'm tired, Marvin, tired of watching the clock and wondering what time you're gonna come stumbling in. Ever since we found the perfect house, you've been tripping. Sometimes I'm not so sure I still want to jump into a thirty-year commitment with someone who's acting like he'd rather be out there, single and free.” Marvin pretended to have dozed off on his side of the bed once Chandelle had finished her tirade. “I'm tired, Marvin,” she huffed heatedly to the back of his head. After she'd rolled her eyes, slipped on her favorite leather pumps, and then stomped away, Marvin's eyes fluttered, then opened.

“You're tired, too, huh?” she replied. “That makes two of us.”

 

It was the third Friday in October when the inevitable happened. The tension in Marvin and Chandelle's bedroom became thick enough to slice. Marvin's sex drive had maneuvered a fast getaway. He'd grown exasperated over Chandelle's backhanded insinuations. Simultaneously, Dior's self-esteem suffered a major setback. Marvin wasn't sure how to handle the divide widening between him and his wife, but Dior did the first thing that came to mind to ease her anxiety, she started fishing for compliments in Chandelle's pond. Dior couldn't have predicted that compliments wouldn't be nearly enough to satisfy her.

“Marvin, as soon as I'm finished making a few calls, I'll take care of your dishes,” Dior offered eagerly. She was cloaked in a thick pastel-colored terrycloth housecoat, but her scheme wasn't hidden too far beneath the exterior. “Just leave it there, I'll get it. Need something to do with my hands anyway,” she added. “Shoot, I'ma have to do something drastic if I can't talk up on a decent interview soon.”

“Don't worry about it,” said Marvin, chomping on a sausage link that Dior had whipped up before Chandelle left for work. “You'll make out all right. A hustler and a smart woman like you gets her share of breaks in life. The next time it comes around, make the best of it. Keep at it. Everything will work out in due time.”

“Hey, now, that's got to be the nicest props you ever hit me with,” Dior gushed. “Thanks, I really needed that.”
You have no idea what else I need,
she considered telling him before catching herself. “Chandelle is so lucky to have you, Marvin. You're a good brotha.”

“You don't know just how much
I
needed that,” he replied, wearing a tired expression. “I hope you get what you really want.”

“Me too,” she whispered seductively, a bit louder than she intended.

“What was that?” he asked, believing he probably heard wrong.

“Oh, nothing, just thinking out loud,” Dior answered, while backpedalling to her bedroom. “I know you need to leave for work. I'll see you later.”

Marvin sensed that Dior had something else on her mind, other than the words she had breathed life into, but he figured it was better not to pry. He'd heard stories of in-law incest and didn't want his name added to the other men stupid enough to entertain a tryst that should never have happened. Besides, Dior wasn't the type of woman he'd look at twice, even if he was still single. He knew better than anyone how her life was peppered with troubled episodes and one bad decision after another. Actually, he'd grown hopeful that Dior would strike out in the right direction and eventually find her way.

Before leaving for the store, he read over the mortgage papers Kimberly forwarded to him from her brokerage firm. An angry collection of knots tightened in the pit of his stomach as he pored over the selling price of the home Chandelle had fallen in love with at first sight. She'd whined hysterically over the house with a corner lot until Marvin acquiesced. Begrudgingly, he signed the loan documents, which exceeded their previously agreed purchase amount by $50,000. He was in too deep and couldn't sleep for worrying about the hefty obligation.

After he exhaled and stuffed the folded copies back into his business portfolio, he wandered into the master bathroom to run cold water over his face. The coolness seemed to lessen his woes. The bath towel draped over his head offered a false sense of relief as he stretched his developed arms. Unfortunately, it was merely a momentary reprieve. While Marvin searched the living room to gather his keys and cell phone, Dior sauntered down the hallway into plain view, wearing a pair of provocative high heels, a snugly fitting pair of pink low-rise panties, and a matching tank top.

Marvin's mouth popped opened when he realized two things at the same time: He wasn't dreaming, and he couldn't force himself to look away. The sight of Dior's toned brown thighs made his mouth water. The way her hips swayed rhythmically to and fro caused him to shudder. Her firm breasts pushed against the revealing top. And his commitment to his wife made him wish he hadn't seen Chandelle's cousin practically naked.

Dior waggled her behind as she poked around in the refrigerator. She began to hum casually as if alone and amusing herself to pass the time. Marvin, genuinely ashamed to have been extremely excited by what he watched, cleared his throat when he reasoned Dior didn't know that he was observing her. “Huh-hmm,” he coughed, uncertain how to explain his presence and the potentially embarrassing incident. When Dior's hips continued to bounce with the music going on in her head, Marvin coughed louder.

Like a deer in the forest hearing a strange sound, Dior pulled her head out of the refrigerator and jutted back. “Marvin?” she said, swinging her breasts in his direction. “Shouldn't you be gone by now? I thought I had the place to myself,” she lied, and not too convincingly. Marvin was still gazing at her, now through guilty eyes. After two solid weeks of being a good girl, Dior enjoyed witnessing the helpless expression that had subdued him. It confirmed what she already knew about human nature. Even a good man had to struggle against a tempting can't-miss opportunity staring him in the face. “What's wrong with you?” she teased him, with both hands riding on her hips. “You see something you like?”

“I…uh…I'm sorry,” Marvin stammered nervously. “I shouldn't be here. I should go.” His better judgment warned him to run, not walk, to the nearest exit, but his feet listened to another part of him and neglected to move an inch.

“Suit yourself, if that's what you'd rather do,” she answered disappointedly. “Just let me get some juice and I'll climb back in my bed,” Dior cooed. Her sultry purrs were accompanied by a sensual grin. “I'd hate to make you feel like you couldn't come and go as you please…when you please. I mean, with this being your place and all.”

Why can't I stop looking at her?
Marvin asked himself. “Oops, did I say that out loud?” Dior's schoolgirl giggles confirmed that he had. “Okay, now I'm really out of line.”

“Yeah, and you're sweating too,” she informed him. “I can't say that I blame you, though. I'm here, you're here. We're alone.”

“But nothing's gonna happen,” he spouted hurriedly, with an uneasy frown on his lips.

“Who are you trying to convince, me or you?” asked Dior in a straightforward manner that sent a chill through Marvin.

“Huh? Oh, naw, I'm straight,” he said, mostly to reassure himself. “Ain't nothing going down. Uh-uh…nope…nothing.”

“You tryna tell me you don't want it to?” Dior questioned brazenly.

“That doesn't really matter, does it? You are my wife's cousin, who she took in, who's living here in her home, and who she trusts me being around,” was Marvin's politically correct response. “You're wrong for putting it in my face like this, Dior. You know you're wrong.” She twisted her lips and tossed him a smirk after hearing his lopsided declaration condemning solely her. Marvin quickly agreed that he wasn't entirely sound in his assessment of the sticky situation, which had lingered for far too long. “Okay, I see your point. I don't have any business sizing you up either. There, are you happy?”

“Not even…but you'd better break out now because I'm a woman without a man, I'm in heat, and about three seconds away from stepping into a long, hot shower to take matters into my own hands so…”

“All right, all right,” Marvin yelled in his own defense. “I'm going. I'm out. Just promise that this won't happen again so Chandelle won't be forced to kill the both of us.”

“There's nothing to tell, Marvin,” Dior decided. “It was a harmless mistake. I didn't know where you stood and you didn't know how good I looked in my private party uniform. That makes us even. No harm, no foul. Now, about that shower, one, two…” she counted.

“Uh-uh, you ain't even gotta…I'm gone!” he shouted, with one foot out the door.

Yeah, but you'll be back,
she thought,
and now that you've seen what I got, that's gonna sit on your mind until you're begging me to sit on your lap.
Life was all a game to Dior. She often rolled the dice and glided along the spaces with various strategies at her disposal. Winning didn't motivate her actions. Playing against the odds offered all the intrigue she needed, and pure adrenaline propelled her forward. It was the uncertainty of risk and reward that moved her. Plain and simple, Dior was in it for the rush.