The Eleventh Commandment (20 page)

Please . . .
Frieda all but slithered over to the man she'd had wrapped around her finger from the time she'd cursed him out.
Soon as I wrap my mouth around his mediocre manhood, it will be all over.
“Are you sure?” she cooed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “I'm still a little hungry, and you're what I want to taste.” Not only had Frieda missed her two-to-three times a week Clark sexing, but she'd calculated that there was a very good chance that she was ovulating right now. She had every intention of getting Gabriel's seed inside her. Tonight.

Gabriel had other plans, as evidenced by his next words and actions. “Good night, Frieda,” he said with a chaste kiss on the tip of her nose. “I'm looking forward to a good night's sleep. Alone. I have a meeting first thing in the morning, so I'll see you tomorrow night.”

Frieda was more than surprised . . . she was pissed! After slamming the master suite door and calling Gabriel everything but a child of God, she climbed into their king-sized bed, wondering what the hell had happened. Whatever it was, she had no intention of being ignored. She called Clark, and less than thirty minutes after playing the devoted wife, was on her way to the jungle, and some serious dickage.

And Gabriel? He heard her leave, swallowed pride and pain, and called the private investigator. “You know where she's headed,” he said with a sigh. And then, to his utter amazement, he slept until morning and Cordella's arrival. It wouldn't be easy, he decided, but the past twenty-four hours had showed him that if he could survive a night without her, then he could survive a life without her. The quicker he dissolved this sham of a marriage, the quicker he could put this pain behind him.

S
he said she wasn't going to do it, had sworn the last time was the last time. Yet not long after the promise to herself and the romantic dinner with Gabriel, Frieda found herself pulling up to Clark's apartment—about an hour after Cordella had arrived to take care of Gabe and thirty minutes after Gabriel had left the house.

Clark opened the door before she could knock, with a smug smile on his face. “Thought you weren't going to come back here,” he fairly sang in his lyrical Jamaican.

“I thought I wasn't either,” Frieda said. “You know you've got me hooked on that good dick.”

Clark nodded solemnly. “I know.” He reached for Frieda's hand and led them to the sofa. “Whatchu' know good?”

“Nothing that we can't talk about later,” Frieda said, reaching for Clark's belt buckle.

“Whatchu looking for down dere?” Clark embellished his accent, knowing how doing so turned Frieda on.

“You know what.”

“Then come on here, girl,” Clark replied as he pulled Frieda's top over her head. “Let Papi give you what you came for.”

Two hours later, Frieda walked out of Clark's apartment and headed to her car. Two men approached her as she neared it. One was tall and blond; the other short, with salt-and-pepper hair and a paunch.

“Mrs. Livingston,” Blondie addressed her, coming across the street.

Frieda's heart sped up when she heard her name.
Who are these muthafuckas and how do they know who I am?
She ignored them, popping the lock with her remote and opening the door.

“Mrs. Livingston,” he said again, placing his hand on the open door in a way that suggested he had no intention of letting her close it.

“Look, muthafucka, I don't know you. And you definitely don't know me. So if you don't want me calling the police I suggest you take your hand off my door and go on about your business.”

Paunch sidled up next to Blondie. “You are our business, Mrs. Livingston,” he said. “This”—he nodded toward Blondie—“is Detective Wagner. He's been following you for several weeks, at your husband's request. My name is Jerry Baumeister, your husband's attorney. Now, what he's asked us to do is a bit unorthodox, but he felt it would be the easiest way to handle this . . . unfortunate situation.”

Frieda's mind raced, their words ping-ponging inside her head. She'd be the first one to tell you that she wasn't the brightest bulb in the stadium, but the fact that these men had shown up at her lover's place, at her husband's request, was most definitely not a good look.
This is why he's acted so strangely lately. He knows about Clark!
She tried to remain calm, keep her wits about her.
I can handle Gabriel. I just need to lose Tom and Jerry.
“Look, I don't know what you think you've discovered, but I've just left my cousin's house and am on my way to a lunch date with my husband.” She tried to close the door, but Blondie's hold was a no-can-do. “If you'll excuse me.”

Jerry pulled a manila envelope from behind his back. “We know about your cousin, Mrs. Livingston, otherwise known as your lover, Clark Pratt. We have irrefutable proof that you two have been intimate.”

“Proof? Please, catching me on this block doesn't prove nothing. And Clark would never cooperate with you bitches. Your tactics don't scare me.”

“Clark doesn't know about the evidence we've collected. But your husband has more than been made aware. We're not here to argue. We're here to fulfill Dr. Livingston's wishes. Inside the folder, you'll find copies of everything we've collected . . . along with the address and a key to your new residence.”

“My what!” Her mind said stay calm, but her hands said open the damn envelope. Hands won. She fairly snatched it out of Jerry's hand.

“You'll also find the documents dissolving your marriage, citing adultery and irreconcilable differences. Lastly, you'll find the papers of the doctor's intention to gain full custody of Gabriel Jr., contesting that your reckless behavior makes you an unfit mother.”

Frieda entered her car and sat stunned, methodically turning the pages in front of her. “There is no way that I'll not go to that house and get my child.”

“If you cooperate the doctor is prepared to give you a generous alimony payment, one that quite frankly we don't think you deserve.”

Frieda's head jerked up. “Who gives a damn what you think I deserve? Who in the hell do y'all think you are?”

“He's the attorney who's trying to right a grave injustice,” Detective Wagner replied. “I'm the detective who's been following you for over a month and recording every sordid detail.”

 

At the same time Frieda's marriage was unraveling, Hope was trying to find a way to keep hers together. It had been five days since Cy left for New York, and in that time she'd experienced every emotion under the sun. One minute she was wishing Trisha would simply disappear and the next she was asking forgiveness for her lack of compassion. She didn't wish the woman dead, at least, but that had less to do with Christian charity and more to do with the words of her mother, Pat. “You'd better let that man do what he can,” she'd warned, when Hope had been toying with the idea of giving Cy an ultimatum. “If she dies, you want him to be at peace, child. You can't compete with a ghost.” These words were what had Hope up and on the computer first thing, as she'd been for the past four days, finding out more about adenocarcinoma—the latest diagnosis—than she ever thought she'd know. She was stumbling through words she didn't recognize and jargon she didn't understand when she had an “aha” moment.
Gabriel! Of course.
“I can't believe I didn't think of that before,” she said, while reaching for the phone. Frieda's husband was one of the top oncologists in the country.
He might even be able to help Trisha.
Almost as soon as she thought that, she thought about Trisha moving to California, almost in their backyard, and considered not making the call.
You can't compete with a ghost, child.
She dialed her cousin.

“You are not going to believe this shit!”

Hope looked at the phone to make sure she'd dialed the right number. It sounded like whoever answered was crying, and this was something that street-strong Frieda Livingston did not do. “Frieda?”

“I have really fucked up this time, cuz. I've messed up everything!”

Okay, Frieda was definitely crying. Hope could only form one thought.
Who died?

“Frieda, take a breath and tell me what happened.” More crying. “Frieda, you're scaring me. Is Gabe okay? Is it your husband? Was there an accident? Frieda, calm down and talk to me, please.”

“He knows everything, Hope. About Clark, and the fact that Gabe isn't his. He's filing for divorce. He's going to try and take my son. He kicked me out.” Frieda began crying again.

Oh. My. God.
Hope said a quick prayer, even as she stood and began pacing the room. The reason why she'd called Frieda had been totally forgotten. “Okay, start at the beginning, Frieda, and tell me everything.”

Between sniffles and generous sips of Moscato, Frieda did just that. “I swore I wasn't going to go over there again,” she finished. “That I was going to leave Clark alone. Maybe if I had, Gabriel wouldn't have done this. He probably said, ‘If she goes over there one more time . . .' and I did!”

For a moment, Hope was at a loss for words. “Don't cry,” wasn't practical, and “It will be all right,” sounded like a straight-out lie. “I'm sorry,” she finally said sincerely, wishing she were there to hug her cousin.
She could really use one right now.
“Where are you staying?” Frieda told her. “Give me a few minutes. I'm going to call Rosie and see if she can come over early, even spend the night if necessary.”

“Why? My fucked-up situation is not your problem.”

“Don't talk crazy. We're family. You need me and best believe I'm going to be there for you. Just as soon as I can get her over here, I'm on my way.”

E
verything about the new home of the Los Angeles Sea Lions was impressive: the size, the octagonal shape, the sleek, colorful seating, state-of-the-art sound system, strategically placed food courts boasting everything from popcorn to sushi and lobster to Kobe beef, and the suites that companies and a few rich patrons purchased for well into the six figures. Inside one of these luxuriously appointed rooms was where thirty or so people mixed and mingled, some inside the room, watching the first minutes of the first quarter of the preseason game from the television screens, and others outside in their private block of seats. Hope encouraged Cy to join his associates outside while she tried yet again to reach Frieda. “I knew we should have gone by there and picked her up,” she mumbled, after getting voice mail yet again. But knowing how important this game was to Tony and by extension, Stacy, Hope had been certain that Frieda would be there. Although, truthfully, she understood why her cousin was a no-show. The past week had been horrible, and that was putting it mildly. The Frieda that Hope had encountered when she arrived in LA was not a woman she'd recognized. Her cousin had been distraught, inconsolable, and had broken down and cried in Hope's arms. “I've ruined the best thing that happened to me,” Frieda had wailed. “He won't even take my calls.” Hope had spent the night and then demanded Frieda come stay in La Jolla for a couple days. After long talks on the patio followed by long walks on the beach, Hope had felt Frieda rational enough to not do something crazy and hadn't protested when Frieda hired a car to go home.
And now I'm getting voice mail.
Hope's worry returned. She sent Frieda a text, looking up just as Stacy entered the room.

“Hey, girl,” Stacy said, giving Hope a hug.

“Hey, Mrs. Johnson,” Hope said, taking in Stacy's immaculate appearance. The designer pantsuit she wore, equal parts sexy and classy, was tailored to perfection, her custom sandals rocked, and her short cut was ridiculously whipped. “You look like a model!”

“Thank you, Hope. With the buzzards flying around the paychecks you know I had to represent. This is nice.” She looked around Cy's company suite, nodding as she did so. “Y'all almost have a better view than the wives.” Taking in the group outside their windows, she added, “Where's Frieda? In the restroom?”

“She hasn't shown up yet and I can't reach her on the phone.”

“You think she's all right?” Frieda had broken the news to Stacy during her stay at Hope's house.

“I hope so.”

“Do you think we should go over there?”

“Let me worry about Frieda. This is your hubby's big moment. If I haven't heard from her by the end of the game, Cy and I will swing by her condo. Come on, let's go outside and try and enjoy ourselves. I want to be sure and not miss when Big Tony takes the field!”

The two ladies joined Cy outside and soon they were caught up in the excitement of preseason football. The fact that there'd been a drought of football in Los Angeles was apparent by the packed stadium that sat sixty-thousand plus. It didn't hurt that they were playing an old nemesis, the Broncos. But it probably wouldn't have mattered if they were playing Mickey Mouse and company. Angelenos were ready to have a good time. They were ready for some football!

“Hello, Stacy.” Cy rose to greet his wife's friend with a kiss on the cheek. He moved aside so that they could sit in his row. “You're looking good.”

“Thanks, Cy. I appreciate it. Thanks for coming to support Tony.”

“You know I'd be here. He's my brother, and I'm a fan.”

“Really?” Hope said. “I thought basketball was your passion.”

“Baby, basketball is my game, but sports is my passion.”

“Ha! Fair enough.”

Hope grabbed Stacy's arm. “I'm so happy for you, girl,” she said, her voice low enough for a conversation just between them. “I know how hard you prayed for this moment, for your man to get back to what he loves, back in the game. I'm so glad God answered your prayer.”

“Me too,” Stacy said, her eyes shining with excitement. “Me too.”

 

Down on the field, Tony prowled the sidelines like a caged tiger, watching the line and the men he'd guard once in the game. He'd trained hard for this moment and knew he was ready. “Come on, man! Go get it, baby. Yeah!” He pounded a fist into his palm, his eyes glued to the field. A couple guys came up to him, gave him a pat. They knew how important the night was to him, how special it was to be back on the field. They also knew that his spot on the roster wasn't totally assured, that the coaches were still trying out combinations to see who would work together the best. Two minutes into the second quarter, Tony got his shot. “Johnson!” He nodded, put on his helmet, and trotted out on the field.

 

“There he is. He's going in!” Stacy shook Hope's shoulder, not even trying to hide her excitement. She was happy and nervous at the same time.
God, please take care of my baby.
The ball was snapped, the runner moved forward, and Tony made one helluva tackle. A few plays later, he made another one that prevented a Bronco touchdown. The half ended and he was still in the lineup, looking great. After halftime, Tony's supporters were all happy to see him trot back on the field. He lined up for the first play of the second half, eyed his target and as soon as the ball was handed off dove in for the tackle. The timing was perfect. The tackle was clean. But when everyone came out of the pileup, Stacy saw that Tony was still lying on the field, holding his knee. Oh. No.