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  I massage her breasts, caressing them, squeezing, dubbing my fingers over her nipples. She covers my hands with hers as I tell her more. “He can't satisfy your hunger, baby. He can't supply the power, strength, and long—thick—hardness you need!”

  I kiss along her neck and hold her tight. “He doesn't care that you need strong arms to hold you,” I say, licking her shoulder. “Arms like mine that'll squeeze you tight when your love comes down. Arms that won't let go till you've been thrilled and satisfied.”

  I kiss her neck, and she tilts her head to the side, giving me room. I slide my hand down her chest and stomach and onto her magic. She pulls my head toward her upturned face and kisses me. I slip my hands inside her blouse, push her bra up and out of the way, and massage her freed, firm breasts, rolling her nipples between my thumb and forefinger until they're deliciously swollen and hard.

  She undoes my trousers and takes hold of me. She looks down, and her eyes widen. “My, my,” she says, arching her eyebrow. “He's definitely excited.”

  “And all yours,” I rumble, pulling her close.

  She kisses me with explosive yearning, grinding softly against my aching bulge.

  “You're so sexy!” I whisper. I grab her rear end and pull her into me. “You're so hot! You're so irresistible!”

  “What else?” she breathlessly urges. “Tell me more!”

  “You're beautiful, baby. You can break a man down. You can make him beg for your touch.”

  She lifts her arms high as I pull her blouse and bra off.

  I suck her breasts, going lower and lower down and onto my knees, kissing her chest, stomach, and belly button to the top of her open pants.

  She steps back, yanks down her pants and panties, then stands waiting for me. I pull her forward by her hips, inhale deep her womanly fragrance, and kiss along the edges of her sweetness. She exhales in soft erratic blasts. And then, slowly and gently, I speak to her wonder.

  “Yes!” she whispers hoarsely. “Like … that!”

  Her thighs shake and tremble, and she digs her nails into my shoulders. The shakes subside, and she stutter-steps over to a barstool and sits down. I stand quickly, tear off my clothes, and hurry over to her. She scoots to the stool's edge, locking her gaze onto my crotch as I approach. Her passion calls my hardness like a magnet to steel. I pick her up, and she wraps her legs around my waist as I spin around and sit down on the barstool. Then I slowly lower her onto me. She closes her eyes as her hunger swallows mine.

  “Mercy!” she gasps.

  She's a warm, moist velvety garden. Faster we move, and trillions upon trillions of sparks and explosions fire through my nerves. We're famished lovers, straining, longing, and yearning for volcanic release.

  I stand, kick the stool out of the way, and motion for Salome to stand in front of me. She grips the counter, glances back, then closes her eyes and exhales loud as we re-unite.

  My forearms ache. My throat's dry. My eyes feel oversized for my sockets. It's been so long since I've had it like this. It's been much too long!

  I grip her hips tight and give her my best. She answers back the same. Tiny bursts of light flash before me.

  “Denmark!” Salome screams, scraping her nails across the counter.

  Firestorms sweep across me. Powerful quakes ripple through me. My muscles seize. Sweat pours off my back, and my thighs tremble as five years of dammed-up desire explode in a scream of ecstasy.

  FIFTEEN

  Salome's gone, but the scent of her sex lingers. I stroll casually across the living room sipping from a glass of Courvoisier, sit down on the couch, stare into the burning fire, and smile.

  “Sweet, sweet Salome,” I say softly. “Thanks, baby. You were so good.”

  We rocked and rolled for another hour before she said, “I have to go. Norman works third shift, and I need to be home when he arrives.”

  We had plenty of time before her hubby got home by 6 a.m., but a woman's no means no! So I backed off and fixed us some coffee as Salome got dressed.

  “Maybe he's working too hard,” she said, suddenly the good wife concerned about her husband's well-being. “He's a decent man, but this situation's so frustrating.”

  Twenty minutes earlier, her frustrations had boiled down to keeping up with me as I stroked her so good, hard, and deep that she had her arms and legs wrapped around me, clutching tight.

  “But that's the way they do things down at FedEx,” she'd continued. “Maybe that's why they have such high productivity.”

  I froze. “Your husband works for FedEx?”

  “Yes,” she'd answered, pulling on her pants. “He's been there for three years now.”

  It was grasping and irrational to connect the events, but that didn't matter. A FedEx delivery guy had delivered the DVD that precipitated my disaster. Although I'd just gotten with Salome, now that I knew her hubby's employer, I'd get with her again to even things up.

  I stopped making the coffee and bee-lined for Salome. She looked up from fastening the front of her pants. “Denmark … what is it?”

  I glanced at the wall clock. “You don't have to leave just yet.”

  “But…”

  Her words fell silent when I pulled off my trousers. I was iron stiff and poised for action. She stroked me, tentatively at first, then with urgency. Her eyes smoldered with molten lust. Two minutes later, she held the back of the couch in a death grip, grunting each time my pelvis slapped up against her butt cheeks as I expended my irrationality behind her in energy-charged thrusts.

  And now she's gone. Should I be worried about her? After all, what if tonight's the night Norman decides to come home early? What if he called and she wasn't there? What if he suddenly rediscovers his passion for her?

  Who cares? I'm not sweating him any more than Mr. X sweated me. He and Sierra have shown me that the law-of-the-urban-jungle that dominated inside the Brownfield District rules outside it as well. In there, and out here, every man's for himself, taking what he wants, scoring where he can, and only the suckers will lose. I've been a sucker for Sierra and Mr. X, and it's time to return the favor.

  Harry and Gordon were the only two people I'd told about taking Sierra to the Sapphire Spire. It must be one of them. It has to be one of them!

  I gulp down the drink in my glass and pour myself another. Whichever one of them it is, they're going to pay … with their wives!

  I've first got some fence mending to do with Inez. And then there's Alice—sweet, patient, ever-understanding Alice. She wants me to be the same kind of friend to her that I've been to Gordon. I'll do her one better. I'll be the kind of friend that her husband's been to my wife. I'll get her and Inez ready to give up their booty just like Harry or Gordon got Sierra to give up hers.

  Harry's still at work with his night janitor crew and won't be leaving for a while. I grab the phone and dial. After four rings a scratchy, thick voice labors out a “Hello?”

  Inez sounds terrible. “Hi, Inez,” I say. “It's me, Denmark.”

  “Denmark,” she groans. “I'm surprised that you're still talking to me.”

  “Of course I'm still talking to you,” I deflect. “I just wanted to call and apologize for being so harsh this morning.”

  “Why are you apologizing?” She yawns and clears her throat. “I was the one who went off.”

  “But still, Inez, I could've been more supportive.”

  She coughs several times and exhales a heavy sigh. “My head is pounding.”

  You ought to lay off that cheap liquor, I think to myself. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I guess so.” There's a long pause and she says, “Denmark?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don't remember all of what I said or did, but I know I was upset. Harry says I act like a mean drunk, so … ”

  “You weren't mean. Just a little frustrated, and that's understandable.”

  “Thanks for saying that. But still, if I was difficult with you, I'm sorry.”

  “Let's just forg
et it, okay? You were under a lot of stress. Anybody would be if they suspected that their spouse was cheating on them.”

  There's a long, painful silence, then a sniffle. “I mentioned that to you?” Inez asks.

  “Yes, Inez, you did.”

  “I'm sorry, Denmark. I didn't mean to drag you into …”

  “Don't be embarrassed,” I soothe. “Just know that in the future, if you want to talk, I'm here for you.”

  “That's sweet of you, Denmark. Thanks. I'll remember that.”

  “I'm serious, Inez. Call whenever you want. You deserve to know the truth.”

  More silence, apprehensive and uncertain. “What truth are you talking about?”

  Hook, line, and sinker, she takes the bait. “There's nothing in particular at the moment. I'm just saying that when I know something, you'll know it too.”

  “Denmark, why are you doing this?”

  “I know it seems awful,” I contritely admit. “But I just found out”—I pause for dramatic effect, then with choked voice say, “I just found out that Sierra's been cheating on me.”

  Inez gasps. “Oh, Denmark, that's terrible. You must be going crazy.”

  “I'm better now,” I reply softly. “But that's why, Inez, I decided to give you a call. The idea of someone else going through this is … ”

  “I understand,” she assures me. “And you're precious for thinking of me like that.”

  “I'd had my suspicions about Sierra but didn't want to believe what I was feeling. And then I couldn't avoid the truth.”

  “This is horrible. We should talk, maybe get together for lunch.”

  I smile. It's wonderful when a good plan comes together. “Are you sure? I don't want to be a bother.”

  “You're nothing of the sort. How soon do you want to get together?”

  We make plans to meet on Friday. “I'd meet with you tomorrow, but my Thursday's absolutely packed,” says Inez.

  “That's okay. I appreciate your making room for me.”

  “It's no problem whatsoever,” she says, her voice saturated with concern. “Is there anything I can do in the meantime?”

  That depends upon what I find out about your husband and my wife! “Just keep being your wonderful self.”

  “I will. You do the same for me.”

  “Consider it done.”

  The warm connection I sense between me and Inez is confirmed when she says, “Denmark, don't hesitate to call me if you need anything. And I mean anything at all.”

  “Be careful,” I playfully threaten. “I might take you up on your offer.”

  “Nothing would make me happier.”

  We say our tender good-byes and hang up. Now, if everything Harry says about Inez's big mouth is true, he'll know before morning that Sierra's been cheating on me because Inez will tell him. And if Harry's Mr. X, once he's certain that I know, he'll be on guard, especially after having sent that DVD.

  If Mr. X wanted to get my attention, he's got it! And I'm going to make it plain to Harry and Gordon— whichever one of them it is—that I'm stopping at nothing until I find the sucker. I was blind before and didn't know to look. My eyes are open now, and I'm not leaving a stone unturned.

  I pull Alice's new business card from my wallet. She's probably not in Sydney yet, but wherever she is, it's worth a try. I dial the 1-800 number on the card and wait.

  “Horizon Airlines,” answers an efficient-sounding woman. “How can I help you?”

  “Hello. I'm trying to get in touch with Alice Wilhite. She's a flight attendant and was recently reassigned to … ”

  “Hold please.”

  And so I hold. And hold. And hold. The person comes back. “Ms. Wilhite's not available. Would you like her voice mail?”

  “Yes, that would be great.”

  “I'll transfer you now. Thanks for calling Horizon Airlines.”

  Alice's mailbox activates, and I listen to her soft, alluring voice. Her recorded message ends, and I let a couple of seconds go by before speaking. “Alice, this is Denmark. I've thought about what you said. Please call me. I'm ready to be the friend you need me to be.”

  I hang up, look at the Courvoisier, and smile. “Yeah, baby. I'm going to be real friendly. I'm going to be the best friend you and Inez ever had.”

  SIXTEEN

  Bonk! Bonk! Bonk! In my dream, someone's banging on my front door. There's another series of knocks, faster and more urgent.

  “This is the police, Mr. Wheeler!” says a loud, gruff-sounding voice. “Open up!”

  Another one hollers, “Denmark, come out or—I swear to God!—we'll be back here with a search warrant!”

  That's Sierra's punk brother, Amos.

  “Mr. Wheeler! If you're in there, you need to open up!”

  “Why are you wasting time?” Amos demands. “Get in there and arrest that wife abusing son-of-a …”

  My eyes snap open. The gruff, now angry, voice says, “Mr. Montague, either pipe down or go wait by the cruiser.”

  I sit up quick. My mushy brain bounces off the sides of my skull like a soggy tennis ball. Everything's blurry, slanted, and spinning. I blink my eyes to clear my vision. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. My pasty tongue is heavy and thick. A vise grip squeezes my temples. A geyser of sour boozy bile erupts in my stomach. Everything rushes back: serving Sierra breakfast in bed, watching her suck and screw Mr. X, the fight, the hurt, the pain, missing her, still loving her. Bonk! Bonk! Bonk!

  “I'll be right there!” I yell.

  I glance at my watch. It's 7:16 a.m. I look around the living room. I can't let the cops see this mess. My head is like a steel ball swinging wildly on a chain. My stomach somersaults. I dash for the bathroom toilet, fall to my knees, and dry heave into the bowl. I wretch as a giant fist closes hard around my stomach, squeezing gastric sewage up into my throat. An awful taste invades my mouth, and I stagger over to the medicine cabinet, grab the mouthwash, and gargle.

  The living room's a disaster, but there's no time to make it pretty. The police and Amos's being outside prove that Sierra's already called in her backup. She and her family have probably lined up every Cleveland power broker and wheeler-dealer they could find to make sure I'm buried.

  I spit out the mouthwash and rush to the front door. “Mr. Wheeler! Open the door now or … ”

  I yank open the door to trouble. Staring back at me are two cops, and standing behind them is Sierra's fathead brother, Amos Montague. He's a bald, five-foot ten-inch, nasal-voiced, light-skinned, beady-eyed, pearshaped gasbag. His weird shape is emphasized by his narrowed eyes; lips that are pursed into a sour, angry bulge; and flared nostrils.

  I look at him so coldly my sockets feel frosty. “What're you doing on my property, Anus?”

  The first policeman bites his lower lip. His partner smirks.

  “Laugh it up now!” Amos snaps back. “You've messed with the wrong family.”

  He glares. I keep my eyes locked with his while I address the first cop. “What's the problem, Officer?”

  “We received a complaint of domestic disturbance.”

  I check his uniform and see that he's a local. The police chief, Dan Parker, is a close friend of mine, runs a tight organization, and is one of the reasons why my annual bonuses for the last three years have been huge. After Sierra and I moved into Diamond Ridge Estates,

  Dan and I met on the golf course and started talking. He shared his frustrations about policing on a shoestring budget. I suggested that he save money by having Speed Shift Auto Parts perform the maintenance on his police cruisers. Six months later we had the contract. I got a fat paycheck, Dan didn't have to lay off officers, and they all started getting discount parts and service on their personal vehicles.

  “You received a complaint from whom?” I ask.

  “Who do you think?” Amos snarls.

  Both policemen give Amos withering looks that cow him into silence. The first cop looks back at me and says, “Your wife …”

  “Soon-to-
be ex-wife,” I correct.

  “And not a moment too soon,” Amos grumbles.

  Cop One ignores us both and says, “She placed the call. We'd like to take a look around.”

  This is a no-win moment, but I don't immediately step aside. “Is there a problem?” Cop One asks.

  I force a nice-nasty smile onto my face. “No, Officer, none at all. But before you come in I'd like to get your names and badge numbers.”

  The first cop's eyes flash with anger. I'll cooperate, but he needs to understand that he's not dealing with some ignorant hood rat. Advanced education, breathing the rarefied air of Speed Shift management, hours spent on golf courses, and schmoozing at cocktail parties have taught me some things about real power. And what I've learned is that people with position, education, contacts, and most of all money get justice. People without those tools get screwed!.

  The cop writes down his name and badge number and that of his partner on his notepad, tears off the sheet of paper, and shoves it at me.

  I glance at the sheet of paper: Officers Anderson and Novak. I step aside. I've flexed my homeowner's authority, but they still barge in like I'm the lowly gardener.

  “What about me?” Amos snivels. “Sierra wanted me to get her some clothes and other personal items.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Montague,” replies Officer Anderson. “This is a police matter.”

  “Wrong!” Amos snaps. “It's a personal matter.” He points a rigid forefinger at Officer Anderson. “You'd better make sure that by the time we leave, this bum”— he jerks his thumb at me—”is good and arrested.”

  Officer Anderson glowers. “Sir, if you don't close your mouth, the only person who'll be arrested is you”

  Amos gasps. He's genuinely surprised that this mere underling of the law is upbraiding him, the vice president of marketing for the Mid-Cities Insurance Company. They're one of the top insurance firms in the Midwest. They're also being investigated for allegedly swindling thousands of policyholders out of their life savings and reneging on medical claims, some of which have resulted in patient deaths.

  Officer Anderson gestures to his partner while glancing at me. “Keep an eye on this area.”