Secrets of a Kept Woman (Volume 1) Read online

  “Do you have to go to California tomorrow?” I asked him sweetly, once we had returned home from New York, and he stood in our massive closet packing his suitcase. I hoped to convince him differently about traveling to California to take care of what he called ‘pressing business.’ Ever since Street had called thirty minutes earlier, he had been hyped about getting to California to straighten out his money.

  “Yeah, babygirl. I wish I didn‘t have to go, but I gotta take care of this messed up money situation. Fa Ya Grillz has an accounting issue that I got to go over there and straighten out personally. You know how niggas try to get out of line when the big dog is away?” He kissed my forehead, and added, “It shouldn’t take more than a day or two to get this straight. Then I’ll be on the first thing smoking back to my baby.”

  He planted a kiss on my forehead and continued placing garments into his suitcase. After a few moments, he realized that I was still standing there, hands crossed, face tight, lips pouting, and visibly upset about his leaving so soon after just getting home. He placed his arms around me, allowing his hands to slither like a snake down my back to my hips.

  “What? My baby wants some time with Big T before I go? Is that what you need, baby?” His lips found mine, and he lustfully kissed me as his hands traveled all over my body. I immediately pictured him feeling on Rhonda the same way. Hell, for all I knew, that was where he was headed right this minute. Make Big T cum for me, Ronnie, I heard him moan in my mind’s eye.

  “No!” I pushed him away, still pissed that he was about to up and leave me alone when we still had so much to work out. “I do not ‘want some time’ before you go. I’m coming with you,” I stated matter-of-factly. There would be no more begging, asking, hoping, and wishing for things I wanted, but there would be more declarations, telling and demanding of him what I wanted and needed from that point on. I was going to be the one telling him what was going to happen in our marriage. Knowing that he was actively participating in an affair with Rhonda had changed the dynamics of this so-called relationship, whether he knew it or not.

  I could feel my spine thickening, growing a protective layer that allowed me to stand on my own two feet. I didn’t know if I should thank Rhonda for jarring me out of my stupor, or kick her ass for crossing the invisible line in the sand that she had crossed ten miles ago. I’d watched enough situations like mine go down to know a man will dish out just as much as a woman is willing to take. And man, I had been good on the receiving end of the dishing with taking his bull for just about twenty-two seconds too long.

  Thank God, my alarm had just went off. I’ze awake now. No more pressing snooze. There would be no more sleeping with my eyes open, not for Shayla Wilson. I also knew that even when a man had buried a woman completely up to her neck in stress and hurt that he didn’t have one problem shoveling a couple more inches of shit on top of her. I was not going to stand around and let Titus shovel any more of his shit in my direction. I was either going to be his Queen B, or the thorn in his side. At the end of the day, a woman has to be ready and willing to take care of herself – first. If she don’t or won’t, who will?

  Clearly shocked and thoroughly irritated with my assertion, Titus stood there with his hands still suspended in the air in the same position they were in when he had wrapped them around me earlier. When he realized I was not joking, he tried to play me like he normally would. He didn’t know that the game had changed. “Go on with that noise, Shayla. You know you can’t come with me to handle business. Get me that blue shirt out the dresser, aight?” He turned away from me.

  I stood my ground and stared at his back until he turned around again, looking annoyed.

  “Shay, I said, get me that blue shirt, now. Quit playin’, girl. Don’t ruin a good day, okay?”

  “I said… I’m…. coming… with … you.” I spelled it out, in case he hadn’t heard me the first time. Unlike any other day, I made no move toward the dresser to follow his orders.

  There was an awkward moment that passed between us as Titus stared at me, trying to decipher my new attitude. Finally, he switched gears and decided to plead his case. He smiled and poured on the charm. “Nah, Shayla. I don’t think it is a good idea for you to come with me. Things might get crazy out here, and my first duty is to protect you, my Queen. I can’t let nothing happen to you. You stay here, and I’ll be back in a few days. I’ll come straight home, so you don’t have to hear nothing about me having to work right when I get back.”

  Ignoring his tired attempt at ditching me, I grabbed my suitcase and said, “I’m tired of the bullshit! You are always playing me to the left. I said I’m going, and that’s final.”

  To my surprise, he easily caved and said ambivalently, “Okay, get packed, and let’s go then, babe. But you’re gonna have to stay low key. I don’t want any of those trifling niggas out west to know I have my wifey with me. There is no telling what kind of move they will try to make.”

  As I packed my clothing into my leather travel bag, I felt a smile a mile wide plaster itself across my face. I was feeling more like a woman than I had in my entire life. If I’d known all along that putting my foot down was so much more gratifying than wallowing in sorrow, I would have done so a long time ago. I had this tiny feeling growing in my gut that things were about to change for the better.

  Chapter 15

  Gladys

  Saturday night, as I entered the masquerade ball, the scene was something out of an exotic fairytale. The room was lit by meticulously placed red candles on the counters, tables, and booths. The room exuded a sense of passion in the air that was the perfect setting for rekindling a love affair. It had all of the fixings for a naughty getaway. Lovers cuddled, laughed, and caressed each other with their eyes, their faces lit romantically by the red candles that burned in the middle of each table. Red streamers draped the ceiling, intermingled with strips of white lights. A sultry slow jam mesmerized the couples as wanting bodies moved to the rhythm of the beat.

  I simply inhaled the ambience and tried to take it all in. I wished James and I could still share moments like this. I remembered when he loved me enough to take me dancing on Friday nights and romance me over candle light. He treated me like I was the only woman in the world that mattered back then. Where had the love gone?

  The silky red mask with black lace striations that I chose to wear was a cute little thing with two fiery red feathers coming out of each side. It was a sensual addition to my sleek V-neck black dress and accessories by Kimora. My hair fell around my shoulders in a cascade of curls and the final touch, my makeup, was flawless. My look was screaming, “Attention, ladies and gentleman: Beyonce’ don’t have anything on me!” Yes, the fact that I had it going on sent my confidence level off the meter. Beyonce’ who? I thought, as I sashayed into the room.

  Instead of immediately hiding myself away in a secluded booth, I decided to mix and mingle a little bit before sauntering to the bar in pursuit of a relaxing potion to totally unwind me. On the way to the bar, I spotted a person who looked like an old friend, Gloria Dennis. I was headed in her direction to speak when I glanced to the right side of the room and was taken aback. Shock took over my body and kept me frozen in my tracks.

  “Dios mio! Sexy chocolate.” I sighed to myself as a masked male stripper danced and strategically removed articles of his clothing while gyrating his body sensuously to the music. Standing in a cage to the right side of the room, the stripper now wore only a pair of tight leather pants and a black leather face mask. When he did a handstand while doing a full split in mid-air, my mouth flew open, and he had my undivided attention. It wasn’t long before he was back on his feet and getting rid of his pants.

  Okay, I see the party is about to begin…up in hurrr…up in hurrrr! I thought with a smile. Again, like I said earlier, “Brenda knows how to throw a party!”

  I was so caught up looking at the stripper, I started to sway to the beat of his rhythm. I found myself wondering, What in the world have I gotten myself
into coming to Brenda’s wild party? I had to question my judgment, because a whole lot of years and a month of Sundays had passed since I was out on the party scene like this without James. What kind of good trouble could I get myself into this weekend? At that moment, I understood why it was not good for married couples to be out clubbing and partying like this without their spouses, like James often did. That type of atmosphere was a setting for lust and guilty pleasures – not just lust but wanton lust. I could feel myself warping into a brazen sexy diva with each passing minute. Before I could pull myself from the forbidden thought of wanting to burst into the cage with that stripper and devour him whole, I submitted to the hypnotic trance of his fluid movements. I felt good!

  “Martini on the rocks, please,” I told the bartender once I finally worked my way over to the bar, looking and feeling like a million bucks. I felt like I needed a cigarette, and I didn’t even smoke! I had forgotten all about going to speak to Gloria Dennis. Gloria who? That stripper had me on another planet.

  When I looked around the room, I felt a twinge of awkwardness due to the masks covering the upper portion of most of the guests’ faces, making it hard to identify anyone who may have looked familiar. If Brenda were to walk right past me she wouldn’t have known who I was and vice versa. Come to think of it, if, by chance, Maverick was at the party, he wouldn’t have recognized me either.

  That string of thoughts put a slight damper on my spirit, as I had held out a glimmer of hope that Maverick and I would have more time to at least talk before we parted ways this weekend. With my long lost love heavy on my mind, I slowly glided toward the bar. Placing my black rhinestone clutch purse on the counter, I asked for a cotton candy martini on the rocks. After about an hour and three martinis later, I had cased the party and was really feeling the vibe. I was starting to completely unwind. Moving on from the bar and into an empty booth next to the dance floor, I discovered the perfect spot for a good view of all of the male strippers in the various cages throughout the room.

  As I reached down to pick up my glass and take another swig of my drink, I could feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck, as if there was a draft coming through the room. But this chill wasn’t like the kind you get from a scary movie. This chill was like the chill of excitement after your first orgasm. I could sense him even before he spoke.

  “What’s a pretty lady like you doing sitting here alone?” His lips gently grazed my earlobe as he leaned down and spoke the words like butter melting in a skillet. His familiar baritone caused my lips to turn up into the biggest pleasantly surprised smile. As soon as I felt his body heat slide into the seat against me, I was in our zone. To say I was on fire would have been an understatement. In an attempt to diffuse my internal fire, I took that huge gulp of my drink that I was about to take before he walked over. Like déjà vu, the masked gentleman who had slid into the booth beside me intertwined his fingers with mine and warmed me to the core.

  His mask was black with red stripes and though his identity was meant to be somewhat of a mystery, the familiar muscular physique that he so beautifully possessed was prominent through his midnight black suit.

  “Mav…” I couldn’t even get the rest of his name out. I was stuck on stupid, seeing him for a second time in two days. I simply allowed our hands to stay intertwined and my mind and body to respond to his touch – sweaty palms, dreamy eyes, and aching in my soul to kiss, hug, and touch him all over. Instead of acting out my naughty thoughts or even acknowledging the amusing fact that we were sitting hand in hand staring deeply into each other’s eyes, I simply said, “So, I see red is still your favorite color, Mav.”

  Yes, I took the punk way out and simply commented on the accenting color of his mask and cufflinks. He’d become quite fly in the way that he dressed, like a refined and distinguished gentleman, which was undeniably a turn on. Every second that he sat next to me staring through his mask, it was evident that the alcohol was working against my battle to maintain my composure.

  “Red is our color, remember?” He said, removing his hand from mine long enough to tug at the red mask covering my eyes.

  I decided to keep the mood light. “Yes, I remember our red knit sweaters we would wear in the winter, the red sweat suits, and the red shorts we had that matched. We were so corny.”

  “I don’t think we were corny. I think we were just in sync with each other, Marisol.” A deep-set genuineness showed up in his voice again. Oh, he knew how to get next to the very fibers of my being, calling me Marisol, which was my middle name that only he used.

  As my middle name rolled off of his tongue, I turned away from him, pretending to be engrossed in the beat from R. Kelly’s Feelin’ On Your Booty blasting through the speakers. The song choice made me smile and reminisce about when Maverick and I were younger and our complicated history together. It was a light and fun selection, but I knew that song could get things started on a whole ‘nother level. R-Kelly was gifted as he wanted to be, even with all of his perversions, and back in the day Maverick and I used to get down to every last one of his songs. As if he knew exactly what I was thinking, without speaking a word, Maverick stood, took me by the hand, and guided me to the dance floor. I followed without hesitation. The pulsating lyrics vibrated through the speakers and facilitated our movement as we swayed to the beat.

  This is my song. For real, no doubt. Said the DJ is making me feel thugged out. As I walk you to the dance floor, we begin to dance slow. Put your arms around me. I’m feeling on your…

  “Boo-oo-ootie!” Maverick haphazardly sang along, mocking R. Kelly as he got slick and maneuvered his hands down a little lower than they should’ve been. His body glided up against mine so close that I didn’t even care how silly he sounded singing. I closed my eyes and rested my head on the nape of his neck. I was going, going… almost gone to that place I had not been in years – amor. A place romantically and passionately every woman should go with a man at least once in a lifetime. Starving for that feeling once again, I was overwhelmed in the moment. Once Maverick stopped singing and squeezed me tightly in his arms, I made a move that my rational mind couldn’t comprehend. Raw desire trumping rational thinking, I laid everything on the line and asked him to my room.. I needed to feel like a girl who was wanted and desired at least one more time in my life. My husband had stolen the sexy vixen from inside me, and my eyes were pleading with Maverick to make her return. “Maverick, will you spend the night with me tonight?”

  He looked down into my eyes, placed a soft kiss on my lips as if I were his, and said, “I plan to,” as if it was as simple as that. With that said, I melted into his arms with no thought about my life back at home waiting for me. I was there in that room with Maverick, and that was all that mattered. I had slipped back to my college days and was about to make love to the man that I loved. We continued our dance knowing that legally what we planned to do was wrong – dead wrong – but where was the law when James beat me? I was where I was supposed to be according to the law of attraction. The man who had always owned my heart would have the opportunity to caress it once more. My marriage to James was simply a covenant on paper. My spiritual bond with Maverick transcended any sheet of paper issued by any judge, and the best part was that it seemingly had never died.

  ***

  At approximately midnight, Maverick and I left the masquerade party headed to his house. As we drove through the streets of Miami, traffic was slow, and the midnight air was calming. Fortunately, Maverick didn’t live far from the hotel. His home was a well-established beachfront condo nestled around South Beach. We had danced so much that my soles were aching feverishly, and I was ready to get out of my one-inch red pumps.

  “Nice place,” I said, as Maverick opened the door, and his quaint abode welcomed me with open arms. With a brown leather sectional centering the great room that had a log cabin feel, I was thoroughly impressed with all of the beautiful knick knacks in the room. He had really turned his place into a home.

  “I t
ry,” he shrugged and offered me a seat on the sofa.

  “Wow! What is this, a James Brown clock? You have a full-sized James Brown grandfather clock!”

  He chuckled at my surprise, and we chit chatted about the life-sized James Brown shaped clock and a few other sentimental pieces he had decorated his living room with before I told him I’d like to slip into something more comfortable.

  “James, it is good to see that you are doing well for yourself.”

  “That makes both of us, Marisol.”

  “Is there anyway,” I pointed down to my dress, and added, “that I could take a quick shower and slip into something more comfortable? This outfit is not as comfortable as it looks.”

  “Sure, babe. First room on the left. I’ll bring you a t-shirt and a pair of my boxers too, if you like?” He asked with a sneaky smile.

  I nodded and said, “That will be fine. Thanks.”

  As I soaped up in Maverick’s shower, the water droplets felt like tiny fingertips sliding down my body one by one. I imagined his hands roaming over my skin with needle-tip precision. I looked down at his African body soap, a dark brown bar with a rich earthy aroma – Dudu-Osun – and smiled as I recalled how he loved to use this soap, even back in college. I hated it back then, always complaining that it left brown stains in the bathtub, but now it seemed to add the perfect touch. Like him, it was unpretentious, natural, and pure. After toweling off, I slipped into one of his oversized t-shirts and joined him on the living room sofa. He was pouring a glass of water when I walked in.

  “Would you like a glass of water, babe?”

  “Sure, I could take a little,” I told him, beginning to feel a little uneasy about being in his house, wearing only his t-shirt. I fidgeted nervously with my fingernails, all of a sudden feeling like a child in a foreign country. I did say that I wanted to spend the night with him. I reminded myself of ‘wanting and needing to feel like a girl who was wanted and desired at least one more time in my life.’ Wasn’t that what I had told myself earlier?