Читать книгу Unfaithful - Devon Scott - Страница 13

“Hey, girl!”

Olivia’s heart skips a beat as she presses the phone to her ear. For a brief moment, her breath is caught in her throat—and she imagines her body lying on a gurney in a whitewashed emergency room stall; a green, pulsating line on the monitor dipping dangerously low; the pained, anguished look on the attending physician’s face before Olivia blinks the thought away. She gulps a quick breath.

“Carly.”

It’s after ten on a Friday night and Carly’s still in the office finishing up the edits for a segment she’s producing—something akin to MTV’s The Assistant, but with a darker shade of skin tone.

She’s used to the long hours, the frantic, hectic life of working in television—the network on 24/7…executives always looking for fresh new ideas, competition for viewers’ attention always something fierce. Still, it’s Friday, and she was hoping to spend some quality time with Ryan at some point…at least before the night was through.

He had called her earlier saying he and Miles were meeting. Was vague as to the particulars. Nothing new there. Ryan tended not to provide all the details of his comings and goings unless forced to. Not that he was trying to hide anything. Just his way.

“What’s new? Haven’t talked to you in a minute,” Carly says, trying to dance around the real reason for her call.

She had tried to reach Ryan, but to no avail. He hadn’t answered his cell. She left a message earlier—about an hour ago, around nine—and called twice since then, but the calls went straight to voice mail, which was strange.

Perhaps he and Miles are just in a bar someplace with lousy reception.

Happens all the time, doesn’t it?

“Not much,” Olivia responds, willing herself to calm down. Since this thing with Ryan surfaced, she hasn’t communicated with Carly much, other than a quick “hi” and “bye.” She feels guilty—incredibly guilty for her role in all of this—for leading him on. She’s replayed that evening after the party over and over in her mind, examining it from every angle until her head hurt. Then, exhausted from the analysis—and with little wiggle room left—she went to Miles and told him with as little detail as she could muster that Ryan was becoming infatuated with her—that the night of the party she had indeed led him on—the alcohol talking way too loud; she quickly assured her husband while leaving out the sordid details of Ryan’s hands traveling the length of her torso, his touch finding his way inside her.

And her hand discovering all of him…

“Been busy, as I’m sure you are.” Olivia is in the kitchen, refrigerator door open, reaching for a can of Diet Coke when the memories come flooding back.

This is my best friend I’m talking to.

And I violated her trust.

I was intimate with her man…

Stop it, she tells herself as she takes a quick gulp.

“I hear you,” Carly replies. “I’m still at the office, if you can believe that. BET is kicking my black ass without no let up in sight!”

“Damn, girl, sorry to hear that. It’s Friday. Can’t they let a sistah breathe?” Olivia asks while moving into the living room and taking a seat on the couch. The room is dim, quiet, empty.

Just like that night several weeks ago.

Miles has yet to return.

“As soon as I finish this piece, I’m outta here! Until then, call me Aunt Jemima, ’cause to them I’m just a light-skinned slave girl!” Carly chuckles to herself. Olivia is grateful for the reprieve. “Anyway, listen. I know Ryan and Miles are hanging out tonight…” She lets the sentence hang, as if her words were a road that suddenly ends, cars in an instant finding themselves hurtling through dusty air as if suspended by threads.

“Yeah,” Olivia says, putting the can on the coffee table, “boys’ night out. You know how they do.”

Carly did. But Ryan almost always answered his cell.

“Just wondering if you’d heard from your better half. Haven’t heard from mine, and I’m trying to figure out when to expect him home.”

“Naw, girl. You know how those two get when they’re together. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’re out at Camelot’s or someplace like that!” She’s referring to the strip club located on M Street, not far from the White House.

“Those fools better not be,” Carly replies teasingly. “Alright, girl…well, if you hear from them anytime soon, have my man holla at his woman. Okay?”

“I got you, girl.”

“I know you do.”

The line goes dead.

A minute or two after the end of their conversation, Olivia’s breathing returns to normal.

Miles returns home a little after midnight. Olivia’s upstairs in their bedroom, TV on, watching Lifetime. She hears the closing of the front door, keys thrown onto the hallway table before he heads deeper into the house. She mutes the volume, listening. Moments later, she hears his footsteps on the stairs. When he enters the bedroom, she smiles.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey, yourself!”

Miles is dressed casually, yet stylishly. A pair of auburn pleated slacks, boots, and an off-white, oversize, button-down made of some foreign fabric that feels like silk. His locs are thick and held in a ponytail by a wide band. His chocolate skin is rich and luxurious, and Olivia finds herself sucking in a breath involuntarily. Her husband is looking so delicious that, for a second, she gets jealous, thinking of all the women who probably hit on him during the evening. The moment passes as he bends down, kissing her lightly on the lips.

“How’s your night?” he asks while beginning a slow undress. The shirt comes off first, floating to the carpeted floor. Olivia watches him silently before responding.

“Good. Waiting for you, that’s all.”

Miles gives her a doubting look.

“Meaning what?” he asks, turning to face her. His upper body is still well conditioned considering his age—not from frequent exercising, but because Miles is predisposed to good genes. “You knew I was meeting Ryan tonight. Hell, it was your idea that I have a word with him.”

Olivia retreats backwards into the comfort of the pillows. Her husband is right, of course. It had been her idea. She knew that her trying to talk to Ryan was not going to cut it. Therefore, she changed tactics.

“So, baby, how did it go?” she asks cautiously.

Miles had slipped off his pants and retreated to their walk-in closet to hang them, his ass and thigh muscles tight in the black boxer briefs he wears. Olivia feels a pang at her insides. Her husband still looks good—damn good.

He returns without responding, the front of his boxer briefs filled with a bulge that makes Olivia beam. She eyes him silently as he moves away from the bed toward the master bath. When he reaches the doorframe, she speaks.

“Not gonna answer me?” she says cautiously.

Miles turns. His facial expression is neutral, but something about him seems preoccupied.

“What do you want me to say? I spoke to him like you asked of me. Told him that this obsession with my wife was something he needed to get a handle on.” Miles steps out of view and into the master bath, a large room with black tile, dark gray wallpaper, vaulted ceiling, skylight, and a raised soaking tub equipped with a separate shower stall enclosed by clear glass on two sides.

Olivia feels the tension in her gut radiate outward. She raises her voice to be heard over the din of the shower he’s begun.

“Baby? You didn’t say obsession, did you? Tell me you didn’t use that word!” A few seconds pass. Then a few more. Olivia resists blurting out her dissatisfaction, but this minimalist communication style of his is not working for her right now. She counts to three silently and then says, “BABY?”

Louder this time.

Miles walks out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. His boxer briefs are gone. He is nude. Olivia blinks, eyes traveling down his torso, quickly dispensing with his belly and waist. She never ceases to marvel at his manhood—which is, in her humble opinion, a true work of art. She smiles as she eyes his penis, knowing he will be aroused soon, if she has anything to do with it.

“WHAT?” he says, deflating any thoughts of intimacy and passion. He is staring at her as if she uttered something completely ridiculous. “What the hell is this, the third degree?”

“No, baby—”

“Look,” he says, one hand on his hip as he interrupts her, “you asked me to handle it, and now you’re attempting to dissect every single word? No—I’m not having that.”

Miles glares at her for a second, and for that moment, Olivia’s thoughts are transported back to her childhood—when her daddy used to chastise her for doing something wrong. It was the same stare—almost the same pose—hand on hip, index finger outstretched toward her. Olivia gulps and remains silent. Satisfied there won’t be further discussion, Miles pivots on his heels and returns to the bathroom.

The door slams shut.

Or perhaps she just imagines it does.

Olivia remains in bed, alone, not moving, and quiet. Her mind is racing, thoughts ping-ponging between Miles, Ryan, and Carly.

Husband, lover, best friend…

Jesus.