After Hours (12 page)

S
ybil sat at the desk in her office, cradling the telephone between her chin and shoulder, waiting for a break in the connection. “This is Karla,” said the familiar female voice through the earpiece.

“Where are you, Karla?” She could hardly make out what she was saying because of a clacking background sound.

“I'm on the train. It's just pulling into High Bridge. Give me a minute to get to the parking lot.”

Sybil didn't envy Karla, who drove her car to the High Bridge station, parked, then got on the train for a two-and-a-half-hour ride to Trenton. The reason she'd urged Cory to relocate from Plainsboro to West Orange was the commute. At first he'd resisted, but he'd eventually relented.

“Sybil, I'm back. What's up?”

“I hired her.”

“Thanks.”

“No, Karla, thank
you.
”

“Did she tell you that she has no experience?”

Sybil nodded although Karla couldn't see her. “Yes. That's okay because, as a diamond in the rough, I can train her to suit my needs.”

“I'm glad you could help her. I hope you and Cory haven't made plans for the Fourth, because Ronald and I are hosting a cookout.”

“Count us in.”

“Don't forget to bring a swimsuit.”

“Should I bring anything?” Sybil asked.

“Please don't. Come and relax.”

She chatted with Karla for another few minutes, circling July fourth on her planner, then rang off. Tension knotted her stomach; she pressed a hand to her middle. Reaching into a drawer, she took out a bottle of antacids and placed two under her tongue.

Leaning back in her chair, Sybil closed her eyes, waiting for the antacids to counter the buildup of acid churning in her belly. She'd done it again—she'd skipped breakfast and lunch. And eating more than twenty hours after her last meal always played havoc with her digestive system.

She opened her eyes, picked up a marker and wrote in bold black letters: Do Not Skip Meals! on a Post-it.

The reason she'd met with Dina Gordon was because one of her elite clients had canceled on her earlier that morning. What had left her in a foul mood was that she'd rearranged her schedule to accommodate him. Her annoyance had surfaced during the interview, but Dina had appeared oblivious to it or chosen not to take notice of her mercurial moods. Her gaze shifted to the application bearing Dina's name. She'd filled in Pending on the lines for her address and social security number.

Sybil had hired two of Karla's special clients in the past, and with surprising results. One had become her best waiter and the other was now a first-year culinary student. What Dina didn't know was that she was going to be put to the test—and if she passed, then her reward would be incalculable.

Fifteen minutes later Sybil rang the kitchen to inform her assistant that she was leaving. She would return the following morning to prepare a banquet for a fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration. The couple's initial guest list had gone from fifty-eight to seventy-two, prompting Sybil to move the party from the first-to the second-floor ballroom.

She changed into a pair of well-washed jeans, a tank top and a pair of comfortable running shoes. Locking the door to her private office, Sybil headed out to the parking lot. Slipping behind the wheel of her late-model Toyota Sequoia, she drove out of the lot, taking a local road. It was a longer route, but there was no reason to rush home. Cory was working late, and she would probably be in bed by the time he returned home.

 

Sybil pressed a button on the device attached to her truck's visor. Her heart stopped, then started up again in a runaway pounding when she saw her husband's car parked in its usual spot in the two-car garage. What was he doing home so early? The most horrific thoughts swirled around in her head as she got out of the vehicle and raced into the house. A soft beeping sound reminded her that she'd forgotten to lower the garage door. Her fingers touched a pad and the door lowered automatically.

Setting her handbag down on a table in the dramatic two-story foyer, she headed for the family room. There were two places where she was certain to find Cory whenever he came home: the family room or the bedroom.

The reason Sybil had fallen in love with the nearly completed house in the exclusive gated community was the two-story foyer and family room. The thirty-four-hundred-square-foot high ranch had four bedrooms, three and a half baths, a two-car garage, a kitchen island with a nook, a formal dining room and a master suite with corner soaking tub and Jack-and-Jill bath suite.

The house, like her business, had become a great source of joy for Sybil. Her childhood yearnings to be perfect in bed, in the kitchen and in her career were manifested the day she and Cory closed on the West Orange property.

She found her husband sprawled across a sunny-yellow leather chaise, asleep, while images flickered on the large flat-screen mounted on the opposite wall. He wore a white T-shirt and a pair of threadbare jeans that she should've discarded years ago yet hadn't because Cory claimed they were his favorite pair. Her gaze lingered on his slender, athletic body. Light from a floor lamp bathed his composed face in a soft, flattering glow.

Leaning over, she touched his shoulder. His skin was cool under the cotton fabric. He came awake immediately, staring at her with a startled expression freezing his features until he recognized her face. “What are you doing here?”

Sybil leaned closer and kissed his forehead. “I live here.”

Reaching up, Cory pulled his wife down to sit on his lap. “You know what I mean. I thought you were working late tonight.”

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Sybil rested her head on Cory's shoulder. He smelled of soap and clean laundry. “My client canceled at the last minute.”

What she couldn't tell him was that the aborted liaison was only supposed to consist of a party of two: she and the client. Whenever she donned a black latex bodysuit and concealed her face behind a black mask to wield a whip better than Halle Berry's Catwoman, she was no longer Sybil, but Delectable the dominatrix.

“I remember you telling me that you were also working late tonight, darling.”

Cory closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I can't test the new aeronautical software until the programmers work out a few bugs.” The company where he worked as a quality-assurance manager had been awarded a military government contract to write an aeronautical software program for a sophisticated spy drone.

“What do you do now?” Sybil asked.

“Sit around doing nothing or take some of my vacation days before I lose them.”

He glanced down to find Sybil staring up at him. “Can I interest you to take a few days off and hang out with me?”

Sybil wrinkled her nose. “Cory, you know this is my busiest season.”

His lids came down over his soulful-looking eyes. “When is it
not
your busy season, Sybil? Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day and let's not forget Memorial Day through Christmas again. I'm the only married guy at work who doesn't take a vacation with his wife.”

“That's because they all have children.”

“Ah, children,” he drawled facetiously, “those wonderful little creatures that make a house a home.” After four years of marriage he was more than ready to become a father.

“I thought we agreed to wait until we celebrated our fifth anniversary,” Sybil said in a soft, but lethal tone.

Dipping his head, Cory pressed his lips to hers as he caressed her mouth. “Can't we pretend it's December?”

Sybil returned his kiss as her hand moved over his chest and down his flat belly. Her fingers searched between his thighs, finding him fully aroused. “No,” she whispered in his ear, “but nothing says we can't practice baby-making.” She moved off his lap, and she wasn't disappointed when he rose with her. Reaching for a remote device, Sybil turned off the television. Smiling at her husband, she said, “Can you wait for me to take a shower?”

“Show me what I'm going to get and I'll let you know.”

In one smooth motion, Sybil lifted the tank top with a built-in bra, displaying a pair of full breasts that never failed to arouse her husband. Closing the distance between them, she placed a hand on Cory's chest and forcibly pushed him down to the chaise. She didn't give him time to react when she ripped open the fly to his jeans and eased his penis through the opening in his boxers. Less than a minute later she eased herself over his erection, her own jeans and bikini panties down around her knees.

She became Delectable sans latex, mask and whip. Bracing her hands on either side of Cory' head, she bounced up and down on the hardened flesh as she pushed her breasts to his face. Gurgling sounds came from his throat, he struggling to breathe. Sybil alternated, changing the cadence from deep, violent thrusts to a quickening that gave her a sense of power and complete domination. It all came to an end when she reached under her hips and captured his testicles. She applied the slightest pressure, eliciting the reaction she sought when Cory groaned in pain. Her fingers tightened, and when his eyes rolled back in his head, she climaxed, whispering his name over and over as he released his passion inside her.

Cory closed his eyes, unable to believe the exquisite ecstasy Sybil had offered him. Just when he thought he knew everything about her, she surprised him with something new.

They didn't make love as much as he wanted, but he had to admit that their coming together was always passionate and satisfying.

D
ina climbed into the back of the Town Car, cell phone in hand, and barely glanced at the driver who held the door for her. She sat down and scrolled through the directory of the phone Lance had given her. The driver hadn't maneuvered out of the parking lot to the two-story building, with handmade brick end walls evocative of the early Dutch, where Sybil Cumberland had established her catering enterprise, when she pushed the Send button.

Sinking against the black leather seat, she smiled when hearing Lance's greeting. “I got it,” she said softly. She heard other voices—male and female—then Lance excusing himself to take a “very important” call.

“You got it?” he asked after a noticeable pause.

“Yes, and I'm sorry if I interrupted your dinner meeting. I was just so excited I had to tell you.”

“Don't you dare apologize. Why do you think I gave you the phone? You can call me anytime.”

“Okay.”

“I suppose this means we're going to have to celebrate,” Lance crooned.

Dina felt a swell of joy fill her chest, making it difficult to draw a normal breath. “Yes, it does.”

“When am I going to see you again?”

“I'll call and let you know. Tomorrow I'm going apartment hunting.”

“If you need help or a reference, then let me know.”

“I will. LL?”

There came a beat of silence. “What is it?”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

His chuckle caressed her ear. “You're welcome. Dina, baby, I have to get back to my clients. I'll talk to you later.”

He ended the call,
Dina, baby
playing over and over in her head during the ride to Irvington. Had Lance called her baby because of the twenty-plus-years difference in their ages or was it because he viewed her as “his baby.” She prayed it was the latter because there was something about Lancelot Haynes she liked enough to want to see him again.

When the traffic signs pointing the way to Irvington came into view, she asked the driver to stop at a convenience store, where she purchased several newspapers. It wasn't until she opened the door to her motel room that she noticed the shabbiness for the first time.

She stared at the fading wallpaper, the threadbare rug and a spiderweb in a corner near the window.
This will be the last week I'll sleep here.
The silent vow was one she intended to keep.

 

Dina sat in the middle of the bed, reading every entry in the classified real-estate section in several dailies and a weekly. She'd circled one advertising a furnished one-bedroom apartment in a private house owned by a Christian couple. It was within her price range. Reaching for Lance's cell phone, she dialed the number.

It was the voice as much as the greeting that rendered her temporarily mute. “Praise the Lord,” she repeated. “I'm calling to ask if the apartment is still available.”

“It is,” said the man with a deep baritone voice. “The ad said no children and no pets.”

“I'm the only one who'll live in the apartment. Is it possible to set up an appointment to see it?”

“I have someone coming in the mornin'—”

“What time tomorrow morning?” she asked quickly.

“I believe it's ten. Why?”

“Can I come at nine?”

“Ain't you got a job?”

Dina smiled. “I have a job, but I don't go to work until early evening.”

“Okay, I guess it won't do no harm. Come at nine.”

She gave the man her name, then wrote down his address. “Thank you, sir. All things are possible through Christ,” she added.

“Amen, Ms. Gordon. Have a blessed evening.”

“Thank you, Mr. Foster.”

Falling back to the mattress, she stared up at the shadows on the ceiling. If anyone would've predicted the turn her life would take, she would've called them a liar. She was realistic enough to know she couldn't have spent all of her life hustling, but she never would've imagined having to leave Brooklyn and changing her name and holding down a
real
job all because of a proposed or real death threat.

After the dinner of stuffed grilled red snapper, a mixed green salad and garlic baby spinach prepared by the Buddha-like assistant chef, Sybil had given her an overview of the catering business. More than half of SJC Catering's reservations were corporate affairs and small private parties hosted by those on her elite client list, and the other half were the general public for wedding receptions, birthdays and anniversaries.

Sybil revealed that she took a hands-on approach when it came to training, establishing a strict protocol as to how she wanted her staff to relate to her clientele; this revelation told Dina that Sybil Cumberland not only micromanaged her business but was also a control freak.

How the uptight chef ran her business was not Dina's concern. Earning enough money to pay Payne Jefferson what he claimed she owed him had shifted to the top of her priority list.