Cheaters (33 page)

But I wanted more than sex.

Even with the good feelings I had, what saddened me were the words that Brittany had left behind. What she really thought of me. That’s what hit home.

I lost my virginity at fifteen and hadn’t looked back since. Men aren’t supposed to look back. That’s what my daddy had told me. Find ‘em. Forget ‘em. For a moment I closed my eyes and I was back in a high school locker room, listening to the stories of weekend unfaithfulness, tales that rang with such tremendous clarity that they were as tangible as this morning’s
Daily Bulletin.
Mexicans. Brothers. Asians. White boys. Everybody had a tale to tell. Lockers slamming. The smell of sweat. Musk. I heard shoes screeching, all of our voices echoing in locker rooms. Being

men. Sharing stories about how we found ‘em. How we’d fooled ‘em. How we’d fucked ‘em. How we’d already forgot ‘em. High-fiving as we passed on tricks of the trade.

That was years ago. I’ve been with so many women that I’m not sure I know how to be by myself. Some days I’ve felt like I was the Man of Tomorrow. Right now I felt like less than a man.

“
You say that now, but with tomorrow you’ll get restless.
”

Brittany might be right. She might know me better than I know myself. I’ve met a lot of beautiful and intelligent sisters who pushed my buttons, if only for a while.

Chanté ran her tongue slowly over her lips, gazed at me with eyes that were dark and smoldering. We stared at each other admiringly, gave each other roughish and predatory smiles, kisses on top of kisses.

One day Chanté might be in that line of sisters who used to be a special part of my life and wasn’t anymore. But not today.

Stephan’s phone rang and scared me awake. It was dark.

When he took his arm from around me, I woke up, but kept my eyes shut, pretended I was knocked out.

Stephan cleared his throat, answered, “Morning.”

Yep. I imagined the way he rubbed his eyes, the slow way he moved was what he had done whenever I had called and woke him.

He talked on the down low, so I had to strain to hear. Left me wondering if he’d take me for granted and be rude enough to engage in intimate conversation with me coochie-naked in his bed.

Stephan whispered, “Nothing.”

Anger made me stir.
Nothing.
That single word sounded

like the answer to the question “What are you doing?” That quick I’d been reduced to one word.
Nothing.

I made a bogus waking-up noise before I eased to my elbows. No attitude. Well, no ‘tude that I was going to let show. The fat lady was singing, so that meant it was time for me to get dressed and go. I knew this situation was my choice, and I’d said I could handle it, but I felt foolish.

I threw the comforter back and began to rise to my feet.

Stephan turned and smiled at me. “Hey, cutie.”

I let my voice be heard. “Don’t even go there. You’re not supposed to see me looking like this.”

My eyes felt swollen. Breath was kicking like Bruce Lee. Hair was flat on one side. I bet I looked like a booger in search of a nose.

He reached out to me, ran his fingers through my wild hair.

“Cold?” He asked me that without covering the receiver.

I lied when I nodded. I didn’t whisper. “A little. The temperature dropped big-time.”

He pointed to the wall. “Turn the ceiling fan off.”

“I’m cool.”

Stephan went back to the phone, sounded frustrated. “Did you call Darnell? Dawn told you to go to hell? Shit, man. All right. Brookhurst and Broadway. Past Lincoln. Third light pole. Damn.”

I whispered, “Everything okay?”

Stephan put the phone to his chest. “I have to make a run.”

“This time of night?”

“I won’t be long. You can go back to sleep.”

This scenario brought back unpleasant memories of Thaiheed doing a hit-and-run, then leaving to go see Peaches.

I said, “I’ll go with you. Give me something to put on.”

He paused, then finally said, “Okay.”

Stephan gave me some heavy green sweats that swallowed me, just like his bathrobe had done. He grabbed a pair of blue sweats and threw them over his shoulder. That confused me because he’d dressed in jeans and a white sweatshirt.

I stood with my arms folded, eyes half-opened. Underneath the sweats, parts of my body felt gooey, mucky because

of the leftover honey. Stephan yawned and headed into the kitchen, took some items out of his pantry and stuffed them in a Lucky’s grocery sack. When he turned around, white powder was on his hand. That made me unnerved. Bothered me enough to wake up.

“Stephan,” I said, “I hope that’s not some kind of drugs on your hand.”

Stephan looked at his hand, told me, “Flour.”

He held the bag open; I peeped inside. A sack of flour. A carton of eggs. A huge container of Crisco oil.

“Where are we going this time of the morning?”

“To make a cake.”

My head lay on Stephan’s shoulder. Oldies on KACE was on as he cruised. At first I held his hand and hummed, him rubbing my fingers, but I had to let it go when he shifted gears. Before he made it to the on-ramp to the 57 freeway, I had given in to my heavy eyelids and was snoozing, slobbering, wondering who in the hell this Stephan Mitchell was. And why I was drawn to him.

I woke up when Stephan exited the freeway. That was when his weight shifted and my head slid off his shoulder.

I wiped my mouth and stretched, tried to figure out where the hell he’d taken me. I asked, “Where are we?”

“Anaheim.”

“By Disneyland?”

“Other side of town. Off the 91 freeway.”

“Oh,” I said. A street sign said we were on Brookhurst. I asked, “Where’re we going?”

“Few blocks down to Broadway. Across Lincoln Boulevard.”

It was warm and stuffy. I let my window down a bit. The clock on the dash said that it was 3:25. Stephan cruised in the right lane as traffic whizzed by in the other two.

We passed by hundreds of single-level family homes, then blocks of businesses, everything from Chinese fast food to Blockbuster Video, then came up on Lincoln Boulevard. A bowling alley was on the corner. A bowling alley that had a hundred-foot-tall blue fluorescent bowling pin anchored high out front, spinning like a ballerina and brightening the desert night.

Stephan slowed down in front of the gigantic apartment complex that was next to the bowling alley.

Stephan counted to himself, “One, two, three.”

“What are you doing?”

“Counting light poles.”

“Why?”

“Just following directions.”

Stephan made a slow U-turn and stopped across the street right in front of a row of waist-high evergreen bushes that separated the sidewalk from a few houses. Just as Stephan put his car in neutral, a huge man in a black trench coat and jean shorts stomped around the corner toward us. God, this felt like the middle of a drug deal. The strange man dipped his hand under his jacket, peeped down into our car. His face was close enough for me to see he had a swollen eye; blood ran from his head and down over his nose. I yelped. He glowered at Stephan, did the same at me, grimaced left and right, furrowed his brows, then marched away.

I damn near shouted, “You see his face?”

“I saw it. That wound was fresh. He needs stitches.”

“He’s getting ready to jack us.”

He said, “You’re trembling.”

“You’re shaking too. You’re scared and that’s scaring me.”

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

Before I could ask another question, he pulled me close and stuck his tongue in my mouth. My stomach muscles tightened, and I clung to him like a wild creature. When we finished, the man in the trench coat had crossed the street and was peeping in bushes. He stopped moving right underneath the fluorescent bowling pin that was twirling high in the air. Homeboy stood still long enough to fire up a cigarette. Then he started kicking the bushes down that way. Searching and kicking, over and over.

Stephan rubbed my leg with his sweaty palm. His hand was trembling. A couple of seconds later the white wrought-iron gate opened when a car headed into the complex; the moment the gate was wide enough to squeeze through, a raving Hispanic-looking lady ran out of the complex and dashed toward the bowling alley.

I stared at her, asked Stephan, “Is that Jennifer Lopez?”

“Looks like her, but I doubt it.”

“How would you know?”

“Lopez has a better ass. A tight fly-girl booty that’s out of sight.”

“You’re sickening.”

“You asked, I told you.”

The light brown woman dashed up to the bloody-faced guy in the trench coat, and they started arguing very loud in Spanish. He staggered and titter-tottered like a night of alcohol had the best of him. The short lady wore a dark housecoat, no shoes, and kept her distance from him, especially after he swung at her.

I said, “Damn. Some domestic crap is going down.”

The Hispanic man screamed some vulgar names at her. Then she dropped her head and raced back into the complex. People were hanging over their balconies, traffic on Brookhurst was slowing down—everybody in Mickey Mouse land was watching the whole scene.

“Stephan, this isn’t a drug deal?”

“No. Stop asking me that.”

“Why can’t they meet you in a house or an apartment instead of on a dark street at three-forty in the morning?”

The guy in the trench coat flipped his cigarette out into the street and peacocked back into the complex. He disappeared.

Something hit my window and scared the shit out of me. I grabbed Stephan’s arm and screamed, “Ahhhhhhhhh!”

Stephan jumped, then took a breath. “Open the door.”

“Start the car and go!”

“Open the door.”

“What?”

“
Quick, open the door.
”

The moment I did, the bushes rustled with life. Like something out of a horror movie, a shadow rose up out of the dirt and bushes and dashed toward the car. Before I could get a grip on the handle and close the door again, the menacing silhouette squeezed its way into the backseat. I jerked around and saw a dark and sweaty man in his BVDs holding something that looked like a gun.

I jumped out and ran so fast I left my scream behind.

My arms were pumping, breasts bouncing, and I ran as hard as I could.

“Chanté!”

I caught my breath, slowed down just enough to look back and see if Stephan was catching up, but he had got out on his side and was motioning for me to come back.

He yelled, “Chanté, it’s cool.”

I hurried back, reluctantly crawled back inside.

The damn near naked guy in the back was breathing hard and struggling to put on the clothes Stephan had left on the backseat. He’d brought in the smell of terror and alcohol. His face let me know that he was twice as scared as I was.

My voice cracked, “Who in the hell is that?”

“Chanté,” Stephan said, “you remember Jake?”

His friend panted, said, “This ain’t the time for no damn intro-fucking-ductions. Get me the fuck out of here. Wait, drive around the block. They ain’t getting away with this shit.”

I grimaced at the terrified man’s sweaty face, at his thin goatee, then saw Jake’s pinkie ring, and my memory clicked. I frowned. “Aw, yeah. I remember you from the club. I danced with you. You had on the Kente suit. You asked me for my number. You asked my best friend Karen for her number. And then you tried to get my other friend Tammy’s number too.”

The man in the trench coat staggered back out onto the street.

Jake ducked and knotted up. “Shit. That motherfucker crazy!”

As the man turned around, his trench coat flew open. A gun was tucked in his belt.

“Excuse me.” Jake’s voice trembled. “If you don’t mind, my life is on the line, a’right!”

Stephan pulled away from the curb, slow and easy.

He asked his funky friend, “What the hell was that about?”

Jake sat up and started rambling. “Man, I met this Mexican babe—”

Stephan quizzed, “That’s who you were with last night?”

“Yeah. Last night I hooked up with her at a birthday party. She was coming on strong and we were damn near

getting busy in the bathroom, but people kept knocking on the door. We had a few drinks, asked me if I wanted to go for a ride, so I left my car at the hotel and she drove me back over here to her place. We had just finished knockin’ boots and dozed off when I felt somebody grabbing and shaking my goddamn feet. At first I thought it was her trying to wake me up.

“Man, I looked down and this big nasty-looking motherfucker was in the dark at the foot of the bed. Damn near shitted on myself. I hoped it was her brother or cousin or something, right, because she’s Mexican, he’s yakking in Spanish, they could’ve been related, right?

“Man, she woke up, saw him, she screamed, and her eyes damn near bugged out of her head. Then they started going off on each other in Spanish, and I politely interrupted and asked who the hell he was, she says, ‘Me loco husband,’ like he was in the wrong for coming home. I said, ‘When you get married!’ ‘Cause she was single when she was up in the party, right? I said, ‘You brought me up in your house and you a married woman?’ I mean, I said it real loud so he could hear and know that I didn’t have the 4-1-1, right? Right. Letting him know she played us…”

I was shaking my head.

Jake wiped his face and kept on rambling. “I tried to tell him what was up. I did sign language and pointed at her, but either he didn’t understand or he didn’t give a shit.”

I mumbled, “This is a damn shame.”

Jake kept on talking. “Then that idiot was screaming and pointing at me, had his fat finger all up in my face, so I knocked his hand down, and he ran into the closet, said a lot of stuff in Spanish I didn’t know, but I definitely understood the word
nigga
, ‘cause that word’s international. So I jumped out of the bed and grabbed my drawers, tried to find my pants, but he Rambo’d out of the closet, stumbling and struggling to load the nine, right? He was so drunk, he was putting the clip in upside down, right?

“I didn’t know who he was getting ready to cap, and I wasn’t about to wait for a interpreter, ‘cause by then his woman was hysterical and bouncing around. She ran over and started trying to wrestle the gun away from him, and when he turned his back, I cold-cocked him with a lamp. Then the bitch flipped the script, started cussing me out,