Cheaters (8 page)

Karen waved Tammy’s puppy-dog expression away, and I saw an inferno behind Karen’s dark brown eyes. “It’s all right, Tammy. So, Chanté, my friend, what’s the bottom line?”

I cleared my throat. “All I’m saying is, if a brother stepped to you and said the exact same thing, didn’t know where he was going with his life and didn’t know how he was going to get there, be honest, would you get serious about him?”

“I do not even like this conversation,” Karen snapped.

Of course she wouldn’t like
this
conversation. She’s been engaged three times, married zero. Her unused wedding dress is still hanging up in her itty-bitty no-bedroom apartment. That chiffon and silk memory is taking up most of the hallway space. That damn thing is suffocating to look at.

I said, “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, Karen—”

She interrupted, “I answered your questions, answer mine.”

“What question?”

“How many men have been down in your basement?”

Tammy said, “Don’t be crass, Karen.”

I didn’t answer.

Karen hissed, went into the bathroom, closed the door.

Shame was in my peepers when I looked at Tammy.

She whispered, “What you just did was fucked up.”

“I was just trying to have a conversation. We’re supposed to be friends, so we’re supposed to look out for each other.”

Tammy said, “Do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Give me a thirty-day notice before you start to chastise me. I want to make sure I have Johnny Cochran present.”

Tammy went on defending Karen, reminded me that she was all alone in this world. A couple of months after she was born, Karen’s daddy was killed in a pool hall fight over fifty cents. That was back in St. Louis. She has five brothers and sisters, but none of them talk, and she doesn’t know where any of them are. She came from that kind of family. When Karen was in elementary school, her momma ran off with some man and sent her out here to Rialto to live with a great-aunt. Her aunt had a stroke when Karen was seventeen and died less than a month later. She ended up in a group home until she turned eighteen.

“All things considered, she’s doing fine.”

“But she could do better.”

“One way or another, we could all do better.”

I don’t know anything about Tammy’s family, but I do know that she has a dream beyond standing behind somebody’s cash register and wearing a name tag for the next forty years.

Nope, I wouldn’t go off on Tammy. She’s too cool. Too real. Second, she understands me from the inside and doesn’t judge me from the outside. And I don’t mind loaning her money. She’s trying hard in Hollywood. I’m proud of her. She landed a major part in a CBS sitcom, but the comic who was the star was killed in a car crash right before they started taping.

Karen came out of the bathroom and went into the kitchen, took a cube of ice out of my refrigerator, wrapped it in a paper towel, made a noise like she was meditating, massaged her eyes and forehead. We made eye contact. Stared at each other. She tossed the ice in the sink, came over to me, hugged me, kissed the side of my face, then sat back down and grabbed a slice of pizza.

I spoke just above a whisper. “Sorry, Karen.”

She nodded. No matter how much evil stuff Karen has ever said to me, I’ve yet to hear her say she was sorry. It’s always me apologizing to her.

I said, “You okay?”

Karen was solemn. “Just sensitive about a thing or two.”

More silence breezed by.

Karen’s voice softened when she asked me, “You okay?”

I surrendered a smile. “Just sensitive about a thing or two.”

The side of the album ended, so I scooted to the stereo and turned it over. Put the needle on side two.

Stupidest sista with a degree.
I didn’t have
common sense.
I’d been poked in my eye with a blazing nail. All I did was give her the same hostile love, point out her faults, and that wanna-be Erykah Badu heifer folded like a cheap picnic table.

It wasn’t our first time going at it like that, and it probably wouldn’t be our last. To tell the truth, to me it was childish. Sort of the way rugrats in school go at it, swear they’ll never be friends again, but by recess they are buddy-buddy. That’s why an hour later it was business as usual and we were watching videos on BET, laughing, yawning.

Then we were calling hogs.

I woke up in the middle of the night to the irritating sound of the scratched album repeating the same lyric:
Roller coaster of love. Say wha— Roller coaster of love. Say wha—

My bladder screamed like a monkey set on fire. I pulled the comforter off my head, used the edge of the sofa to pull myself up.

Karen was sprawled out on the sofa, hugging my body-length pillow, her dark shoulder-length mane tangled and in her face.

Tammy was across the room on the carpet, in the fetal position, a psychedelic scarf covering her long brown weave with the golden streaks, my plaid Mexican blanket pulled up over her chest.

I tipped over, clicked the record player off, squeezed my legs tight, staggered to the bathroom, and relieved myself in the dark.

With the sound of my liquids breaking water I was dizzy,

but I mumbled to myself, “The next time things are gonna be different for me. Fuck trust. Play the game the way they play the game. Play the players before I get played. From now on, heads I win, tails they lose.”

Eager. Sitting out on my car, underneath a Valentine’s moon, I had been waiting almost an hour. I’d just paced up and down Town and Country Road, the private avenue inside the beige stucco condominiums called Phillips Meadow, when Brittany’s red Capri hummed around the corner. Her drop top was down. Hair bouncing when she screeched into Phillips Meadows, ran a stop sign, and hit the speed bumps full force. I’d been beginning to wonder if she’d be able to make it, if she couldn’t get away.

She parked in space 260, my extra spot that was underneath the pine trees and wealth of greenery that crept up the hill toward the 60 freeway, right behind my Mustang’s spot in my carport. She smiled and sang, “Sorry it took so long.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “You’re looking good.”

“Thank you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“It is now.”

Trying to catch Brittany was like trying to capture the wind with a net. Me and Brit had a one-on-one relationship back in the day, only I made a bad choice and fucked that up. She has a man, but from time to time she’s mine.

Brittany’s skin is the color of a new penny, dark freckles under her light brown eyes; she’s my height with her heels on.

She rustled around in her car, stepped out barefoot, threw her hose on the front seat, then put her sling-back shoes on. She moved like she was hungry for attention. I was famished. My soul was anticipating, getting aroused

with the thoughts of poetic intimacy and middle of the night conversation. She gave me a deep, brief kiss, then caressed my crotch.

“Put your top up.” I nodded at her car.

“Can’t stay.”

“What’s up?”

“Tony wants me to follow him to Santa Ana so he can drop his car off at his sister’s. He caught me off guard, and I couldn’t think of an excuse.”

“Santa Ana? All the way to Orange County?”

“She doesn’t have a ride to work and won’t get a rental, so he’s letting her cheap butt use his car this week.”

I glanced down the road, the way she’d just driven in the complex. “He’s not following you, is he?”

“I told him I couldn’t remember where his sister lived, so I’d have to follow him. Right before we got too close to your exit”—she laughed—“when we passed the 71 and were coming up on Phillips Ranch Road, I slowed down and let a couple of cars get in between us and jumped off the freeway.”

“You did what?” I laughed.

“I’ll tell him I got lost. It’s dark. My sinuses were bothering me, so my eyes are blurry. I’ll tell him I accidentally started following the wrong car.”

“Somebody’s gonna be mad.”

“I’ll say I’m pissed because he drove too fast, play that quiet mad role, you know. Pout like I was scared. Then he’ll apologize. I’ll forgive him tomorrow or the next day. He’ll be happy to see me smile again.”

“That sounds fine.”

We kissed and groped at each other all the way up the stairs. Laughing and snickering. We stopped tonguing long enough for me to put my key in the lock, but then she grabbed my hand and prevented me from opening the door.

Brittany licked my lips, then licked her own lips. “Here.”

I felt the warmth from her wanting. “Here?”

We were on my porch, a dim light overhead. Across Town and Country Road the windows in the condos of Country Park Villas faced us. Cars passed off and on. We were positioned in front of my neighbor Rebecca’s front door.

“Scared?” She started unzipping my pants. I shook my

head and smiled. The only thing predictable about Brittany was her unpredictability. As many times as I’d been with her, even when we were a couple, we’d seldom loved in the bedroom, hardly ever got all of our clothes off. It was always primitive and bold.

She turned around, hiked up her leather skirt, tiptoed, pulled me close, got comfortable, gripped the iron railing. I ran my hands up her side around to her front, under her silk blouse, and unsnapped her bra.

In the next heartbeat, we found our rhythm.

It was on.

Kleptomaniacs, stealing passion we knew somebody else thought was exclusively theirs.

I slapped my hand over her mouth to smother some of her moans, but I couldn’t do anything about the vibrating rail. In the midst of our motions, I played lookout and lover at the same time. I stood firm. Cars drove by. My eyes glossed over while I watched bedrooms facing us, wondering if any of the darkened rooms held Peeping Toms. Intensity grew with each slow in and out, with each bump and grind. I got so turned on, became overwhelmed by the tingle in my groin, the swelling and hardening of that part of me, working my hips against her soft backside, feeling her become a moaning fire, listening to her hum out that sweet feeling, that I was too excited to care if the entire community watched us over a bucket of popcorn.

Clicking noises came from downstairs. A door opened. Heavy feet scraped against concrete. We slowed, or rather I slowed. The more I slowed, the harder Brittany pushed and grabbed.

“Don’t stop,” she whimpered. “I was just about to—”

“Wait,” I whispered. I tried to back the limousine out of the garage, but she reached back and stuck her nails into my butt. Pulled me back inside. Again I whispered, “Hold on.”

She shuddered, made a
mmmph
sound; her face glowed with orgasm.

I covered her mouth. “Shhh. Shut up.”

She wheezed and panted. Then she was moving again, swirling, pumping.

From ground level came clicking sounds from two locks and a dead bolt. My graying Hispanic neighbor, Juan,

walked out below. He had his gas company uniform on, a sacked lunch in his hand.

I wrapped my arms tight around Brittany, straightened her up from her doggie-style position, adjusted our clothing the best I could with her still wiggling like a worm, made it look like we were snuggling under a full moon and a cool breeze.

“Did you?” she puffed.

“No.”

“Good.”

We acted like we were being playful while we watched the stars. Me still inside her, throbbing and ready to get back to my sensual dance. Brittany giggled and Juan looked up when he passed, but didn’t slow his stroll toward the carports.

Juan said, “Stephan, how are you, my friend?”

“Hey, Juan,” I said.

“Hola, mi amiga.”
He waved at Brittany, then looked at his watch. “How are you tonight?”

“Fine.” Brittany moaned.

Chills went all over my body.

“On the way to work?” I asked quickly.

Brittany leaned back and kissed me. I felt her hips, pushing back into me, sly and rotating toward her destination.

“Yep.” He yawned and moved on. “They put me back on third.”

“Too bad.”

He waved without looking. “Still got to make that money.”

Juan stepped out of sight. Brittany bent over, purred, growled, began pushing harder, aching and shaking like she was making up for the lost seconds. I moved her from the rails to the stucco walls, put our backs to the other condos. I put my hand over her mouth, smeared her dark lipstick when I tried to suffocate her sexy sounds, but she bit my hand and laughed. A quick minute later, she became rigid. Then one of her knees buckled a little bit; her eyes squinted like she was concentrating on squeezing out the last drop of pleasure. She threw her head back, bumped into mine, them smiled and let all of her inner air go free. She relaxed back into me. With her mission accomplished, I wanted to do the same. I was about to follow and match her satisfaction,

but she threw her hand back and grabbed my hips, stopping me with a soft plea: “No.”

She faced me, wrapped a leg around me. She loved to hold me, kiss with a passion, and steal my breath while I orgasmed. She got off on my erratic breathing. Shit drove me crazy.

A minute later, we were laughing, panting, adjusting our clothes and wiping our sweaty faces.

She tucked her blouse in. “I gotta run now.”

“Already?”

“Yep.” She snapped her dark satin bra back together. “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go.”

“Want a towel?”

“Nah.”

“No time to kick it for a few?”

“Next time.”

She fluffed her hair and put more lipstick on while I walked her to her car. More like followed her swift pace. She barely kissed me on my cheek and hopped in without a hug.

I asked, “When will I see you again?”

She winked. “I’ll call you.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

She sped off, never slowing at the speed bumps. I watched her become smaller, listened to her four-cylinder engine fade into the night. At the end of Town and Country Road, she screeched left, fled up Rio Rancho Boulevard. Fifteen minutes had passed since she pulled up. Under a star-filled sky, on Valentine’s night, a thief in the night had been ripped off by a thief of the night. Lipstick was smeared on my hand where she had bit me. The wetness and aroma on the front of my pants was all I had to convince me that she, or somebody, had been here. This was already a memory.