Authors: Dwayne S. Joseph
Eye for an Eye (4 page)
6
Love.
Tried once.
During a moment of weakness.
Never to be tried again.
After Jamil, there were no others. Not out of fear, but rather because of the sheer fact that men and compromising myself in any way, shape, or form for them just simply wasn't an option. Lisette Jones had made that mistake. I never would.
With that distraction dead and gone, I went on to achieve success working for a major fashion company in New York. At that point in my life, I thought I was where I was supposed to be, doing what I was supposed to be doing. I was twenty-six. I held an executive position as head buyer. I was living comfortably, earning well over six figures. The car I drove was a top-of-the-line Mercedes-Benz. Most importantly, I controlled everything and everyone around me, whether they realized it or not.
Lisette Jones.
The lack of respect she had for herself disgusted me. Made me hate any woman like her. On one level or another, most women were like Lisette Jones. Most women sought the company, comfort, and love from a man, as though having that validated their roles as women. The ones who claimed they didn't want or need it were full of shit.
I had nothing in common with Lisette Jones or any woman like her, which is why I never established friendships with them. I had no desire to be around them. I had no desire to bond with them. The drama they endured in their lives would never be something I would have to deal with, because I didn't do relationships. Being completely self-satisfying meant being the fittest one to survive, and survival was all that mattered. Nothing and no one else did.
At twenty-six, my path was laid out before me. Straight and uncompromising. But then I went to Houston, Texas, and the most unexpected right turn appeared on the path I'd been traveling.
I became a home wrecker.
A woman paid to set up husbands, to help wives regain all of the power, dignity, and control that they should have never given up.
The change in my profession had been unplanned, and it had been a destiny that I couldn't avoid.
It started with Marlene Stewart. A successful woman, she allowed herself to be stuck in a marriage to a pathetic joke of a man named Steve. In the lounge of the Sofitel Hotel in Houston, Texas, I came up with a plan to give Marlene the ability to walk away from Steve with all of the control she'd lost long before Steve or her two exes before him. My help hadn't been free and it hadn't been cheap, but Steve's cancerous ways had been killing Marlene slowly, and in order to receive the chemotherapy I was offering to help put her in remission, she was willing to pay me $50,000.
Marlene Stewart.
My association with her should have ended after I helped her, but just as the control had been an aphrodisiac for me, so too had been the money that she'd insisted other wealthy women she'd known were willing to pay for the freedom that I could help give them.
And pay they had.
For two years, the partnership Marlene and I formed had been a lucrative one, and relatively drama free. All of the clients we dealt with knew to keep the information they passed along to a bare minimum. Or so I thought, until one client who'd received far too much information threatened not only my livelihood, but my life as well.
Kyra Rogers.
She wanted me to trap her husband because she couldn't go through with a deal she'd made. Her husband had her sign a prenuptial agreement, stating that she would receive $5 million for every five years of marriage. She was in year two of the union when she came looking for my services. She wasn't a woman struggling with life with no control the way the other women I'd dealt with had been. She wasn't living with a man whose mission was to conquest as much pussy as he could. Her husband wasn't physically, verbally, or emotionally abusive. He was quite simply a spineless waste of a man with a dick that he didn't deserve to have. Kyra arrogantly offered me $200,000 to get the job done. But despite the amount, I turned her down, because as much as I have no tolerance for women who allow themselves to be controlled, I had less respect for Kyra and her arrogance and greed.
Kyra was used to getting what she wanted though, and didn't appreciate my rejection. She tried to teach me a lesson.
I won't lie.
She almost did.
She'd managed to do what no one else had. Break me down. Turn me into the type of woman I loathed. She'd had me beaten and raped, and I became weak, vulnerable, and insecure.
I didn't have any friends, or so I'd thought.
Fortunately for me, Marlene saw our relationship not as a partnership, but rather a friendship. I tried to fight her and push her away, but despite my best efforts, she wouldn't have it. She helped pull me out of the black hole I was being sucked into. She also helped me realize that while Kyra had broken me, she hadn't won because I had survived.
Kyra thought she'd been better than me, but after Marlene helped slap me back into reality, I showed Kyra that she was nowhere close to being in my league.
Most women would have quit after going through what I'd gone through. Most women would have rationalized that they'd been lucky to survive and that they needed to quit while they were ahead.
But what didn't kill me only made me stronger and smarter.
Home wrecker.
That's who I'd become.
And I enjoyed it.
Present
7
I opened my eyes.
“Amado Mio” was replaying again.
I'd fallen asleep. I don't know how many replays I'd missed, but my bath water had gotten cold. Before Marlene called and disturbed me, I was relaxing. Enjoying Pink Martini's melody, on my way to an orgasm that no one but my song could deliver. I shivered, but not because of the water's temperature.
My past.
That had given me the chills.
Damn Marlene for fucking up my high.
After her call, I closed my eyes and breathed slow, even breaths. Her talk about the bullshit possibility of it had irritated the hell out of me. I tried to focus on the song that I should have detested. Tried to get back to the self-satisfaction I was minutes away from achieving.
I breathed.
“Amado Mio” played.
I went back to the goddamned past.
I shivered again.
Said, “Fuck you, Marlene. Fuck you and love.”
Love was for the weak. Love was for people who wanted to live their lives blind to the reality that love was nothing but a lie. Marlene could talk all of the bullshit she wanted to, but my mother, father, Jamil Parker, Lisette Jones, and all of the men I'd dealt with since, have all shown me just how full of shit the word love really was.
It didn't exist.
Marlene called me jaded, but she'd been wrong. I wasn't jaded at all. My eyes were simply open and my heart refused to play tricks on my mind.
“Amado Mio.”
I really should hate the damn song.
I exhaled, lifted the stopper to let the cold water go down, stood up, and stepped out of the tub.
Marlene had a potential client. Four months had passed since I'd had one. During that time, I'd worked with Aida, a younger version of me. I'd seen her on the dance floor of the 40/40 club, the night I'd shown Kyra what it meant to truly be in control. She was dancing alone in the middle of the floor, putting on a show for everyone, yet no one at the same time. Men and women watched her, their stares filled with lust, envy, and jealousy, but the attention meant nothing to her. She wasn't there looking for anyone's approval or company. That night, the satisfaction she craved had been to utter a silent “Fuck off” to everyone there.
No one else inside of the club understood that, but I did, because saying “Fuck off” was something I got off on. There's a power to it. An orgasmic feeling to knowing that you are both wanted and hated.
Until that night, I'd never given thought to turning what I did into something that would extend beyond myself. But staring at Aida on that dance floor, knowing that the thoughts she'd read in everyone's eyes, the yearning in their body language, had her wet, made me wet. Never before had I met someone with the looks, the attitude, and the almost full understanding of what control was. It was as though I'd given birth to her.
I approached her because I knew that what I did would appeal to her. She craved control. She liked to manipulate. I wanted to show her how to master them. I wanted to show her how to truly get off.
As I knew would be the case, Aida had been a natural. Digesting and willingly putting into practice the knowledge I instilled, setting up men became her new form of masturbation. I found great satisfaction in that.
I stepped out of the bathroom and went to the living room. The past three clients had gone to Aida. Now there was a new one. I'd told Marlene to give that one to Aida too, but standing there, unmoving with the love song that excited me like no other, I knew the time had come.
I turned my BlackBerry on.
I didn't believe in love, but I loved what I did.
I found Marlene's name and hit the talk button to connect the call.
When she answered seconds later, I said, “What has her husband done?”
“Not her husband. Her brother-in-law. He's come on to her repeatedly. She's told her sister, but the sister doesn't believe her and now isn't talking to her. She wants proof to help open her sister's eyes. She says money is no object.”
“Have her meet me at Barnes & Noble tomorrow at noon.”
“OK. Oh, before I forget, someone called yesterday. A former client.”
“Who?”
“Rebecca Stantin.”
Rebecca Stantin. She'd come seeking my help because her husband, a very well, known pastor, liked to physically and verbally abuse her. I provided very graphic photographs that instantly put an end to the bullshit.
“What did she want?”
“She requested a meeting with you. She says she has something important to discuss with you.”
“And she didn't tell you what it was?”
“No. She said she only wants to talk about it with you.”
I shook my head. “I don't have time. If she calls again, tell her that whatever she wants to discuss, she'll have to do it with you.”
“OK. One last thing.”
“What?”
“I have to ask . . . What made you change your mind about meeting with the new client tomorrow?”
I thought about her question for a moment, then said, “My past.”
I ended the call and stood still.
My past.
It was history.
Just like Kyra.
Aida was good, but the time had come for me to get back in the game.
8
Barnes & Noble.
At the café.
On the left side, sipping a vanilla latte, venti size. No whipped cream.
As usual, the café was alive with activity. High school students hovered around tables with school books open in front of them and talked about anything but their schoolwork. College students sat with ear plugs in their ears and their heads buried in their textbooks or laptops. Mothers sat with children in strollers or highchairs, waiting for fathers who stood in line to buy sandwiches, cookies, and milk. Wives without their children sat with other wives and enjoyed their few moments of peace, while husbands and single men alike sat together and discussed various topics ranging from politics to sports, as their lines of sight went from one woman's ass to the next, both discreetly and without shame.
I observed it all without paying any real attention to any of it as I waited for Shante Hunt to arrive to discuss why and how she wanted me to trap her brother-in-law.
Women generally wanted their husbands set up for various reasons. Some wanted evidence to use against their men to help them garner the best payday possible as they sought divorce. These women were often physically, verbally, or emotionally abused and felt as though they had no way out. My services helped to empower them so they could take the necessary steps that they'd been afraid to take to seek happiness.
Other women wanted me to provide them with hard evidence, not for the purpose of divorce, but rather for leverage. These clients usually didn't work and were completely dependent on the money and lifestyles their philandering husbands provided. The hard evidence, usually in the form of photographs or videos, gave them the ability to do whatever the hell they wanted. Let's face it, it was easier for their men to allow them to run around and fuck whoever they wanted, than it was to go through with the hassle of divorce, and the money their infidelity would cause them to loseâespecially if children were involved.
Empowerment and leverage.
The definition for both was control.
I always gave my clients that.
Shante Hunt would be my first client not seeking it for herself.
“Lisette?”
I'd seen her when she walked into the bookstore. She wasn't there to browse for a novel. She wasn't there to meet friends. Her steps were full of purpose. Her line of sight had been focused solely on the café.
I took a sip of my latte and looked up at her.
She looked biracialâmaybe mixed with black and Spanish or Filipino. Her hair was shoulder-length and brown. Her eyes were feline-shaped and hazel. Her nose was thin with a slight ball at the tip. Her lips were thin up top, but full on the bottom. Amazonian in height at about five-eleven, I put her at about 160 pounds, with a set of natural thirty-eight Ds that stood high in a red tank top she had on. Her brother-in-law must have been a breast man.
I said, “And you are?”
She flashed a weird smile and extended a hand. “I'm Shante Hunt.”
I didn't have an obsessive-compulsive disorder, but I didn't like to shake people's hands unless I had to. She was there to see me, so I didn't take it. I motioned to the empty seat on the other side of the square table. “Have a seat, Shante.”
Shante looked at me momentarily and then pulled her hand back, pulled the chair out, and sat down.
I took another sip of my latte.
Shante said, “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
A group of teenagers sitting on the floor to our the left burst out in laughter. Shante looked in their direction, and then looked at the other patrons around us.
I said, “Is something wrong?”
She frowned a bit, and with the volume of her voice dropping slightly, said, “Is . . .” She paused as the teenagers broke out in laughter again. “Is there someplace else that we could talk? Someplace more . . . private?”
I sipped my latte again and looked over at the teens and then back to Shante. “They're talking about their English teacher and his outburst in class when the boy in the blue T-shirt farted out loud during a test. The couple behind us are talking about their son and new girlfriend. Neither one of them likes her. The two women sitting behind you are talking about their girlfriend who's not with them. The girlfriend is having an affair with her husband's coworker and swears she's in love. They know better and are hoping the friend wakes up before it's too late. The employees behind the counter are talking about the classes they're taking.”
I paused. Sipped my latte. Looked at Shante.
“No one here cares about what you and I are talking about. This is private.”
Shante cleared her throat. “OK.”
“So how can I help you, Shante?”
Shante cleared her throat again. “I assume you know why I'm here.”
“If you mean about you wanting to set up your brother-in-law, then yes. I do.”
Shante nodded. “Well, as I explained to your associate, I heard that you have the, uh, . . . ability to help people with marital problems.”
I closed my eyes a bit. I'd gotten all of the information I needed from Marlene, but I asked her anyway. “And where exactly did you get this information from?”
“You helped a friend of a friend of mine about a year ago with her situation. Kelsey Winters.”
Kelsey Winters.
A client I'd had before Kyra.
She was one of the wives who never had any intention of leaving her unfaithful husband or the six-figure income he brought home yearly. She just wanted something to hold over him so that she could do whatever the hell she wanted. I provided her with a videotape of her husband eating my pussy.
Kelsey lives it up now and her husband doesn't say shit.
“My friend told me what you'd done for Kelsey. She said that you could take care of this issue for me.”
I drank some more of my latte. It was getting tepid. Hot drinks served in cheap cups designed to allow your drinks to go cold faster, which made you get up and spend more money on another hot drink. It was a scam that many cafés participated in. I pushed my half-empty latte to the side. I wasn't getting another cup.
“So why do you want to have your brother-in-law trapped?”
Shante looked around at the people who didn't give a shit about our conversation and then leaned forward. “My brother-in-law . . . He's an asshole. I've never liked him. Not when my sister introduced me to him two years ago. Not one year ago when they got married. And definitely not six months ago when he came on to me.”
I stared at her but didn't say anything.
“My sister and I are eighteen months apart. We have different styles, but we've always been extremely close. Growing up, when one of us got hurt, the other knew it. When my sister was thirteen years old, she fell off of her bike and broke her right arm. I was at the store with my father when my left arm started to hurt me so bad that I began to scream and cry. Minutes after the pain started, my mother called my father to tell him what had happened to my sister. That's how things were between my sister and me growing up. You would have thought we were twins.
“Of course we had our share of arguments and cat fights, but nothing was ever that serious. Honestly, I didn't think that anything could have ever come between us. Men, women, children, money . . . nothing. But then she met Ryan. Nothing's been the same since then.”
Shante paused as the teenagers beside us broke out in laughter again, and then continued.
“I just knew that Ryan was a piece of shit the moment she introduced me to him. I wasn't fooled by his good looks, his toned body, or his charm. I saw past all of that. I saw in his eyes that he was a jerk. I saw it in his smile. He was a fake. A typical man incapable of having any respect for women.”
“Did you say anything to your sister?”
Shante shook her head, frowned, and sighed. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Sam's never really had any luck with men. She's chosen great, lifelong friends who compliment the person she is, but she's never been that fortunate with the men she's chosen. For some reason, she's always gravitated toward assholes. Assholes who were abusive. Assholes who liked to control everything she did. Assholes who couldn't keep their zippers closed. Assholes like Ryan.”
She paused and drummed her fingers on the tabletop.
I watched her. She had a strong don't-fuck-with-me spirit that I liked. I didn't know anything about her, or anything about the men she'd ever been involved with, but it was obvious that she would never be a woman who needed my services for herself.
“I'm going to get a caramel macchiato. Do you want anything?”
I shook my head.
She got up and went to the counter. Three minutes later, she was back with her macchiato.
She sat down. “I love these,” she said, taking a sip.
I sat back in my chair with my arms folded across my chest. “So Ryan's an asshole,” I said.
Shante took another sip, wrapped her fingers around the cup, and nodded. “I knew she was heading toward trouble when she said yes to his fucking marriage proposal, which, by the way, was done in front of our entire family. For a full year I watched that smug son-of-a-bitch pull the wool over Sam's eyes as well as the rest of the family. It was a joke. Everyone was blind to him. Blinded by his looks, the money he made, the bullshit personality. Why I was the only one who knew he was full of shit, I don't know. But I knew.”
“Yet you didn't say anything.”
Shante sighed. “Like I said, the men Sam has been with . . . they've all been such wastes. Without fail, each and every one of them has broken her heart in one way or another. Before Ryan, she'd been living like a nun. She didn't go out, she wouldn't date, and she wouldn't even make an attempt to speak to a man. I swear she was heading straight to the monastery, or into the arms of another woman. But then one day she came over to my apartment and she had the biggest smile on her face.
“That's one thing about Sam. She always had a smile on her face. But as she had bad luck with the men, she smiled less and less, until it finally got to the point where I hardly ever saw her smile anymore.
But that day she came over . . .”
Shante paused and flashed a smile of her own.
“She told me all about Ryan. Where and how she met him. How she couldn't wait for me to meet him. For my parents to meet him. She was so freaking happy. I was too. It was like finally I could have my sister back. But then I met that piece of shit.”
“Again you didn't say anything.”
“I wanted to, Lisette. Shit, I really did. I knew he was a playa, but Sam was her old self with him in her life, and as badly as I wanted to tell her that I didn't like or trust him, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. After all of the heartache she'd suffered, I just couldn't and wouldn't be the one to bring hurt into her life again.”
“So you let your sister date a man you knew would disrespect her?”
Shante frowned. “Yes.”
“And then you let her marry him.”
A deeper frown. “Yes.”
“And now she's not speaking to you.”
Shante nodded.
“Guess you should have said something.”
Shante sighed. “I just figured if she was happy dealing with him and his shit, then fine. So be it. It was her life. I mean, she wouldn't be the first woman to stay married to a man who didn't give her the respect that she deserved, right? You would have done the same for your sister.”
I shook my head. “No, I wouldn't have.”
Shante drummed her fingers on the tabletop again, and then lifted her cup to swallow some more of her macchiato, but then put it back down before the Styrofoam hit her lips.
“Six months ago that ass came on to me. We were at my parents' annual barbecue. I had to use the bathroom. All the ones downstairs were occupied, so I went to use the one upstairs. He was just coming out of that bathroom when I got there. I'd never felt comfortable around him. Always felt like he was looking at me like a piece of meat. Up until that point, looking was all he'd ever done. But with no one around, he grabbed my ass and suggested that we sneak into the bathroom together.
“His advance caught me by complete surprise, and it actually took me a few seconds to grasp what had just happened. After the shock wore off though, I went off on him. Called him all kinds of names, told him that if he ever touched me again I was going to fuck him up and then tell Sam.”
“And what did he do?”
“He laughed. Then he said that he knew I always wanted him and that it could happen. That he would never say a word to anyone. You know . . .” She stopped talking again as the teenagers burst out in laughter again. When they quieted down, she continued. “You know, had he only tried it one time, I might have let it go. But he tried it again on two separate occasions after that. It's one thing to disrespect my sister, but I'll be damned if I'll let you get away with disrespecting me like that.”
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