Hittin' It Out the Park (14 page)

She lowered her eyes, and started edging toward the exit, but he caught up to her before she reached it.

“Excuse me, is your name Cheryl Blanton?”

Cheryl was shaking inside, but she tried to keep her face composed. Was it him? It had to be him. He looked to be about fifteen or sixteen. It had to be him. This was the baby she'd given up all those years now. The doctor must have told him her real name after all. And now he was here confronting her. Had he been following her? For how long? What would he want? Should she lie?

“I'm sorry, ma'am. Are you all right?” the teenager said, a concerned look on his face. “Do you need to sit down or anything?”

“Why, why, why would you ask that?” Cheryl said, trying to control her breathing.

“Well, you suddenly look kind of pale,” the boy answered. “And your hands are shaking.”

Cheryl tried to broaden her smile as she leaned back onto a wall to ensure her knees didn't buckle. “No, I'm fine, but I need to get something to eat.”

“Oh, do you suffer from hypoglycemia?”

“What?”

“Low blood sugar. My friend's mother has it. She gets dizzy whenever she misses a meal,” the young man answered.

Cheryl shook her head. “No, I don't.”

“Oh, good.” The boy grinned and patted her arm. “You are Cheryl Blanton, though, aren't you?”

“Why?” Cheryl's heart raced. “Do I know you? Exactly who are you?”

“Oh, I didn't mean to be rude, ma'am. My name is Ronald Davidson,” the boy said quickly, reaching out and shaking her hand. “No, we haven't met, but I'm a big fan of your husband, Randy Alston. I play third base, too. I was hoping he might be here with you.”

Relief washed over her, and she felt she could breathe again. His last name was Davidson. The doctor who had adopted her baby was named Nehru. It wasn't her son. Her smile suddenly became genuine. “No, I'm sorry he's not. But I tell you what, since you're such a nice young man, if you give me your name and address, I'll have him send you some tickets to one of next weekend's games.”

“Oh, man! Would you?!”

Why am I tripping like this? Why would I, all of a sudden, imagine a kid was my child simply because he looked a little like me? Probably because of Randy talking about wanting a baby. Wanting a son.
Cheryl walked out of the store, completely forgetting about the watches she had planned to purchase for her husband.
I wonder what he does look like, though. Maybe he looks like me. Maybe he looks like his father, whoever the hell he is.

Her face clouded as her thoughts drifted back to seventeen years ago, when her mother's former boyfriend had convinced her to give up her virginity in exchange for $15,000. She'd gone through with it, only to find out that the man had paid Jackson the money upfront. And of course, by the time she found out, Jackson had already disappeared.

Leaving her even more depressed and just as hard up for money.

A few weeks later, while on a school trip to Washington, D.C., she ran into a good-looking older man whom she at first thought was a friend of her late father. She went over and talked to him, then realized she'd made a mistake. Embarrassed, she excused herself, but the man was very gracious, and they continued to talk. When he asked her age, she lied and said she was seventeen. One thing led to another, and he propositioned her. She ditched her schoolmates and spent the evening with him in D.C., returning to New York City the next day in a limousine and with $500 in her purse.

Inspired, Cheryl began traveling out of town on a regular basis, and pretending to innocently bump into well-to-do men, whom she seduced—for pay. She was adamant about never going back to the same man twice. She rationalized that if she didn't see a man more than once, he wouldn't recognize her if they crossed paths later in life. She didn't need any skeletons in her closet that would come back to haunt her. In her young mind, Cheryl believed she had it all figured out.

Until she started feeling nauseous and her small young breasts became so tender it hurt when they were touched.

Pregnant? How could it have happened? Cheryl had looked at the urine strip in shock. She'd made every man she slept with use a condom, even when they offered to pay extra to ride bareback. Now what was she going to do?

Three days later, she was sitting in Planned Parenthood's Margaret Sanger Clinic on Bleeker Street, waiting for her name to be called so she could go in the back and get her abortion when she noticed one of the doctors kept walking through the waiting room, and staring at her. Finally, he quietly beckoned her to follow him, and led her into a private office. He spent a half hour explaining that she bore an uncanny resemblance to his wife, and that they'd been trying unsuccessfully for years to have a child. Seven months later, they had a child and Cheryl had $30,000 in the bank.

Cheryl shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the memories, as she climbed into her Maybach.

“Girl, you'd better stop worrying about the past and start concentrating on the present to ensure your damn future,” she said to the image reflected in the rearview mirror she was adjusting after starting the ignition. “You had a baby once, dammit; you'd better hurry up and pop another one out, soon.”

Y
usef had successfully cultivated a public image of a macho athlete, but he was the complete opposite behind closed doors. It was sickening the way he was always upset about one thing or another. Most of the time, he acted like a little bitch on his period. After discovering Sexy had gotten thrown out of the owner's skybox, Yusef had become livid and stopped speaking to her.

Sexy didn't give a damn that they weren't communicating; what irked her was the way he had stomped around the hotel, slamming doors, cabinets, and drawers while packing for his game in Baltimore.

If they were sharing a roomy apartment, she could have retreated to another area and ignored his childish tantrum, but being holed up in the hotel together had been torturously confining for a couple at odds. She breathed a sigh of relief when Yusef finally vacated the hotel, taking his bad energy with him.

Yusef and his dramatic-self had behaved as if her getting thrown out of the skybox was the ultimate embarrassment and the end of the world. Sexy, on the other hand, wasn't sweating it. She'd been thrown out of more places than she could count, and would probably get thrown out of many more if that bitch, Cheryl, continued to come out of her mouth with insults and slurs.

Her mouth twisted into a smirk as she recalled the turbulent path that had brought her to this point in her life. Before assuming the identity of Sexy Sanchez, she'd been Amanda, an honor student and captain of the girl's lacrosse team at the prestigious prep school she'd attended since elementary school. Unfortunately, along the way, she'd developed a festering anger toward her parents, whom she had begun to view as pretentious, dishonest, and totally obnoxious. Especially her mother. Bringing shame upon the distinguished family name became one of Amanda's favorite pastimes.

A devilish smile played at the corners of her mouth as she reminisced about all the hell she'd raised in her affluent community back when she was still living at home with her parents. To say that she'd been a wild child was putting it mildly.

Labeled a thief, a liar, and a ho, Amanda's reputation was so badly tarnished, she was no longer welcome in most of her classmate's homes. Wanting to give her daughter an opportunity to enjoy life with a clean slate, Clarissa encouraged her husband to introduce Amanda to the refined offspring of a few of his esteemed colleagues who lived in bordering Philadelphia Main Line communities—people who had no knowledge of Amanda's troubled past.

During a sleepover hosted by Abigail Whitaker, the daughter of Dr. Henry Whitaker, a professor in the department of Modern Literature at the University of Pennsylvania where Amanda's father was the dean of the medical school, Amanda found her new acquaintances to be terribly boring and immature for fourteen-year-old girls. While the silly girls made up fake profiles on Facebook, using porn-star images to entice boys from their school, Amanda thought of something much more exciting to indulge in.

Under the pretext of wanting something from the kitchen, she slipped out of Abigail's bedroom and found her way into Dr. Whitaker's study, where he sat at his desk, smoking a cigar and drinking a glass of sherry as he pored over a leather-bound volume of some boring-looking tome.

“May I help you, young lady?” he asked, looking over his glasses in bewilderment.

“Whatcha doing, Doc?” she inquired with a coquettish lilt to her voice as she stood in the doorway.

“I'm—uh—catching up on some reading. Can I help you with something, Amanda?”

Dr. Whitaker was a youthful forty-something. Not particularly handsome, but his toned body attested to many hours spent playing racquetball and tennis. Additionally, there was a sparkle in his eyes that was appealing in a sexy-nerd sort of way. But most importantly, his wife was right upstairs and Amanda loved living on the edge.

At five-feet-nine with super long, athletic legs and a curvaceous figure, Amanda had the body of a full-grown woman, and she loved flaunting her femininity. The short, frilly PJs she wore revealed her never-ending legs, and even gave a peek at her firm ass cheeks.

“You look stressed, Dr. Whitaker,” she said, quietly closing the door behind her. “I know a great stress reliever.” Mischief danced in her eyes as she moistened her lips.

Dr. Whitaker stood up, and said in a stern voice: “Now, listen, young lady—”

“Shh. No one has to know,” she purred. “I won't tell if you don't,” she whispered as she kneeled in front of him and ran a hand over his crotch.

“This isn't right,” he said in weak protest while lowering his pants to his thighs and releasing his erection.

Men were so stupid and weak. Amanda couldn't suppress a smile as she skillfully pulled his hardened length inside her mouth. She took her time, leisurely licking him from the base to the head, and then lapping at the glistening pre-cum that bubbled out.

Suddenly out of his mind with lust, Dr. Whitaker began stroking inside Amanda's mouth with reckless abandon. “It's been so long,” he growled. “Oh, God this feels so good.” He pressed down on the top of her head as he aggressively drove himself in and out of her mouth.

Too bad Dr. Whitaker hadn't reached the finish line before the door to his study suddenly sprang open. Stunned, Mrs. Whitaker stood with her mouth agape, yet no sound emerged. She watched in horror as her husband yanked up his pants and blamed Amanda for seducing him.

Amanda burst into tears, wiping the side of her mouth and muttering, “He made me do it!”

“Oh, my God, Henry. What have you done? What kind of perverted monster am I married to?”

“I can explain,” Dr. Whitaker cried, wearing a pained expression that begged for understanding.

“There's nothing to explain. A fourteen-year-old girl can't force the will of a grown man.”

Alerted by the noise, Abigail and her friends began tramping down the stairs. A look of alarm flashed in Mrs. Whitaker's eyes, and she glanced at Amanda. Amanda interpreted the look in Mrs. Whitaker's eyes as the promise of untold material gain if Amanda helped with damage control.

On cue, Amanda hurried out of the study, closing the door behind her.

“What's all the yelling about?” Abigail inquired.

Amanda lifted a shoulder. “I don't know. I was in the kitchen looking through the fridge when your parents started arguing. I tried to find out what was going on, but I think we should give them their space.” Amanda shooed the girls away from the study and herded them back upstairs.

A week later, Amanda requested that Mrs. Whitaker get her tickets to the Rihanna concert. The next week she demanded a new phone and an iTunes gift card. She'd been working her way toward requesting $600 to pay for a fake ID when she found out that Dr. Whitaker had resigned from the literature department and had moved his family to Europe where he'd accepted a position at a university in London.

Some months after that, bored in church one Sunday morning, Amanda decided to have some fun by luring pimply-faced, seventeen-year-old Nick Baldwin out of Sunday service and downstairs to the basement of the church. The awkward, bashful boy was a virgin, and although their sexual connection was completely unsatisfying, Amanda derived excitement from the idea of fornicating in the church while the pastor was in the midst of preaching a sermon.

There was an added bonus when Ms. Ramsey—the church secretary—came downstairs, snooping around for some unknown reason. The woman's response to catching Amanda's legs open and Nick with his pants down was priceless. She let out a shriek and then began rapidly patting her chest in an attempt to regulate her heartbeat. Moving as if Satan were on her heels, she raced out of the basement, fanning her face and muttering, “Oh, Jesus. Oh, Lord.”

Eyes widened and sparkling with mischief, Amanda stared at Nick and fell out laughing. But Nick had a totally different reaction. Red-faced and gasping for breath, he rifled through his pockets and pulled out his asthma inhaler. Before Amanda's and Nick's parents as well as other members of the congregation had trekked down to the basement, Nick was in the midst of a full-blown asthma attack.

Nick was taken out on a stretcher, and Amanda's mortified parents hustled her out of the church through an obscure, rear door. Amanda and Nick were forbidden from attending future church services, and their return to the flock was contingent upon the completion of a psychotherapy treatment program.

For months, Amanda and Nick were the hot topic of the quiet community. Clarissa attempted to place full responsibility on Nick, who she claimed had coerced and manipulated her innocent, young daughter. The Baldwins countered by accusing Amanda of stealing Nick's class ring during the scandalous sex act, a claim that Clarissa found laughable. Amanda had no reason to steal anything. Amanda's parents indulged their daughter with the best of everything, including heaps of pricey, elegant jewelry, so why on earth would she need to pilfer a cheesy class ring?