Maneater (3 page)

H
ad a lotta shit on my dick.

Seven didn't know me. No one knew the real Maverick Maxamillion. I was a motherless child, knew I wanted to be loved, and was not so sure I was capable of loving. I was money hungry, and money masked my insecurities and promiscuity. I was certain that Seven loved me, and I loved Seven the best I knew how. How could I keep a secret from her?

Best to let her go now, spare her the shock of discovering what I'd taken from her without her permission. The choice to decide if she wanted to marry a bisexual man. Shit was complicated. My reputation was at stake if I came out. Couldn't give my father another reason to disown me. My business partners would force me out. Clearly, I needed Seven more than she needed me.

Seven sat there, searching my eyes for answers I'd never share. She was so damn gorgeous. Large, brown, dreamy eyes. Thick, full, pouting lips, which men craved to have on their dicks. Flawless skin, softer than a baby's. Long, silky jet-black hair, which nicely framed her grapefruit-sized natural breasts. Sexy, shapely legs. She'd put on more weight than I desired. Wouldn't hurt her to get it off before the wedding, but her weight gain wasn't the reason I had to have space.

“Think about how we can work this out. I've got to go to my office for a few hours,” I lied, then said, “We can finish this discussion when I get back.” I stood, kissed her on the cheek. I looked over my shoulder as I walked away. She hadn't moved or stopped crying.

I retrieved my cell phone off the coffee table, got on the elevator, strolled past the doorman at the front desk, walked outside, then strode to my town car.

“You sure you want to go there?” Danté asked, holding my door open.

“Yeah, I'm sure, man. Drive,” I said, closing my eyes before he'd shut my door. Leaning my neck against the leather headrest, I felt tears escape as I visualized Seven crying.

In many ways, I was perfect and fucked up. Parental rejection had ruined my childhood. Truth was, I wished my father were dead. Better to lie to Seven about my parents than to have her deal with the bullshit I'd been confronted with all my life—death threats, rejection.

“I hate that motherfucker,” I said, struggling to suppress my sniffles. Hated him for emotionally breaking me down.

Stomp!
The sole of my leather shoe landed against the back of the driver's seat. Adjusting my black slacks, I spread my thighs, held my dick.

“Don't know why you put yourself through this every week,” Danté said from the driver's seat. His deep voice excited me. “Just whup your old man's ass, get your mother out of his house, and let her live with us.”

I wasn't going to argue with him. I'd told him the house I was building based on Seven's architectural plans was for Seven, not for him. Initially I'd asked Seven to leave so I could keep our new home, the home she'd fantasized about, a surprise. I was tired of Danté's insecure ass being in competition with my fiancée.

My immediate concern was my mom. I had to find a way to free her. She was miserable, but refused to leave my trifling father. They'd probably die together. The same way Jesse Jackson had offered no genuine apology to Obama for saying, “I wanna cut his nuts off.” Right or wrong, I would not apologize to my dad for disrespecting him.

The closer Danté got to my parents' home on the South Side of Chicago, the slower he drove. We bypassed Soldier Field, where I'd be Monday night watching the game from my owner's suite. A few days after that, I'd be at the United Center, in the suite I owned.

Danté parked in front of my father's house. The lawns adjacent to his one-story, three-bedroom, two-bath, two-thousand-square-foot home had grass up to my knees, with
FOR SALE
signs on them. I should purchase both homes so no one would hear him scream when I beat his ass to death.

I walked up five wide cement steps to the front door, glanced over my shoulder, saw Danté sitting with his car door open, feet planted on the sidewalk, watching my back.

Knock. Knock. Knock.
The side of my fist banged on the screen.

Quickly, my dad appeared. Unshaven. Grumpy. Shirt wrinkled. Hair woolly. Halitosis slapped me in the nose.

Stepping back, I said, “I came to see my mother.”

“Where's your damn respect, boy?” he grumbled, coughing through the screen. “You ain't stepping foot in my house until you learn to respect me.”

“You sorry-ass motherfucker!” I shouted, then spat in his face. “That's my mother.”

“Got it twisted. She was my woman before you came along,” he said, wiping my spit from his eyes. “Wait right there. I got your motherfucker for you.” He disappeared into the house.

Peeping into the living room, I saw my mom rocking in her favorite chair. When my dad came into view, she jumped from the cherrywood rocker, grabbed his arms, and screamed, “Leave my baby alone! No, Frank, don't kill him!”

“Let me go, woman,” he said, pushing my mother to the floor.

Pow!

A bullet ripped through the screen, barely missing my shoulder.

Seconds later, Danté was on the porch, dragging me away, when
pow,
another bullet darted between our faces.

Jabbing my fists in the air toward him, I yelled, “You're not the only one with a gun. Be a real man. Put the gun down. Confront me to my face. This ain't over. I'll be back for your sorry ass.” Danté dragged me down the steps, forced me into the back of the car, slammed my door, then sped off.

“You got a death wish? You're not going to be satisfied until he kills you. This is our last time coming over here,” Danté commanded.

Danté made me realize that by showing up at Frank's doorstep every week, I was more afraid to live than to die.

Y
ou know the saying “The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.” What was that all about? I thought Maverick was happy with my cooking. Was I not supposed to eat the food I'd cooked for him? During our twelve-month engagement, I'd admittedly gained a few pounds. Hips fuller. Waist thicker. Face slightly rounder. I honestly loved my man so much, I'd do anything to please him. I stood over the stove to prepare his breakfast and dinner seven days a week and served him lunch when we were home lounging on the weekends.

For the first time in our two years together, I slept alone last night, not knowing where Maverick was. Worrying if he was safe. He hadn't answered or returned my phone calls. Came in this morning, five o'clock, no conversation, then crashed with his clothes on. I'd given him three hours to rest.

“Maverick, why? Why bring this up eight weeks before the wedding?” I said, nudging him in his side. Forcing back tears, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at him. “You could've said something two, four, six, eight, even ten months ago if you didn't want me gaining weight.”

Eyelids closed, eyebrows raised, he mumbled, “Are you serious? I shouldn't have had to say anything at all. You don't have to work. You're home all day or out shopping with Zena. Zena hasn't gained weight. You're the one who chose not to exercise. You're not a kid. You're an adult. Common sense should've made you realize your ass was spreading. I shouldn't have to tell you what to do.”

“Oh, you mean like when you told me, ‘I don't want my wife working. Stay home. Seven, stop hanging out late at night with Zena. She's a single woman. Find some married friends. Stop going to happy hour with your college friends, because you're about to be a married woman. I'm an icon in Chicago. I will not have my wife-to-be giving me a bad reputation by being seen with the wrong kind.' You mean you shouldn't have told me what to do the day after you proposed?” I waited for his answer to that.

Rolling over twice, then getting out on the opposite side of the bed, he said, “That was pathetic. I don't care what you do with your life, but don't change the subject. You can't even fit into the fifty-thousand-dollar wedding dress I bought you. I'm not wasting money on another one. Nor am I altering the one you have. That's final, sweetheart. I hope, for your sake, whatever you decide to do works for me. I can arrange for you to go to a weight-loss camp for the next six weeks,” he said, heading to the bathroom.

I followed him, talking to his back. “Fuck you, Maverick,” I finally said. Staring in the mirror, I allowed my gaze to scroll to his stomach. He'd put on a few pounds, too; his gut was bulging farther than his dick.

“Seven, don't go there,” he said, removing his clothes, pressing his hand against his abs. “I can lose these few pounds in one week. All my shit still fits, including my ring. Stay focused. This isn't about me. I love you, baby, but there's no way I can walk down the aisle with you looking like you're five months pregnant when you're not having a baby. What's going to happen when you do get pregnant and put on twenty-five more pounds on top of the twenty-five you've already gained?”

Five months pregnant? More like a week late with my period.
Maybe my rhythm was off due to my excitement at becoming Mrs. Maxamillion. I wanted us to be pregnant, to surprise him with our child. After the wedding, not before.

“Where were you last night?” I asked, watching him aim his dick, hands free, over the toilet.

“Looking for your replacement,” he said. “A woman who's not fat. Find a fat farm today, and I don't mean p-h-a-t.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked.

Forcing back stinging tears, I thought of all the foods I'd eliminated from my diet after leaving my parents' house in Mississippi to attend college in Chicago. Ham hocks, collard greens, sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes loaded with real butter, fried chicken, smothered pork chops with gravy, pound cake from scratch, red beans with pickled rib tips, cheese grits, pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, bagels with cream cheese and preserves. When I met Maverick, I started cooking those foods to impress him with my beauty, brains, and domestic skills.

“I can't leave. I have too many wedding details to finalize…the rehearsal dinner, the cake, the champagne, the reception catering—”

Shaking his dick, Maverick flushed the toilet, then abruptly interrupted. “See, all you think about is food. Zena has helped you with all those things. She's your maid of honor. She'll take over the planning until you get back.”

“What! Zena? Ms. Pisces, control freak, ‘shove her ideas down everyone's throat, then force them to swallow' Zena? Are you serious? Baby, this is our wedding, not hers. I know I can get the weight off without going away. Hire me a nutritionist, a personal trainer, or somebody to assist me,” I pleaded, tears streaming down my cheeks.

Zena was an amazingly attractive workaholic who Maverick couldn't stand having in our house for more than an hour. Whenever she came over, he wouldn't ask her to leave; he'd leave. As long as I was at home with Zena, he didn't complain. But my going out with my best friend after dark had become a discussion not worth having.

Zena and I had shopped around for my wedding gown and reception dress. I'd let her select her dress, along with the style for my two bridesmaids. She'd helped me select my shoes and veil. Our personalities were opposite, yet our taste in clothes, men, and cars was the same. Expensive. Elegant. Sexy. Our sizes had once been the same, too.

Soulful soul food, the same food that had hooked Maverick, now made him sick. Not from the food. From me. I should've stuck with calisthenics and low-carbohydrate meals. Lean Cuisine, Weight Watchers, Slim-Fast meal replacement shakes a few times a week, and my anti-aging fresh green smoothies—spinach, cucumber, celery, apple, ginger, lemon, lime—which Dr. Oz had Oprah drinking and had more than sufficed for maintaining my curvaceous physique before I said, “Yes, Maverick. I will marry you.”

When I met Maverick, I was a grad student at the University of Illinois at Chicago, finishing up my master's in architecture. School was a full-time job that left me with no desire to cook. A sexy hourglass torso had once complemented my hips, my ass.

Breaking the silence, he said, “I'm not going to sit in the owner's box suite at the games with you sitting by my side like a blimp. Hell, you might as well be on the field, helping out the defense.” To demonstrate his point, he bent over and spread his fingers on the white marble tile.

My lips tightened. That was mean, malicious, and unnecessary. “I got your defensive player,” I said, eyeing the plunger.

“I don't want to see
my
wife looking the way you do. All the men and women in the suite used to lust over you. Now all they do is make jokes behind your back. What if you continue to put on weight, instead of losing it? Then what? I'm not going to be the brunt of your fat jokes anymore,” Maverick said, looking at me upside down, between his legs.

I gripped the plunger.

He gave me a cold, penetrating stare. “That would be the biggest mistake of your life,” he said, standing up and stepping into the shower.

In denial of all Maverick had said, I truly believed our honeymoon and a baby would reverse our love lives, make him happy again.

“Fine. I'll find a place to go,” I said, returning to the bedroom. I sat on the foot of the bed, gazing toward the 104-inch projector screen embedded in the wall-to-wall mirror in our bedroom. The morning news was under way. I pressed the power button on the remote. The news reporter's image disappeared, revealing my naked figure in the mirror. Maverick walked into the bedroom. “But you're paying for it,” I told him.

Patting the towel all over his body, Maverick went to the closet, put on a pink tailor-made shirt, a purple tie with pink stripes, purple boxer briefs, and a gray suit with vertical pink pinstripes.

“I already have. You're doing the right thing. I'll be back tomorrow. Ms. Stephens, be gone before I return,” Maverick said, kissing my cheek. “It's tough love, baby. You'll thank me later.”

“Wait, don't leave me like this. There's something else I need to say,” I cried.

Walking out the door, Maverick never looked back at me as he replied, “Seven, I've heard enough.”