Scandalicious (5 page)

Afterward, Solay and her paid fuck lay cuddling together; the sweetness of the intimacy surprised her.

A
goddamn tube of Krazy Glue! That’s all he wanted. That’s what he’d been searching for inside his wife’s top drawer—her junk drawer. The drawer where she kept a mishmash of things from safety pins, batteries, needles and thread, pens, scissors, phone chargers—you name it. And the only thought on Lincoln’s mind as he scattered around miscellaneous items was replacing the name plate on his six-year-old son’s football trophy.

The trophy and the plate bearing his son’s name were now tossed onto the bed—discarded. Unimportant. Beneath the clutter inside the drawer, Lincoln had discovered an envelope with his wife’s pay stub. That envelope should have been filed away with credit card receipts and other important papers. They filed joint tax statements, so there was no mystery about his wife’s income, but his gut instinct told him that this particular pay stub possessed a secret that Chevonne didn’t want him to know.

Not knowing what he was looking for, Lincoln scrutinized every item on the pay stub. And then he saw it. Two personal days had been taken during that pay period. He searched his mind. Had Chevonne mentioned a doctor’s appointment for her or the kids? No, she hadn’t.

It all made sense now. The new lingerie, the gym membership, late nights at work—the terrible sex. With embarrassment, he recalled how impossible a task satisfying his wife had become.

Now he knew why. Chevonne was cheating, and the knowledge
of her betrayal was suffocating. Seemed like all the air had left the room. Feeling lightheaded, Lincoln sank heavily onto the bed, next to the Pee Wee League football trophy.

He couldn’t fight off the mental images of his wife lying up in a motel room with her legs spread, writhing and humping. The idea of Chevonne moaning in ecstasy while another man was on top of her, sliding dick in her…the thought of it made Lincoln groan out loud. He punched his open palm, then clenched his teeth when he had a flashing image of his wife down on her knees, giving her secret lover the kind of pleasure that she seldom bothered to give him.

“We’re home, Daddy! We have pizza,” five-year-old Tori yelled, her happy voice carrying upstairs. His little girl’s voice usually gave him immense joy, but not even her musical lilt could loosen the choking knot around Lincoln’s heart.

How could Chevonne do something so destructive…so sneaky…so fuckin’ emasculating? What kind of mother would knowingly commit an act that could potentially destroy her family? Lincoln was so wound up, he could hear his heart as it banged against his chest, booming in outrage and indignation.

Jealousy and rage propelled Lincoln to his feet. His manhood was under siege and he needed to do something about it. He snatched up the pay stub, preparing to confront his wife with the incriminating evidence, and get physically violent with her if that’s what it took to relieve himself of the all-consuming pain. For months now, he couldn’t understand why his wife was so unresponsive in bed. Her indifference toward him had begun to fill him with insecurity. He swallowed, recalling the nights when he couldn’t please her. Remember that feeling of utter helplessness—and self-loathing.

After seven years of marriage, how could she do this to me—to us?
Pure hatred for his wife twisted his features, had him thinking malicious thoughts.

An outburst of childish laughter startled him. The tinkling sound of his children chortling with innocence brought Lincoln back to reality.

One of his fists was balled in fury. Realizing that he was practically hyperventilating, he unfurled his hand and stared at his open palm as if it belonged to a madman.
I have to pull myself together. Can’t allow myself to explode. Not in front of my kids.
Getting a grip on his emotions, Lincoln took a deep breath. He put the pay stub back inside the envelope and methodically returned it to its hiding place inside the drawer.

In their well-appointed kitchen, Chevonne had her back to him. She was wearing sneakers, blue tights, a clingy print top—her workout clothes. Her ass looked plump and toned; her waistline looked as if several inches had been whittled away in the gym. Or was it all that extracurricular sex that had his wife looking so sculpted and vivacious?

“I bought an extra-large cheese pizza for the kids, and now Amir wants macaroni,” Chevonne complained as she shook the noodles into the pan of steaming water.

“Those workouts at the gym are really paying off,” Lincoln commented in a cool tone, though each word was intended as an indictment.

Chevonne turned around and beamed. “You think so?”

Lincoln wanted to slap that proud smile off of her lips. If it were possible to get away with murder, if his violence would not traumatize his children, he could have easily strangled his no-good wife right there in the kitchen.

Two boxes were untouched. Lincoln opened one. He regarded the medley of vegetables with a sneer, and then closed the lid.

The other box contained Lincoln’s pizza. Topped with five different kinds of meat, it was called “The Manly” pizza.

“Daddy, can I have a slice of yours?” five-year-old Tori asked.

“No, Tori. Eat your cheese pizza. Daddy’s pizza has sausage, ground beef, and all sorts of unhealthy meat on it,” Chevonne cut in disapprovingly.

“A little bit of meat won’t kill her,” Lincoln said, his voice low and controlled as he handed Tori a slice of pizza.

Using both hands, Tori carefully accepted the heavily topped slice of pizza. “Thanks, Daddy.”

“I want a slice, Daddy,” Amir piped in.

“No problem. Here you go, son.” Lincoln gave out another slice of his forbidden food.

Frowning, Chevonne looked over her shoulder. “We both agreed that the children should eat a healthy diet.”

Lincoln smirked. “All pizza is unhealthy. If you’re so worried about their health, why are you whipping up a box of mac and cheese for Amir? How healthy is that crap?”

Chevonne stopped stirring, and turned completely around. She stared at Lincoln with an expression of bewilderment. “Where is this coming from?”

“If you’re so concerned about the health of our children, then cut out some of your
workouts.
Come home and fix them a healthy meal.”

“You want me to stop going to the gym?” She looked incredulous.

“Apparently all that working out is interfering with your responsibilities on the home front.”

“The home front! Do you hear how archaic and narrow-minded you sound?”

Indifferent to how he sounded, Lincoln shrugged. “When’s the last time you stir-fried some vegetables in that wok of yours? You
remember that three-hundred-dollar frying pan with the chrome-plated handles that you simply had to have?”

Lincoln’s hostile gaze wandered around the kitchen. “Look at all this,” he said sneeringly, as he waved a hand around the sparkling, sun-filled luxury kitchen that was equipped with top-of-the-line appliances, white marble island and countertops, white cabinetry, a hanging stainless steel pot rack, and cherrywood flooring.

“Lincoln!” Chevonne’s voice cautioned him to be mindful of the children.

But Lincoln continued his rant. “You just love throwing money away. I guess all these gadgets…this big house…all this ostentation is just for show.”

“I don’t know where any of this is coming from, but we need to discuss whatever is bothering you, later.” She cut her eyes at the children, who were staring at their parents, wide-eyed.

Lincoln folded his arms and made a snorting sound. “I want to talk about it right now. We have all the trappings of prosperity, but my son has to eat a ninety-nine-cent box of mac and cheese for dinner,” he said with disdain.

Chevonne placed a hand on her hip. She used her other hand to point and gesture agitatedly. “Amir asked for macaroni and cheese, and that’s why I’m making it for him. Don’t label me a bad parent, because I’m not. It wouldn’t kill you to cook dinner for the kids sometimes.”

“No, it wouldn’t, but who knows what it would do to them? According to you, my meal choices aren’t healthy enough.” Lincoln put air quotes around the word “healthy.” “It seems like I can’t do anything right, lately.” He gave his wife a long and meaningful look.

Chevonne’s eyes slid guiltily away from his gaze.

The children stopped eating, uncomfortably aware of the sudden change of climate.

H
e’d never put a hand on Chevonne or any other woman, and so he dropped the subject, waiting for the murderous rage to subside. He waited until the children were asleep. He waited until Chevonne came out of the shower. She came into their bedroom wearing a loose cotton nightshirt and smelling delicious. Her hair was pulled high into a ponytail on the top of her head. With little effort, Chevonne had sexy on lock.

He noticed that her face was slowly twisting into an expression of pain. Her antics were almost laughable now that he knew the truth. At any moment now, Chevonne would play the headache card. She had a million handy excuses: headaches, cramps, upset stomach, not in the mood. And when she did give up some pussy, she acted like it was a major sacrifice.

Initially, Lincoln had believed that Chevonne’s sex drive had diminished due to motherhood, job stress, being mired in debt. Mostly, he blamed himself, thinking he was boring her with the same sexual routine. Trying to spice things up, he’d worked hard at being inventive, bringing home porn for them to watch together, giving her flowers and other sentimental gifts to show how much he loved her.

With the kids both attending private school and with all their trappings of affluence, they couldn’t afford one more additional expense, but he’d even suggested they pay a nanny for a date night, once a week. He had a zillion ideas for their date night. They
could hop on Amtrak and go to New York to catch a play, or dine in any elegant restaurant of his wife’s choosing. He even offered to take a vegetarian cooking class with her. Lincoln had been willing to do whatever it took to reignite the intimacy and the passion that he and Chevonne once shared.

All to no avail. Using one excuse after another, Chevonne had shot down all of his ideas.

Why hadn’t he realized that she was creeping? Seething anger raged through his system. It felt like he would implode—spontaneously combust if he didn’t punch something. Or someone. He wanted to beat the shit out of the motherfucker who had the gall to touch his wife intimately.

“You took two personal days a couple of weeks ago. Why?” Lincoln spoke with quiet menace. His words were a statement of fact, but his tone was a clear accusation.

“No, I didn’t,” Chevonne stammered.

“Yeah, you did. Two days in a row.”

Chevonne ran a shaky hand through her hair.

“You’re fuckin’ around. I know you are.” Lincoln took steps toward his freshly showered wife. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Lincoln, what’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” He gestured with his arms outstretched, and then gave a short, crude-sounding laugh. “My problem is that I’ve been listening to too many lies, trusting and believing all the bullshit that’s been coming out of your mouth,” he said in a lethal tone.