Torn Between Two Lovers (3 page)

I shook my head. “I can't remember.”

“Leon, do you realize that every time we try to go back into your teenage years, you draw a blank?”

I hadn't given it much thought until then, but she was right. Everything from high school and earlier was vague. “I do now.”

“I know you decided against it when we started looking into your uncle, but I think it may be time we revisited the idea of hypnotism.”

The last time she hypnotized me was about three months ago. That's when I found out that my beloved uncle Charles had physically abused me when I was a young boy. My memories from that session were so intense that Roberta had to snap me out of my hypnotic state right in the middle of my uncle beating me with a razor strap. Afterward, she told me I was screaming so loud that she was afraid I was going to have some type of psychotic breakdown. I don't know how true that was, but the pain was so real I could still feel that strap slamming against me, ripping my flesh, to this day. I'd been having nightmares about it ever since and was terrified of the idea of being hypnotized again because of it.

I glanced at Roberta's face. She looked sympathetic, despite the fact that I knew she was pushing for me to go back under hypnosis. “Doc, if it's going to help me save my marriage, I'll do whatever it takes. I'm desperate.”

I was awakened by the cool night air as it hit my naked backside. I was sure he'd pulled the comforter off me accidentally while getting out the bed, so I wasn't upset. I opened my eyes and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed with his pants in hand, about to get dressed. He smiled, reaching over to cover my nakedness. He was kind in that way. Knowing him, he was probably beating himself up inside for waking me in the first place. I blew him a kiss.

The way he glanced at me made everything below my waist start to stir. I reached for him, hoping to get some more of what he'd given me earlier in the evening. Unfortunately, he gently pushed me back, shaking his head to let me know that wasn't going to happen.

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand and then turned toward him with a pout. I felt like I was being punished. What had I done to deserve this treatment? Had I not satisfied him? He never left this early, not on a Saturday night.

I was pissed and didn't bother hiding it in my tone. “You leaving already? It's only one o'clock.”

I immediately dropped the attitude and became quiet when he snapped his head in my direction. The angry look he gave me told me everything I needed to know. I'd broken one of his un-spoken rules: Thou shall not question Big Poppa when he's ready to leave. I was getting a little sick of his fucking rules, and I wanted to express that, but we'd just had a really nice dinner, watched a great DVD, and had two hours of mind-blowing sex, all of which I wanted to do again sometime soon, so I was not about to raise hell. Especially since this was an argument I couldn't win no matter what I said or did. We'd been down this road many times, and each and every time, I was the one on the losing end, begging for forgiveness. He was going home to his wife, quite possibly to have sex with her after he'd had sex with me, and all I could do was sit there with my feelings hurt, watching his sexy ass get dressed.

“How about a blow job for the road?” I asked in the sweetest of tones. If he would just let me put my lips around his dick, it would be a wrap. I guess he knew it, too, because he flat out rejected me.

“Jerome, don't start.”

Don't start?
He was walking out of my very warm bed to be with a woman who didn't give a damn about anything but appearances, and he told me not to start? His ass hadn't been saying that shit when he was praising my name as I sucked his dick two hours ago. Anyhow, like I said before, I was getting sick of his shit. He didn't know it yet, but he was going to have to make a decision. My life had been one roller coaster after another the past year, and I needed some stability, with him or without him. I'd put in too much time and effort for him to keep treating me any old way.

You see, what Big Poppa and I had was like Ray Parker Jr.'s song, “The Other Woman,” except, obviously, Big Poppa was in love with “the other man.” At least I thought he loved me, until moments like this when he got up to leave with no regard for my feelings. Something was going to have to change.

 

An hour after Big Poppa left, I was lying in the bed watching
Criminal Minds
reruns on A&E. I was pissed off about his leaving, no question about it, but then again, I was always pissed when Big Poppa left. However, I had a plan to improve my mood. I was a believer in that old cliché that the best way to get over a lover is to get under another one. I guess it was a good thing I had plenty of other lovers. There were none I cared about as much as Big Poppa, but what I lost in quality, I damn sure made up for in quantity. Sure, it was late and last minute, but I had men begging to get some of this. Surely one of them would be willing to leave his wife or girlfriend for some fun under the covers with the man who gave the best blow jobs in Richmond.

I reached over to my nightstand, picked up my iPhone, and scrolled through the address book, clicking on the file aptly marked “Little Black Book.” I smiled as the list of names appeared on the screen. There were more than a hundred men's names in it, most of whom I'd slept with at one time or another over the past twenty-five years. Some were famous; others were just conquests; many of them were financial sponsors; the majority of them were married. I had this thing for married men or men on the down low, as it was now called, partly because they were a challenge, but mainly because they usually didn't act feminine. Don't get me wrong. I didn't have anything against brothers who showed off their feminine side. They just weren't my style or my bedroom taste. I considered myself a man's man, and that's what I wanted in my bed—a man who everyone in the room, male and female, was lusting over.

As I ran through my list of potential bed partners, I stopped at Randy Gonzales. Randy was a married army officer assigned to Fort Lee Army Base. He was a Dominican brother I'd met at Buffalo Wild Wings in Colonial Heights. Like most brothers on the DL, his wife didn't have a clue about Randy's bisexuality. Little did she know her soldier husband took the expression “don't ask, don't tell” to a whole new level. We'd hooked up only once, about a month ago, but I liked Randy. He was one cool guy with some pretty good dick. I thought about making him one of my sponsors, but the problem was he showed some signs of being obsessive. He'd been blowing up my phone non-stop for the past few weeks. Sure, I talked to him when he called, but I'd blown him off when he asked to hook up again. I'm sorry, but I don't do clingy. Not since the last obsessive, clingy motherfucker I messed with ended up becoming a stalker. But we'll talk about him a little later.

Right now, it was time to call my Latin bed warmer. He was too eager for me to let him become a regular, but his bedroom skills were just what I needed to cheer me up for the night. I clicked the
TALK
button on my phone. Randy had made it clear I could call anytime, day or night, for a booty call, as long as I pretended to be his duty officer. So, he was about to get a call from Sergeant Rock—rock hard, that is.

“Hello.” The angry voice sounded familiar, but it wasn't Randy. His voice was deep, with a hint of an accent, but he sounded young. I'm embarrassed to say I was a little jealous. Had Randy found some young boy toy to fuck with behind my back?

I was about to hang up when the man on the other end said, “I know it's you, Jerome. I can see your number on my caller ID. Why the fuck you playing games?”

A knot formed in the pit of my stomach when I recognized the voice. Shit, I was surprised I hadn't known it was him right away. How could I have forgotten? His name was Ron, and he was twenty years my junior. Things ended pretty badly between us, and we hadn't spoken in a long time. I must have hit his number instead of Randy's.

“Ahh, Ron, I didn't mean to call your number, man. I was trying to get someone else.” I was surprised he hadn't hung up already.

Ron and I had broken it off, or rather he'd broken it off by trying to put his fist through my nose. Despite the fact that he'd given me the worst beating of my life, just hearing his voice brought back all the good times we'd had together. Other than what I had with Big Poppa, he was the closest I'd ever come to being in love. Unfortunately, it also reminded me of the last words he'd spoken after he punched me in the face:
There is no us, Jerome. There never was. I'm just trying to get my life back.

I heard a hissing sound. Finally, Ron spoke up. “Jerome, what the fuck do you want? Didn't I tell you to leave me the hell alone? As if my life isn't fucked up enough as it is, I got to get a call from you, the man who started all my troubles.”

“How you doing, Ron?” I know it was weak, but I didn't know what else to say. I was trying to offer friendship, in hopes it would open the door again—eventually. I figured if he really didn't want to talk, he'd hang up.

“How am I? I'm fucked up, that's what I am, and it's all because of you! You fucked up my life.”

I hated to admit it, but in a way, he was right. I had fucked up his life, and I was sorry for it, but there was nothing I could do at this point. I couldn't give him back what he'd lost. If I could, I would have, but all I had to offer him was a phat ass and some hungry lips.

I wasn't really into young guys, but somehow I was drawn to him. We'd met in a D.C. club, and later that night, he'd ended up at my room. He'd never had sex with a man before then, and I can't lie; I turned his ass out.

I guess in a way he turned me out, too, because I felt like I was twenty-five again hanging out with him. He had the sweetest body, and when it came to sex, he was like the Energizer Bunny: He kept going and going. We had really become tight, and I ended up spending most of my free time up in D.C.

In public, of course, we were just two straight guys hanging out together. Ron was not ready to come out of the closet. You see, a year ago, Ron had been a promising freshman on the Georgetown basketball team. It was obvious to everyone who'd seen him play that with the right coaching, he had a real shot at becoming an NBA player. He had way too much on the line with his career to reveal his sexuality, and I had had no problem with keeping it a secret as long as he kept giving me his good loving.

As much as I loved Big Poppa, I had considered letting him go for Ron. We really could have had something special—until he showed up at my hotel room one night and nearly beat me to death. Not that I could blame him after I saw the pictures.

I still haven't figured out how he did it, but somehow Peter, this crazy white guy who'd been stalking me ever since I turned him out, followed us and took some pretty compromising pictures that he eventually sent to Ron's coach, his teammates, and his mother. Peter was determined to make me his at all costs, and unfortunately, Ron paid the ultimate price when his sexuality became public.

“Ron, I'm sorry. I was hoping that one day we could get past all of that,” I said in a soothing tone. “At least be friends.”

“Get past it? I'm ruined. I had to move back to Danville with my mother, Jerome, and everyone in D.C. knows about me now. Everywhere I went, people would whisper. My team members didn't even want to play with me anymore, and they damn sure didn't want to get undressed in front of me. I had to quit the team, give up my scholarship, and move back home.” Ron's voice cracked, and he broke down crying.

Damn, I had no idea things had gotten that bad. I thought some time might help, but obviously he was still hurting.

“I don't even wanna be here anymore. I wish I were dead. I hate this life.”

“Ron, you don't mean that. You're a young man. You have a lot to live for.”

“Like what? What the hell do I have to live for? They took basketball from me. Without basketball, I got nothing. The only thing I've wanted in my life was to be an NBA player.”

I didn't know what to say, so I said what was in my heart. “Ron, can I come and see you? I just want to talk to you. You sound like you could use a friend.”

“I don't need your kind of friendship, Jerome.” With that, he disconnected the call. I wanted to dial his number again but decided it was better to leave well enough alone. The last thing I wanted to do was inflict any more pain on Ron.

It was one of those dreary, overcast days, and for once it looked like the weatherman was going to get it right when he predicted rain. The only reason I'd walked into Marty's Pawnshop in the first place was because of the bird's-eye view the large picture window gave me of the office building across the street.

I'd been browsing through the aisles of preowned jewelry, electronics, and knickknacks for twenty minutes, wasting time until she left the building. I finally stopped in front of a row of showcases filled with handguns. My eyes fixated on a pearl-handled Derringer. I wasn't a gun guy, but the thought of having a gun was becoming more and more appealing.

“May I help you, sir?” a heavy-set, balding, white man asked. He walked down the aisle behind the showcase until he was right in front of me. My best guess was that he was Marty, the owner.

“Oh, no, I'm just looking,” I replied. I was a little embarrassed to be standing in front of the weapons. I didn't want him to think I was some kind of loony or, worse, a crook. “Just trying to kill some time while I wait for a friend across the street.”

“Kill some time. That's kinda funny coming from a man standing in front of a gun case.” He laughed, but I didn't.

“How much is that one?” I pointed at the Derringer.

The man gave me a strange look. “I can let you have it for three hundred fifty. But you do realize all the guns in this showcase are placed here with a woman in mind, right?”

I think my dumbfounded expression gave me away. I felt pretty stupid.

“What exactly are you looking for in a gun? Is it a gift?” I shook my head, and he said, “Target practice, hunting, protection—”

Before he could finish his list, I repeated his last word. “Protection. I own my own business and sometimes carry a lot of cash.”

He pointed at the Derringer. “Well, that'll do it if your name is Lulu, but a big, strapping fellow like yourself needs some more firepower. Come with me. I think I've got what you need right over here.”

I followed him to another glass showcase a few feet away. He took out a key to open the security door on the counter. The guns were neatly lined up in a row, some large, some small, but all looked deadly.

He pulled out a black handgun that looked like a policeman's gun. “How about this baby? She's a Glock nine-millimeter semiautomatic. This baby will put down a mugger quick, fast, and in a hurry.”

He tried to hand it to me, but I shook my head. “No, that's too big. I want something smaller—something I can keep in my pocket that will still get the job done if I need it to.”

“Okay, I think I have exactly what you need.” Marty put the Glock back in the case, then pulled out another gun. “This is a twenty-five-caliber semiautomatic, what they call a Saturday Night Special on the street.” It was much smaller, probably about the size of my hand; however, it was impressive because it had a clip and was semiautomatic.

“What kind of firepower?” I asked.

“It'll get the job done, that's for sure, and with this bad boy in your pocket, you never have to worry about a thing.” He handed it to me.

I held the gun in my hand, aimed it at the picture window, and imagined myself shooting it at the black Mercedes parked in front of the building across the street. Its barrel had a sleek, smooth, criminal feel, and I knew right away that this was the one. It was like an instant marriage between the two of us—a man and his piece. “How much?”

“It's used, so I'll take two hundred fifty.”

I glanced out the window again. “I'll take it.”

“Not for five days you won't. State of Virginia has a five-day waiting period on the sale of all firearms.” Now that he'd mentioned it, I did remember hearing about something like that in the news a while back when that kid shot up all those people at Virginia Tech. He took the gun off the counter and handed me some paperwork.

I filled it out and paid for the gun. By the time I was finished, I'd just about killed the forty minutes I'd wanted to waste. “I'll be back next week to pick it up.”

“Thanks for your business.” Marty shook my hand. “I'll see you next week.”

It was raining lightly as I left the pawnshop. I walked over to my car, reached in for my umbrella, and opened it just as Loraine walked out of the building. I stood there mesmerized, watching her for a few seconds. To me, she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Hell, I'd been lusting after her since I was a teen, when she would come to my house to hang out with my older sister. Now she was the woman I'd fallen in love with, the woman I didn't want to lose, whether or not she was married.

I walked with purpose toward her car, determined to reach her before she had a chance to leave. She got there first, but I blocked the door with my leg before she could open it. She had a scowl on her face that actually surprised me.

“Hey, beautiful, long time no hear from.” She'd always liked it when I called her beautiful, but this time it didn't have a positive effect on her. In fact, the way she was looking around all paranoid, it appeared to have had the opposite effect.

“Michael, what are you doing here?” she asked through gritted teeth.

I smiled. “Well, I hadn't heard from you in quite a while, so I figured I'd come see you. I miss you.”

The beginnings of a smile crept up on her face. “I miss—” She stopped herself, glancing around, but it was too late. Now I knew she hadn't forgotten what we had.

“I knew it,” I said with excitement before she could speak. “I knew you missed me.” I leaned in to kiss her, but she turned her head and my lips landed on her cheek. Was she playing hard to get? If so, I was a patient man. The first step was already accomplished, getting her to admit she missed me.

“Michael, stop it.” She actually sounded upset. This was more than just playing hard to get. “Do that again and I'm gonna slap you.” She actually raised her hand as she said it.

“Stop what, Loraine?” I persisted. “Stop loving you? No can do. You might as well ask me to stop breathing.”

Her whole body seemed to tense up, and she spoke to me in a low tone, as if she were worried someone might hear us. “Michael, please. You're embarrassing me.” She reached for the door handle, but I stood my ground, only allowing her to open it a few feet.

“All right, then. Let's go somewhere we can talk.” I stepped out of the way and let her get into her car. I would follow her once we agreed on a place to go. Or at least that's what I thought, until she made it clear our conversation was over.

“I'm not going anywhere with you. You know I'm trying to make it work with my husband.”

I was trying to maintain some kind of composure, but when she mentioned her husband, I just blurted out my true feelings. “I don't give a shit about your husband. I love you, Loraine, and I'll do whatever it takes to make you mine.”

She lowered her head. “I wish you didn't say things like that. I married him for better or for worse. You're just making things harder for us all.”

“I know you're married. That has nothing to do with how I feel about you.”

“Please, Michael, don't do this to me. We tried this already. I can't deal with seeing two men anymore. I'm tired of the lies, the sneaking…” She started glancing around again. Either she couldn't make eye contact with me, or she was afraid someone would come out of the building and see her talking to me.

“And me! You're tired of me, too, aren't you? You just used me, didn't you?” I stepped back from the car a bit, not really sure if I meant what I said or if I was just trying to get her riled up. She was too damn calm about our breakup.

“Michael, please don't talk that way. You're making this much harder than it should be.”

“No, Loraine, you made this hard when you chose him over me!” I snapped.

“I don't have to listen to this.” She placed the car in drive.

“No, please,” I said desperately. “I'm not trying to piss you off. I just want to see you.”

“Michael, you need to move on. I have.”

“Have you?”

We both stared at each other silently until she said, “Yes, I have. I want you to also.”

A punch in the stomach would have hurt a little less. “You don't know how I feel. I don't think I can move on. I love you, Loraine.”

“Then I feel sorry for you, because I belong to someone else, and I'm not leaving him.”

“Loraine, you can belong to whoever you want, but you know and I know that you're always going to be my woman.”

“Michael, you're wroooong,” she whined, dragging out the word
wrong
so much that it sounded more like
right
to me. “Good-bye, Michael. Don't come here anymore.” She pulled off, and I watched her drive down the street.

“Bye, Loraine. I'll see you soon.”