The heat between them caused a shiver to shake Sondra. It had been a while. Her hand stiffened on Pablo’s chest. He was going at it, bringing her to the verge of being able to declare him her new man. He stopped abruptly, and Sondra ached when he withdrew.

  “Turn around,’’ he said.

  She did. “It has been awhile,’’ she whispered. “Please don’t ram me.’’

  “Whatever,’’ he grunted. Fucking tender princess.

  Sondra didn’t think she heard him right. She didn’t comment.

  When her head turned away from him, and her bottom was his, he removed the condom silently and dropped it near his feet. He started slowly, working his way in, just as he had when she was on her back, then got into a furious, pounding rhythm. Sondra bucked, and Pablo held on. He reveled in her pleads.

  When he was finished he towered over her. She was laid out on the bed. It had been a long ten minutes. He was panting, almost grunting to regain his breath. Sondra was a better lay than he could have ever imagined. And he dreamed how it would be often.

  Vengeance can feel good, he mused to himself.

  Despite the lighted room, she wasn’t sure of the expression on her lover’s face. Things were changing, she was thinking. Now what? She was afraid to ask. She had gone with an impulse; something she could never have done before Oscar. But she had felt deprived before Pablo came along, lacking for love...and sex.

  “That was good,’’ Pablo said, his voice relaxed.

  Sondra was allowing herself to float in the afterglow, until her body turned and felt wet spot on the bed. When she ran her hand over her back she was surprised and a little upset to find semen. “You wore a condom, didn’t you?’’

  “I took it off,’’ he said as-a-matter-of-factly

  She watched him belt his pants. She was thrown off by the speed in which he was dressing. He now appeared very different, very distant. She sat upright on the bed, not wanting to move though. “Why, why did you do that?’’ her voice was panicked.

  “You loved it, right? Then shut up.’’

  “What?’’ Sondra sat up.

  Pablo refused to look at Sondra. He knew if he had his anger would subside. She was that fine, and sexing her had been that good. He continued to dress with purpose.

  Sondra was dumbfounded. What just happen?

  “What’s gotten into you?’’ She said softly, “Why? What is it?’’

  “Fuck you. Ask your husband. I fucked you over just like he fucked me over. With no respect. You stupid bitch. Tell him I busted you out.’’

  Sondra did not realize she was crying until she felt the tears. She wiped them with her clean hand, still very much bewildered.

  Pablo snatched up his shoes and socks off the rug and left out of the room laughing; a chilling laughter that agitated Sondra.

  Sondra twirled out of the covers and dressed. She was terrified, more scared than she had ever been in her life. She didn’t know what to do but get dressed. She was very afraid someone was going to come in, very afraid she had been left behind and afraid she would be found nude and be raped...again, then killed. She was terrified of not knowing. What the hell was going on? Why did he do this? I got hooked up with a crazy person. These were her thoughts. Anxiety and fear had taken over her mind.

  Sitting on the bed and putting her shoes on she called to him but all she heard in return was silence, not even the radio.

  She stood in her shoes and out of the corner of her eye saw the note on the night table. She was coming out of the fear and growing angry. She took up the note, and it read:

  Take a fucking cab home bitch. I know you got the money.

  TWO

  Jack Newhouse walked out of the elevator in the Hilton-Boston and let out a long blowing sigh. He was making his way to his best friend’s suite, the penthouse, and acting as if it was the stroll of a man heading for the electric chair. Jack was nervous. He knew what was going on in his boy’s room, and knew he should be nowhere near any of that hot, butt-naked fun.

  It was too tempting, even for a brother that was through with that lifestyle. That was the old Jack Newhouse.

  Used to be a time when Jack and Oscar Taylor were inseparable. Best of friends as teammates on baseball’s defending world champions, and Jack and Oscar were no longer roommates. The Crowns were a very good team with plenty of character-and characters. Last season, while the Crowns were capturing the championship, Jack found a woman who affected his heart in a way he had never experienced before. He married that woman and left behind his best friend to be a male whore on his own.

  Of course, there were many teammates who were glad to take Jack’s place as O’s new running mate. Jack and Oscar had shared more women than Biggie and Puff and the stories were legendary.

  Vidal Gonzalez was the player Oscar chose to be his new road roommate. Vidal, an outfielder, and Perry Sanders a pitcher, were traded to the Crowns from Cincinnati for three seldom used Crowns’ players and cash. Vidal was given the Crowns left field position, and joined Jack and Oscar to form a strong outfield.

  Vidal wanted to be down with Oscar as a roomy because the man was the Player’s legend. The Ice-T of baseball...Superfly, The Mack, all that. Vidal even talked Oscar into sharing a house in Portland. When Vidal played for Cincy he was in awe of the fact that Oscar got more and better women than he did, and Vidal lived there. Chicken heads would scoff at Vidal’s advances would flock to Oscar when the Crowns were in town. Vidal came to discover that O had put hos on retainer without a word. He had just treated them so well, was so frivolous with his dough, that they we’re willing to wait for him.

  Now they were teammates and Vidal had to be down. And he studied while Oscar wove his magic. Like in Boston, where the team was the night Oscar got that call. Vidal had always gotten over in Beantown, but nothing like the orgies O had hooked up. Six of the sexiest women in town spent the weekend with them and two other players in Oscar’s suite. But even in that kind of setting, the woman Vidal had chosen, a cream-colored sister with fleshy breasts, told him she wanted to do him and Oscar. Vidal was neither hurt nor intimidated. It was all good.

  O said, “Bring her on.’’ He sent the chick he had to another player’s room on the same floor and told Vidal to, “Hand me a hat.’’

  Vidal handed him a condom, and like the woman, waited to see how he was going to be used. They did her on the couch, the floor – all about the suite while her friends handled their collective businesses.

  It was two hours after the fuck-fest had begun when Jack came knocking.

  Perry let Jack in. Perry was new to all this free love. He had played on the Cincinnati Cougars with Vidal, and for some reason he had never experienced hoochie-mamas on the scale he was now seeing. Listening to Perry bitch about the orgies made Jack shake his head. It was only May, a month into the season. What was the guy going to do in August when the freaks wore thong bikinis to games?

  “Man, Jack, I am happy you are here!’’ Perry said. “Maybe you can talk some sense into Oscar. I need some sleep. We’ve got an afternoon game tomorrow!’’

  “I think Oscar knows that.”

  Jack had come into the marvelous suite with his eyes surveying the scene. Rap was playing in a low hush. There were some of the baddest women of color Boston had to offer all about, mostly in the sunken living room mingling with at least four Crowns, from what Jack saw. Nobody dressed fully, and no Oscar in sight at first. Perry’s homeboy, Vidal seemed not to be bothered by the fun. He was handling three chicks, and probably feeling no pain.

  Jack turned to Perry, “What’s the problem?”

  “Man, I can’t do this every night. I’m trying to be somebody in this league. These guys leave condoms everywhere! Nobody ever goes to sleep. They drinking, smoking. We gonna get busted!’’

  “Why did you choose to stay with them?’’

  Perry just shook his head.

  Jack dug into his jacket and pulled out his key-card. “Listen, stop the whining. Take my room. Then tomorrow you better tell the Herb you want a new roommate.’’

  Vidal nodded at Jack.

  Oscar came out of what seemed to be a bedroom while Perry gathered his stuff. O, wearing silk smoking jacket and shower shoes, came to Jack, gave him a tight hug and took him to the glass dining table in the living area. The table was cluttered with junk.

  Before they could sit, a very familiar body crossed between them and Jack had to grin. She was as dressed as she was the day she was born. Maya took Jack’s hand, her fingers melted in his. Her beige skin looked to be glowing. She tiptoed to his height and planted a light kiss on his cheek, with a little tongue for flavor. “Hi Jack. Congrats, baby,’’ she said.

  “Hey,’’ was all he could reply with.

  Oscar lit a cigar he seemed to have pulled out of nowhere. Jack wondered if it was weed his homeboy was about to blaze, but the smell of cherry let him know it wasn’t.

  “You forced Perry to lose his virginity?’’ Jack smiled.

  Oscar grunted. “He’s a scared faggot. I’m sick of him.’’

  “I gave him the key to my room.’’

  “Good.’’

  “So what’s up, man. Why you called me up here?’’

  “Sondra called me tonight.’’

  “How is she?’’

  O glared at his partner. He eased after a long moment, inhaling slowly. He fought off the jealousy. He couldn’t be jealous with his boy, no never Jack, no matter what Sondra had said. No way. They had been through too much.

  And Oscar knew she was right about what she had told him about Jack that night.

  Oscar said, “She told me to listen to a Vanessa Williams song.’’

  He handed Jack a CD Walkman and headphones Jack hadn’t noticed were sitting between them on the table. He also handed him Vanessa Williams’ compact disc, Next. After Jack put the CD into the Walkman he opened the case and took out the pullout lyric sheet. Vanessa’s blue eyes were mesmerizing.

  “The first cut,’’ O said. “Check out the lyrics.’’

  Jack didn’t get it until his second time looking at the lyrics while listening to Vanessa sing:

  Were you thinkin’ bout me, baby

  The first time she touched your hand?

  Were you thinkin’ bout me, baby

  Did you forget you were my man

  Were you thinking of me

  when you removed your ring?

  Oscar couldn’t wait for the song to end. “Something’s up. I know it,’’ he said.

  Jack looked across at O. Oscar looked defeated, puffing on the stogie and watching their teammates getting it good on the couch, on the rug, all about them.

  Jack took off the earphones and sighed.

  They watched Perry slip out the door, holding it until it closed. “Little bitch,’’ Oscar mouthed. His focus changed quickly, as only he could. Oscar said, “I should have never married her. You were right. I wasn’t ready for that. The pussy was good. But we weren't ever happy, kid. Not happy a bit.

  “I miss her, though.’’

  “I know you do,’’ Jack said, his voice hoarse.

  “You want to know what else she said? She wanted to know why I couldn’t be more like you. Then she just cried.’’

  “Shit,’’ Jack exhaled. He was tired of Sondra hurting, and he was wondering why she had to say that to Oscar. She knew that would piss him off, to be compared to Jack now that Jack was married.

  But Oscar was not pissed or angered. He did seem bothered though, but more like worried. O flicked a long ash into a paper cup. “Something is up. I can feel it.’’

  THREE

  Sondra hadn’t cried so much in her life until the night she decided to kill herself.

  Not that many tears the night she found out her cousin had slept with Oscar. Not as many tears when she had found his little black book, and like a fool called most of the hundreds of digits. She didn’t even shed as many tears when she realized she had to leave him.

  She realized calling her husband was not the move to trigger happiness, but she needed some answers. Hearing his voice just made her more hurt and angry. She never did ask Oscar what he had done to Pablo Guzman to make him want to dog out Oscar’s innocent wife.

  She could not believe what had just happen to her. She spread the evening’s events out across her mind a thousand times. Dissecting, mixing, matching yet nothing came out as an answer. All she could tune in on, though, were the told-you-sos she’d have to endure when her family found out. Oscar was going to continue to hurt her for the rest of her life; she could hear them saying. The words were in big letters, coming from a variety of female voices; mostly her mother’s squeaky whine.

  She and Pablo had left Salem in the early afternoon. He suggested that they have dinner before the show. She was fine with that, no argument. The show was wonderful. A couple of girl groups heated the arena, then Maxwell came on and torched the place. A great concert.

  The drive home was ordinary. She was quiet, contemplating having sex with this man, the man she had grown to trust and enjoyed being with. What the hell was going through his mind? Fucking the shit out of me to get his revenge on Oscar? Again she wondered what had her ex-man done to this man.

  It didn’t have to be much, and it probably had a lot to do with a woman. When it came to women, Oscar Taylor could drive someone crazy easily.

  Sondra knew that if the Crowns were in Boston, they were at the Hilton. It was the only luxury hotel that would have them after what Mike Colbert had done to that same hotel three years ago. Drunk out of his mind, the best catcher in the major leagues tore up the place in a rage over something his wife had done. Later So, Oscar’s nickname for his wife, found out that Mrs. Colbert had gone shopping in Copley Place and spent fifteen thousand dollars on a gown. Mike made three times that amount a week.

  Sondra called the Hilton, and used the false name she knew her husband used on the road to hide from reporters. Oscar used the name of James Bell, the legendary Negro League baseball player. O loved ‘’Cool Papa’’ Bell, whom O called the fastest man to ever play baseball.

  A player whose voice So didn’t recognized answered the phone and got her husband. O came to the phone and seemed agitated-what woman could be calling?

  The conversation was short, mainly because Sondra froze. Hearing his voice did something to her she could have never imagined happening in such a circumstance. Her heart pumped and her hand holding the receiver became heated. She cried before she spoke. She still loved the man.

  Oscar knew who it was. He listened to her cry for what seemed like a long period of time. Then he said, “Are you okay, baby?’’

  His sincerity surprised her. She fought to regain her composure. “Why couldn’t you be more like Jack? Huh? He’s dedicated to his wife.’’

  Oscar didn’t say anything, just like the coward he always had been in her eyes. He never wanted to hear her out, to discuss the dirt he was doing.

  “All you do is hurt me,’’ she sobbed to her husband. “You are no good. No good at all.’’

  Oscar just sighed into the phone.

  So said, “Vanessa Williams has a song called Who Were You Thinking ‘Bout. You need to listen to it.’’

  Then she hung up.

  The more Sondra thought about the evening the more she came to the conclusion that this was the final hurt, the final embarrassment. It was the final signal that she had guided her life too far off course. She could see no way to go on.

  Maybe if she had thought of her child, her three-year old, she would have thought differently. But that night all she could think of was her pain and humiliation.

  While moving out on Oscar Sondra had taken one of Oscar’s guns by mistake at first, it was hidden in a locked metal box with their important papers. She took the box, knowing she’d need their insurance policies before Oscar would. When she realized she had it, she kept it. She had hoped he call for it so she’d have another reason to curse him out. But a gun was just like a woman to Oscar Taylor-he could get his hand on one at any time for free. He carried a different .22 on his person at all times, and kept a .357 magnum in his car.

  Now the gun she took was going to come in handy. A quick-fast way to go out. No waiting while pills dissolved and not any wrist cutting in a warm bath. And no note, pussies write notes, she believed.

  Sitting on her bare bed, she had ripped the sheets off and flung them bitterly to the floor, she marveled at how tiny the silver-colored handgun seemed in her small hands. She emptied the box of bullets on the bed between her legs while she sat one leg folded to the other. The skin of her wet palms melted around the leather grip. Sondra had taken care in loading the weapon, just like Oscar had taught her.

  She felt herself drifting, thoughts flying by like fighter planes on a mission. Thoughts of the last time she and Oscar had smiled together made her bitter. It was at his team’s annual May affair at LeClair’s. That would be a year ago in two weeks. She thought she was stupid for marrying him, stupid for loving him and crazy for staying with him so long. Thoughts of the last time she and Oscar made love sliced through her thoughts and her body quivered.

  She cried some more, but she didn’t want to. The tears were like tight streams of pain, but she didn’t wipe them. Through the silent weeping she gave in to a smile. She had been too proud to tell Oscar she was going to die that night. She wanted him to hear about it while in bed with some whore and feel the pain of guilt; pain that he had killed her by fucking anything with breasts.

  Vengeance did not make her feel better. She felt queasy. Her stomach churned, and she turned onto her side sobbing, the gun falling onto the bed from her thigh, and squeezed into a fetal position.

  No father for my child. No man to love me. Nothing. Who is going to want me?

  “Why you do this to me?’’ she cried into the pillows, thinking of both men. “I’m so stupid. God, I am such a fool.’’

  She bolted upright suddenly, taking the gun into her trembling, wet palms. “God, take me. I am no good here. I can’t take it anymore!’’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41