Hotwife Miami

by Jewel Geffen

  “I think so, yes. It's a disturbing thought, but it makes the most sense. I don't see how else they could have known about all the other times except that one.”

  “Interesting.”

  “There's something else though. Something we might be able to use.”

  Scott leaned forward. “Oh?”

  “That's right. There was one more appointment written down in the book. I'd been planning to meet a woman this Friday.”

  “In three days, then? I see...”

  “I'd been intending to cancel the meeting, in light of what's happened but, perhaps...”

  Scott smiled. “You think he might be there. That he'll come for more pictures.”

  James Cain shrugged. “Hard to say. He might have been spooked by what happened at Misses Kendall's. Might be too scared to try again.”

  “But, if he isn't...”

  “Then it's our best chance to catch him red-handed. We turn the tables on him. Set our own trap.”

  Scott drummed his fingers on the desk. It was risky, and it seemed unlikely that the man would dare to try again so soon. But still... it was the best chance they had. Anyway, for one reason or another he had a good feeling about it. He smiled and looked over the desk at the powerful black man sitting across from him. “Let's do it.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Misses Kendall? Is that you? Great. Thanks again for talking to me. I appreciate your time.”

  The sigh came static over the long distance line. “Yes, well... I just want the man caught, understand? I don't like discussing any of this, but if it stops that man then I'll do what I can...”

  “I'm going to catch him.”

  “Your confidence is inspiring, Mr. Church.”

  “Chapel.”

  “Of course. Forgive me.”

  “Not at all. How was the meeting with James Cain arranged?”

  She hesitated for a long moment. “I never knew his name. That's what I wanted, you understand? I didn't want to know either one of them. I wanted something anonymous and... detached. Pure sex, with none of the rest of it intruding on the occasion.”

  Scott leaned back in his seat. He felt his hand grip a little tighter around the handle of the phone receiver. “The rest?”

  “Love. Selfishness... Needing to talk in the morning,” she chuckled softly, “All those complications. Sometimes a woman just wants something simple.”

  “I always thought that it was only men who wanted that. Not speaking personally, you understand.”

  She laughed. “Well, speaking personally, you're not. The fact is that most women just submit to sex because they don't have good sex. When they find a man who treats them properly they get as lustful and desperate as any man.”

  “I see... Um... Anyway, back to my original question. How was the... event organized?”

  “My husband and Mr. Mason worked out the details, I believe. I made my desires known and my husband put it together for me. An anniversary present, actually. I feel terribly for his sake that it ended up going so wrong, he's terribly hurt about it.”

  “An anniversary present? As in, a wedding anniversary?”

  “That's right. Ten years. I got him a preposterously expensive set of golf clubs and sent him off to the driving range, and he arranged for me to live out one of my fantasies.”

  Scott could hardly believe what he was hearing. He couldn't imagine what sort of person would celebrate their own anniversary by having someone else have sex with their wife. Maybe it was just a rich person thing.

  He took out the little packet of photos and looked once more at the picture of Misses Kendall. He couldn't deny that there was a slight thrill to seeing her in such a position, her body on display and her naked lust captured on film before him while he spoke with her on the phone. “So... the choice of Mr. Cain, that was all handled by... Mason?”

  “I suppose so. He'd be the one to do it. Reggie knows everybody in the Club, he's always playing matchmaker. He has a talent for connecting women like me with the sort of men we need.”

  “And the... um, the other man?” he could feel himself blushing as he spoke. Having interracial sex with one man was wild enough, but he'd seen things like that before. Two at the same time put this in new territory for him. What did a woman need with two men? What did she get out of it? He tried to imagine, but couldn't put himself in the head-space to really understand. It was baffling to him.

  “The same. Reggie's a dear, he said he wanted me to get a taste of the full spectrum, that's why he set me up with an older and more experienced Bull as well as a fresh youngster with plenty of spunk.”

  Scott didn't really like the emphasis she'd put on that last word. He felt that queer stirring down below again and tried to push the sensation away. He put the picture of Misses Kendall face-down on the desk and shuffled through the rest of the stack. “Can you think of anybody who might want to blackmail you, Misses Kendall? Anybody with a grudge?”

  “No, I don't think so.” She laughed, “I'm not one of those gossipy society women, you know. I don't make it my business to have enemies.”

  “And who knows about your, uh, your activities?”

  “What do you mean by activities, Mr. Chapel?”

  He cleared his throat, fanning all the way back to the start of the stack of pictures. A slender little blonde lying on her back on a huge pink bed, the powerful and imposing form of James Cain caught in the process of climbing up on top of her. “You know what I mean.”

  “You mean, who knows that I like to get fucked by black men?” she sounded almost like she was toying with him. Like she could sense his discomfort and was in some way enjoying it.

  “Yeah.”

  “Very few people, I should think. Nobody off the top of my head other than my friends from the Club, and there's no reason it should bother any of them, as they're all doing just the same thing.”

  “Hm... Alright.”

  “Does that answer all your questions, Mr. Chapel?”

  “Just one more,” he said, leaning back and spinning the photo slowly between the tips of his fingers, the pointed corners poking at him as he turned it. “Why black men?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, why does it have to be African-American men specifically? I know some people are into, what do you call it? Swinging? But why is it just black men that you're interested in?”

  “You're not a black man yourself, are you, Mr. Chapel?”

  Scott hesitated. His mind raced through a series of possibilities, then he did something, and he really didn't know why. “Yeah,” he said, “I am.”

  “Then let me tell you something about white men which you might not know. Now, my husband is a white man and I love him dearly. I've been married to him for ten years, for God's sake, of course I love him. But the truth is that white men cannot fuck.”

  Scott's throat was tight. “No?” he asked, hoping his voice wasn't squeaking.

  “No,” she said, quite definitively, “they haven't got any rhythm for it. There's no passion in their love-making, no fire. A black man is entirely different. There's a... intensity that white men don't seem able to manage. They hold themselves back, get too self-conscious. A black man fucks, and you know he means it. And of course there's their size and well... there's really no comparison in that department.”

  “I see,” he croaked, and the picture slipped out from between his fingers, landing face-up on the desk.

  “Anyway... it's something that I don't really think a man can understand. Women know, we know how our bodies respond differently to a black man's touch.”

  He was about to say something, then he happened to glance down at the picture. He froze, eyes widening. He stared for a long moment, leaving hanging silence on the line.

  “Mr. Chapel?”

  “Thanks for your time, Misses Kendall, I really appreciate it. I'm sure I'll have this wrapped up in no time,” he said, all in a rush, leaning in closer to the photo.

  “I do hope so,” s
he said, but Scott was hardly listening.

  He stared at the photo, wondering how he hadn't seen it right away. He supposed his attention had been too focused on the foreground, on the two lovers in bed together, Cain and the slender blonde. He hadn't thought to look past them, to the closet door open just a crack opposite the window. To the sliver of a man's face clearly visible, his eye fixed intently upon the bed.

  There had been another man spying on them that night.

  Chapter Ten

  It wasn't hard to track the women down, though he did have to make a few calls on his way there.

  James was able to tell him the woman's name, then Mason – after some convincing – provided him with an address. Georgette Wilson lived in the rich part of town. It was nothing like the Kendall's palace, but it was still five times the size of the biggest house Scott would ever own.

  Mason had been extremely reluctant to give up Georgette's information. Scott hadn't realized right away the reason why, but now that he went up the walk, sun beating down on him, he figured it out. He could see the neighbors watching him over their fences, their dogs and kids playing in the sprinklers, all picture perfect behind their white picket fences.

  The Wilsons, he had no doubt, would do just about anything to keep their secret. This didn't look like the kind of neighborhood where black people were particularly welcome, much less into wives' bedrooms.

  Mason knew that his Club would collapse if enough members started to worry about their secret getting out. Every person Scott talked to was one more who knew that something had gone wrong. Eventually, it might just get out to an extent that it couldn't be contained.

  He rang the doorbell and stood back, the picture burning a hole in his pocket. He wondered how she would react if he just whipped it right out. Hi, you don't know me, but here's a photograph I have of you fucking a black man. Any idea who else might be spying on you?

  The door opened and the slender blonde he recognized from the photo – though she looked quite different with clothes on, he had to say – looked curious out at him. “Yes? May I help you?”

  He smiled his most winning smile and tipped his hat. “Afternoon, Ma'am, I was wondering if I might have a word in private.”

  Her eyes widened and he could see her hand tense on the doorknob, as if preparing to slam it shut in his face. “I'm sorry, I don't-”

  “Reginald Mason sent me here. I'm working with a friend of yours. James Cain?” If the first name didn't get him in, maybe the second one would. Either that, or it would get the door slammed even quicker.

  She stepped back, looking confused, a flash of alarm crossing her face. “What is this about?”

  “It's a security matter, ma'am. I won't need more than a minute of your time.”

  “Um... okay... I suppose...” She stepped back, chewing on her lower lip and eyeing him quiet nervously.

  He came into her house. He wasn't sure what he expected to see, African statuary or photos of naked black men with spears in hand, maybe. No such luck. It looked like any other upper-middle class American home. Florida Gothic, tastefully appointed.

  They sat together across from one another at the dining room table.

  Ah, the glamour of the detective business, sitting at tables having awkward conversations with people.

  “How do you know James?” she asked, and put her hands on her belly.

  “We met recently. He's in a bit of trouble.”

  “James?” she laughed. “Oh no, I'm sure that can't be right. Professor Cain is a saint. I don't think he's ever gotten so much as a parking ticket.”

  “I don't mean that he's in trouble with the law. Actually, I'm afraid he might be in danger.” It was a gamble, but he thought from her tone that she was more than a little in love with the man. This might shock her into being a bit more helpful than she otherwise might be inclined to be. From the look on her face, it worked.

  “Danger? Oh my God, what happened?”

  “Georgette, I'm afraid I have to tell you something that might be a little upsetting. It concerns you, unfortunately. I'm going to have to ask you to keep it to yourself for now.”

  Her white face went pale, and her hands started to rub nervously over her belly – some kind of nervous tic, he thought. “What is it?”

  He took out the photo and placed it on the table.

  She recoiled with a gasp, her hand going to her mouth and her eyes widening. “Where... what... What is this?”

  “It seems that someone has been stalking James. Taking compromising pictures of him and the women he's been with. You met James at the Black and White Club, is that correct?”

  She nodded, stunned into silence, her eyes liquid with fear.

  “We're doing everything we can to track this man down and stop him. We're not going to let any of this get out if we can help it. Anything you can do to help, though, would mean a lot to me. It might make all the difference.”

  “I... I don't know what I could do...”

  “Look at the picture,” he said, and reached out to tap the edge with his fingertip, “I was studying the photos, and I think I may have seen something. I think the photographer may have had an accomplice.”

  “An accomp- You mean there might be more than one person doing this to James?”

  “Here, hiding in the closet. Do you see recognize this man's face?”

  She leaned down and peered at the photo, then let out a choked laugh and blushed crimson red.

  Scott frowned. “What is it?”

  “That's... well... that's not an accomplice, I'm afraid.”

  “How can you be sure?” he pressed, unwilling to give up so easily.

  “Because it's my husband,” she said. “Tom wanted to watch, because it was such a special night, but he didn't want to get in the way, so he... hid in the closet. It's... a little silly, maybe...”

  Scott sat back with a heavy sigh. “Ah. I see... Well... I'm sorry to have wasted your time. Thank you for your help.”

  “Of course. Please... if there's anything I can do to help James.”

  He shook his head. She was more concerned with her black lover than with herself and her own reputation. He'd never understand people. People like her husband Tom most of all. “Could you talk to Tom? I wonder if maybe he might have seen something from the closet. He was facing the window where the photographer was hiding.”

  “I'll ask, but I'm sure he would have said something right away if he had.” She hugged her belly and shivered. “It's just creepy, somebody spying on you like that... I don't know if I'll be able to sleep tonight... Tell... tell James that I hope he's okay?”

  “I'll do that.” He stood up and was about to turn to go. Then something else occurred to him. “You said that that night was... special. What made it special?”

  Georgette's blush deepened a little and she held her belly just a bit tighter. “Well, the thing is... Tom wanted to be there when we conceived.”

  Scott blinked. He looked at her face, then down at her belly, then back to her face. “You...?”

  She smiled proudly and nodded. “Just had a positive test last week. James' little gift to me. I'm having his baby.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The phone was already ringing when Scott came into his office. It jangled insistently, rattling on the hook.

  “I'm coming, I'm coming,” he muttered as he worked his way over the stacks of boxes and around the file cabinets. It was definitely time for a bigger office, or at least a good cleaning.

  He jerked the phone off the hook. “Chapel Investigations, what can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Chapel, this is Professor Cain.”

  Of course it is. This case seemed determined to consume every moment of his waking life. It was like some great black hole just sucking him in deeper and deeper until there was nothing left outside of it. “What's going on?” he asked, a bit brusquely.

  James' voice stayed as cool and in control as always, but there was an edge now of something else to it. Some
thing like worry. “My home has been broken into. I need you here right away.”

  Scott blinked. He hadn't been expecting this. “I'll be right there.”

  * * *

  James Cain's house wasn't much bigger than Scott's was, though the décor was slightly different. Bookshelves lined practically every wall. There was a glass display case containing academic awards and framed letters. Scott got the feeling, even given its present state, that it was usually immaculately maintained.

  At the moment, however, the place was in shambles. It seemed that every single book had been ripped off the shelf and hurled to the floor; every drawer ripped out and turned upside down, every couch and chair pushed aside. One sofa had even been cut open, the upholstery slashed and the insides ripped out.

  “It was like this when I got back,” James said

  “Jesus. They did a number on the place, didn't they?”

  “Hm, it seems so.”

  “Anything missing?”

  The Professor sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I have no idea. Everything's a mess. I called you first thing.”

  “Good. The police?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let's leave them out of it for now.”

  “Is that wise?”

  Scott shook his head. “Depends how many questions you want to answer. I think it's fair to say that our man is responsible for this.”

  “That seems likely.”

  “I guess the question is: why'd they do it?”

  James picked up a book with a heavy sigh and placed it back on an empty shelf. “I really don't know. I'm not used to this sort of thing. Believe it or not, I actually lead quite a quiet life.”

  Scott wasn't sure that anybody who had sex with a dozen different married women in the space of a month could really be considered to be leading 'a quiet life' but he didn't argue the point.

  “I just don't see why there haven't been any demands yet. What are they doing all this for? What's the point?”

  Scott shifted a newspaper with his toe. “Clearly they want something. You really can't think of anything? Somebody with a grudge? All that money and power and sex concentrated in one place, it's like a powder keg in a room full of monkeys with matchbooks.”