Trouble Loves Company

by Angie Daniels

  The second time I gave him some was because I couldn’t bring myself to say no after he had spent over two hundred dollars on a lobster dinner. As soon as we were in the bed, he was all over me, touching, feeling, sucking, and, of course, tweaking. When I reached down and felt what he was working with, I almost laughed in his face. Nevertheless, I endured the hour-long session, and when I finally left his place, I had every intention of ending the relationship. Unfortunately, the next day at work I got fired, and who did I call? John. He let me cry on his shoulder. Back then, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was already behind on my house payment. After a month of hitting the pavement hard, I panicked—then John offered a solution.

  “Let’s get married.”

  “What?” I looked at him like he had lost his damn mind.

  He simply shrugged. “Why not? You need help and I want to help you.”

  I tried to think of every reason I could why that wasn’t even a possibility and ended up stating the obvious. “We’ve barely known each other three months.”

  He shrugged and smiled. “It wouldn’t matter to me if it had been two years. In the short time we’ve been together, I have fallen in love with you and your children.”

  I was at a loss for words because although he was starting to grow on me, love wasn’t even a factor, not to mention the sex had gotten worse instead of better, and I was ready to move on to the next guy.

  John noticed my hesitation, because he added, “Listen, I know you don’t love me and that’s okay. You can learn to love me later. Let’s try it out for a year and if it doesn’t work out, then we can go our separate ways.”

  If I hadn’t known it before, I definitely knew it then—his ass was desperate. Why else would someone ask a woman he barely knew to marry him? With two kids, and a foreclosure notice from the bank, I did the only thing any desperate single mother would do. I accepted.

  His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You just made me a happy man.”

  John then gave me one of those kisses that lacked passion, as well as tongue, then moved into the kitchen. I was about to yell, “Wait! I changed my mind,” when I saw him grab the stack of bills, I’d left lying on the kitchen table. When he removed his checkbook from his back pocket and took a seat, I didn’t say a damn thing. That night I lay in his arms, trying to imagine a life with him, and all I saw was boredom and lousy sex. Still, I kept my mouth shut. Three days later, John got down on one knee in front of my kids, holding a two-carat solitaire. I didn’t even feel my lips move but I definitely heard myself accept. Within the next two weeks, we were standing in front of the justice of the peace with my sister Lisa and her husband as our witnesses.

  After that I tried to make the best of it, even though I knew I didn’t love him. John was so good to me, I thought nothing else mattered, and that in time I could surely learn to love him. Making him happy was easy. I fucked him when he wanted to be fucked and told him what he wanted to hear.

  A year passed with me trying to convince myself that I had made the right choice. With his six-figure salary, I made myself believe that I loved him and everything that he was able to do for me. I was financially secure. I didn’t have to work. I was home when the school bus arrived. I attended PTA meetings and made brownies, things that so many mothers wished they could do. I started getting into that Suzie Homemaker shit and began planning meals. I even learned how to crochet.

  John loved me to death and showered me with so much affection that I tried to tell myself this was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. I even tried to enjoy sex with him. I would fondle and play with him and for hours we would lie in the bed, kissing and hugging between rounds one and two. I convinced myself that I had a lot to be thankful for. Sex was a small price to pay for the lifestyle I was living.

  John built a four-bedroom home for me and my kids and I got the joy of decorating it myself. Then, when I had nothing left to do, I started looking for a job. I applied for every management position I could find, and after a year, I still hadn’t found a job. Every rejection was proof that marrying John had been the right decision. However, at the end of the first year, I thought I was going to lose my damn mind. I had too much time on my hands and all I did was sit around and think.

  “Why don’t you write?” John suggested after I started complaining about being bored. “You said you always wanted to write a book.”

  It had always been a dream of mine to become a best-selling author. So, I decided to give it a try. John bought me a computer. Before long, the words began to flow, and I got so wrapped up in my writing that I discovered a way to fill the void in my life for the next year. After that, every time I thought about leaving him, a voice in my head would say, Bitch, look at all you have accomplished, with this man. You’d be a fool to let him go. Then I would glance over at his kind face sitting in a chair like a damn puppy just waiting for me to scratch his head, and I would feel guilty for even thinking about leaving him. But still, even after I had published three erotic romance novels, I realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that no matter how much I tried to hide behind the stories I was writing, my marriage wasn’t going to change. I realized that after three years, I still wasn’t in love with him. I liked him and loved how good he had been to me and my kids, but I didn’t love him.

  I mean, come on. To this day, I’m embarrassed to be seen in public together. With our fifteen-year age difference and his old-school spirits, it’s like having my daddy on my arm. I dread going out alone, just the two of us, because we have nothing to talk about. Vacations are a bust because we never have any fun unless I create it. I didn’t realize until we were married that John had no friends, no hobbies. Anything I do, he wants to do. He has become so needy that his entire life revolves around me and my kids, and it is driving me crazy. I’m not kidding you. I do almost anything to get away from him. Book-signing tours, vacations with my girlfriends, any excuse to put some distance between him and the boring life he wants me to continue to share with him. The only reason we have lasted this long is because of financial stability, and after my divorce I wanted to offer my children a stable home. Something I never had.

  I never knew my real daddy. He died in a car accident when I was barely four. Growing up with a stepfather was pure hell. Paul Perry made it no secret he didn’t like me. No matter how hard I tried, it was never good enough. To hide my pain, I rebelled and generally gave him a hard time. My mother, Bernice, was and still is a crackhead. Talking to her was a waste of time. A week after my sixteenth birthday, she left and didn’t bother to come back. During that time, I had already met my first husband. High-school romances seldom work, and my marriage to Mario was just that. By the time I received my diploma, I was already pregnant with Quinton. Tamara came three years later. After Mario put his hands on me one time too many, I took a bat to his head, and filed for divorce.

  Now you’re probably wondering, after all that drama, how I could even think about leaving a man like John. Believe me, I hear it a lot, and I’ve been asking myself the same question for years. Only I can’t come up with one good excuse except to say, I am unhappy. I just wished I felt the same way he does. I’ve tried so hard, but I’ve got needs and wants he just can’t meet.

  The thought of him touching me turns my stomach. His kisses make me want to run to the bathroom and throw up. I can’t help the way I feel. I love John for who he is, but I am not in love with him. There is a difference. I didn’t believe that at first, but I know it now. I just can’t take it anymore. I know now he isn’t my soulmate. That I can’t spend the next fifty years with him because, in the process, I’ll be losing a piece of myself. I need a man who challenges my mind, body, and soul, who I look forward to sharing my evening with, talking about our day. I want a man who holds me in his arms through the night after making me come.

  With John, if you give him a hug, he wants sex. If you kiss him, he gropes your breasts. Any form of affection results in sex, so eventually I�
�ve stopped touching him altogether. Also, with John I can’t initiate sex, because if I do, I kid you not, his dick won’t work. He has to be the aggressor and even then, he asks for permission. What brotha do you know asks for the coochie? I want a man to flip my ass over and bury all ten inches in before I can take a breath. John is so kind and obedient that if I ordered him to bark like a dog, he would respond like that princess in Coming to America.

  After the first two years, I couldn’t take it any longer. I started hanging out on the weekend and messing around with one man after another, trying to find what I was missing at home. John never once complained about me being in the streets as long as I gave him some whenever he asked. I didn’t mind at first, but now that his dick only works half the time and I have to spend the majority of it whacking him off, I’m fed up and can’t take too much more. I am dying inside. I just wish I could get him to understand.

  During our marriage, I have suggested splitting up at least four times. And every time he has talked me out of it. I just don’t understand it. I remember what he said the last time I tried to tell him I was unhappy.

  “What do I need to do to make Renee happy?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know anymore.”

  “You can have anything you want, but you’ve got to give me a hint.”

  After a moment of hesitation, I said, “Time away from each other.”

  I saw the flash of panic in his eyes before he pulled me in his arms. “I don’t want you to leave. We can work this out if you tell me what I’ve got to do.” His chest began to heave. “I love you so much.”

  I was overcome with guilt. This man had given me everything and here I was, trying to bail out on him. I held him in my arms and promised to try harder. But I continued to mess around and the months passed with me stepping out on my husband every chance I got. Then, two years ago, he accepted a position hundreds of miles away. I stayed behind with no intention of joining him until my sister made me promise only minutes before she had gone into surgery to pray to God for answers, and to give my marriage one last chance. Then, only days after agreeing to try harder, my sister died from a blood clot to the heart. Overwhelmed with grief, I stayed true to my word, and gave John another year of my life. I’ve prayed regularly and have given up all the other relationships. I can honestly say that I haven’t messed around on my husband, not once, in a year. Okay ... make that nine months. Damn ... all right, in the last six months. And that is a record for me. But my ass is so horny that I don’t know how much longer I’m gonna be able to hold out. Why do you think I write all those erotic novels? Because I need some real dick, and not that cracker-box shit I’m getting at home. That’s why it’s time for me to start building another life. It’s time for me to get a job. I already have a bachelor’s in Journalism and a master’s in English. Teaching would allow me to get back into the workforce again so I can support myself. Writing pays well but not as good as everyone thinks. I have a fat savings account but how long will that last without John’s help? I love to shop and have gotten used to living an upper-class lifestyle. Change is not going to be easy. Okay, so all I need is a job—then I can save up enough to move and buy my own house. One more year, that’s all I have to survive, then I can pack my bags and get the hell up out of here. It sounds easy enough, but I know that leaving him won’t be that easy. Freedom will come at a price. I just hope I can afford it.

  I awoke the next morning to John’s snoring. I reached for my robe and walked into the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and headed down to the kitchen to fix breakfast. I like to make sure my kids get a balanced meal before they go off to school each morning. I moved to the counter to prepare coffee. By the time the pot was brewing, I could hear John coming down the stairs.

  “Good morning,” he said merrily as he moved into the kitchen, smiling.

  I’ve never known anybody to be that damn happy this early in the morning. I personally don’t come alive until after my second cup of coffee.

  “Morning,” I mumbled as I moved to the cabinet and removed the waffle mix.

  John took a seat at the table, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. I glanced over at him. He hadn’t put in his contacts yet, so he was wearing his birth-control glasses. Those bifocals were better than condoms. That’s for damn sure. Because as long as he was wearing them, he didn’t have to worry about a woman giving him some.

  I put the batter in the bowl, the whole while aware that he was sitting there, watching me like a damn retard. “Why are you staring at me?”

  “Can’t I look at my beautiful wife if I want to?”

  “Whatever,” I mumbled. He was obviously happy because he got some last night. I wish he’d just go back upstairs and wait instead of staring at me. I could see if we had shit to talk about, but we don’t We never have anything to discuss. It has always been that way. I used to try to keep a conversation going, but after a while I quit doing that shit, hoping that he would see how dysfunctional our relationship really was. So far it hasn’t worked.

  If I was a man, and my wife and I rarely talked, hardly did anything together, and she hated having sex with me, what the hell would I want to hold on to her ass for? But not John. The first thing out of his mouth is, “What do I have to do to make Renee happy?” He’ll then go out and start buying me all kinds of shit. The worst part about it is my kids are so attached to him that it would break their hearts if I left. So, as you can see, I am stuck... for now.

  “I want to go back to work.” I stared down at the waffle iron and waited several seconds before he finally spoke.

  “What kind of work?”

  I shrugged. “Teaching, maybe,” I said, still avoiding eye contact. “I want to start using my degrees.”

  I could tell he was trying to put his words together carefully before he spoke. “I thought writing was your career.”

  Here we go again. “It is my career, but I also need something else to fall back on.”

  He gave me a ridiculous laugh. “Fall back on for what? I make plenty of money.”

  I looked him in the eye. “Yeah, but I want my own money.”

  “Don’t you get paid from your books?”

  “Yeah, but not enough yet to feel comfortable about my future.”

  He gave me a smile that said, be patient. “It will come in time. With every contract you make more money. Eventually you’ll be making enough that I’ll be able to retire.”

  I rolled my eyes. Sometimes I think John looks at me as an investment. As long as he supports me while I get my writing career off the ground, eventually he’ll be able to reap the benefit of my success and hopefully retire early. What I can’t seem to get him to understand is that I no longer want him to support me. I’m dying inside and need to be able to stand on my own two feet. I also know if I am going to leave him, it has to be before I make it big, because if not, he will be entitled to half.

  “This is something I need to do for me.”

  “If that’s what you want to do, then I’ll stand by you one hundred percent. I just think you need to stick to the one thing you want to do the most and you said it was writing.”

  I rolled my eyes again because he was starting to sound like my father, as usual. “I want to do both.”

  “How are you going to find time to prepare lesson plans and grade papers? Teaching isn’t easy.”

  I hate it when he reminds me of how hard it had been for him when he was a graduate teaching assistant “You act like I can’t do it,” I replied with straight attitude.

  He shook his head and gave me the same scolding look he gives my daughter, Tamara. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying it’s going to be a lot of hard work. I just hope you can juggle that around your writing deadlines.”

  “I don’t see it being a problem.”

  He chuckled. “If you think you can handle it then I stand by your decision. Have you thought about how many days a week you’re planning to teach?”

  “I was thinking two
or three days a week would be enough.”

  He nodded, looking pleased. “And when are you going to write?”

  “Afternoons and weekends.”

  “Good, then it sounds like it’s settled.” Marking the end of the conversation, he reached for yesterday’s paper on the table and turned to the sports section. “Why don’t you fix your husband a cup of coffee? And make me two waffles. I’m starving.”

  As I removed a coffee mug from the cabinet over the sink, I told myself, Hang in there girl, it’s just a matter of time

  Chapter 2

  Danielle

  One Year Later

  The sorry mothafucka.

  Danielle tossed a fake Prada purse onto the passenger’s seat of her Dodge Durango, then climbed in with straight attitude. She’d had it. Another deadbeat. At thirty-seven, she was getting too old for this shit

  Peeling up the street, she hurriedly moved into the flow of traffic, then glanced down at the clock on the dashboard. Danielle blew out a frustrated breath as she realized she was going to be late for work again.

  All because of a man.

  Yesterday marked exactly two years since the day she and Ron had first started dating, and she had planned to make the evening quite special. Shortly after work, she had dropped her sixteen-year-old daughter Portia at her parents’ house for the night She then made a quick trip to the Olde Un Theatre, where she picked up some naughty thangs to kick the evening off just right—flavored oils, edible panties, and a porno tape for an uninhibited night of getting their freak on. By eight she had bathed and dressed in a white teddy, including garter, thigh-highs, and a pair of five-inch white heels. After changing the satin sheets on her bed, turned on Gerald Levert, lit a bunch of candles, and lay strawberries and whipped cream on the nightstand. Satisfied, she had poured herself a glass of white wine, then took a seat in the living room and waited for Ron to finish his eleven-to-seven shift at Quaker Oats.