by Regina Hart
This status granted them free membership to the Monarchs Wives Club. The club’s main purpose seemed to be organizing fund-raisers and other community improvement events. Since her hospital hours didn’t often allow Marilyn to attend the Monarchs’ games, her involvement with the club seemed the next best way of supporting Warrick’s career. But she always felt underdressed and out of place when she was with them. Marilyn swallowed a sigh and stuck her fork into another ravioli square.
The other women wore chunky accessories, expensive clothes, and perfect makeup. Even Peggy Coleman, who looked like she could give birth to Roger Harris’s baby at their table, appeared as though she was ready to pose for an Elle magazine fashion spread. Marilyn resisted the urge to adjust the collar of her blue Ann Taylor button-down blouse. She smoothed her hair, checking the clip at the nape of her neck. Even if she had the glamorous wardrobe, she wouldn’t have had time to go home and change after work before meeting the other club members for dinner.
She studied her plate of vegetable ravioli swimming in marinara sauce. It had been the least expensive entrée on the menu and the portion size closely resembled an appetizer. Still, the cost of her meal alone was more than the total cost of a dinner when she and Warrick used to dine out.
Susan Williams cut into her chicken parmesan. “The casino night theme idea for the homeless shelter fund-raiser is the bomb. We should rent a real casino.”
From where would they get the money for that?
Marilyn looked at the other two women seated at the elegantly set square table. They looked indecisive, an expression they’d worn to perfection for the past half hour.
She turned to Susan. “There aren’t any casinos in Brooklyn. Besides we need to keep our expenses low to raise as much money as we can.”
Susan, who’d married Monarchs point guard Darius Williams more than four years earlier, shrugged a bony shoulder. “Then we’ll drive to Atlantic City. It’s not far.” Her mocha brown cheeks flushed and her dark brown eyes glittered with excitement. “A trip to Atlantic City would be the bomb. It would add to the glamour of the event.”
Peggy rubbed her belly. “I don’t know, Susan. I’m six months pregnant. I can’t drive to Atlantic City. I’d have to stop every ten minutes to pee.” She patted her left hand over her hair. The twenty-four-carat pink diamond engagement ring sparkled against her baby fine ash blond hair.
Susan kissed her teeth. “There are rest stops all over the interstate. Just pull over and use one.”
Marilyn coughed as her bite of ravioli traveled down the wrong pipe. She caught her breath, drawing in the heady scents of rich spices and tangy tomato sauce. Heaven. She swallowed a drink of water from her glass. “Keeping it in Brooklyn would also guarantee that more people attended.”
Susan’s expression was frustrated. “You just said Brooklyn doesn’t have any casinos.”
Count to ten. “The church’s fund-raiser doesn’t have to be in a casino. We could hold it in the Morning Glory Chapel’s recreation room.”
Susan’s lips formed a perfect O. “A rec room? That’s so tacky.”
Faye Ryland, point guard Jarrett Hickman’s longtime girlfriend, nodded. Her orange-tipped dark brown bangs swung across her eyes. “That’s a good idea. The fund-raiser is for the Morning Glory anyway. Atlantic City is three hours away. Shit. A lot of people aren’t going to want to make the trip. Especially at night.”
Marilyn sipped her ice water. “And especially with gas prices so high.”
Susan gave her a shrewd look. “But that’s not a problem for you, right? You can afford it.”
Here we go again. “So could most of the people on our guest list. The point is, the less they have to spend to attend the event, the more they’ll spend at the event.”
Susan’s constant and transparent attempts to find out how much she and Warrick made was one of the reasons she disliked the Monarchs Wives Club meetings. Surely, the club’s president knew Warrick’s salary—as well as the salary of every other NBA player—was posted on the Internet, much to Marilyn’s dismay. Maybe Susan did and she was only after Marilyn’s income figure. Well, that information wasn’t for public consumption. Their friends, family, neighbors, and perfect strangers already knew too much about them.
Faye waved a forkful of pasta. “Mary’s right. When are we going to have this party anyway? It feels as though we’ve been talking about this shit for months.”
Peggy shifted in her chair. “That’s because we have been talking about it for months.”
Susan traced her glass of wine with the well-manicured tip of a black-polished fingernail. “The first Saturday in August. The players and coaches should be over the championship loss by then.”
Marilyn looked at the other women in surprise. “They could actually win the conference championship. In fact, they may even win the finals.”
Susan’s laughter was genuine. “Maybe the view from the owner’s box is a little rosier, but those guys will have to play a lot better if they’re going to win.”
Peggy’s gray eyes clouded with confusion. “Why were you invited to the owner’s box? None of us have ever been there.”
Faye looked resentful. “Yeah. What makes you the shit? You hardly even come to the home games and you’ve never been to the away games.”
Susan spoke before Marilyn could answer. “You know, you really should travel with Rick to the away games.”
“Why?” Marilyn sneaked a peek at her Rolex. How much longer would she have to be here?
“Why?” Faye mimicked Marilyn, then barked a laugh. “To make sure your man isn’t creeping around on you with these groupies.”
Marilyn ignored a stirring of irritation. “Rick doesn’t creep around.”
“How do you know?” Susan took the tone of a prosecuting attorney cross-examining a hostile witness.
Peggy rubbed her belly. “Oh, honey, wake up and smell the coffee. All men cheat.”
Faye shook her head as though with pity. “Other women are treacherous. They’re always trying to get your man. And what man can resist no-strings booty?”
Peggy nodded, her hands still on her belly. “Remember the club in Cleveland? Rick went with them. What do you think they were doing there?”
Marilyn frowned at the knowing looks and the shaking heads. “They were looking for Barron.”
The whole team had been concerned over Barron’s self-destructive behavior.
Faye gaped at her. “You really believe that shit?”
Marilyn ignored their rolled eyes and snickers. “Yes, I do believe my husband. Don’t you believe yours?” She met the other women’s eyes with an expression meant to shame them. If it weren’t for her love for Warrick, she would have taken her purse and left already.
Susan’s cheeks flushed. “I want to.”
Peggy’s gaze slipped from Marilyn’s. “So do I.”
Faye snorted. “Shit. I couldn’t care less as long as he’s coming home to me and paying my bills.”
Marilyn ignored the younger woman and focused on Susan and Peggy. “Then why don’t you?”
If they didn’t trust their men, why did they remain in the relationship?
Susan lifted her chin. “Because only a fool would believe her husband wouldn’t be tempted by all those young skanks throwing themselves at him. But until I have proof that he’s cheated, why should my kids and I leave? We’ll just stay put, thank you very much.”
Marilyn cut into one of the remaining two raviolis. They were the size of half dollars. She chewed pensively. “You don’t have proof that he’s cheating on you. You’ve been to all of his away games and he’s never cheated on you. Still, you don’t trust him.”
Susan’s silent stare didn’t intimidate Marilyn. “What about you? It’s all over the news that you’re getting a divorce.”
She really hated these meetings. But Warrick attended her hospital functions and made generous contributions to its fund-raisers. For that, Marilyn would at least assist the Monarchs Wi
ves Club with their fund-raisers. The events were for a good cause, after all.
She returned Susan’s steady stare. “Rick and I aren’t getting a divorce.”
Susan cocked her head to the side. “Are you sure?”
Marilyn arched a brow. “Very sure.”
“Because I know a great lawyer.” Susan leaned closer to her. “I’ve been doing my research—just in case.”
Marilyn blinked. “Why are you still with Darius if you have one foot out the door?”
Susan shrugged, sitting back in her chair. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
The accusation slapped Marilyn across the face. It stung more because she couldn’t deny it. Susan was right. She was doing the same thing. And she didn’t have the excuse—the reason?—of children to explain her indecision. It was time to choose.
What had awakened her? Marilyn lay on her back in her king-sized bed. Memorial Day was three days away and already the heat index was unusually high. The temperature hadn’t wakened her, though. Maybe it was the noise coming from her kitchen or the smell of turkey bacon climbing the stairs.
Marilyn kicked free of the sheet that wrapped around her legs. She climbed from her bed and padded to the head of the staircase. A deep breath drew in the scent of breakfast. Her mouth watered. Hopefully, Warrick was cooking enough for two.
Beneath the sound of her growling stomach, she heard his voice. Her lips eased into a smile. She loved his singing.
She crept down the staircase on her toes, taking careful, quiet steps. If he heard her, he might stop singing. She’d hate for that to happen. Marilyn paused in the hallway. She stood as still as the warm cream walls, listening to his impromptu concert. She sighed as the words to Luther Vandross’s “Stop to Love” carried to her in Warrick’s strong baritone. His voice was summer warm and silky smooth. It made the muscles in her abdomen dance.
Marilyn closed her eyes and leaned against the wall for support. Warrick sang a little longer about the importance of stopping to appreciate the love you have. She frowned as the sound of pans, plates, cupboards, and drawers competed for attention with his singing.
His footsteps tapped across the kitchen, drawing closer to the hallway. What was he doing? Where was he going? Marilyn grew cold in the bronze silk camisole and matching shorts she’d worn to bed. He couldn’t catch her spying on him. How embarrassing! Without stopping to think, she spun into the sitting room behind her.
She listened as Warrick’s bare feet carried him down the hall. She held her breath as he drew closer to the staircase just feet from their sitting room. She stiffened as he paused.
There was a hint of laughter in his voice. “I’d intended to serve you this breakfast in bed but it would taste just as good in the sitting room.”
Marilyn’s face burned. She stepped into view. “How did you know I was here?”
Chuckles rumbled up from his naked chest. “I heard you come downstairs, but I didn’t hear you go back up.” Warrick walked toward her, wearing gray gym shorts and nothing else.
Her attention dropped to the tray in his hands. It balanced two plates of bacon and scrambled eggs, and two glasses of orange juice. Then his words registered. “Why were you going to bring me breakfast in bed?”
His sexy smile wavered just a bit. He stopped less than an arm’s length from her. “I’m courting you.”
Marilyn’s mind went blank. Her heart melted. “Oh.” Her laughter was nervous. “Does anyone even use that word anymore?”
Warrick’s midnight eyes smiled. “All right. I’m trying to get into your pants.”
Her gaze caressed his well-muscled chocolate torso, then dropped to his long, powerful legs. “It’s working.” Her voice was husky.
“It is?” The boyish pleasure in his smile made her laugh.
She tossed him a playful grin. “Scrambled eggs and bacon are very seductive.”
Marilyn took the tray from him and carried it to the maple and glass coffee table. She placed each of the plates, silverware sets, and glasses of orange juice onto the table before settling into an armchair.
She saluted him with a forkful of scrambled eggs. “This is great. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Marilyn noticed the wicked twinkle in his midnight eyes.
They enjoyed the breakfast in comfortable silence until Marilyn’s curiosity got the better of her. “How early did you get up this morning?”
Warrick sensed her nerves were as unsettled as his. The feeling reminded him of their first morning-after three years ago. He’d second-guessed every word and gesture, and had known she’d been doing the same. They’d laughed at themselves, then made love again.
He tucked the memory away. Warrick’s eyes caressed Marilyn. Her gold camisole highlighted the honeyed tones of her skin. The material flowed from her sculpted shoulders and over her full breasts like a waterfall. It left nothing to his imagination, especially not the reaction she was having to him.
“Early enough to cook your favorite breakfast.” Warrick balanced his plate in one hand and held his fork in the other.
She teased him with her tone. “Ah, yes. Your grand seduction. We’ve never had a problem in the bedroom, Rick. It’s all of the interference outside that’s putting the strain on our marriage.”
His grip tightened around his fork. “Our marriage is between you and me.”
“Tell that to the media and your fans.” She gathered a bite of egg with her fork. “They seem to think they have a stake in our relationship.”
“Only if you let them.”
The flash of regret in her eyes scattered the last remnants of humor. “One of my patients left me yesterday.”
Warrick’s eyes widened. “Why?”
Marilyn hesitated. “She doesn’t want her baby delivered by a doctor who would divorce Rick Evans.”
“We’re not getting divorced.” Warrick stood firm, masking his fear.
“That’s what I told her.”
His thoughts spun with relief. Did she mean it? “And?”
“She didn’t believe me. She’d read about our pending divorce in the newspaper and the newspaper wouldn’t lie. Her words.”
Warrick released a frustrated breath. “I’m sorry, Mary. Sometimes fans get carried away. But that’s not a reflection on you.”
Marilyn dropped her fork onto her nearly empty plate. “I’ve cared for her since the start of her pregnancy. She’s entering her third trimester. And now I’m not going to be there for the delivery.”
Warrick heard raw disappointment in Marilyn’s voice. He wanted to find the reporter who’d falsely written that he and Marilyn were divorcing and make sure he never lied about them—or anyone else—ever again. He wanted to hold his wife and reassure her that her patient would return and no other patients would leave. But he couldn’t do any of those things.
He stood and lowered his empty plate to the tray on the coffee table. “The reason your patient left is her issue, not yours. Don’t let it get to you.”
She lifted wide, troubled eyes to his. “How could I not? Arthur blames me. He’s threatening to fire me if I cause any more disruptions in his hospital.”
Warrick’s spine stiffened. How dare someone threaten his wife. “You aren’t causing disruptions. The hospital’s patients are.”
Marilyn stared at the remains of her food. “I wish things would go back to normal and everyone would just leave us alone.”
Warrick rubbed his forehead. “It doesn’t matter what people say outside our marriage. I’m the only person who can tell you how to be my wife. And you’re the only person who can tell me what you need in a husband.”
She stood. Her body seemed tired. “What I need in a husband is not to have to share him with eight million other people. Can you give me that?”
She wasn’t the only one who wanted things to return to normal. How many more times would they have this same argument? Warrick implored, “What can I say or do to convince you that you’re not?”
If she couldn’t tell him what she wanted to hear, how would he know what he needed to say?
Warrick stacked the tray with their breakfast dishes and carried it into the kitchen. He’d stopped defending himself to others long ago. He’d realized in high school that neither reasons nor excuses would persuade his parents to believe in him. What made him think he could persuade his wife?
9
The Monarchs had split their home games against the Miami Waves in the Eastern Conference Championship series. Warrick had hoped to win both of them. He stood in the locker room of the Empire Arena where he and his teammates had retreated after the slaughter that was game four. He’d showered and was halfway dressed. But their fans’ jeers and boos still thundered in his brain. His ears should be bleeding.
It was well after eleven o’clock Thursday night. His body was exhausted from the thrashing Marlon Burress and his Waves had dealt him during this fourth game of the best-of-seven series. But he knew his mind wouldn’t let him sleep when he got home. He’d relive this loss in his nightmares.
“What’s going on in your head, man?” Jamal’s tone punched at Warrick.
Warrick met the rookie’s angry eyes over his left shoulder. “Probably the same thing that’s going through yours.”
Jamal grunted. “You’re not living up to your media hype, superstar.”
Ice settled in Warrick’s stomach. He’d never asked for reporters to focus on him and forget the team. “I know I didn’t play my best game tonight. I’m sorry.”
“Didn’t play your best game?” Jamal snorted. “You played like shit.”
“So did you, Jamal.” DeMarcus stormed into the locker room like a thundercloud. His presence increased the tension by a factor of ten.
Jamal spun toward the team’s first-year head coach. “Rick’s buying into his media hype.”