The wedding announcement had caught the entire town by surprise. Rebecca had been twenty, with only two years of college under her belt. She hadn’t come from a rich or affluent family. She hadn’t been an A student. She’d actually skirted through high school with a C+ average, and was barely getting by with a 2.8 GPA at community college. Rebecca was, by all accounts, as ordinary as they came, but there was one thing that set her apart from the rest.
Blessed with Halle Berry’s looks and a body that many swore Halle had been determined to attain after the two met briefly when Rebecca won a beauty pageant at age seventeen, Rebecca was stunning. When the pastor announced their plans to marry, the gasps that went through the packed congregation had been deafening. There were rumors of the two seeing one another from time to time, but there were also rumors of the pastor seeing several other women as well. Although devoted to doing the Lord’s work, Bruce Stantin did have a weakness when it came to the opposite sex. But unlike other parishes in which extracurricular activities such as his were frowned upon, Bruce’s were practically accepted or ignored because the faith he instilled and the power to seemingly turn sinners into saints made his womanizing unimportant.
The gasps from the church members weren’t released because he’d been seeing Rebecca. They were released because no one could figure out what Rebecca had done, said, or promised to get him to commit.
And neither could Rebecca.
The night he’d proposed to her had caught her completely by surprise. They’d just finished having sex, something he loved to do, when he turned to her as they lay naked in her bed, and popped the question. Initially, Rebecca thought he’d been joking. She wasn’t naïve to his philandering ways. They actually didn’t bother her. The Pastor was indeed a catch, but she was young, and as long as he took care of her, which he did well, then she was fine with being one of a few. She didn’t need marriage.
But always the charismatic manipulator, Bruce explained in his deep baritone that God told him one night that the time had come for him to choose a bride, and that the bride he was to choose would be Rebecca. She was the one to complete him. She was the woman to have his last name, and bear and raise the next generation of Stantins who would carry on God’s work. His explanation had been so sincere and moving that, with tears falling from her eyes, Rebecca said yes.
The proposal was made in early spring. The marriage took place in the fall. By winter, Rebecca realized that her husband had been an eloquent bullshitter. Bruce wanted to have her for his wife, yes, but not for the reasons he’d stated.
Rebecca quickly found out that Bruce needed to have her at his side. He wanted to move up in the order, and while his delivery and the following and money he’d amassed would help, having Rebecca as his trophy was the last and most necessary rung in the ladder he needed in order to ascend.
Bruce wanted to be famous. He wanted to be the next T.D. Jakes, but bigger. T.D. had the skill, but he didn’t have Bruce’s looks. Now add to that a woman who every man wanted to see and he had gold. They quickly became the black Brangelina. People adored, envied, and wanted to know about them. Their combined looks, along with his charm and oratory gift, made them marketable, and they soon became the face for a booming religious movement throughout North Carolina. With Rebecca by his side, Bruce became so popular that eventually North Carolina became too small for them, and so they moved to New York City.
To those looking in from the outside, their union was a blessed and devoted one. But Rebecca knew better. While Bruce appeared to be the perfect husband, she dealt with the fact that he had been using her. He’d been as unfaithful as he had been before they’d exchanged vows, if not more so, because he knew that Rebecca wasn’t going to leave him. She was the first lady. Her background didn’t matter. No one cared about her GPA, and no one cared that she’d brought essentially nothing to the table. She was simply the pastor’s adored wife, and all doors were open for her.
Marriage to Bruce was complete security. She wanted for nothing. What more could she have asked for? Just play the good wife, keep her mouth shut about his extramarital trysts, and give him a son to carry on his fucking name.
Those were the things he’d say as he became physically and verbally abusive.
“Enjoy your stature, bitch, because without me you ain’t shit!”
Rebecca endured Bruce’s punches and kicks below the neckline until she’d become pregnant and then had a miscarriage three months in. Bruce blamed her for losing the baby. He said her ungratefulness brought about God’s punishment.
The verbal and physical abuse had been hard to deal with, but the loss of her child–a child she’d seen as a lifeline–broke Rebecca’s spirit, and for the next three years, she did as her husband commanded. She played her role. The only order she couldn’t follow was to conceive another child–something her husband blamed solely on her.
For three years Rebecca endured. But one day she received an anonymous phone call from someone who said they knew what she’d been going through and that they knew of someone who could help her if she was willing to pay. They gave her Marlene’s number, and a week later, after Bruce punched her in her belly because he’d had to make a solo appearance at a speaking engagement, she made the call. Two days after that, she met Lisette. Two weeks after that, Lisette handed her a manila envelope with photographs inside of her husband having sex with her. Rebecca’s plan had been to use the photographs to force a divorce, but during their final meeting, Lisette had opened her eyes.
“Your husband’s right,” she said evenly.
“Excuse me?”
“The life you have, the things you can do. They’re all because you’re the first lady.”
Rebecca slammed her brows together. “I . . . I don’t understand.”
“What I’ve just handed you in that envelope is a live grenade. You can use it to get your divorce like you want, but in the process, you’ll blow up not only your husband, but you’ll blow yourself up as well. Now your husband may survive. He’ll probably pull the “Lord has helped me to see the errors of my ways and I’m a changed man now” card. Women will forgive him because they’re stupid. Men will forgive him because they’re men. Despite the hole you try to bury him in, he’ll find a way to climb out. But you . . . While you’ll escape the abuse and will benefit financially, you’ll lose something that you have that’s very powerful. Your stature.”
“My stature?”
“You’re the first lady. That title gives you a key that only the first lady can hold.”
Rebecca held up the envelope. “Are you suggesting that I don’t use this? That I just deal with the abuse?”
“No.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“Those pictures are power, Rebecca. Power and control. Show them to your husband. Let him know that copies have been made, and that if he lays another hand on you, or says the wrong thing, or even looks at you wrong, that those copies won’t be kept private. That a lot of other people will know about his bullshit.”
Rebecca’s mouth fell open. “Wow.”
“You’ll be able to do whatever the fuck you want to do, Rebecca, because I guarantee your husband won’t want those photos released. Seek the divorce and you throw away your control.”
Again, Rebecca said, “Wow.”
A live grenade.
As Lisette suggested, she showed Bruce the photographs and let him know that she wasn’t the only owner.
“Enjoy your stature, bitch, because if you give me a reason to release them, you ain’t gonna have shit!”
Lisette had shown Rebecca what control was. She’d shown what power was, and in doing so, she’d opened a door to a world that fascinated and intrigued her. Lisette had given her a new lease on life and she was enjoying the hell out of it, doing what and occasionally who she wanted. She loved the Lord, but she had needs that the Lord couldn’t provide, and every so often, when the itch was there, she sought to have it scratched and she didn’t hide shit from her h
usband. Until Lisette helped her, Rebecca had no real purpose. Nothing really stoked a fire or passion.
Until Lisette, had come into her life. Now she knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to do for others what Lisette had done for her. She wanted to be a liberator, a healer. She wanted to empower women, give them back the dignity that she’d gotten back over a year ago.
She hadn’t made the photographs public–and really she had no plans to give away the leverage they gave–but she had officially sought a divorce from her husband. She could do some good as the first lady, but she could do a hell of a lot more as a home wrecker.
Rebecca took a short breath and looked over at Lisette. She was talking to another woman. Rebecca was sure that she was a woman in need the way she’d once been.
Rebecca smiled and waited for Lisette to finish her meeting.
11
Bitch.
Look at her sitting there with her client. Arrogant bitch. She thinks she’s so goddamned special. So perfect. I want to go over there so bad. I want to beat on her over and over and over again. I want to cut her and make her bleed. Want to choke her until she passes out. Wait for her to regain consciousness and then beat, cut, and choke her all over again. I want to do it for days. Want that whore, bitch to suffer. I want to make her ass beg for mercy, beg for her pathetic life.
Oh, how I want that.
I can’t stop my leg from bouncing. My muscles are taut. They want me to give in. They want me to allow them to function on their own. They want to take me over there so bad. I clamp my hand down around my thigh, right above my knee, and squeeze.
Stop bouncing. I can’t do this yet. Not here. Not now. It’s not time yet.
I’ve thought about it night and day for six months. I’ve gone over the how, when, and where for six fucking months.
Six months of hell.
God, I want to hurt her so bad.
I want her to feel the pain that she’s made me feel. The heartache. The emptiness. The loneliness I’ve had to endure. I want to look directly into her eyes as her life extinguishes the way mine did.
Hell.
Pure goddamned hell.
I squeeze. Feel the ache in my leg. I’m gripping so tightly, I’m causing trauma to the muscle. I’ll have a bruise tomorrow. Another one to add to the collection of bruises, cuts, and scars I’ve accumulated.
I watch her.
I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I know the words coming out of her mouth are laced with pompous ignorance. Fucking bitch. Fucking whore. Fucking prostitute. She doesn’t know how lucky she is. She could die right here and now. But I have to wait and that kills me. Makes me hate her even more. She likes to have everything go her way. I hate making her think that it is. But I have to. Revenge will look, smell, taste, and feel so much better if I wait. If I stick to the plan.
My leg bounces. Says fuck the plan. Do it now.
Now!
I squeeze. My cotton slacks don’t prevent my nails from digging into my flesh.
Bitch. I’m going to kill you and it will be all your fault.
God, I can’t wait until that moment comes. I’m going to savor it. I’m going to replay and relive it in my mind over and over.
I take a breath, hold it for a moment, and then let it out slowly. Look at her. Arrogantly plotting out how to ruin someone else’s life.
You’re going to pay for what you’ve done to me, bitch.
My leg stops bouncing and I unclasp my fingers from around it. My body is in tune with my mind now. It understands that patience is the key to salvation. Patience will deliver to me the freedom that I need to move on. It will be hard, but at least then, without her in the world, I can try. But only when she’s no longer a part of this world.
My leg starts to bounce again. I clamp my fingers around it again and squeeze. My muscles hurt. I wince. But I enjoy the pain. It’s sadistic, I know.
I wasn’t always this way. Before the pain she’d caused, I was sane. I was happy. I was living a life filled with love. The sun shone and brought heat and light to every one of my days. I looked forward to the beauty of sunrise and the imminence of sunset, knowing that I would be blessed with the magnificence of sunrise again.
But then that bitch took it all away.
She got rid of the sun and brought the cold and the darkness.
I hate her.
I wince and grit my teeth, I’m squeezing my leg so hard. I’m sure I’m going to limp when I leave. But that’s OK. I’ll squeeze and deny my muscles the pleasure of getting up and ending her life now, because the pleasure will be so much sweeter when the time comes.
Be patient. Breathe and be patient.
Stick to the plan.
She’ll get hers.
I promise.
I watch her. I squeeze my leg again. Shit, it hurts.
Fucking bitch.
12
“Hi, Lisette.”
I’d just finished my meeting with Shante Hunt and was folding a cashier’s check she’d given me for $37,000 dollars. Half now. The rest when she had Ryan Scott by the balls. The sum was commonplace to me now, but the sensation of holding that much money at one time was still intoxicating.
Ruining marriages was a very lucrative business.
I looked up to see Rebecca Stantin standing in front of me. She was the wife of pastor extraordinaire Bruce Stantin. He was a charismatic womanizer and abuser, who had everyone fooled. He preached the Word of God on Sundays, and verbally and physically abused his wife Monday through Saturday.
Rebecca had come to me because she wanted explicit photographs of the good minister committing the sin of adultery. She wanted to use those photographs as leverage to not only get out of the marriage, but to walk away with as large a settlement as well. She was seeking peace and freedom. I’d given her the photos she wanted, but before I let her walk away, I showed her how she could have that peace and freedom while staying in a marriage that had practically given her the key to the city.
I said, “Rebecca.”
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
“I’m actually about to leave.”
“Please?” she asked. “I promise I won’t take up too much of your time. I just have something I want to discuss with you.”
I looked at my watch. I met with clients typically no more than three times. The first meeting was to go over the particulars and to collect half of the payment. The second meeting, if necessary or requested, was to provide an update and to finalize how the setup was to take place. The third meeting was the last. I provided the proof they wanted, collected the other half of my payment, and then said goodbye. I never met with them again.
I said, “I have two minutes.”
Rebecca smiled and pulled out a chair and sat down across from me. “I appreciate this,” she said.
I gave her a half smile. “So . . . how can I help you?”
“Did Marlene tell you I called?”
“She did.”
“Oh, OK,” she said. “So . . . I saw you sitting with someone. Was she a new client?”
I closed my eyes a bit. “I don’t discuss my business, Rebecca. You know this.”
She gave me an apologetic frown. “You’re right. I apologize.”
“So you said you had business to discuss. Is this about your husband?”
“Ex,” she said.
“Well . . . soon-to-be ex?”
She held up her hand. There was no diamond on her ring finger.
It surprised me. “You left him?”
Rebecca smiled. “I did.”
“And how did he take it?”
“With a tight lip and a clenched jaw. I haven’t used the photos, but I told him if he gives me any grief that I will, without hesitation.”
“Good for you.”
Rebecca smiled and then leaned forward. “Being the first lady was nice, but I didn’t want to be the first lady anymore.”
“OK.”
“Lisette . . .” She paused and looked at me
intently, as though she had a big secret she were about to divulge.
I said, “Yes?”
“I want to do what you do.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“What you did for me changed my life, Lisette. Before you I was like a zombie, walking around without aim, without purpose. I was dead inside. But when I used those pictures in the way you suggested, and got the results I got, something came to life inside of me. It was like a bulb just came on and brought to light a path I’d been desperately searching for, but had never been able to find.
“What you did was so powerful and so empowering. You helped give me total control. More importantly, you gave me my dignity back. I could pay you from now ’til eternity, and I’d still never really be able to repay you for what you’ve done.”
“And now you want to do what I do?”
“Yes! I want to give women the empowerment that you gave me. I want to give them their dignity back.”
I looked at Rebecca with a hard stare. Her eyes were alive with excitement, with passion. She’d been blind but now she could see. And with her eyes wide open, she now wanted to go on a crusade doing what I did.
I shook my head.
I was a home wrecker not because I was on some moral crusade. I was a home wrecker because I enjoyed doing it. I enjoyed playing men. I enjoyed making them bend to my will. Fucking them over the way they fucked over their wives and others pleased me. It wasn’t about morals. It was about control. It wasn’t about being on a crusade for the sake of womankind.
It was about self pleasure. It was about getting high off of making a man do what I wanted. It was the ultimate orgasm. Women just happened to be helped in the process of my masturbation.
Rebecca had no clue. No fucking idea.
I pushed my chair back and stood up, and looked down at her. I said, “Go home, Rebecca. And don’t call anymore,” and then walked away.
She wanted to be a home wrecker. That was a joke.
Rebecca called my name. Said out loud that she could do it.
Eye for an Eye Page 5