by Shelly Ellis
“Ev!” Charisse exclaimed.
She stood in the doorway wearing an oversize pink wool sweater that revealed one of her creamy, bare shoulders. Her blond hair was pulled into a loose ponytail atop her head. A few tendrils fell around her face, softening her look. She smiled warmly.
“You came!” she gushed.
“I said I would,” he answered flatly in return.
She pushed the door open wider. “Come in.”
He followed her command.
He knew Leila had told him not to get involved in her dispute with Charisse, to let her handle it, but that just wasn’t in his nature. He could see how it was affecting Leila and, by extension, affecting their relationship and him. How could he not get involved? It was his job to take care of her now, of his family. He had to do this! So he had called Charisse out of the blue earlier that week to let her have it.
“You need to stop this shit!” he had said to Charisse over the phone. “You’re not only fucking with her, but you’re messing with her daughter now. She wants to kick your ass!”
Charisse had chuckled in reply. “Well, she knows where to find me.”
“I’m not kidding! She’s really pissed off and, frankly, you’re pissing me off, too. I’ve tried to show you some patience considering . . . well, considering . . . uh, everything,” he had said, not wanting to bring up her sexual abuse at her father’s hands. “But I can’t do it anymore. This shit has got to stop, Charisse! You need to let this go. You need to let me go!”
She had fallen quiet on the other end of the line. “I don’t know if I can do that, Ev.”
“You’re going to have to. I don’t love you anymore. Do you hear me? I don’t want you anymore! I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s the truth.”
“Prove it,” she had said.
“Prove it? What the hell does that mean?”
“If you’re so sure you don’t love me and don’t want me, then you won’t mind us talking over dinner. You won’t mind me making my case to you alone, with no interruptions from anyone—including that mistress of yours. And then after I say what I have to say, if you still want us to go our separate ways, I’ll grant you your divorce.”
“Charisse, are you serious?”
“I’m very serious! If it’s over like you say it is, then this shouldn’t be a problem for you, should it?”
“Yeah, right. You’ve done this before. You said we were going to talk things over and then when the time came, you refused to go forward with anything!”
“Well, not this time. This time . . . I mean it.”
He had sucked his teeth. “This is stupid, Charisse . . . a total waste of fucking time! It would be much easier if you would just—”
“Humor me, Ev,” she’d said with laughter in her voice. “Have dinner with me.”
He had hesitated. “So you promise that if I do this, you’ll grant me a divorce? This shit will be over?”
“I give my solemn promise.”
He had groused with defeat. “Fine. When should I come over?”
* * *
“Would you like something to drink?” Charisse now asked as she guided him through her living room into the small dining room adjacent to her eat-in kitchen.
“No,” he said, shrugging out of his wool coat and tossing it onto the back of her love seat. “And you shouldn’t be having anything to drink, either.”
He watched as she rolled her baby blues and opened one of the doors of her stainless steel refrigerator. She rummaged inside, moving things around on the shelves. She then withdrew a small dish filled with butter before slamming the door shut. “I was just offering you water or sparkling cider, Mr. Buzzkill. Nothing alcoholic. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
“Water is fine,” he mumbled, looking around him. She quickly filled a glass and handed it to him.
Soft jazz music played on her stereo in the living room, a fire burned in her enclosed glass fireplace, and he could see a copper pot of tomato sauce bubbling on one of the burners. She was actually cooking! Charisse hadn’t cooked anything for him in years, not since the early days when they had started dating.
She’s going all out for this one, he thought with raised brows. But it was a waste of time and effort. He was just doing what he had to do for her to move on and sign their divorce papers. Though Leila probably wouldn’t appreciate his methods, she would certainly be happy with the outcome when he told her they could finally get married.
“So how are things at the office?” Charisse asked, grabbing a loaf of French bread and a knife from the counter. She placed it on a wooden cutting board and began to slice off a few pieces. “Still conquering the world one food franchise at a time?”
“We’re getting by,” he muttered, removing his suit jacket and tugging at the knot in his silk tie. If he had to be here, he might as well get comfortable. He walked toward the granite kitchen counter where Charisse now stood. He leaned an elbow against it, watching her work.
He had to admit that she was an alluring woman when she wanted to be. Seeing her in leggings, sweater, and bare feet, he remembered what he had seen in her all those years ago, what had attracted him to her in the first place. This version of Charisse had been absent for quite a while, hidden behind martinis and bitchiness.
Evan had one vivid memory of her standing in her kitchen of her old apartment, laughing through her tears at something funny he had said while she chopped red onions for the dish she was making him. She had laughed and cried so hard that she had nicked the tip of her finger with the knife and had had to get a Band-Aid.
“Kiss it and make it better,” she had said with an exaggerated pout.
He had kissed the tip of her finger and then leaned forward to give her a sultry kiss that landed them both in the bedroom only minutes later.
He now watched as Charisse added butter to one of the bread slices she had just finished slicing, then held it out to him. He took it and chewed.
“Homemade garlic herb butter. One of your faves,” she said with a wink. “See, I still remember some things.”
Too bad you only started to remember now—when it’s too late, he thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. He wondered if Charisse had been the woman now standing in front of him throughout their marriage, whether it would have still fallen apart. Would he and Leila even be together now?
It makes no difference either way. It’s probably all an act anyway.
“So how are things at home?” Charisse asked with mock innocence, inclining her head. He reached for another bread slice and popped it into his mouth. “Tranquil, I hope.”
“No thanks to you,” he said between chews, making her chuckle.
“Oh, come on, Ev! If you two were really meant to be, what I said or did shouldn’t make much of a difference, should it? Because you guys are so in love,” she said in an exaggerated breathy whisper, placing a hand to her heart and fluttering her lashes. “Admit it! You thought the grass would be greener on the other side, but it didn’t turn out that way, did it?”
Evan lowered his eyes to the kitchen countertop, turning away from the truth in her words.
She was right. He had thought that his life would be much better with Leila versus Charisse—free of rancor and drama. He’d thought it would be damn near perfect! He had loved Leila and wanted her for almost forever, and now he finally had her. This should be their happy ending, but it hadn’t turned out that way. And the issues they faced weren’t just due to Charisse. When he got Leila, he also got her jealous and vindictive ex-husband, rebellious daughter, and meddling mother who always expressed her opinion on their relationship. And now they were having a baby, but instead of drawing closer to him, Leila seemed to be pushing him farther away. This isn’t how he had planned it. This isn’t what he had envisioned or hoped for.
Charisse sniffed their air. “Is that a whiff of regret I smell?” She laughed again, making him glare at her.
“Can’t help but stir up shit, can you?”
&
nbsp; “I’m not stirring up shit! I’m just pointing out the obvious.”
“No, what you’ve been doing to Lee over the past few months is stirring up shit.”
She made a tsk-tsk sound. “That’s simply fighting for what’s mine, Ev!”
“I’m not yours . . . not anymore.”
She leaned toward him so that they were almost nose to nose. “You say that . . . but I’m not so sure,” she whispered, gazing into his eyes.
Charisse eased toward him by another inch, and his eyes drifted to her glossy lips. Her lips were only a sliver away from touching his when he remembered who this woman really was. She had slept with his brother Dante. She was systematically intimidating and harassing his fiancée and refusing to grant him a divorce. He also remembered what he was here for, to sever ties with his wife once and for all because he was in love with Leila. Evan quickly took a step back.
“What are we eating?” he asked, turning away from her and heading to the dining room table. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “It smells good, whatever it is.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charisse shake her head in exasperation before turning to the oven. “Spinach-feta shells with minted tomato sauce,” she said. “Another one of your faves.”
For the rest of the evening, Evan was diligent about keeping his distance from Charisse so nothing like what had happened in the kitchen could happen again. He expected her to use the meal as a chance to “state her case,” to make arguments for why he should be with her and not Leila, but she didn’t. She kept the conversation innocuous, even polite, not mentioning any of the past acrimony between them—the lying, the bitterness, and the affairs—or how she felt about him asking for a divorce.
By the time they finished their meal, he had a full belly and was even somewhat happy. He had done what she had asked and now, if Charisse stuck to their agreement, they could finally go their separate ways.
He wiped his mouth with his dinner napkin, pushed his chair back, and rose from the table. “Well, thank you for the meal. I should be heading home, though.” He glanced at his watch, then looked across the table at Charisse. He put his suit jacket back on. “I guess I’ll be receiving the signed divorce papers from you sometime this week.”
“Sure,” she said, pausing to take a sip from her water glass, “after I do one last thing.”
“What’s that?” Evan frowned as he watched Charisse rise from the table and walk toward him.
“This,” she said just before linking her arms around his neck, catching him by surprise. She then stood on the balls of her feet and raised her lips to his.
Evan started to pull back, to shove her away and unwind her arms from around his neck, but she held tighter onto him, pressing her lips more firmly against his.
“Don’t fight it, Ev,” she whispered hotly against his lips.
Despite his wife’s urging, he could have . . . should have fought it. He should have tried harder to remove himself from her embrace, but he didn’t. He didn’t know if it was the nostalgia of the moment—making him remember how beautiful and sexy she had once been. Or maybe it was the distance and tension he had been feeling for months with Leila. Or maybe it was because he knew this was Charisse’s last stand and she would not give up until he gave in, but he surrendered to the moment. He relaxed and let Charisse kiss him.
He let her dart her tongue inside his mouth, and God help him, he met her tongue with his own. Her hold around his neck tightened as she leaned back her head and their kiss deepened. She pressed her breasts against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her back, drawing her closer.
“See, Ev. I knew you still loved me!”
At her words, he recoiled as he if had been bitten by a poisonous snake. He withdrew his arms from around her waist and took an unsteady step back. He stared down at his wife, who was grinning up at him triumphantly.
“We shouldn’t have done that,” he said with gasping breath, shaking his head. “I . . . I didn’t want to do that.”
“Yes, you did! You wanted it and so did I. Admit it, Ev!”
“You didn’t bring me here just to talk!” He wiped his lips on the back of his shirtsleeve, wanting to get the taste of her out of his mouth. “I was so fucking stupid! You’d planned this all along, didn’t you? You brought me here to play these . . . these fucking mind games! You thought you could seduce me into coming back?”
“No, you idiot! I brought you here to find out the truth . . . to see for myself what you refuse to admit to me and to yourself—that you still want me, Ev. And now I know for sure that you do.”
He clenched his jaw. “One kiss doesn’t prove that.”
She laughed. “So you claim.”
“Look, I came here and ate dinner with you. I held up my end of this stupid bargain. Sign the fucking divorce papers, Charisse. End this!”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll keep my word. Besides, I know now that even if I don’t have your ring on my finger anymore, I still have a hold on you, Evan Murdoch. And that’s all I needed to know.” She smirked. “I wonder if Leila would be interested in knowing it, too.”
“Don’t you dare mention any of this shit to Lee!”
She laughed again.
“I mean it, Charisse!”
“Like I really want to fucking talk to her!” she huffed as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Believe me. I would be perfectly happy to never see or speak to that bitch again.”
He took another shaky breath and turned to head to Charisse’s front door.
“Thank you, Evan!” she called to him. “I feel so much better about all this. You’ve taken a load off my shoulders.”
He cringed.
Charisse may have had a load removed, but with that kiss, he felt like he had just dragged a new load onto his back.
Chapter 18
Dante
Dante opened the car door and glanced cagily around him before stepping onto the broken concrete sidewalk. Nothing looked out of sorts. It was the same old drab D.C. neighborhood of his childhood. The same small two-story houses were in various states of disrepair, from crumbling brick to torn panels of siding to broken windows with black trash bags taped over the missing windowpanes. The lawns were more dirt and rubble than grass. At the end of the block was the same streetlamp with its innards exposed, showing a tangled mass of disgorged wires resembling multicolored intestines. A pair of wilted Converse sneakers dangled from one of the phone wires overhead and the same four dudes leaned against the buckling wire fence as they played a game of craps on the sidewalk, blocking the path of all those who walked by. Well, Dante could reluctantly admit that they probably weren’t the same dudes from his childhood, but they might as well have been.
“Same broke mofos,” Dante mumbled derisively. “Same piss-poor houses.”
Though prosperity had come to other parts of D.C. with gentrification by young hipsters who had moved into the city in the past decade, that prosperity had not arrived here. Nothing had changed in this neighborhood—in this far from glamorous enclave in Ward 8.
He shut the car door behind him and raised his hoodie to cover his head as he made his way to the house nestled near the end of the block.
He had moved into his mother’s old home a little more than a month ago after kicking out the renters and bouncing from hotel to hotel for a few weeks before that. He hadn’t returned to his condo. He was too scared to do it, unsure whether he would find another group of thugs waiting around to put a bullet in his head. He hadn’t returned to the law firm, either, making vague excuses about his recovery and needing more surgeries.
“We’re deeply sorry for what’s happened to you, Dante, but . . . you’ve been away for two months,” one of the partners had explained. “We’re going to need some medical records to explain your absence . . . for legal purposes, of course.”
“Like a doctor’s note?” Dante had snapped. “I was shot, Edgar! I didn’t get the flu. Hell, it was on the local evening news. I could send you a
goddamn TV clip!”
“Please don’t be flippant,” the old man had grumbled. “We believe that you were shot! Dear God, who would lie about something like that? But we need insurance document copies . . . X-rays . . . something to explain why you’ve been gone for so long . . . why you’re still gone! You understand, don’t you?”
Dante had seethed silently on the other end of the phone line, wanting to unleash a curse-filled tirade against his boss. He wanted to tell Edgar that his hair plugs looked ridiculous and that he hated his puffy, marshmallow-like face. He wanted to tell Edgar that Edgar’s young trophy wife had confessed the same when she had sneaked off with Dante to give him head in one of the filing closets during the law firm’s Christmas party last year. But he didn’t tell Edgar any of this. Instead, he had counted to ten and said, “Sure, I’ll get something to you in a few days.”
“Wonderful!” Edgar had exclaimed.
But Dante hadn’t sent him the documents. In fact, he hadn’t spoken to anyone at his law offices—or anyone at all—in quite a while.
The last phone call he had made was to Detective Morris about the investigation.
“She’s still after me,” Dante had explained to the detective.
“She? She who, Mr. Turner?”
“The woman who tried to have me murdered! She had some guys waiting for me at my place! I need a police guard, someone to watch me twenty-four-seven to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, but I’m not following you, Mr. Turner. What woman?”
“I told you . . . the bitch who’s trying to kill me! Her name is Renee Upton and she’s pissed off that I dumped her and wouldn’t take her to Barbados or some shit, so now she wants to take me out permanently. She tried it in the parking garage in July and it didn’t work. She won’t give up until I’m dead.”