Role Play

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  He stroked her cheek. “If you want to leave, I’ll call my driver and have him take you home.”

  Silence.

  “But if there’s a slight chance you’d like to stay and have dinner with me, I’d love that.” He boldly took a step closer, until he was a breath away. His cologne tingled her nose. “What do you like, Chinese, sushi, Indian, Nigerian. French, a little oui-oui?”

  They laughed.

  “Ahhh, there it is, that beautiful smile.” He stepped in closer. There was no room left between them. He leaned into her ear. “I’m not here to hurt you. Or make you do anything you don’t want to do. I just want to get to know you. Maybe laugh a little bit. Watch a movie or two. Eat. It’s whatever you want to do. And if you want to leave, that’s cool too. No harm, no foul.”

  She paused.

  Did Bev ever have a moment like this? Never.

  “Dinner,” Brooklyn said. “With no strings?”

  “Not one.”

  She blushed. “Chinese?”

  He smiled. “Chinese it is.”

  Chapter 18

  Elle

  Ellaina-Marie Lockhart-Fields and Montgomery Alexander Fields III were a love story.

  A real one.

  Where boy meets girl.

  In the rain. On a cliff. Moments from killing herself.

  He unknowingly saved her life with a black Totes umbrella and a slight tug on her arm.

  He had no idea that she was already in love—with a girl.

  He also didn’t know that she resented him for not letting her slip.

  Nevertheless, their first night together was perfect. They had a great time at the Young People’s social. He was able to make her smile and laugh, and they even ended the night with their first kiss.

  She never imagined men to be soft. Tender. Gentle. Patient. And to smell oh so good!

  But Monty was all of those things.

  And he was smart.

  Encouraging.

  Understanding.

  He wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and he worked hard.

  He could never replace Sheila, but he made her parents proud.

  Although . . .

  Sometimes he was guarded—needing to be left alone.

  And he had recurring nightmares.

  Still . . .

  They married. Had babies. And they were an unblemished fairy tale, destined for a happy ending.

  Until . . .

  The late nights.

  The missed dinners.

  His scent changed from sandalwood to iris, mixed with rose gardens, and morning dew.

  One day, Elle asked him, “Is something wrong? I feel as if you’re pulling away from me.”

  “What are you talking about? You know I’m busy.”

  “I know, but . . . you seem distant. And you’re never home.”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then relax.”

  She did. Dismissed her gut instinct as overthinking. Instead focused on her foundation and their children—whom he never had time for.

  Then one day, before he became governor, Lisa came. Showed up at their door. Saying she was pregnant and demanding that he make a choice. Because she loved him, needed him, and was tired of being hidden. Dominic was able to take care of the situation, and with a handsome amount of money, Lisa went away.

  Elle threatened to file for divorce.

  Monty promised this would never happen again. He didn’t want his family torn apart. And he would do everything he could to heal Elle’s heart.

  Elle didn’t believe him.

  Though she tried.

  Then the shit started again.

  More late nights.

  More missed dinners and breakfasts, in that order.

  And his scent changed to pineapple, coriander, and cardamom.

  Anxious to soothe her suspicions, she hired a PI to follow him and a hacker to break into his cloud and sync his phone to hers.

  And today . . .

  Elle looked across their formal dining room table, to where Monty’s face was buried in his phone. Before she could complain and remind him of their promise not to use any devices during their family meals, her iPad dinged.

  She considered letting it go, until it dinged again. She slid it from her green Bulgari tote bag and saw two text messages on the screen: I MISS YOU ALREADY. And I WISH YOU WERE HERE WITH ME.

  She was puzzled, then realized the texts were from Monty’s phone—but they were not intended for her.

  A jolt of pain shot through Elle’s chest as she placed her phone on vibrate and looked back across the table. Monty continued to stare intensely at his screen.

  “Ma,” said nine-year-old Montgomery, who they called MJ. “Are you okay?” He took a bite of his steak.

  Elle realized she’d been holding her breath, then slowly released it. “I’m fine, baby. Eat your phone.”

  MJ arched a brow. “My phone?”

  “I mean, your food.”

  “I just finished it.”

  “Good job.” She forced herself to smile. “I just thought your daddy and I had agreed, no devices during family time.” She looked over to Monty, whose face was still in his phone.

  “I’m full,” MJ said.

  “Me too,” eight-year-old Matthew volunteered.

  “Eat your vegetables, Matt,” she said dismissively, while looking at her husband. “Monty,” Elle called.

  No response.

  “Monty.” She called again.

  Nothing.

  “Daddy,” Matthew chimed in. “DADDEEEEE!”

  “What in the world!” Monty jumped, practically dropping his phone. “Boy, what the hell is wrong with you, calling me like that?”

  Matthew held his head down.

  “Excuse you,” Elle said sternly. “Is that tone and language necessary? And besides, who would you like him to call, his father?” She looked over to Matthew. “Your father apologizes, son, for being a leather Cheerio.”

  MJ slapped a hand over his mouth, and laughter oozed from between his fingertips.

  “What’s a leather Cheerio?” Matthew asked, confused.

  “It’s an asshole,” MJ volunteered.

  “MJ!” Elle said. “You know better than to say that! And how do you know what that means, anyway?”

  “Family Guy.”

  “You shouldn’t be watching that!”

  “Asshole?” Monty said, pissed. “You’ve now taken to cussing me out in front of my kids? Classy—”

  Ding!

  Monty’s voice drifted as his iPhone dinged again. He picked it up and gazed at the screen.

  Elle stared at him. He had no idea that their devices were synced.

  “Ma said no devices at the dinner table,” Matthew blurted out.

  “This is . . . Dominic,” Monty continued. “I need to . . . tell him . . . something—” In the middle of whatever he’d planned to say, Elle’s iPad vibrated. She looked at her screen. It was a reply to Monty’s earlier text. I MISS YOU TOO. YOU WERE AMAZING THIS AFTERNOON. Followed by a selfie of a fair-skinned black woman with freckles, dressed in a white lace negligée.

  “Ma,” Matthew whispered.

  “What!” She paused. “I mean, yes, son,” she whispered back, now eyeing Monty, whose face lit up as his fingers glided across the screen.

  Matthew continued, “No phones.”

  “You’re right.” Before she could lay her iPad down, it vibrated again. Monty had sent a smiley-face emoji with hearts dancing in the eyes.

  Monty laid his phone face down on the table and looked up. “Boys, how was school today?”

  “They don’t go to school on Saturday!” Elle stood up from the table. “Okay, MJ and Matt, upstairs. Dinner’s over. Time for your baths.”

  The boys rose from their seats and took off running.

  Monty reached for Elle’s hand as she walked past him, headed for the kitchen. She snatched her hand back.

  “What?
What’s wrong?” Monty hesitated. “You’re upset because I was on my phone? I know, I know. We agreed to give the devices a rest during dinner, but there was some last-minute work I needed to complete. Hell, you’re as guilty as I am.” He pointed to the iPad that she’d left on the table.

  Elle wanted to scream. She’d even opened her mouth to let it out, but no sound escaped. Just this motherfucker looking at her like she’d lost her entire mind.

  She should’ve divorced him like she’d planned. She had all the evidence to rake him over the coals. Instead, she didn’t want to disappoint her parents, and she didn’t want to raise her boys in a broken home.

  To think she missed Sheila’s touch, and instead of giving in, she fought the feeling, so that she could settle back in love with Monty again. Tirelessly dedicate her life to their marriage and their children.

  Only to have it all end by way of an iPad plot twist, where everything she’d once planned for the rest of their lives had just met its death by text.

  “Elle, would you say something?”

  She walked over to her iPad, snatched it off the table, and screamed, “Fuck you!”

  A shell of a man . . .

  2020

  Chapter 19

  Brooklyn

  “Happy birthday, Mommy!” Six-year-old Alani jumped up and down at the foot of Brooklyn’s bed, her thick and wide Afro ponytail, gathered in the middle of her head, bouncing with every word she spoke. “You. Look. Soooo. Pretty! You going on a date?”

  Brooklyn playfully pinched her nose. “Excuse me. You and I don’t discuss me dating. And what, I can’t look pretty just because?”

  “Yes, but tonight you look extra-extra-special. Like that double-chocolate cake with cookies-and-cream ice cream in the middle, topped with whipped cream, that’s just begging to be mushed together in my stomach. You know, the one downstairs in the fridge. Yeah, you look special like that.”

  “Oh, like food.”

  “Yup.” Alani rubbed her belly.

  Brooklyn laughed, while placing the roses Monty had delivered to her on her nightstand. “Well, Miss Lady, you’ve already had a piece of cake and a bowl of ice cream. And when the sitter comes to pick you up, I don’t want her calling and saying you have a bellyache after I’m gone . . . on my date.”

  “Umm-hmm, I knew it!” Alani giggled. “I won’t have a bellyache, though. If I get to eat another piece of that cake, I promise you, Mommy, I’ma be good money.”

  “‘Good money’? Where did you get that from?”

  “Aunt Meechie’s bae, Uncle Luck.”

  “What did I tell you about listening to him—”

  Brooklyn’s phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and smiled. “Hey, you,” she answered. It was Monty.

  “Mommy,” Alani whispered. “Mommy.”

  Brooklyn held a finger up and mouthed, “Wait a minute.”

  Alani mouthed back, “Cake?”

  Brooklyn shook her head no and returned her attention to the call. “What did you just say? We won’t be able to do what?”

  “Mommy!”

  Brooklyn tossed a look over to Alani, who had braided her hands together and made a long face. “Please?”

  Brooklyn flicked her hand.

  “That’s a yes,” Alani said as she smiled and skipped away.

  “Now repeat that,” Brooklyn said into the receiver as she closed her door.

  “We have to cancel our plans for tonight,” Monty said.

  “Do you know what today is?” she asked, shocked.

  “Of course I know, Brooklyn. But did you hear what I just said to you? Or are you testing me? I have too much on my mind for this. Hell, you read the papers, you watch the news. I don’t need this stress! Now, I have somewhere else I need to be tonight, and you’ll have to deal with that. Period!”

  She responded, “I really can’t believe this! I haven’t seen you in two weeks. I keep asking what the fuck the problem is, but I get no response. And now this?”

  “Baby—”

  “Don’t ‘baby’ me, Monty! You promised this year we’d go out and celebrate, and I fell for the shit, again!”

  “Look, I’m not going to keep repeating myself. I’ve already apologized—”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “What do you think the roses were for? Know what? I’m done talking about this. Watch some TV, stay in tonight, and enjoy the flowers I sent over to you. We’ll celebrate tomorrow, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay. Tomorrow’s not my fuckin’ birthday!”

  Her heart hit the floor, and her eyes watered. She couldn’t believe it. And yeah, she always knew what she was getting into. And she also knew that being a mistress of this magnitude required a mindset with no room for romantic fancies.

  After all, Monty cultivated his bullshit. Took pride in it. Groomed it. Finessed it with sweet nothings, and pulled her in by never judging where she came from or what she did to survive.

  Instead, he gifted her: money, bank accounts, a customized red Porsche Cayenne, her college tuition paid in full, a guaranteed teaching position upon graduation, a brand-new Harlem-esque brownstone in the swankiest part of El Dorado Hills, California. Trips to Paris, Dubai, Johannesburg. He offered her anything and everything she’d ever dreamed of, in exchange for being his quietly kept and exclusive pussy, ready at his command.

  No daring daydreams or fairy tales of ever being First Lady.

  She was to keep herself in order. And to do that, she had to commit to beating this nigga at his own game. Make him want her, more than he wanted anything or anyone else, including his wife. Lure him into believing that being without Brooklyn would be the biggest mistake of his life.

  So.

  All the things he said Elle didn’t, wouldn’t, or couldn’t do, Brooklyn did.

  She listened to him.

  Cooked for him.

  Laughed at his jokes.

  Dreamed with him.

  Waited on him.

  Kept his secrets.

  Seduced his silly side.

  Gave him advice.

  Talked him through his nightmares.

  Never judged his limitless bottles of scotch.

  Rubbed his feet.

  Sucked his dick.

  Made love to him whenever, however, and whatever way he wanted to.

  But.

  That was then.

  This was now.

  Things had to change.

  Because she was on her way to losing this game.

  Chapter 20

  Brooklyn

  Monty and Brooklyn locked eyes the moment she stepped onto the red carpet, with her sister Demetria, called Meechie, and friend Joy in tow.

  Brooklyn couldn’t believe she’d actually allowed these two to drag her out of her trusted bed and away from her TV, while she kicked and complained that all she wanted for her birthday was to sit and sift through her bullshit, wallowing peacefully in the self-pity of becoming a miserable old maid with a ran-through pussy. She didn’t think that was too much to ask for; after all, it was her birthday!

  Nevertheless, here she was.

  And there he was: next to his wife, Elle. Together with a local news reporter, Monty and Elle stood beneath the glare of a hot spotlight, in the steady stream of a Channel 5 television camera. Monty did his all to focus on the reporter, setting his sights on the too-bright blond highlights in the reporter’s hair.

  Monty tugged at the knot in his silk Armani tie, loosening it just a bit, then draped an arm around Elle’s waist, enough to hold her close, but loose enough to leave a sliver of space between them.

  Brooklyn watched.

  The reporter spoke into the mic. “Good evening, everyone. I’m John Phillips, coming to you live from KLPQ Channel 5 Evening News. Here we have Governor Montgomery ‘Monty’ Fields and his lovely wife, First Lady Ellaina Lockhart-Fields.”

  He pointed the microphone toward Monty. “Good evening, beautiful people of this great state of California. Tonight, we are cel
ebrating the Sixth Annual Each One Reach One fundraising dinner and ceremony. From what I’m told, there are a few tickets still available, so, please, come on down and support a great cause. If you’re not in the area, or simply unable to make it, you can always be a supporter by way of a donation. Have a great evening, everyone! I know we will!”

  Elle smiled and waved at the camera.

  “Thank you,” the reporter said before Monty and Elle turned to go inside the Ritz-Carlton’s ballroom and take their places.

  The hostess escorted them to their table, which was at the front of the room, alongside a glass podium. Dominic and his date, Angelique, were already seated at the governor’s table. Dominic stared at Elle as she sat down. “You look stunning.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  Brooklyn, Demetria, and Joy were escorted to their table in the center of the room. Brooklyn’s chair faced Monty’s direction. Immediately, she scanned the length of his body, taking his measure.

  His chestnut-colored skin was radiant.

  His smile was smooth, inviting.

  His charm, impeccable.

  He wore a soft gray tailored Armani suit, a crisp white shirt, silk paisley tie, and the white-gold cuff links she’d gifted him for Christmas.

  Absorbing Elle wasn’t as easy, not without comparison. Elle was stunning. Runway ready. At least five nine, one hundred and thirty perfect fucking pounds. Shoulders evenly squared. Brown eyes. Flawless, warm brown skin. She wore a strapless, fitted red dress that tastefully hugged her cleavage.

  Brooklyn pulled out her compact and stared at her reflection. Her copper-colored eyes were set deep in her full cheeks and when she smiled, they turned into slits.

  Her skin was the color of the evening sun with one too many windblown freckles across the center of her face. She stood five foot five with a bubbling set of double Ds. Wore a size sixteen. Was a hundred and eighty-five pounds—most of it in her round behind, curved hips, and thick thighs. Her waist was a showcase, neatly tucked at the sides. But. There was a stubborn whisper of upper-back fat that, no matter how many sit-ups she did or how much Spanx she wore, refused to die.

  What are you doing?

  She snapped her compact shut. Comparing was unnecessary, torturous, and outright ridiculous.