Role Play

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  The unexpected voice seemed to cause Brooklyn to tense. She turned around. Her eyes grew wide with surprise. She looked from one side of the street to the other. A neighbor walked his golden retriever. Another watered his grass. She turned back to Elle, her brows snapped together.

  Elle continued, “I know you’re fucking my husband.”

  Brooklyn swallowed.

  “No need to pretend,” Elle said.

  “What are you doing here?” Brooklyn’s eyes narrowed.

  Elle did her all to suppress the instinct of slapping the shit out of this bitch. The nerve of her to question what Elle was doing here. If anything she should be thankful that Elle hadn’t come with a gun to blow her brains out.

  “Did Monty send you to do his dirty work?” Brooklyn snapped.

  “Last I checked you were his dirty work. I see it’s paid off well for you.” She turned and faced Brooklyn’s brownstone. Through the picture window she saw it was as beautiful inside as it was out. “Custom made furniture. Italian leather. Hand-carved bookcase. Original Malik Whitaker artwork. A far cry from the low-income projects where your junkie mother killed your rapist on the floor. Time’s up for you and Governor Save-a-Ho, though.”

  Brooklyn froze, and though it was for only a fleeting moment, Elle noticed. “I know you may think that I’m just finding out about you, but I’m not. Monty tells me everything.” She paused and for a moment wondered if Brooklyn knew that what she’d just said about Monty was a lie. He didn’t tell her anything. Everything she knew about Brooklyn was via the private eye.

  Elle continued. “I also know he’s only fucked you for sport, and because I allowed him to. Now I’m hitting the brakes. I’m sure you thought something would come of this, but it won’t. Hoes remain hoes around here, no turning them into housewives. And you’ve gotten more than most. So, take it for what it was and move on. He will never marry you, you will never have my life, and you will always be second best.”

  Brooklyn took in the sting. She wasn’t sure if any of what Elle said was true. Still, her words tore through Brooklyn’s flesh like a salty stab wound. “Then why are you here, Ellaina? Surely there is more a First Lady should do with her time. Or did you just spill a series of lies and you’re here because Monty loves me? After all, a more confident woman wouldn’t be in my face. My guess is you came to size me up. Try and figure out why your husband is so desperate for me.” She flashed Elle a sinister smile, then whispered, “It’s about the way I make him feel. Like a man.”

  Elle’s heart thundered in her ears. Her mouth dried. Her tongue felt like cotton. “On my way over here, I didn’t know if I wanted to have a conversation with you. Or if I would drop all dignity and beat your ass, for being a home-wrecking bitch—”

  “Your home was wrecked the first time Monty said hello to me. Don’t blame me for that. See yourself. And if you feel a need to leap, I’m here. Nothing between us but air and opportunity.”

  Rigid cords formed in Elle’s neck. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. I feel sorry for you; you really have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. I have all the pictures, the text messages, the voice mails, just enough to expose you and make your life a living fucking hell.”

  “If you must, go to town, bitch.” Brooklyn stormed over to her SUV, got in, slammed the door, and took off.

  Elle pushed her shoulders back. Her legs felt like twigs, making her six-inch heels rickety as she walked. She slid into her SUV and took off for the highway.

  You’re here because Monty loves me. After all, a more confident woman wouldn’t be in my face . . . It’s about the way I make him feel. Like a man.

  “No! Shut the fuck up!” Elle spat to an invisible Brooklyn, “He’s my husband! Mine, bitch!”

  Ever since she married Monty, Elle had planned her life meticulously. But she hadn’t planned on ever be a raging, crying lunatic, confronting some off-brand bitch on the sidewalk.

  Her breathing grew short. She felt dizzy. A pain shot up her left arm.

  Relax.

  I can’t!

  I need to know, where did I lose control? When? How? What was I doing when the shit shifted? I need to know the exact moment . . . when he stopped . . .

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  Though she was in the middle of the freeway, she lifted her foot off the accelerator and stepped on the brake.

  Her speed melted to a crawl.

  She stopped.

  Cars whizzed past her.

  Horns blared.

  Tires shrieked.

  She screamed, and no matter how much she told herself to drive, she couldn’t. Instead, she pounded the dashboard, her head dropping onto the horn.

  Chapter 40

  Elle

  “Mrs. Fields, someone needs to speak with you.” An unexpected voice crept into Elle’s ear as she stepped out of the bank.

  She froze.

  Her heart thumped.

  She took a step—missed it.

  A scarred and heavy red hand with swollen knuckles gripped her shoulder. “Mrs. Fields, don’t make this difficult. I was given instructions not to hurt you, unless there was no other choice. Don’t give me no choice. Get inside.” He gave her a nudge. Elle drew in a breath and pushed out a scream. The hand gripped her jaw, forcing her teeth to sink into her inner cheek. The bitter taste of copper filled her mouth as blood and saliva slid between her lips.

  This was it. She could feel it. Something had caught up with her and was prepared to take her out. She just didn’t know what or why. “Please, please, no! Let me go!” Her voice was muffled beneath the firm grip. The last time she felt like this she had been naked, dragged out of her bed, and her father held his belt above her head . . .

  She took in the parking lot.

  A mother pushed a light pink pram.

  A toddler ran in front of a brakes-screeching car with a terrified father behind her.

  A teenage boy with gold Beats headphones looked Elle’s way, but either he didn’t notice or he didn’t care that she’d been picked up and thrown into the back of a black armored Mercedes Sprinter.

  Her head hit the black carpeted floor. Before she could think of what to do next, she was tossed into a seat.

  Her assailants raced up the freeway.

  Think . . . think . . . think . . .

  Her eyes shifted in the dark.

  “Arrrrrg!” she screamed, and the same hand that had gripped her before covered her mouth again.

  “Be. Quiet,” he said.

  Elle’s mouth burned. “Please, please, let me go!” she begged. “What do you want? Money? I’ll give you money, just let me go! Do you know who I am? My husband will look for me! Where are you taking me?”

  She felt the barrel of a gun press into her temple. “I said be quiet and calm down.” She deflated. Hot tears burned her cheeks; an iron knot clogged her throat.

  This was definitely it.

  The truck’s interior light came on, and a dull yellow glow filled the space. “Mrs. Fields, if you would calm down and be quiet, you and I can have a conversation.”

  Elle squinted as she looked straight ahead.

  Stephen Himes. He sat in the seat facing her.

  Her blood pounded in her ears. Her heart thudded in her chest.

  She’d known Stephen as the head of ICC and a close associate of Monty’s, but she could never quite read his energy or feel comfortable when he was around. Though his generous donations to her foundation forced her to be kind, she always cut their conversations short and looked for the nearest exit.

  Today, there was no exit.

  Her stomach churned. She needed to go to the toilet.

  “Sal, put the gun away,” Stephen said to the gunman. “I think Mrs. Fields will behave.”

  Elle swallowed. Still feeling like she was on the bedroom floor, she swiped tears. “Please. Let me go. I haven’t done anything to you. Please. If this is about Monty, tell me what he’s done, and I’ll do what I can to fix it . . . but d
on’t do this.” She folded her hands in a prayer position. “I have a family. . . my kids.”

  “Mrs. Fields, first you file for divorce; then you withdraw and move around a substantial amount of money. Why?”

  Elle panted, as the entire plot of raking Monty over the coals and leaving the country with her sons until the divorce was final unraveled in her thoughts. She considered what she’d told Lydia and how the bank manager wouldn’t look her in the eye. “W-what?” Elle squinted. “What do you mean? How do you know that?”

  “Anyone who has access to my money, I keep tabs on. Now. Answer. The. Question.”

  Elle panicked. “What the hell is really going on here? What do you want?”

  Sal placed the gun back to her temple. “Answers only.”

  She stuttered, “I-I-I filed for divorce because I’m not happy. Monty keeps having affairs, and I can’t live like this another day.”

  Stephen’s brows lifted. He looked her over. “You do realize you’re not innocent? I know about the lesbian affair that ended not so long ago.”

  Silence.

  “The money?” he pressed. “You moved it to the Caymans. Why?”

  “I need a way to support myself and my children.”

  “By placing money in overseas accounts. Uh-huh. In the Caymans, of all places.” He nodded. “Your parents are well-known televangelists who also host the national prayer breakfast in Washington D.C. every year. They have a pretty established collection plate. You have several accounts of your own with respectable amounts of money in them. You run a foundation; not every donation sees its way to the community. You have enough money to take care of yourself and your children in the United States. So please, spare me the dutiful-wife-in-distress routine; it’s disrespectful, and you’re a better liar than that.”

  Elle glanced around, unable to focus on anything. Her lips twitched. “It’s the truth.”

  “I’ll tell you what the truth is—I’m tired of you. I don’t do well with bullshit. And right now, I feel like you’re a liability. You’re running around cleaning out accounts, filing for divorce. Shit’s flying in the media about ICC. For all I know, you’re the one running your mouth. What were you and Monty’s mistress talking about?”

  “Who . . . how—”

  “Know what, I think you need to be shut up permanently.” He picked up his cell phone and spoke into it, “Call the governor.”

  Chapter 41

  Monty

  Monty tossed back a shot of scotch before he stepped into the State Capitol’s press room, and for a moment, he wondered if it had affected his hearing. He stared at his communications director, Carmen. “Excuse me, what did you just say? My wife told Officer Jordan what?” He placed a hand over the podium’s microphone and waited for an answer.

  “She said she wasn’t coming and not to send for her again.”

  What does she mean, she’s not coming? And don’t send for her again? She’s taking this shit a little too far. Where the fuck is she?

  “Sir, are you okay?”

  Monty blinked away his thoughts. He turned from Carmen and surveyed the room. From the dark blue–carpeted floor, white walls, California state flag in the left corner, press pool buzzing about the room, snapping pictures of him, and exchanging whispers; to Lorenz.

  Heat inched through the veins in Monty’s neck, causing his jaw to clench and his teeth to snap tightly together.

  “I’m fine. I’ll deal with my wife later. I need to get this over with.”

  Cameras flashed.

  Monty stepped in closer to the podium and leaned into the microphone. He stared straight ahead to the teleprompter and said, “To the great people of California. I’ve come here today to address the salacious accusations and fake news generated by the media—in particular, the failing First Look Journal. Neither you, nor I, deserve this level of disrespect. The allegations leveled against me in the media today are untrue.” He paused, his words hung in the air. “I take pride in my service to this great state.

  “The completion of the opioid treatment center in Oakland hit a few minor bumps in the road. However, I have been assured that by the end of the day tomorrow, the new date will be set. As for accusing me of shady and unorthodox financial practices with ICC, it’s slander, and my attorneys are reviewing my legal options against all those who have publicly accused me of such.” He looked to Lorenz. “For this is not a game.” He continued reading from the teleprompter.

  “What we have here is a political witch hunt by a district attorney wanting to make a name for himself and disloyal and dishonest ex-employees, who have, for once, done the right thing and resigned. And let’s not discount the press, who is more concerned with slandering me than telling the truth.

  “Have you seen any reports on my efforts to lower property taxes? How about the drop in unemployment? Better public schools? Less crime? No. Because what you are dealing with here is fiction. Journalists who have taken every opportunity to waste the public’s time and harass me.” He eyed Lorenz. “But I’m not going anywhere, and I won’t go down easily.”

  Monty continued, “I will always do what’s right, because that’s what the great people of this state have elected me to do. Thank you. Now, I’ll take a few questions and then I have to go.”

  “Governor Fields, sir, I’m David Edgewood from the Star Ledger. I wanted to follow up on something you said. You mentioned a few minor bumps in the road delayed the completion of the treatment center. Can you give us more details? What has caused the delay? ICC was paid a substantial amount of money—”

  “Most of which has yet to be paid to them. As you are aware, the city of Oakland’s water supply called for immediate attention, as well as the charter schools—”

  “With all due respect, sir, but what does that have to do with the treatment center?”

  “If you’d listen, you’d hear. The budget required some additional balancing and money had to be taken from the treatment center and rerouted for new money for Oakland pipes, which cost two . . .” He paused and looked down at his phone.

  The reporter jumped in, “According to your budget, two million. And the schools, five. Surely out of the hundreds of millions slated for the treatment center, there was enough money left to build more than the foundation. What else can you tell us?”

  “I’ve answered your question. Next.”

  “Sir—”

  Monty ignored him and pointed to a reporter in the back of the room. “Winston.”

  “Thank you, Governor Fields. Winston Smalls, from the California Post. You mentioned your disloyal and dishonest staff being an issue. Can you tell us more about that, sir? Who were they? And what did they do?”

  “I will not get into who did what. Just know it was the right decision. Next.” Monty pointed to a reporter in the far corner of the room.

  Lorenz jumped in, “Governor Fields, Lorenz Graham from First Look Journal and—”

  “I didn’t call on you.” Monty pointed to another reporter. “Daniel, go on.”

  Lorenz continued, “I won’t be long, sir. Can you just explain to us what you mean by disloyal?”

  Monty ignored him. “You, over there.”

  A reporter shouted from the back of the room, “Governor, United Press would also like to know, what do you mean by disloyal?”

  Monty paused. “You can’t be serious.” He pointed to another reporter.

  Lorenz interrupted, “In the People for People complaint, you are accused of accepting ICC’s bid, despite other reputable construction companies offering to build the treatment center for half of the cost to taxpayers. Can you tell us what led you to make such a decision?”

  “Next!”

  “One moment,” Lorenz interrupted, “Governor, with all due respect you haven’t answered my questions.”

  “Because I have not called on you. Next!”

  Lorenz carried on, “Perhaps you will address this, Your ex-employee Carson Young, can you tell us what happened to him? According t
o a source close to him, you were the last person to see him before he disappeared.”

  Monty looked over at Van. “Get him out of here!”

  “I’ll leave,” Lorenz said as Van approached him. “I don’t need an escort.” Lorenz turned toward the door, then quickly turned back around and said, “There is one more thing, Governor. Were you aware that your wife has filed for divorce? Is that why she’s not here?”

  Monty slammed a fist into the podium. “Get him out of here! And no more questions!” He stormed off, barreling through the double doors leading to his office. “The fuck was that feeding frenzy? Somebody get me my cell phone! Annette, get that goddamn editor of First Look Journal, Sydney Briggs, on the phone! She must do something with that motherfucker before I do! Where the hell is my cell phone? I need Elle on the line right fucking now!”

  “Governor, calm down,” Dominic said as they walked hastily through the hall and into Monty’s office and closed the door.

  “To hell with calm down! First Elle doesn’t show up when she’s usually here. Then this ma’fucker announces she’s filed for divorce? I need her ass on the line now! Where the fuck is my cell phone?”

  “Monty!” Dominic said firmly. “Listen to me.”

  “What?”

  “Himes is on the line.” Dominic shoved Monty’s cell toward him.

  Monty waved a hand under his chin and mouthed, “Not now.”

  “You gotta take this.”

  Monty took the phone. “Stephen, hey, man, now is not a good time . . . I—”

  “Why does Elle have a cashier’s check for two million, six hundred seventy-five thousand, twenty-five dollars, and ninety nine cents? And why has she cleared all of your joint accounts and moved the money overseas? Are you going somewhere with my money? You plan on disappearing? Is this whole divorce thing an act?”

  Monty’s stomach dropped to his feet. He tossed a look over at Dominic, then tumbled onto the edge of his desk into a sitting position. He cleared his throat, then said, “I’m the governor. There’s no place for me to hide. And the divorce . . . umm, didn’t think I needed to discuss the state of my marriage with you.”