by Marcus Weber
Antonio felt at ease now. This was their normal. Fight, fuck, fix things. It had been going on since they were teenagers.
“I’m going to take care of you.” He lowered his mouth to hers again. Paige leaned up and kissed him back, first slowly and then more passionately. Antonio felt Paige’s heart against his chest. He still had it. She still loved him. He moved his mouth to her neck, then trailed his tongue down the center of her chest, over her belly button, and finally, he dropped to his knees between her legs.
Paige let out an audible breath when he moved his tongue to her inner thighs. He kissed the insides of each thigh gently. Paige trembled.
“Oh my God, I love you,” Paige huffed, her voice gruff with lust. That was what Antonio needed to hear. He needed reassurance that he’d won her over again. That he was living up to her standards again.
Paige panted through her slightly opened lips, letting out a small gasp. “Yes,” she whispered lustfully, lifting her hips slightly toward Antonio’s mouth.
He thrust his long, wet tongue deeper. He used his hands to gently part her. He tasted her. He drank her up. He let their problems fall out of his mind.
“I need you,” Paige begged. “All of you.” Antonio could tell she was crying. This was a scene he’d certainly lived before. Tears of joy, pain, hurt, and satisfaction all together.
Antonio stood up and pulled her until her hips were hanging off the edge of the couch.
“Ah,” Paige winced, squeezing her eyes shut as Antonio filled her up. She lifted her pelvis in response to his rhythmic thrusts. Their bodies moved in sync.
“Oh, God!” Paige belted out. Her inner thighs vibrated from the explosion of pleasure filling her body. Her screams urged Antonio on. He moved faster, grinding into her pelvis with longer, deeper strokes. Her slippery walls responded immediately, pulsating and squeezing him tight. He pounded their problems away. This was their love language.
“Ah!” Paige screamed out, tightening her legs around his waist as her walls pulsed in and out. Antonio followed with a muscle-tensing climax of his own. He collapsed on Paige’s chest. She reached down and stroked his head gently.
“I’m sorry all of this is happening,” he said, the first to speak.
“I should’ve been more understanding. You were right. It’s not all about material things,” Paige said regretfully. There was a short pause.
“I’m going to ask my father for a job,” she said.
Antonio lifted his head, tilting it slightly, waiting for her to explain.
“I think it’s time that I contribute,” Paige explained. “I need something of my own too.”
Antonio sat up. “I didn’t mean that the other day. I told you when we got married that I would take care of you, and I will.”
Damn, he thought the good sex was going to do what it usually did—squash the argument.
“I just think it’s time that I take charge of my own life, Antonio. Everything you pointed out the other night . . . the things you referred to as extra, is my lifestyle, what I’ve been accustomed too. I’m going to go talk to my father, because he can pull some strings and put me in a position where I can earn some money, right away. I mean, I do have my degree. Why not use it?”
Antonio’s jaw rocked feverishly. “You’re not going to your father. Matter of fact, you better not say a word to him. I won’t have him looking at me like I failed you . . . again. I’m tired of trying to live up, Paige. Let me handle this. I already have a meeting set up with Emil Cartwright. I’m the one who will be getting a job . . . not you.”
Paige stood up. “Emil Cartwright? The Emil Cartwright? You can’t be serious, Antonio.” She snatched up her clothes and thrust her legs into her pants.
“Look, don’t be judgmental,” Antonio said, knowing exactly where she was going with the conversation.
“He’s a criminal for God’s sake,” Paige countered. “My father is a senator. His son-in-law can’t be associated with the Cartwrights. My family name can’t be tarnished by that association. Besides, I never told my parents about—”
Antonio put his hand up, halting her words. “Let’s not talk about the difference between alleged criminals and politicians, Paige. Emil has never been convicted of any crimes. There seem to be a bunch of people hell-bent on keeping him down, but he rises above it every time. It’s pretty fascinating if you ask me. Cartwright Enterprises is legitimate, with earnings in the hundreds of millions,” Antonio said, defensive.
“And how has that served you all of these years?” Paige retorted.
Antonio squinted. Her words were a low blow. “It hasn’t, but that’s because I didn’t allow it to. But, right now, I think it’s as good a time as any to collect on what is owed to me.”
Paige seemed to contemplate this. Antonio stretched his arms over his head. “Look, you worry too much. This is all going to work out. Let’s go to bed. Long day ahead of me tomorrow.” The discussion was over. He needed to be sharp for his meeting. It had the potential to change his life—their lives. Forever.
* * *
The next day Antonio’s leg felt weak as he walked into the shiny, glass front building on Wall Street, down in Manhattan’s Financial District. He’d heard that Emil Cartwright had purchased the building a year ago for 38 million dollars. Cash.
Antonio exhaled as he looked up at the huge, mirrored gold letters that read: CARTWRIGHT ENTERPRISES. He wondered what it would be like to be part of a family like the Cartwrights, who had their name on properties all over the city where he’d grown up. Sure, Antonio was famous, but this was different. The Cartwrights had generational wealth, a legacy. Their name rang bells (some good, some bad), not just in New York, but all over the nation.
“Can I help you, sir?” a pretty, raven-haired receptionist greeted him.
A wave of nausea crashed through Antonio’s stomach. Antonio couldn’t figure out if it were excitement or fear or both. It had taken a lot for him to swallow his pride and ask Emil for this meeting. He didn’t know whether it was even considered a meeting when you shared the same blood.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Cartwright.”
The receptionist smiled like she wanted to laugh at him, “Which Mr. Cartwright, sir?”
Antonio’s brows knitted slightly. His cheeks warmed up.
“The father or the sons?” the receptionist clarified, noticing the confusion on Antonio’s face.
The heat moved to his belly. “Oh, I just assumed . . . um . . . sorry. . . . Emil Cartwright. The father.” My father.
Antonio’s heart hammered now. The word “sons” had thrown him off. He had to pull it together. Of course, Emil Cartwright had sons. Antonio had known this for years. He also knew they’d had the privilege of growing up with their father and his wealth.
Antonio followed the receptionist into a huge conference room with a wall of windows that looked out at the water and skyline. The room smelled like brand new furniture and everything inside was modern and shiny. The long, mahogany table was surrounded by at least twenty plush leather rolling office chairs. This must be the place Emil Cartwright conducted all his important business meetings. Antonio suddenly felt important. He tugged on his suit jacket lapels and adjusted his tie.
“There’s water in the bucket here, a few snacks, and here is the remote for the television,” the receptionist said, pointing out everything. “It’ll just be a few more minutes. Mr. E is finishing up another meeting.”
This felt like an official business meeting, on the one hand, then on the other, Antonio felt like a lost boy. Antonio nodded at the receptionist. He still hadn’t found his voice. In fact, being there made him feel awkward, like how he imagined a kid meeting his adoptive family for the first time would feel—excited, apprehensive, and scared shitless all at the same time.
Antonio walked over to the wall of windows and stared out at the place he’d grown up. There were so many questions swirling in his head. Why had he and his mother been left to live in the worst projec
ts in the Bronx? Growing up, even when his mother smiled, Antonio had always sensed that she lived with a deep sadness she just couldn’t shake. Antonio hadn’t asked his questions the first time he’d met Emil Cartwright because he had been overwhelmed with too many emotions.
Suddenly, a memory emerged in Antonio’s mind as clear as an REM-sleep dream. Antonio had held his mother’s frail hand in his as the monitors next to her bed blipped a song. A final, sad song. He’d felt a crushing sensation in his chest when the doctors had told him those were her last days. Sclerosis of the liver, they’d said. Antonio didn’t even know what that meant. He had said all he could say and had prayed in earnest as much as he could. Still, nothing had changed. He was losing her.
Antonio had his head down on her bed when he heard the footsteps to his left. He hadn’t bothered to lift his head. He figured it was another doctor coming with more bad news.
“Cynthia?” A deep voice had croaked out, the syllables rising and falling with emotion.
Antonio lifted his head at the sound of his mother’s name. But, it wasn’t just the name, it was the shakiness in the voice. He stared at the well-dressed man standing at the foot of his mother’s bed. The man acted as if Antonio was invisible as he walked to the other side of the bed and picked up Antonio’s mother’s hand. Antonio had sprung to his feet, his jaw set tight.
“Cynthia, my one true love,” the man rasped, raw emotion evident behind his words. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Who are you?” Antonio growled, squaring off, his mother’s body the line in the sand.
“Um, well . . .” the stranger started, but before the man or Antonio could speak again, his mother’s voice caused both of their heads to turn.
“Ma,” Antonio huffed. Tears of joy immediately welled up in his eyes.
“Emil,” his mother finally managed, moving her head slowly in the direction of the man.
Antonio’s brow creased, and his mouth hung slightly open as he watched the exchange. The man, a big, strong, strapping man, seemed to be reduced to a shell of grief. His shoulders rocked, and he let out audible sobs.
Antonio watched, confused. If his mother hadn’t been so sick, he would’ve demanded that the stranger identify himself or leave. But, something in her eyes had told Antonio that she was happy to see this man.
“Ma,” Antonio said just above a whisper.
His mother turned her head toward him.
“Baby, this . . .” She started coughing violently. The monitors rang loudly.
Alarmed, Antonio squeezed her hand. He didn’t like to see her in this kind of pain. “Shh, Ma. . . . Don’t try to talk.”
She shook her head adamantly. She opened her mouth again but still couldn’t get the words out. Whatever she had to say, it was important.
Antonio held one hand, the stranger held her other hand.
“This is . . . your. . .” his mother wheezed, trying to get the words out.
* * *
“Antonio. I’m sorry for the delay,” Emil Cartwright called out as he whisked into the Cartwright Enterprises conference room.
Startled out of his thoughts, Antonio spun around to face him. Antonio blinked a few times, struck by the feeling that he was looking into a time elapsed mirror.
Emil hadn’t changed much since Antonio’s last encounter with him. The noticeable speckles of gray hair that sat in a neat patch on the top of Emil’s head and his almost completely silver mustache were the only big changes. Those were also the only signs that he’d aged. Emil stood over six feet tall, and his slender frame showed no signs of the pudginess some older men developed as they aged. He was still as regal as he was the times Antonio had seen him in the past. But now, with everything he’d learned about the man over the years, Antonio recognized the significance of Emil’s custom-tailored Armani suits, monogrammed solid gold cufflinks, and diamond-encrusted watch.
Antonio’s eyes glinted with recognition. He touched the cleft in his chin, a subliminal message, a display of comfort and ease around his son.
“No worries,” Antonio said, extending his hand for a shake. “I’m sorry, myself, for this last-minute request to meet.”
“You make it sound so formal,” Emil said, pulling Antonio into him for a quick brother-man hug—a shoulder-to-shoulder tap and pat on the back.
Antonio was a bit thrown off by the show of affection.
“Please, have a seat,” Emil said, pulling out the chair at the head of the conference table.
Antonio put his hands up in front of him. “I can sit anywhere. Really.” He didn’t feel like he belonged at the head of that important table.
“Nonsense. Sit. Sit. Make yourself comfortable,” Emil urged. He pulled out a side chair for himself.
Antonio squeezed his hands shut to keep them from shaking. As a kid growing up without a father, Antonio would imagine that his father was a strong man with huge hands and feet that could beat the world. He would walk down the street and stare at men, wondering if any of them were his father. When he’d ask his mother, she’d always say he didn’t need a father because Antonio was just a gift to her from someone who loved her very much. Antonio had always assumed she meant God, and now, staring at a silver-haired, boldly confident and wealthy Emil Cartwright, maybe his assumption was right.
“Well, I won’t take up a lot of your time,” Antonio said, leaning forward on his arms. “I don’t want you to think I’m here because, well, you know. . . .”
Emil put his hand up. “It’s been years. If you were that person, you would’ve done that years ago.”
Some of the tension in Antonio’s shoulders eased. The last thing he wanted was to come across like he needed a handout or was begging for reparations for how he’d grown up.
“I just need a job. Things took a turn—”
“You know, for years, I wanted to be around you,” Emil blurted.
Antonio’s mouth snapped shut. He swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the hard lump that had formed in his throat.
“Things were complicated with your mother and me. But, she was the only woman I ever really loved. That’s the honest truth,” Emil said, lowering his eyes like he could no longer look in Antonio’s.
Antonio didn’t know what to say. He wanted to know the story, but he hadn’t found the courage to ask.
“I was married. She was engaged to someone else. We fell in love. Real love. We both realized that if we chose to be together, things would get messy. I swear I didn’t know she had gotten pregnant. I swear it,” Emil said with sincerity. He looked at Antonio seriously, “I would’ve never left any son of mine behind like that. I didn’t know until that day I saw you. I’d kept up with Cynthia over the years, but she always managed to keep me from seeing you. I knew she had broken off her engagement and lived her life alone with you. For some years, she shut me out. She forced me to stay in my marriage. I would have left everything behind for her. I swear it. Your mother was the only woman I ever really loved.”
“She was sad about it,” Antonio said barely above a whisper. He felt his tear ducts about to betray him, but he fought them back.
Emil moved to the edge of his seat and stared at Antonio.
“When I got old enough to understand, I figured out why she drank so much. Why she moved to the drugs. She would drown her sorrows in drugs and alcohol, sometimes cry through the night, but she would always be up the next day to make sure I had what I needed. She came to all of my games. I smelled the alcohol on her, I saw her losing weight by the tens, but I was never embarrassed by her. I knew there was some great pain she was struggling with. I just didn’t know what. She was my best friend. She was everything to me. I didn’t know it was you that had hurt her like that,” Antonio said, tears rimming his eyes now. He refused to let them fall.
Emil opened his mouth to apologize, but he never got the chance.
“Pop, sorry we’re late.”
Emil startled and turned around in his chair. Antonio looked over Emil’s shoulder a
s two men rushed into the conference room. Antonio sat up straighter, quickly swiping at his face to make sure it wasn’t wet. He remembered them—Hayden and Jackson Cartwright. They’d been there with Emil the first time Emil had mustered up the courage to approach Antonio after his mother had died.
“Have a seat,” Emil pointed across the table. Hayden, dressed in a tailored suit like his father, obeyed his father’s instruction without question.
“What? We’re supposed to take a side seat while this dude sits at the head?” Jackson spat, glaring at Antonio from under his New York Yankees fitted cap. He stood in stark contrast to his well-dressed brother.
Antonio tightened his jaw, but he didn’t speak. Instead, his eyes darted to Emil.
“Jax, sit down,” Emil said, sternly this time. It was an order, not an invitation.
Jackson sighed loudly and yanked one of the rolling chairs away from the conference table.
“You both remember Antonio,” Emil said, a hint of discomfort in his tone.
Antonio could tell it was itching Emil to say, “My son and your brother, Antonio.”
“Yeah, you should remember him too. The dude just embarrassed your ass in front of thousands of people,” Jackson shot back.
Antonio could tell right away Jackson was the loose cannon of the family. He even dressed contrary to his father and brother with his low-hung designer jeans, thick Cuban link chain lying on a plain black t-shirt, fitted cap, and brand new crisp white designer sneakers. If clothes depicted night and day, in Antonio’s assessment, Hayden would’ve been day and Jackson would’ve been night.
“That’s the past,” Hayden interjected. “I remember him. Of course.” He looked directly at Antonio. “In fact, I’ve followed your career. When our mother passed away, and Pop told us about you, I wasn’t angry at him. I was confused about why he’d let things go the way they did. If I had it my way, you would’ve been around before now. It must’ve been tough growing up the way you did and then finding out things could’ve been much different for you.”