Dangerous Consequences

by Lisa Renee Johnson

  With the signature red-soled shoes crisscrossed behind his shoulders, Sydney thrust her hips toward the heat that lingered on the tip of Donathan’s talented tongue as it pushed her over the edge.

  “Oh . . . God . . . fuck . . . oh . . . God.” She melted into the all-consuming, orgasmic wave that crashed through her body. She basked in the sensations for a moment, her calls to God and earthy words becoming whispers, leaving her glowing all over. Satisfied, she rolled away from him and pushed herself up on his side of the bed and pulled the sheets across her nakedness to ward off a chill.

  Donathan laughed. “Don’t cover up on my account.”

  He fluffed the huge pillows that rested against the headboard, patting them with his hands.

  “Sit right here, baby, so I can feed you.”

  Sydney languished among the pillows and Donathan carefully placed the tray on her lap. She made a wry face as she noticed the tray held only one plate of food.

  “Honey, where’s your plate so we can feed each other?”

  As he filled the fork with a bite of food, Sydney opened her mouth, then closed her lips around the angel-hair pasta. He paused for a moment, held her gaze, and said, “I’ve already had my dinner.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Rattled by the loud ringing of her phone, Sydney sat up in bed, disoriented, before she grabbed the screaming device off the receiver.

  “Hello,” she grumbled, glancing at the clock that said it was one in the afternoon. Usually her alarm woke her up at five a.m., but it hadn’t today. It was Saturday, she was off work, and all she wanted to do was lay in her bed for as long as she felt like it.

  “Please tell me you are not still sleeping,” Payton stated.

  Sydney covered her face with a pillow and sighed heavily. She was so exhausted; she’d forgotten they were going shopping.

  “Get your ass up,” Payton yelled into the phone. “I’m driving up Moeser Lane and I’ll be there in five minutes—”

  Sydney tossed the pillow off her face and jumped out of bed, still a little sore from the accident yesterday. “You’re where? Why did you wait until you were almost here to call me? I need to shower and get dressed.”

  “Girl, if I’d called you when I was still on Highway 4, you and I both know you would have stayed in bed until I arrived at your front door. Now get off the phone because I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Phone back on the receiver, Sydney headed toward the master bathroom, hoping a quick hot shower would ease her discomfort.

  * * *

  The afternoon traffic was slow as Payton Janelle Jones took the Cutting Boulevard exit. An advertisement for PerfectChemistry.com, an internet dating service, blared from the radio, and she paused for a moment, shuddering at the memory of her morning breakfast date. That had to have been the longest hour of her life. There was no way she would ever let a fat fuck like that touch her. His roaming eyes had been all over her body, fondling her as if she were a piece of meat. She’d be so happy when she was done trolling for men on the internet.

  Dating married men wasn’t a problem for Payton, but it was a problem for Sydney, who’d talked her into using an internet dating service in the first place. For Payton, married men with wives who didn’t understand them represented a clichéd and delicate situation; a problem if you were the wife, but it worked out beautifully for Payton. She’d heard all the classic reasons men strayed—the wives weren’t fucking; they would have left a long time ago if it weren’t for the kids—but she didn’t believe one word of that bullshit.

  Deep down, she knew why these quasi-relationships appealed to her. There was no long-term commitment, the men played by her rules, and she got to fuck whoever she wanted.

  * * *

  Because Payton was playing the chauffeur, Sydney felt she should at least make an effort and go shopping. She stood outside her front door dressed in a chocolate-brown velour sweat suit with a Gucci messenger bag anchored across her left shoulder. Jackie O–style sunglasses framed her makeup-free face. As the gate parted like the Red Sea for the Lexus LS600, it occurred to her that she really did have a legitimate reason to cancel this outing. But before she could formulate it into an articulate persuasion, the car had stopped in front of her and she was in the front seat scowling as Payton, with the enthusiasm of a new puppy, gave her details of their itinerary.

  “I need to go to Saks and Neiman’s, then we can go to Crustacean for a late lunch.”

  Sydney stared at her friend. Payton was beautiful—her brown eyes and perfect white teeth playing center stage to a contagious Colgate smile that grabbed a hold of you and wouldn’t let go. She sat in the driver’s seat, holding her smile, the corners of her mouth stretched like a Cheshire cat’s. “So what happened yesterday?” Payton asked as they drove down San Pablo, heading toward the freeway. “I spoke with Donathan briefly this morning before my breakfast date.”

  “That was your behind calling so early this morning?” Sydney frowned. She and Payton usually talked on the phone at least once a day, but yesterday had been so hectic, they’d missed each other. And she’d forgotten all about the breakfast date.

  She immediately started in with the questions. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” Payton responded, glancing over at her.

  “The date. Tell me what happened.”

  “Where do you want me to begin?” she asked dryly.

  “How about eight o’clock this morning?”

  Payton sneered like she was reliving the experience, then said, “Internet dating is not for me. I don’t care if I see another fake dating profile as long as I live. And the sex was horrible.”

  Sydney frowned, disturbed by her friend’s confession.

  “That nasty troll this morning topped the cake. He was worse than the others—definitely no love connection.”

  “I thought this internet dating was an opportunity for you to find a nice guy of your own. Not to add more men to your list. I hope you’re at least practicing safe sex,” Sydney said, removing her sunglasses and staring at Payton.

  Payton was quiet and looked straight ahead as they merged onto Interstate 80. “Well, it was about meeting a nice guy and I didn’t, but I did complete the required six dates and now I’m eligible to get my money back. At least I tried.”

  Sydney stared in disbelief. “You are, aren’t you?” she questioned, the pitch of her voice escalating.

  “Of course I practiced safe sex, I’m not stupid. Although I did have a little problem with Isaiah, the second match,” she said, glancing at Sydney out of the corner of her eye and holding up her right hand to show a three-inch width with her thumb and pointer finger. “Have you ever run across a fine-ass man with a small dick? I tried everything. I kissed it, licked it, and blew on it, but nothing helped. It felt like he was tickling me at first, then it turned into serious friction. I had to go to the doctor behind that foolishness—”

  “Oh, God,” Sydney mumbled. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “The doctor? What for?”

  “Too much friction.”

  Sydney sighed. She had known Payton for almost twenty years, but it still amazed her how reckless Payton was when it came to sex.

  “You didn’t use any lubricant?”

  “Well, normally I don’t need lubricant.”

  “Girl, you are too damn old to be letting a man screw you without lubricant. So what did the doctor say?”

  “She told me I needed to use lubricant,” Payton responded, nearly laughing out loud again.

  “I’m scared to ask you for the details of what happened this morning.”

  “Now that shit was crazy. My PerfectChemistry match, Lloyd, works nights at the Oakland Airport, so I agreed to meet him at Denny’s on Hegenberger. I arrived first and was seated, and girl, I almost lost it when this short man with a serious beer gut playing hide and seek with his belt walked toward my booth, smiling. It took everything in me to sit through a meal with that man.”

  Sydney closed her eyes and sho
ok her head.

  “His breath was so bad I had to run back home to change my blouse before I headed out to Pittsburg. The smell had seeped into my clothing.”

  “Ooo, that sounds nasty.”

  “You haven’t heard nasty. Just before we left Denny’s, he excused himself to the restroom and came back with a wet spot on the front of his pants.”

  “Damn,” Sydney said, laughing. Maybe this internet dating wasn’t such a good idea for Payton after all, but she had just the solution. “Hey, do you remember Miles, the neurosurgeon I’ve been telling you about from work?”

  Payton shook her head.

  “C’mon, Payton, I owe him lunch and I told him I’d bring you along.”

  “Sydney, I am so done with letting you have anything to do with finding me a man. If it weren’t for you and your matchmaking ideas, I’d have more money in my purse right now to spend on this shopping excursion.”

  Sydney looked out the window as they approached the toll station on the San Francisco Bay Bridge. She looked over at Payton, who, underneath the protective armor of her designer attire and flawless makeup, looked lonely. In all the years she’d known Payton, Sydney couldn’t remember her having a relationship with a man for more than six months. Sydney reached across the console and gently touched Payton’s hand.

  “Payton, why do you feel the need to copulate with people you barely know?”

  Payton froze, as if the words had stung her, but quickly rebounded and sighed impatiently. She drew back her hand to count four one-dollar bills, paid the toll, and waited for the metering light in her lane to turn green.

  “For one, I enjoy sex, and two, if I was a man, you wouldn’t be asking me that question, and third, not everybody is perfect like you.”

  Sydney glanced out the window, wondering what Payton meant by that comment. She certainly wasn’t perfect and she definitely liked sex. She just liked sex with her husband and not with every Tom, Dick, and Harry of the male persuasion. It was the trust and intimacy she shared with her husband that gave her the freedom to do anything she wanted in the bedroom, and she couldn’t think of letting another man touch her. For Payton, different men and casual sex was a way of life—like the air she breathed. But how long did Payton think she could run around like she was living in the era of free love without consequences? Albeit good or bad, everything she did in life had consequences.

  CHAPTER 5

  While Donathan James waited for his friends, Tony and Tyrese, to arrive, he walked into the private lounge of the Richmond Country Club. It was twelve noon, thirty minutes before their standing tee time. He took a seat at the bar, using the extra minutes to collect his thoughts. He looked into the crowd, at no one in particular. The country club’s members were mostly businessmen and professionals from the I-80 corridor who appreciated the exclusivity of playing at a private course, but in recent months, membership to the club had become the it thing for up-and-coming African American professionals.

  Today, women, mostly in pairs, seemed to be there to take full advantage of the amenities the club had to offer. Specifically, they sought sugar daddies, who in most cases were married but willing to accept what the ladies were offering. Sex with a price tag.

  Almost everyone in the room knew Donathan; he could thank his radio show’s aggressive morning marketing campaign for that. He was every woman’s dream. Tall, handsome, charismatic, and he knew a thing or two about sexually pleasing a woman.

  He perused the crowded dining room, taking in the imposing self-importance that existed in this newfound social setting. He spotted a woman sitting alone at a small table next to the window. She was in her early thirties, with average looks at best, but the long red nails extending from her fingertips and the reddish-brown wavy hair that rested to the middle of her back caught his attention. Donathan smirked and shook his head. He’d learned a long time ago that women who wore other people’s hair and nails equaled high maintenance, and he preferred his women more attached to their natural, God-given attributes. He was forty-three years old and still hadn’t figured out what made women go through so much trouble to present a false package because, in the end, nakedness hid nothing.

  “What can I get for you today, Dr. James?” the bartender asked. The sleeves of his white polo shirt squeezed his biceps as he placed a coaster with a script letter R and crisscrossed golf clubs in front of Donathan. He glanced at his watch, then back to the bartender, whose blue eyes and tousled hair reminded him of a young Brad Pitt.

  “Give me a Heineken.”

  “One Heineken coming right up.”

  It was the absentminded massaging of the diamond-studded, platinum wedding band on his ring finger that stole his smile and diverted his consciousness back to the day before. The panic in Sydney’s voice had stayed with him ever since he’d gotten her call. He’d been afraid he wouldn’t make it to her in time. His erratic thoughts had spun like the wheels on his motorcycle as he wove in and out of traffic to get to her. It had taken him twenty-five minutes. Good thing the police got to the scene before he did, because he was ready to strangle the bastard, who was being pushed into the backseat of the police car. What kind of man would he be if he’d let someone physically harm his wife?

  As a doctor of clinical psychology, he spent most of his time trying to convince his patients they weren’t crazy. When the truth of the matter was, everyone was a little crazy—just in need of the right catalyst to push them over the edge.

  The bartender returned with his Heineken, and Donathan closed his eyes and took a swig of his beer, propelling the troubling thoughts from his head. “Is this seat taken?”

  A curvaceous young woman stood next to him. He leaned back on the leather swivel stool and studied her for a moment. Nice legs, big breasts—she oozed sex. Just the way he liked them. Her cinnamon-brown hair was pulled back off her flawless face and large-framed sunglasses concealed her eyes.

  While he pondered, she took the seat next to him and ordered a dirty martini, then adjusted herself on the stool, brushing her bare thigh against his.

  “Yeah, it’s taken.”

  She’d been fishing around inside a little red patent-leather clutch purse, but now she stopped cold.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—”

  “No.” He smiled wickedly. “I meant it was taken by you.”

  “Cute,” she said, removing her sunglasses and extending her manicured hand in his direction. “I’m Austyn Greene.”

  He gently shook her hand and then took another swig of his beer, willing his eyes not to look down at her overabundant cleavage. Out of all the empty seats, she had to choose this one. At first glance she was no different from all the other women who tried to pick him up. But at closer inspection her exotic features and pouty lips wouldn’t be easily forgotten, nor would the restlessness and sadness behind her eyes, which betrayed her sexy demeanor. She pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, placed it on the counter, and swiveled on her stool. Their knees touched.

  “Ouch,” she purred, reaching for her knee. “I think I need a doctor.”

  From the moment he’d sat down, he’d known it wouldn’t be long before someone approached him for advice or an autograph. The Sex Doctor—his face was plastered all over the Bay Area on billboards, and he couldn’t go anywhere without people recognizing him. His radio persona had created fertile opportunities for trouble, like the kind that’d just sat down next to him. He cleared his throat and hoped she was a fan rather than the paparazzi.

  “A doctor? What makes you think I’m a doctor?” he asked, lowering his shades, his dark brown eyes giving her a stony stare.

  “You are the doctor who specializes in the art of sex, right? The one from the morning radio show. I’ve tried to call in so we could discuss my issue, but I can never seem to get through.”

  He chuckled. “Well, nobody has ever referred to what I do on the radio as art. After all, I’m just a therapist who talks to people about their sexual issues live on the radio.”

  “Exactly
,” she said and downed her martini in three fast gulps and signaled to the bartender for a second. “Now, can I persuade you to give me a private session?”

  Donathan said nothing; instead, he took another swig of his beer. In situations like these, he found it best to let the women talk. Then he’d find out exactly what they wanted.

  “I see you staring at me.” She giggled, tilting her head back, her laughter sending waves through her bosom. “Are you a breast man? Because I’ve imagined that you are.”

  He grinned. “We’re here now, so why don’t you tell me about your issues—”

  “Are you really a doctor?” Austyn asked, switching from her role as sex kitten to sounding sincerely interested.

  Donathan nodded. To his mother’s chagrin, he was a PhD doctor, not a medical doctor, but that was none of Austyn Greene’s business. She scooted to the edge of her seat and faced him.

  “I get off listening to you on the radio. Your deep baritone voice advising people on how to deal with their sexual issues. Ummm,” she purred, closing her eyes, moaning like he was touching her.

  Donathan jumped as a firm hand gripped his left shoulder.

  “I knew I’d find you in here,” Tony said, scrutinizing the woman sitting next to his friend. Donathan stood, reached for his wallet, and placed a crisp twenty-dollar bill on the bar.

  “I was wondering where you guys were.” He stuttered like a kid who’d been caught with his hand in the candy jar.