Home Wrecker

by Dwayne S. Joseph

  Myles’ chin dropped slightly as he stammered, “I . . . I had a feeling that there may have been something going on.”

  “You had a feeling?”

  Myles looked at me and sighed. “Charles had been turning me down for over six months. Then all of a sudden, a month after I confront Kyra about trying to have me set up, Charles calls me out of the blue and tells me that he’d like to do business with me.” He paused and laughed, and then continued. “He tells me all about how after having coffee with my lovely wife, he’s now convinced that partnering with me would be lucrative for the both of us. That she helped him see how tapping into the minority market was the smartest thing for him to do.

  “Am I that naïve to think that she hadn’t gotten to him somehow? No. Did I think that she’d resort to fucking him? No. But after what she was trying to have you do to me, I gather she’s capable of anything.”

  I raised an eyebrow, said, “So what happened to you hating her?”

  “I still do.”

  “Then why are you forfeiting millions to her? Because you realize after getting into bed with Chuckie and allowing him to give her credit for your partnership, that no matter what you try to do, she’s going to leave you and take much more than five million dollars.”

  Myles nodded. “I know.”

  “Then why partner with Chuckie?”

  Myles sighed again. “I have a gambling problem. I’ve had it for years. Since my senior year in high school. It was recreational fun at first. I’d throw down a couple of twenties on college basketball and football games. NBA and NFL games. I’d win some and lose some, and not give it much thought. I had a job, I had no responsibilities. What the hell, right? In college the amounts I bet went from being a few twenties to a few hundred. I’d bet in several different pools, on and off campus. Winning meant extra money for food, clothes and partying. Losing just fueled the desire to win again.

  “After college, the betting became more intense, as the few hundreds turned into thousands. I became addicted and compulsive, betting on anything that could have money placed on it. Professional and college game. Horse racing, golf, baseball, bowling, pool, etc. I couldn’t get enough. It was like a drug. Hell, it is a drug. And the high from winning was euphoric and was even more addictive than the cash I won. It far outweighed the lows of losing the tens, twenties, hundreds, thousands, and tens of thousands, and eventually millions that I would lose more often than win.

  “As the years have passed and my bank account became thicker, the stakes of bets became larger. I’d bet jewelry, vehicles, and eventually, when the money wasn’t enough, the properties I owned. I couldn’t stop myself. I tried. Shit . . . believe me . . . I tried. I’d go for days not placing a bet on something and I’d think okay, I’m conquering this thing. But then a big game would come up and the pull would be too strong, and I’d be back on the horse, betting my life and my possessions away again.”

  He paused and filled his lungs with java-flavored air and exhaled slowly. Frustration and shame dragged the corners of his mouth down.

  “Getting into bed with Charles has saved me from being bankrupt. I’ve reaped the benefits by acquiring clientele from the circles that would have never dealt with me before Charles. It’s only been a month, but I’ve actually been able to pay off some of my debt. I hate Kyra. Believe me. I hate her with a passion. But, whether I like her or not, she literally saved me.”

  Myles stopped talking and looked off to the side, refusing to make eye contact with me. Embarrassment draped an arm over his shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

  I tapped my index finger on the table top and watched him.

  The power of addiction.

  People lost friends, family, homes, souls, lives, and their minds because of it. Being an addict meant being controlled. Being controlled meant someone or something was running the show. Being an addict meant you were weak, easily manipulated. I admired addiction and the power it possessed.

  I watched Myles struggle to deal with his shame and shook my head. He was an idiot. He’d given Kyra everything she wanted because he was hooked on gambling not for money, but instead for a useless euphoric feeling. A feeling that would disappear just as quickly as it came.

  I said, “Your laptop . . . what are you doing on it?”

  Myles sighed. “Checking scores and placing bets.”

  I stared at him but didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. The look on his face said it all.

  He was pathetic.

  Chuckie had saved him only so that he could drown himself and take Chuckie down with him another day. Because that was most certainly going to happen. And while water filled their lungs and caused them excruciating pain, Kyra would drift by them in a life raft filled with their money.

  Of course, that would be until I caught up with her.

  Myles grabbed his cup of coffee, took a sip and then groaned. The cheap cup conspiracy had gotten him. He looked at me. “I’m going to get another. Do you want anything?”

  “No.”

  “Will you be here when I get back?”

  “No.”

  He frowned. Said, “Okay,” and then got up and walked away, leaving me alone with his laptop.

  I looked at it.

  It looked at me.

  Said, hello.

  Asked if I’d like to place a bet.

  I thought about Myles, sitting in Starbucks each morning, pretending to work, but instead wasting his life away, masturbating with his bookie.

  I grabbed the laptop, walked out of Starbucks and approached the curb. The city was alive with rush hour activity. I turned and looked back into Starbucks. Saw Myles approach his table and flip out when he noticed the laptop missing. I tossed the laptop into the middle of the street and walked.

  Behind me, tires screeched.

  The laptop shattered.

  Myles screamed, “Shit!”

  I walked.

  I had one more person to deal with.

  Six Months Later

  29

  40/40 Club.

  Sitting at the bar.

  Sipping on a passion ’n pagne.

  Music was blasting the latest song by Beyoncé through the speakers. Celebrities, wannabes, groupies, and those just wanting to be seen filled the club’s space. Some stood around and stared up at the sixty-inch plasma televisions, watching the video for the song being played. Some stood around and mingled. Some were out on the floor, moving to the infectious groove. The majority profiled, which is what the night was really all about anyway.

  It was the release party for Beyoncé’s new CD, and anyone who was anyone was there. NBA stars. NFL MVPs. Movie stars, young and old. Of course, the music elite were well represented. Country singers you’d never expect to see. R&B kings and queens. R&B princes and princesses. Rap stars, old school and new. Jazz musicians. Pop stars gone wild. The star of the evening herself was there, sitting off in a VIP room with Jay-Z and a few other important people. Like I said—anyone who was anyone. Each trying to outdo the other in look and attitude.

  I watched it all, yet I wasn’t paying attention to any of it. My focus was on two people only. They were across from me in the far corner of the room. A man and a woman. Her back was flat against the wall, her arms draped over his shoulders. He was facing her, his back to me, pressing his crotch against her. They were kissing and gyrating to the beat sometimes. Other times they were dry humping to another beat altogether.

  I’d been watching them for over an hour. The man was well aware of my presence and was making sure to put on one hell of a show, showing me that my money had been well spent. The woman had no clue I was there.

  It wasn’t easy, but I waited. Sat in my low cut black dress, sipped my passion ’n pagne, turned down one celebrity advance after another, and stuck to the plan I’d devised. It was probably one of the hardest things I’d had to do in a long time.

  Wait.

  Let everything unfold.

  My plan.

  My
revenge.

  Beyoncé’s song ended and the latest gimmick rap sensation came on. Everyone on the floor began doing the same dance, popping to the side while snapping their fingers in the air. Like I’d said before—crap. I hated gimmick rap.

  I looked past the snappers on the floor to my couple again. In another twenty minutes, he was going to lead her by the hand through the crowd on the dance floor, and pass me by the bar. She’d never notice me sitting there staring at her because the Ecstasy pills I’d had him slipping into her drinks would be running rampant through her system. She’d barely be able to focus on the steps she was taking. She’d barely be able to think past the sex that would be on her mind, from all the things I’d told him to say to her.

  Nasty things he’d promised to do.

  Positions he’d have her in.

  Multiple orgasms he’d make her have.

  She was going to love his dick.

  He was going to make her call out his name.

  She was never going to forget having him inside of her.

  I watched them.

  Watched her smile as he whispered the script in her ear. She was drunk, high.

  Twenty minutes later, they walked by. I sipped my drink. Watched her. Saw the lust in her half-glazed eyes.

  I followed behind a few minutes later. Staying several feet behind them, I watched him lead her to the car I’d given him to use. I listened to her laugh. Listened to her say how she wanted to give him a blow job in the car. I was parked behind them. She was so gone, she never even noticed me standing beside my door, watching them drive off.

  I followed them to a condominium I’d purchased at The Exchange at 25 Broad Street. It was an elegant condo just a block away from the New York Stock Exchange. I’d had him tell her all about it before the Ecstasy. Had him describe the nine- to thirteen-foot ceilings. The marble-floored bathroom with glass wall tiling. Made sure he told her that at seven hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars, it had been a steal. I knew she’d be impressed. His stock, already high from his devilishly good looks and muscular frame, would rise by leaps and bounds after he made it appear as though money had been no object for him.

  As instructed, he parked the car in the garage himself. I let the valet take my car and went into the lobby. They walked in minutes later.

  She couldn’t stand it. The alcohol, the Ecstasy, the promises to devour her . . . she was practically clawing at him as they stepped into the elevator. When the elevator doors closed behind them, I went to the bar and ordered a drink, and then I went upstairs.

  I leaned against the inside of the bedroom doorframe and watched him fucking her from behind. She was holding onto the headboard, screaming, telling him how good he felt. Telling him how good his dick was. She’d never heard me walk into the condo.

  She called out his name.

  Called out to God.

  Told him to fuck the shit out of her.

  He pulled backward, thrust forward. Each time harder than the last. Made her moan. Made her “oooh.”

  I watched. Waited. Enjoyed. Not the sex, but her pleasure before the pain.

  He changed positions, and keeping her back to me, sat her down on him. She gasped as he drove his dick up into her. She squealed and cursed. It was everything he’d promised.

  Her pleasure guided my hand beneath my dress. Made my finger slide past my thong. I massaged my clit to the rhythm of their fucking. He fucked her and watched me masturbate. This was a bonus for a job well done.

  My finger moved as they moved.

  In and out.

  Around, in circles.

  She came.

  I came.

  This was the best sex we’d both had in a long time.

  And then everything changed.

  He lashed out and punched her viciously in the side of her head, sending her flailing off of him and crashing to the floor, where she looked up and saw me standing there.

  Before she could process anything, he moved on top of her, covered her mouth with duct tape, and punched her over and over again. He broke her nose, split her lip, hit her in her mid-section so hard, I heard a rib break. She tried to fight, but the ecstasy had her sluggish. She screamed muffled screams and fought until she couldn’t anymore.

  He fucked her again as she lay unmoving, on the verge of passing out from the combination of shock and pain. Then two men came from behind me and went and fucked her too.

  She was in so much pain. Moaning. Barely breathing. Bleeding badly from her mouth and nose.

  I stepped forward and knelt beside her and lifted her by her chin with one hand, and peeled the duct tape back with the other.

  Looking at me, she stammered, “Y—you . . . f—fucking . . . b—b—bitch . . .”

  I watched her for a few seconds, and then leaned forward and gave her what she’d given me in the hospital.

  My regards, and a kiss on her lips.

  I covered her mouth with the duct tape again and stood up and turned to the men I’d hired.

  “The rest of the money is waiting for you.”

  The man from club said, “What do we do with her?”

  I looked down at Kyra. She had no Fat Jim to save her.

  I said, “She lives . . . she talks.”

  All three men nodded.

  “Make sure the place is spotless when you’re finished. I have buyers coming in the morning.”

  I turned and walked away.

  Kyra screamed behind me.

  I went back to the club to have another passion ’n pagne.

  Future

  She’s good. Not as good as me, but good.

  She’s still a little rough around the edges. She hasn’t grasped just how powerful she is yet. She knows she’s got it, but there’s still work to be done. But she’s getting there.

  Aida Stone.

  I’d seen her months ago when I was at the 40/40 club waiting to take Kyra down. She’d been on the dance floor, holding a drink in her hand, moving to the music. She was alone and completely in her element. While Kyra was being seduced against the wall, I watched her. Watched her move. Watched her relish the attention she was commanding.

  Coffee-colored skin. High end stripper’s physique. Hair, Halle Berry short. Dressed in a knee-length, form-fitting black dress with spaghetti straps. Black pumps. Silver necklace with matching earrings. She was simple, yet fierce.

  She reminded me of me.

  I watched her for a few minutes after Kyra was led past me. Before I left to take care of my business, I approached her.

  “You’re good,” I said. “But you still have a few things to learn about control.”

  She looked at me with feline eyes. Said, “Who the hell are you?”

  I said, “I’ll be back in an hour. If you’d like to learn what control is all about, you’ll still be here.”

  I walked away and went to take care of Kyra. When I came back, she was sitting by the bar. I watched her turn down a celebrity most women would have done anything for. Not accustomed to rejection, he walked away pissed. I went and sat beside her.

  “You’re here by yourself. Why?”

  She looked over at me. Her eyes were made for seduction. She said, “Why not?”

  I nodded. That had been a good answer. “Are you a hooker?”

  Her eyes became slits. Told me she was more dangerous than she let on. That was good too. She said, “No. Are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Are you a lesbian? Because if you are, I don’t swing that way.”

  I laughed. “No. I’m not.”

  She looked at me with those eyes. Wondered if I wasn’t, then why had I approached her?

  I said, “Are you married?”

  She held up her hand. Showed me there was no ring.

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No boyfriend. No sugar daddy. I’m just doing me.”

  “Fuck who you want to fuck, when you want to fuck, right?”

  “Exactly,” she said. Her eyes told me that she’d never
met anyone on her level before.

  We stared at one another as the music thumped. We were both looking into mirrors. She was seeing an older, more sophisticated, more powerful version of herself. I was seeing myself without the proper guidance.

  I said, “Why did you wait?”

  “I had nothing better to do. Not yet anyway.”

  I smiled. I liked her. I reached into my purse and grabbed a pen and then a cocktail napkin. I wrote my number down on it and slid it toward her. “If you want to make money . . . call me.”

  She looked down at the napkin, then at me. “I told you, I’m no hooker.” She slid the napkin back toward me.

  I got up from the bar stool. “I’m not recruiting. Call me if you like to be in control.” I walked away. The next day, she called.

  “She’s good,” I told Marlene.

  “But not as good as you.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not possible.”

  Marlene smiled. “No, it’s not.”

  Months after Kyra disappeared, we brought Aida into the business. I suppose I could have quit. I had money, and would for as long as Steve wanted to stay out of prison. Most women would have been satisfied with that. After everything that happened with Kyra, most women would have said they’d had enough. That they didn’t want to risk getting into a situation like that again.

  But I wasn’t most women. What I’d gone through had only made me stronger. Being stronger made me more powerful. Being more powerful meant I had more control. Like Myles and his gambling, control was my addiction. I thrived on it. That would always be the thing that got me off the most.

  Aida was brought into the business because, as it had been for me, her path had been pre-determined. My path brought me to Marlene. Aida’s brought her to me. I didn’t know what path was next. Only that it didn’t make sense to stray away from it.

  Home wrecker.

  Some may not agree with the profession.

  But many pay for the services.

  Book Club Discussion Questions

  1. Lisette—did you love or hate her?

  2. How much do you think the relationship she had with her parents affect her?