by Shelly Ellis
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Leila.”
“I’m not being a smart-ass! I’m being truthful. Do you have some issue with him? Is that what this is about?”
He was tempted to lie, to tell her that he loved his half brother and was embarrassed if he had given her any impression otherwise. But her self-righteous indignation infuriated him. Whatever lust he felt for her had evaporated. Whatever filter he had preserved now disappeared.
“Yes, I have an issue with Evan,” he began. “I have an issue with any asshole who runs a two-hundred-million-dollar company simply because his daddy gave him the job. This is the same daddy . . . mind you . . . who wouldn’t even let me stop by his office—like he was ashamed of me. I have an issue with any thoughtless, entitled, pompous, dickless boy who isn’t worth the dirt on my shoes!” he spat. “But everyone goes out of their way to kiss his ass while he walks around town like he’s God’s fucking gift!”
When he finished his tirade, Leila stared at him in shock. “What the hell did Evan do to make you hate him so much?”
“What the hell did he do to make you like him so much?”
“He’s my boss and my friend.”
“Really?” Dante inclined his head. “Is that all?”
“What does that mean? Are you asking if I’m having an affair with Evan?”
“Well, are you?”
Her beautiful face contorted with outrage. “No, I’m not! And I’m insulted that you would even ask!”
“Your entrees will be out shortly,” the waiter said as he walked toward their table. “Would either of you like your wine refilled? Can I get you anything?”
Leila shook her head, removing her linen napkin from her lap and slapping it on the table. “No,” she said to the waiter. “No refills. Please just . . . just bring the check.”
Dante sighed gruffly. “Leila, come on! I’m—”
“We’re done,” she said, holding up her hand, silencing him.
They didn’t speak after that. As they walked out of the restaurant, as he drove her home, Dante inwardly kicked himself. He had royally screwed up and messed up a prize opportunity because he had allowed his anger at Evan to make him lose control.
As he pulled to a stop in front of her town home, he turned to her.
“Look, Leila, I—”
She didn’t give him a chance to finish. She opened the car door and slammed it closed behind her before striding to her front door.
Chapter 17
PAULETTE
Paulette lowered her head and adjusted her dark-tinted sunglasses as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Excuse me,” she murmured to the three young men who stood in front of her, blocking her path. One lounged back against the wrought-iron fence in front of the apartment complex. The other two stood in front of him, barking with laughter. As they fell silent and stepped aside to let Paulette pass, she felt their dark gazes on her like groping fingers. Their eyes landed on her pretty face, which was now stony and withdrawn, her Chanel handbag, her plump rear end, and finally the Manolo Blahnik pumps she wore.
“Damn, ma!” one of the young men shouted, pushing back the brim of his cap as he licked his lips and leered at Paulette. “Who you rollin’ with that got you ballin’ like that?”
She didn’t answer him. Instead she pulled the upturned collar of her blazer tighter around her face and made a quick dash to the courtyard leading to the apartment building where Marques lived. The sooner she got in there, the sooner she could leave.
“And get the hell out of here,” she mumbled to herself as she climbed the short flight of concrete stairs and glanced at the metal plaque near the door. She pressed the buzzer next to Marques’s apartment number and took a deep breath, feeling almost queasy with unease.
She didn’t know why he had asked her to come here today for the exchange. For the past few weeks, she had been surreptitiously giving him envelopes of money for “The Marques Effect” at the gym. She’d hand it off to him near the locker rooms or as she passed him in the parking lot. But this morning, he had called her and told her to come to his home instead.
Situation’s changed. Bring it to my house, he had texted her before sending her the address.
The instant she read those words, she wanted to shout in frustration. It was bad enough that he was blackmailing her into giving him money—now she had to come to his home?
“Just tell Tony the truth,” a voice in her head had urged. “Just tell him the truth and end all this.”
But what would her husband think about her if she told him about that part of her past? Antonio had a well-defined idea of who his wife was. What if she told him that image wasn’t true? They were already fighting. Would this just make things worse?
No, she would continue to give Marques money until her relationship with Antonio got on better footing. She didn’t want this secret, and now the bribery, to be the two things to push her marriage over the edge.
Paulette pressed the intercom button again when no one answered.
“Yeah? Who is it?” a bass voice finally boomed through the dented metal speaker.
“Who else would it be, Marques? Buzz me in!”
She heard him chuckle. It was followed by a buzzing sound, then a click, as the building’s front door unlocked. Paulette took another fortifying breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside the lobby.
She hadn’t been in an apartment building this lowbrow in quite a while. In fact that last time she could remember being in a place like this, it had been when she had gone to visit Marques at his home almost a decade ago. It was while his mother was at work at the local fast food joint. He’d shove his two younger twin brothers, DeShan and DeQuan, out of the bedroom they shared—to his brothers’ great outrage. He’d shut the door and pat the mattress that was covered with Spider-Man bedsheets, urging Paulette to sit down. They’d sit there for hours and talk, make out. Eventually, she’d ended up losing her virginity on those sheets.
This apartment building had the same look as the old one: dingy tile floors, musky-smelling carpets, and paint that looked like it should have been retouched years ago. The apartment doors were all in the same drab brown and the light fixtures looked like something from the 1970s.
But how the apartment building looked was irrelevant. Paulette reminded herself yet again that she wouldn’t be here long. She walked swiftly to his door and knocked before digging inside her purse to retrieve the folded manila envelope containing two thousand dollars. By the time Marques opened the door wearing a tank top, doo-rag, and low-slung sweatpants, she was already shoving the envelope at his chest.
“Here’s your money,” she said angrily.
“Whoa! Hey!” Marques said, laughing again. “What’s the rush?”
She whipped off her sunglasses to glare up at him. “What’s the rush?” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe you would call me and tell at the last minute to come here! You think you can just—”
“Girl, calm down! Look, I called you at the last minute because I had to think fast. We couldn’t do this at the gym anymore. I think the owner was catching on to my . . . well, my business situation. He told me he didn’t want any shady shit going on at his gym. I told him ‘Fuck you! I’ll train my clients somewhere else. I don’t need this shit! I do fine on my own.’” Marques shrugged. “So that’s why we had to meet here.”
“You do fine on your own?” She glanced over his shoulder at his apartment, looking incredulous. Her eyes scanned the cheap imitation-leather furniture, the shag rug, and the bare walls. The most expensive thing in there was his big flat-screen TV. “I wouldn’t exactly call this living in the lap of luxury.”
“I’ma pretend like I didn’t hear that.” He pushed the door open further and inclined his head. “Come in. Let’s talk. I got a proposition for you.”
Paulette quickly shook her head and took a step back from the doorway. She tugged her purse strap further up her shoulder. “No thanks. I think I’ve had enough of your �
�propositions.’ I just came to give you your money. I have to be getting home anyway. I—”
“It wasn’t a question,” he said tightly. His eyes darkened. “Come inside. We need to talk, girl.”
Paulette glanced inside his apartment again. She was reluctant to go in there. What did he need to say to her that he had to say behind the closed door of his apartment, that he couldn’t just tell her over the phone or now as she stood in front of him? Everything inside her screamed to just turn around and run as fast as her high heels would allow down that hall and out of that building. She took another step back.
“Or I can give your man, Antonio, a call.” He shrugged again. “It’s up to you.”
She paused. Her grip around her purse strap tightened. At the mention of her husband’s name, she instantly felt trapped.
You son of a bitch, she thought.
“Fine,” she said, then shoved past him and stepped inside his apartment.
She stood awkwardly in the center of his living room while he shut the door behind her. He walked around her and reached down to his glass coffee table to grab one of a half dozen remotes. A music video was blaring on the TV screen. A rapper was kneeling on the marble floor, pointing up to the gyrating rear end of the long-haired dancer beside him. Marques raised the remote, pressed a button, and lowered the sound so that it was now background noise. Paulette watched as another half-naked woman came on screen to take the other’s place.
“Want to sit down?” He gestured toward his sofa.
“Are you asking me or telling me?” she grumbled, crossing her arms petulantly over her chest.
He laughed. “You hilarious, girl. I’m asking. But you can stand there looking stupid if you want.”
She rolled her eyes and stomped toward the sofa, then flopped down, making the fake leather burp beneath her. She watched as he strolled toward his small eat-in kitchen. He opened his refrigerator and peered inside.
“Considering how much money I’ve given you, I’m shocked that you don’t live in a much nicer place,” she muttered, surveying the apartment again. “You couldn’t afford a decent condo?”
“Now you know that money is meant for my business. I gotta be smart with my investments. Besides, I don’t care where I live.” He winked. “Now my ride is pretty tight though. That’s what the clients see. That’s how they know you’re a baller! I bought a BMW just last week. I paid for that shit in cash.”
“Yeah, with my money,” she mumbled under her breath.
“You want something to eat?” he asked over his shoulder, and she had to fight the urge to scream at him, “Why are you dragging this out? Just tell me what you want! Why am I here?”
“No, I don’t want anything to eat.”
“Come on!” He stepped back from the refrigerator and closed it. He walked toward her with a serving plate. “I got crackers and cheese—the expensive kind with the French-sounding name. I know how rich people like that shit.”
He set down the plate in front of her.
“I’m not hungry,” she said flatly.
He then walked back into the kitchen to open a cabinet. As he rifled around, her gaze gravitated to the television again. She stared, bemused, at the newest music video, featuring a girl in a bikini who was now doing splits on the hood of a Rolls Royce. Paulette looked up to find Marques setting down two glass cups next to the serving plate. They were filled with red wine.
Or a really dark Kool-Aid, she thought dryly.
“What’s all this for, Marques?” she asked.
He sat down in the reclining chair facing her. “Damn, can’t a nigga be hospitable?”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Okay! Okay! Look, I just wanted to celebrate,” he said, grabbing one of the glasses. “So drink up!”
“Celebrate what?”
“Drink some wine and have some cheese first!”
“If I eat and drink something, will you tell me what you want to tell me so I can get the hell out of here?”
He nodded and grinned.
She sampled one of the crackers and then the red wine. The crackers tasted as bland as corrugated cardboard and were equally appetizing. The wine tasted overly sweet. Maybe it was Kool-Aid after all. She finished the glass halfway then tried the cheese. “So talk,” she said between chews.
“I just wanted to celebrate us taking The Marques Effect to the next level.”
“To the next level? What does that mean?”
“Well, now that my supplier is happy, he’s keeping me flush with the supplements I need to give to all my clients. He wants to sell me more, but I don’t have enough clientele for that yet.” He pointed at his tattooed chest. “Luckily, I’m the type of nigga that can see opportunity for potential. I was thinking about it, Paulette, and I thought, instead of me just offering training to one or two clients at a time, why don’t I open my own place . . . my own gym where I could help hundreds?”
She frowned. “You really think that’s a good idea? If you attracted attention to yourself at my gym, what type of attention are you going to get opening your own establishment? The cops would figure it out.”
“No, they wouldn’t. Everything would be on the down low. We’d only offer supplements to the clients who wanted it and knew how to keep their mouths shut.”
“We?”
“I’ve got some boys who are ready to come on board as soon as I open my own place. A few of them are already my clients and have had good results with The Marques Effect.”
She closed her eyes and sighed, feeling tired all of a sudden. “Okay, so how do you plan to get the money to open and start this new business?”
He inclined his head and glared at her. “How you think?”
“Right. Of course. Me . . . I’m the investor.” She sucked her teeth. “And how much money are we talking about?”
He casually shrugged and leaned back in his recliner. “I don’t know . . . another fifty grand to put a down payment on the property. It’s this hot spot not far from Chesterton. It’s all glass and chrome—super turnt up! Then about another twenty to thirty grand to buy equipment. Then maybe—”
“Wait!” She held up her hand. “You’re already at eighty-thousand dollars and you haven’t even talked about hiring staff. Marques, I don’t have that kind of money that I can just keep giving it to you!”
“Girl, don’t fake! I know you rich as hell!”
“If you think you’ve been attracting attention, what about me? I’ve been going to the damn bank every week withdrawing five to ten grand at a time. What’s going to happen if I ask for fifty-thousand dollars?”
“I don’t care! Do what you gotta do. I need the money!”
“Why are you doing this?” the sane voice in her head questioned. “Why are you putting yourself through all of this?”
Because she didn’t want her husband to know about the abortion she’d had nearly a decade ago? Because she was ashamed of the poor choices she had made as a naïve sixteen-year-old girl?
It’s not worth it, she thought. She didn’t want to ruin her marriage, but handing over a seemingly endless stream of money to Marques and responding to his every ridiculous whim would only lead to her financial ruin and Antonio would definitely figure out something was going on with her. She was doomed either way. Better to bite the bullet and end this now.
“No,” she said firmly. “No, I’m not going to invest in this, Marques. I can’t!”
He reached for the cell phone. “Then I guess I better give a call to ol’ boy and tell him everything about what happened between you and me!”
More threats? God, she was so tired of this! She was just plain exhausted—in every sense of the word. She suddenly felt the urge to take a nap.
“Then do it,” she barked, grabbing her purse.
“Oh, don’t get it twisted, girl! I know his number at KDR Associates!”
She paused and squinted her tired eyes at him. “What did you say?”
“You heard me!” H
e gave her a lupine grin—all teeth and nastiness. “I looked it up! I know where he works! I’ll put all this shit on blast if I have to!”
She gritted her teeth, fighting the bile that rose in her throat. But she wouldn’t back down. He would threaten her again and again, and how far would she have to go to finally make him happy? Marques was a user. He would always want more.
“Then do it,” she repeated, shooting to her feet.
As Paulette did, she was suddenly hit by a dizzy spell. She tried to walk toward the front door, but wobbled slightly in her high heels. The living room went topsy-turvy. She felt like she was on an unstable amusement park ride.
“What . . . w-what’s . . . ?” she slurred.
She wanted to say, “What’s happening to me?” but the words wouldn’t come out right. Her mouth felt heavy and so did her head, which lolled from side to side. Her purse slid off her shoulder and went crashing to the floor, its contents spilling out onto the shag rug.
Paulette reached out, flailing at the air, trying to grab hold to something to help stable herself. Marques didn’t offer her any assistance. He stood staring at her, still grinning like an ass as she stumbled around his living room. Her rolling gaze drifted from him and fell on the half-empty glass on the coffee table.
Oh, God, was the last coherent thought she had when she realized that he had spiked her drink, spiked the wine. No wonder it had tasted so sweet! He had probably done that to mask the taste of whatever he had put in there.
She reached again for the front door, but it felt further away than before, like it was on the other end of a long tunnel.
“Oh, no! Where you think you’re going? You can’t drive, girl!”
She felt Marques loop an arm around her waist. She tried to shove it away but to no avail.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you,” was the last thing she heard when the room grew dim. Then everything went black.
When Paulette awakened, she was lying in bed, but she could tell instantly that she wasn’t in her own bedroom despite the fact that everything around her was one big blur. There wasn’t the faint hint of jasmine and vanilla wafting from the scented candle she kept near her bed side. There wasn’t the smooth feel of the Egyptian cotton sheets she and Antonio had been given as a wedding gift or the filtered morning light streaming through her honey oak window blinds. Instead she saw a flimsy bedsheet taped over the window, heard the blare of a television where a football game now played, and felt the mattress dip as Marques plopped on the bed beside her wearing nothing but his boxers and the same wolfish grin he had given when she fainted. She guessed he had dragged her into here. She was shocked he hadn’t left her sprawled on the living room floor and just poked her with a stick until she woke up.