“If I knew, I would…” Chevonne began looking around, as if groping for a word—searching for a lie.
Lincoln glared at her, daring her to insult him with more deception. “Why don’t you just admit it?” He stalked over to her dresser, and yanked open the top drawer.
Chevonne squinted in bafflement, indicating that she had no idea why he was rifling through her junk drawer. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise when Lincoln pulled out the envelope with the pay stub she’d carefully tucked away. Then she let out a sigh of resignation.
“Now do you want to explain why you took two days off?”
“I didn’t know I had to account for every moment of my time. Look, I didn’t expect that taking some me time would cause such—”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Lincoln exploded. “You left here on both those days, dressed in your work clothes and carrying your briefcase, pretending that you were going to your job. You came home, acting exhausted…” He paused, and dragged a hand down the side of his face. “Hell with all that. Who is he, Chevonne—and how long have you been fuckin’ him?”
Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Trembling, she looked trapped and in a panic. For a brief moment, he felt sorry for her. Instinctively, he wanted to comfort her and assuage her fear. Then he remembered that despite his wife’s expression of sheer terror, she was not the victim—he was! He was the one who had been screwed over.
“Admit it!”
Chevonne’s face twitched slightly, giving the impression that she was on the brink of tears. “I’m sorry, Lincoln. I didn’t mean to hurt you—”
Lincoln groaned. The anguished sound was loud and long. “Whatchu mean you didn’t wanna hurt me? Ain’t no fuckin’ way you thought that giving up some ass was gonna make me feel good!” No longer speaking like an educated man, Lincoln reverted back to the dialect of the hood. He’d risen above his circumstances. College educated, a promising career, and he’d married well. Or so he’d thought.
He was losing control of himself. Clearly on the verge of flipping out, he snarled and bared his teeth like a wild animal.
“You had me practically begging you for sex—but you had pussy galore for that nigga you was fuckin’.” His body language and mannerisms were so threatening and primitive, Chevonne flinched and uttered a sound of fear.
Invigorated by renewed rage, he crushed the pay stub in his fist and then flung it across the room. “I could choke the shit out of you right now, bitch!” He advanced toward her, biting on his lip and breathing furiously.
“Haven’t I been a good husband—and father?” His voice cracked.
“Yes.” She nodded briskly as if vigorous agreement would stop Lincoln from stalking toward her.
Chevonne took backward steps in the direction of the bedroom door. “Lincoln, please. You’re scaring me.”
“You need to be scared, bitch,” he said with venom. Twice in a few short minutes, he’d called his wife a bitch. Something he’d never done before. Calling her vile names seemed to take some of the sting out of being emasculated.
“In seven years of marriage, I never cheated on you, Chevonne. Not once!” He towered over her, bending as he met her face to face.
“I know, Lincoln. I know. What can I say, except, I’m sorry.”
“You can start by telling me that muthafucka’s name!” Vicious anger rose in his chest, and he was having trouble breathing.
“It was just a fling. Nothing serious. He’s married, too.”
“Married, huh? So that makes two cheaters—two deceitful muthafuckas!”
Chevonne wiped the sweat that was spreading across her forehead. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.” Guilty as hell, her voice was apologetic. She’d lost all the sass and arrogance she’d exhibited in the kitchen when she thought the discord was over pizza.
“Oh, no? So why didn’t you stop yourself. You didn’t give a damn about me or your children. Did you think about Amir and Tori when you were laying up, spreading your legs for that nigga?”
Chevonne dropped her eyes in shame.
“I married a skank-ass bitch! Lovely and respectable on the outside, but underneath the façade, you’re nothing but a filthy hoe!”
“I think you should leave, Lincoln,” Chevonne murmured as she inched away from him.
“Leave!” His voice boomed with incredulity. “You can’t put me out of my goddamn house. I’m not going no muthafuckin’ where.”
Out of his mind with blind rage and humiliation, his fist raised without him even realizing it. Chevonne was close to getting her head bashed in. She let out a helpless little whimper when his fist slammed into the door, right above her girlish ponytail.
Deep in his subconscious, he’d always felt that the rug would be pulled from under him. And that time had finally arrived. Like most of his male relatives, like all the young thugs he’d grown up with, Lincoln, too, was going to wind up in jail.
“Tell me that muthafucka’s name,” he bellowed. Spittle sprayed from his mouth. He was out of control and contemplating murder.
Chevonne covered her mouth in horror.
“Daddy!” Amir and Tori shrieked in unison. The fear in their voices jarred Lincoln into awareness, giving him a reason to hold on to his sanity…stopped him from killing their mother with his bare hands.
CHAPTER 7
Solay had only been asleep for a few hours when the alarm went off. Most mornings, she frowned at the clock, hitting the snooze button and muttering curse words. But today, warmed by the afterglow of last night’s passion, she awoke wearing a smile. She should have been exhausted from the workout that Deon put on her, but she wasn’t. His good sex had her feeling renewed and invigorated.
Ready to take on the day, she sprang out of bed.
A half hour later, she entered the bakery. The air was heavy with the scent of something that smelled like cinnamon buns. The combined fragrance of sugar and spice should have been pleasurable, but smelling that aroma wafting from her bakery was aggravating. Here we go again! None of her recipes required a heavy dose of cinnamon, so what was Melanee up to now? Sure, she’d given her assistant permission to be creative every now and then, but she hadn’t expected her to whip up a new recipe the very next day.
I’m going to wait and see how many new ingredients she used before I flip out on her ass.
Solay pushed open the kitchen door, ready for a confrontation. But anger melted away when she noticed two baking racks filled with chocolate, vanilla, and red velvet cupcakes. “What time did you get in, Melanee?”
“Three-thirty. I wanted to get the bulk of the baking done before I put today’s specialty in the oven.”
Solay glanced toward the oven, and drew on an inner calm. “I told you that I don’t have the money for extra ingredients.”
Melanee gave Solay a sympathetic look that seemed to suggest that Solay was not keeping up with the competition. Ordinarily, getting that kind of look from Melanee would have infuriated her, would have pulled a bitter and cutting response from her. But still riding on a sustained state of sexual euphoria, Solay was unusually tolerant.
“So what’s in the oven?” Solay said with a sigh.
There was a flicker of embarrassment in Melanee’s eyes. “In keeping with the sex theme…” She was obviously uncomfortable about openly discussing anything of a sexual nature. She lowered her head and spoke. “I came up with a cupcake called Sexy as Sin,” she said, pushing her sliding eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose. “It’s a cinnamon bun cupcake, so I considered spelling sin with a ‘C.’”
Solay imagined the spelling on her chalkboard, and shook her head. “No, I don’t like spelling it that way,” she said, asserting her authority.
“No problem, we can spell it the regular way.”
“What ingredients did you use?”
“Nothing extravagant. I added cinnamon to our vanilla batter. I’m making a creamy glaze that will have cinnamon cake crumbles sprinkled on top. No extra cost. We have a ton of
cinnamon on hand,” Melanee said, pointing to the large containers of spices on the overhead shelf.
“Your ideas are really impressive.”
“Thanks.”
“But I don’t understand why it’s so important to you. I mean, all this extra work and having to come in so early. What’s the point?”
“I need an outlet for my creativity. That’s all.”
“Well, as long as your ideas are cost-efficient, and as long as Vidal doesn’t have to be pulled from the register to help out, then feel free to experiment.” It was apparent that Melanee was not going to give up easily, and Solay was feeling too good to get into a heated debate. The customers had gone berserk over yesterday’s specialty. She was curious to see how they reacted to the cinnamon bun cupcake.
Solay tied on an apron. “I’ll start mixing up the frosting for the chocolate cupcakes.”
“I’ll pitch in as soon as I get the Sexy Sins out the oven.”
Sexy Sins. Solay smiled at the cute nickname for Sexy as Sin. For Melanee to be such a prude, she sure was jumping on sex themes with wild abandon.
“Oh, my God! That cupcake is so good…makes me wanna smack my mama. Hell, it makes me wanna smack your mama, too,” Vidal exclaimed when he bit into one of the cinnamon bun cupcakes.
Melanee laughed. “Do you think it’s as good as the Screamin’ O?”
“Different, but just as good.”
“Thanks, Vidal.”
“You got skills, girl. You need to be showcasing your delectable treats on one of those baking shows.”
“That would be so nice,” she said wistfully.
“I’m serious. You should look into it.”
“You’re sweet, Vidal.”
“Sexy Sin,” Vidal said, smiling as he took another bite. “You give off a real innocent vibe, but lemme find out you’re an undercover freak.”
Vidal chuckled, and Melanee laughed along with him, seeing the humor in the notion of her having any kind of freaky ways. She realized that most people regarded her as being straight-laced and practically asexual.
Carrying a metal tray filled with Sexy Sins, Vidal returned to the front of the bakery. He would have choked on the cupcake he was munching on if he had even an inkling of how much of a freak, Melanee actually was.
The moment she was alone in the kitchen, Melanee wiped her hands on her apron and then pulled out her cell, checking the message again. I might want you to eat some pussy tonight. Will let you know.
Her heart fluttered as she waited for the ping of the next message. Fifteen minutes passed. Nothing. It was ridiculous the way she allowed herself to be treated. After an hour, she turned her cell off, sparing herself the agony of disappointment. Toying with her emotions was her lover’s favorite pastime. Melanee was in a sick and twisted relationship. Trapped. Love-struck.
It was getting close to quitting time. Feeling hopeful, she turned her phone back on. No messages. Dejected, Melanee busied herself sweeping the kitchen floor. The sound of the text tone put a smile on her face. Grinning, she read the message: My place. 8:00 sharp.
She was aroused and so stirred up, she could have climaxed right there.
The very thought of being with her lover produced a level of excitement so high, she actually had goose bumps. After weeks of having absolutely no appetite, Melanee was ravenous with hunger. Before going home to get a quick nap, a shower and change out of her grungy work clothes, she stopped at Taco Bell and gorged on burritos, tacos, and a cheesy, delicious chalupa. She finished off the meal with a large limeade beverage. Her lover always complained when she let herself get too thin, and Melanee hoped she’d eaten enough to put on a few pounds.
CHAPTER 8
At eight on the dot, she was at the front door. Melanee knew the drill. She rang the bell twice to announce her arrival, waited exactly one minute, and then let herself in.
Heart palpitating, she stepped into the entry, and then made strides down the corridor that led to the main room. And there he was. Her lover. Her master. The man she lived and breathed for.
Colden was sitting on the white leather sofa. Beside him was a plump white girl.
Melanee kept a straight face, though she wanted to frown at the sight of her lover’s broad arms, wrapped around a fat white chick. He didn’t acknowledge Melanee. His face was buried in the chick’s bosom.
The white chick had on black panties and bra. The straps of her black bra dangled over her shoulders. The bra was still hooked around her back, but the cups were pulled down. When she noticed Melanee, her blue eyes sparked in frightful surprise. Then she let out a gasp and pulled away from Colden. “Somebody’s…”
“Ah, our guest has arrived,” Colden said as if Melanee’s presence was an unexpected delight.
Guest! It was shameful the way she’d been downgraded to being a guest in the place that was once her home.
“Why is she here?” The fat chick tugged on her bra, attempting to pull it up and cover her naked breasts.
Colden stilled her hand, firmly covering it with his, leaving her ample breasts and large pink nipples exposed. “Brandy, I want you to meet Melanee. She’s going to be joining us.”
“Hi, Brandy,” Melanee said, trying to put the white bitch at ease. She noticed that there was a cheapness about Brandy—tramp-like. Not like a paid prostitute, but more like the town slut who gave the goodies away in an unending quest for love.
She had a round baby face. Her blue eyes were decorated with a ton of dark mascara and eyeliner. And the way she spoke, well, Melanee could tell that Brandy hadn’t gone very far in school. She was nothing like the classy women Colden usually went for. He had a penchant for beautiful and elegant women. Women who spent hundreds of dollars at the hair salon, and who were into high-end fashion, Pilates, and other forms of body sculpting. Women who put Melanee to shame.
For the first time since she’d begun her twisted relationship with Colden, Melanee didn’t feel inferior. She felt a little sorry for Brandy. The naïve girl probably thought that Colden really had the hots for her. He didn’t. He was kissing and cuddling right now. But those acts of affection were merely a ploy to reel Brandy in. Very soon, he would begin to break down her will and any sense of value she might possibly have.
In a way, Melanee felt lucky. Colden hadn’t given her a false impression. He clearly defined their relationship, the moment he met her.
Melanee was earning extra money, working for a catering company. She met Colden while serving appetizers at a fundraiser that was held at the home of a married couple, who appeared to be morally upstanding citizens. It seemed to be a regular social gathering, but all of the guests indulged in an alternative, secret lifestyle.
Colden was flanked by two beautiful women when she approached, offering tasty tidbits from the silver tray she held.
The women declined, turning up their noses. Colden regarded her large glasses and bad hairdo and smiled. “You’re an interesting-looking serving girl. I’m not hungry, but when you’ve emptied that tray, I’ll allow you to service me.” His female companions erupted in catty giggles.
Stunned and humiliated, Melanee scurried away. Her face burned with shame as she worked the room, offering the guests exquisite gourmet morsels. Though she tried to avoid any eye contact with the man who had ridiculed her, she kept sneaking glances. He had a commanding presence, and his crude words had ignited something strange inside her. Intrigued and inexplicably sexually excited, she sought him out after she’d finished serving the guests.
She had hoped to find him alone, but he was still chatting with the same two women. Afraid that he’d leave before she gave him her number, Melanee approached him.
“Um, excuse me. Can I speak to you in private?” she said, eyes lowered, her face aflame with mortification.
He looked at her as if her presence was offensive. “Give me a minute,” he said. After making her wait five minutes, he walked a few steps away from his female companions.
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to give you my phone number,” she said in a quivering voice.
“And why would I want your number?” he asked, and then let out a rumble of laughter. The two Barbie dolls sneered at her and shook their heads in disgust.
Melanee wanted to go through the floor. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought—”
“What did you think?”
“That…you know…maybe you wanted to hook up sometime.”
“I live in the moment. If you want to service me, then you can do it now.”
Melanee looked around. People were mingling and socializing. The other catering staff was going about their duties. Maybe she wouldn’t be missed if she slipped away to one of the bedrooms for a quickie. This man had a magnetic personality. He aroused her in a way that she didn’t quite understand.
“Okay,” she shamefully agreed.
In the midst of the party, he took her to an alcove—not a bedroom—he didn’t even seek out the privacy of a bathroom. He pulled her into shadowy recesses of the large room.
He unzipped his pants and presented a large and venous dick. “Kneeling is the only way you’re going to service me properly.” He spoke to Melanee as if she were a dull-witted child.
“You want me to…” her voice trailed off as she looked around worriedly. “You want me to do it, right here?”
“Why not?” Amusement gleamed in his charcoal-colored eyes.
She had assumed that servicing him meant sexual intercourse. He was so confident and physically attractive, Melanee had been looking forward to getting a good, hard fuck. But Colden made it clear that he only wanted a blow job. And for some reason, she couldn’t deny him.
On her knees, sucking a stranger’s dick in a corner while the party was in full swing, Melanee was quite a spectacle.
Colden must have had some kind of pull because the hosts and the other guests looked the other way, pretending not to notice the debauchery that was occurring in the alcove.
“Swallow it,” he demanded when he released a load inside her mouth.
Scandalicious: A Novel Page 4