His gaze penetrated me, and I became even more uncomfortable with him standing in front of me. Even though he stood across the hall from me, he was too close.
“And is that what you came to tell me? I’m sure she would eventually send a text.”
“I am not here delivering a message to you. I was on my way to the kitchen…”
“And you had to walk this way?” I interrupted.
“Well, I heard noises coming from your room.”
“And you had to stop to investigate?”
I was trying not to raise my voice, knowing Quinton was still asleep in the room two doors down.
“Did you hear those same noises while I was in the shower, too? Cut the bullshit, Dillon.”
“Fine. No bullshit. I want you,” he admitted, stepping towards me.
His approach had me retreating into the darkness of my room.
Dillon was up to his usual antics. I wasn’t surprised at his audacious approach, but at the time it had taken him. I knew the Dillon my sister has yet to meet. But the alter ego he had kept concealed was making his return.
“You have a lot of nerve spilling those words from your mouth.” I laughed, unnervingly, though I knew he was serious. “First, let me remind you, just in case that ring on your finger or you sleeping beside her every night aren’t enough, you’re married, and to my sister.”
“Minor technicality.”
Did this bastard just call his marriage to my sister a technicality? I thought. I knew what I’d heard. I just couldn’t believe it. Men say some shit when then want their way. I had to set him straight. “Second, I don’t want you.”
“But you did.”
“You’re right. I wanted you ten years ago, not ten minutes ago.”
I paused and began making my way to the kitchen like I had planned in the first place. I’d met Dillon in 2001 at the House of Blues on Decatur Street, about four blocks from the famous Bourbon Street. It was Mardi Gras 2001. We definitely laissez les bon temps roulez.
“I wanted you when you paid me no attention, way before you met Nessa. And now that you are a married man, you are off limits to me and any other woman. You make sure you remember and understand those rules the next time you plan on taking up post outside my door and listening to my pleasure moans.”
“Oh, now you want to consider yourself off limits,” Dillon said, but I ignored him, just like I should have after he’d vowed to my sister.
Vanessa’s kitchen was massive─too much kitchen for two people, if you asked me. Designed from her imagination, the cream-colored cabinetry, glass, and impeccable use of light fixtures brighten this space even on the cloudiest days. It was clean enough to eat dinner from the floors or wall. I’m not sure how she did it, but she paid equal attention to her career, her husband, and her house, and if they had children, they, too, would not be neglected; at least that’s how it’s seemed since I got here. Who knows what happened before? Sometime she did bring her work home with her, but any human would.
Dillon stood leaning against the black granite on the far side of the center island. His bald head glistened under the light just above him. I stood in front of the thirty cubic foot, stainless steel, French door refrigerator─again, too much refrigerator for two people─removed the decanter of orange juice, and rested it on the counter space next to the refrigerator.
“Damn, Taylor. You’re still playing hard to get.”
“As far as you are concerned, Dillon, this is no play.”
“Why haven’t you told Vanessa about us?” Dillon asked.
I looked at him with a seriousness I’m sure he had never seen before.
“Dillon, there is no us to tell.”
“Taylor, seriously?”
“We shouldn’t have started, and after you chose my sister, we shouldn’t have continued.”
“But we have,” he hurriedly corrected.
“And now we have a constant reminder of our betrayal,” I paused, “of your infidelities. We had one too many nights, and we both know you meant more to me than I ever meant to you. I’m the one who wanted more. Now, you want to talk about a minor technicality, that’s what I’d call what we had.”
“And what about Shelby? Why have you kept that bit of information to yourself?”
Why was he bringing up Shelby’s name now? I thought. I turned around to face him briefly.
“As happy as my sister was about marrying you, I knew what that would’ve done to her. Even if she knew, she probably would have married you anyway. Plus, you screwing my sister’s maid of honor wasn’t my news to break, Dillon.”
I turned back towards the refrigerator, my back towards him, reaching for a glass in the cabinet above the sink. With one arm stretched to open the door, and the other to remove the glass, I realized Dillon was no longer leaning over the kitchen island. I felt his breath on the back of my neck, and his large arms reaching around my waist. I was startled and defenseless. His lips were soft and wet against my neck and then my cheek. I turned to face him. I wanted to push him away from me, but my eyes caught his eyes─those big, beautiful browns─and my lips caught his, and I was once again kissing the face of the man I did want ten years ago, the man that was now my sister’s husband. His kisses were just as I remembered them. The long ones were breathtakingly passionate. The short ones were soft and stimulating and still sent chills up and down my spine. When I finally came to my senses, and from under his spell, I pushed him away from me, though not as aggressively as I should, since I allowed him to hold my bottom lip between his teeth.
“This is wrong,” I whispered, but he didn’t need me to tell him that. “We have to stop,” I pleaded faintly.
Despite my plea, he pulled me in closer to him. He was staring right into me, and I closed my eyes so he couldn’t see the pleasure I was getting from this intimate closeness.
“We have to stop,” I repeated, but feeling his swell against my navel caused a momentary loss of the good sense God gave me.
I wanted him right there, in the kitchen, on the black granite counter top, the way I had him three years ago. I wanted to feel him making his way inside me, pleasing me like I had just pleased myself. I felt his hands under my plump, round ass, as my hand made its way to his bulge, loosening the strings on silk pajama pants. Our breathing quickened. He picked me up and set me on the counter. With my legs locked around him, I could feel me moistening. I was ready for round two, and round two would involve the real thing. Dillon was wet, too.
“We can’t,” I pleaded between his wild, passionate kisses.
“Mommy!” Quinton yelled.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered, realizing what Quinton’s scream had just interrupted.
“Oh, fuck,” Dillon reacted, but I’m sure he was more disappointed, as he knew our romp probably would have gone further had it not been for this disturbance.
“I’m coming, baby!” I yelled to Quinton.
I bet Dillon thought those words would soon fall from his mouth. I finally pushed him away from me. He stood leaning with his back against the island. His pants had fallen to his ankles. His swell was even more visible now. I stood in a momentary freeze, looking at him from head to toe. He was breathing heavily, still, and the sweat on his baldhead and forehead sparkled under the fluorescents.
“This cannot happen again. You hear me?”
I walked out of the kitchen and left him thinking about what could have been. I walked hastily to Quinton’s room, running my hands through my wet hair. What the hell were you thinking, I thought, but my only response was that I wasn’t, and if I were, I wasn’t thinking about what fucking my sister’s husband would do to her, if she ever found out. I wasn’t thinking about how devastating Nessa would be if she found out about the little that did transpire between Dillon and me─and even that little was too damn much. I’ve always been the one my sister turned to for advice. Who was she going to turn to now when this shit hits the fan? I’d just added one more thing I had to keep from her.
&n
bsp; Chapter 3
Patrick…
Hard for Me to Say I’m Sorry
“I can’t believe you’re defending this man,” I yelled.
I stood, pointing at the well-dressed, well-groomed lawyer, drilling me as if I were the one on trial. I knew there was a lot at stake.
To only admit I was nervous would be an understatement. Earlier, my hands trembled as I pushed through the heavy oak double doors and into the courtroom. Everything seemed oversized─the judge’s bench that stretched across the room; the unnecessary large, black leather chair behind the witness stand; the two large desks that sat on either side of the room, where my father now sat─but I swallowed the butterflies that were lodged in my throat. Moments earlier, on wobbly legs, I had marched from where I sat, a few feet from the judge, next to my attorney, listening to her say, “everything is going to be all right. Just speak the truth.” My mother sat in the first row of benches directly behind me. The room was silent. Besides my heartbeat thumping loudly in my ear, the buzz from the wings of one lonely fly was the only other sound I heard. When I sat, I felt like I was on stage, as if the courtroom had faded to black and I now sat under an incandescent spotlight, feeling the heat from this persistent attorney. My father and his attorney had their own shine, too.
“Order! Order in the court!” Judge Zachary Fisher screamed above my outburst, slamming the gavel repeatedly. “You are out of control.”
I paid him no attention. What the hell did I have to lose? Despite his action, I could sense the judge felt my pain.
“How do you sleep at night?” I continued. “How do you look yourself in the mirror in the morning as you tie Windsor knots in your Valentino Garavani ties, as if your work here is honorable?”
I spoke without blinking. My mouth was dry. I was seething.
“Just like that man you’re defending, you despise me.”
Bang! Bang! Bang! The sound from the gavel striking the sound block ricocheted from each wall of the immense courtroom.
“Mr. Duval, sit down, or I will find you in contempt!” the judge belted his second demand, but it did nothing to stop my outrage.
“As long as you find me, Judge, because for the longest time, I haven’t been able to find myself.”
My legs became brittle beneath me. The images of that night, of many nights when I was my daddy’s bitch, flashed before me; nights when I felt in order to live, I had to die. Every time he was on top of me, or in me, I died. And, in order to live again, I had to keep his vile act to myself.
“How could you?”
“Ms. Wallace, control your client.”
She sat behind her desk with her feet crossed. She did nothing to interrupt me. She knew exactly how many outbursts this particular judge would allow. This wasn’t her first time arguing a case with the distinguished Judge Fisher presiding, and this wasn’t her first child rape case, either.
“How could you?” I repeated. I didn’t expect any answers. “Up until then, I loved you. I worshipped you. Every fiber in me felt you could do no wrong. You were the man to me. And to think I…I one day wanted to grow up to be just like you. I wanted to be just like my daddy.”
I finally sat, staring through him with sadness and disgust in my eyes. I listened to the deadening silence. I looked down and felt a sharp pain shooting through me. I looked up, again, and finally at him. Until I’d positioned myself in the chair behind the witness stand, I hadn’t been able to look in his direction; I refused to. Hatred was pouring through my veins.
“Your Honor!” the opposing counsel interrupted.
His name was Pryce Medlin from the prestigious Hunter Law Firm─forty years old, Georgetown Law, graduated at top of his class. He’d never lost a case. Those were some of the credentials my attorney shared with my mother and me. I was certain my father was betting on the latter. None of it made a difference to me; I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to. Attorney Medlin was the best my father’s old money could buy.
“How long are you going to allow this tirade to continue?” he added.
“You didn’t think you made your point the first time?” I continued, uncertain if Judge Fisher had responded to Mr. Medlin’s request. “So, you kept coming, and pounding, and penetrating. Even when I was lying there as if death had become me, you continued your assault on me. I guess, to you, talk was overrated, but I would have understood your position. But you had to make me pay for a reality I hadn’t quite come to terms with. Mr. Omar Morresse Duval, you are dead to me. You son-of-a-bitch, you raped me.”
“Your Honor,” Mr. Medlin repeated, now an octave louder than his previous attempt to get the judge’s attention.
This time he was heard.
“Mr. Duval,” Judge Fisher scolded.
“No disrespect, Your Honor.”
I looked at the judge with a tear-stained face.
“I heard you the first time,” I snapped, and shot my father a look from the corners of my eyes. “Find me in contempt. I refuse to sit here and be questioned as if I did something wrong. Am I on trial? I told you, my father raped me. My father raped me,” I repeated, just in case no one heard me the first time, and I allowed my tears to flow.
The concept of giving a damn no longer mattered to me. I sat back in the witness chair, feeling as if weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I removed my glasses from my face, and then took tissue from the tissue-box the judge was handing me. I hated that my father was seeing the weakness in me. After so many years, I still wanted to be a symbol of strength in his eyes, even if he wasn’t looking at me.
“Did you enjoy it?” Mr. Medlin asked.
I allowed his question to settle on my ears. I couldn’t believe his audacity.
“You know what?” I asked, smiling devilishly. I shook my head and pierced through him. “That’s exactly what he asked me after the first time and the second. I guess, like then, now I’m supposed to tell you I felt pleasure every minute of it?”
“Wasn’t it what you wanted? Isn’t that what you guys do?” Mr. Medlin continued his assault.
He was devoid of compassion, at least for me. I was, of course, the least of his concern. He had to keep my father from spending the next ten years of his life where he belonged─longer, if it were up to me─behind bars.
“Objection, Your Honor,” Ms. Wallace yelled, standing to her feet.
Though she spoke to Judge Fisher she directed her livid stare at Mr. Medlin.
“May you please remind Mr. Medlin my client isn’t the one on trial here? Whether or not he felt pleasure from this man’s forced sexual encounter…”
“You know what?” Mr. Medlin interjected.
He placed himself directly in front of me. He stared, and I saw that same look of intense dislike in Mr. Medlin’s eyes that I thought, up until now, only existed in my father’s eyes. He walked back to his desk with one hand in his pocket. He stood briefly behind the desk as if waiting for his standing ovation. He then sat in his chair, with his feet outstretched and his hands clasped behind his head, as if he had accomplished something worthy of celebration.
“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
“Ms. Wallace,” Judge Fisher leaned forward, his arms folded and rested on top of his bench.
His emerald-blue eyes warned without spoken words. Judge Zachary Fisher looked younger than the fifty years Ms. Wallace had given him when we met a few months earlier. He was either just starting to grey or had done something to hide it well. But for now, the only visible grey showed at the edges of his short-cut sideburns, and a few specks in the beard and mustache that framed his mouth.
“Would you like to cross?” he continued.
“Mr. Duval, do you need a moment to pull yourself together?” Mya Wallace asked in her soft, caring tone that had become familiar to me.
She tugged on her suit jacket as she began her approach.
The two weeks of rehearsing her questions and my responses hadn’t prepared me for the emotions that overcame me, but it was n
othing worse than the feeling of my father on top of me, panting as he neared climax. It pained me to remember. Damn! I could feel him growing inside me. I tried to escape to ocean breezes and palm trees, to golden sunsets glistening on the pacific, but his thrusts and hateful verbiage always brought me back to the dreadful terror I had found myself in.
“No. I can do this,” I said.
She winked.
She stood in the courtroom with confidence. Her skin was the color of peanut butter, and apparently, just as smooth. She had big, round eyes the color of amber, with thick black lashes that went on forever. Her eyes beamed with an unparalleled passion for law, for right. Her lips were full and painted in a soft carnation pink. Her jet-black hair hung straight to either side of her face. She wore a black pinstriped suit, exposing just the collar of her snow-white button-down shirt. A few exposed white pearls from an exquisite-looking necklace rested just below her neckline. Two simple pearl stud earrings decorated both ears. My lawyer was beautiful. I’d searched for a wedding or engagement ring, but she wore none. I thought she purposely left either of them off, maybe in a jewelry tray on the top of her mirrored dresser, to give her the upper hand with opposing counsels who found it hard hiding the fact that she wore her beauty well; not that she needed that kind of advantage. Her Harvard Law degree meant she could argue against the best of them.
It was much easier telling her my story; she needed no convincing. I liked the fumes that came from her the moment we met. Today she smelled like Nocturnes. She’s never smelled the same since we’ve met, and I’m sure a completely different scent would ooze from her pores tomorrow or the next time we meet.
“Why do you think your father did this to you?” she began.
I stared at him as I responded, “He wanted to show me what happens to fags.”
I hated the way that word tasted coming from my mouth.
“Were those his exact words?” she asked, walking back to her desk.
“Yes.”
“I’m going to ask the court to pardon my language in advance of my next question.” She paused. “Patrick, did you ever tell your father you were a fag?”
Second Thoughts Page 2