Sinful (21 page)

“Jeez, Tony, I remember you talking about leaving the corporate arena and doing it your way, but what a leap,” Chandelle said, marveling at his success.
Jeez, Tony?
she thought to herself in retrospect.
Where did that come from? I'm not twenty-three anymore. How silly was that?

Tony's black pinstriped suit and white cotton shirt set off his perfect teeth and thin dark mustache. His neatly trimmed wavy hair over golden bronzed skin was the icing on the cake. She loved the way he kept up his appearance, and had kept her up late at night, too. Oddly enough, Chandelle had begun to conjure up images of that, against her better judgment.

Tony and Dior pretended not to notice how Chandelle failed to stop examining him from his manicured fingertips to his wide, kissable lips. Dior almost laughed but managed to keep it inside. “Tony Jones, this is quite a surprise. You're doing well for yourself. Everybody's talking about Café Bleu and it's packed, so the food must be banging.”

“We're proud of the menu, but hey, I didn't come over here to talk shop with the one who got away, and y'all didn't come here to listen to me talk. Eat, drink, and have a great time. It's on me.”

“Tony, we can't accept your generosity,” Chandelle said, while shaking her head adamantly.

“Yes, we can and we will,” argued Dior. “It's not every day that a fine man offers dinner and drinks without somebody expecting me to get undressed for dessert.”

Chandelle was appalled at her crass statement. “Dior, please!” she said, just about as embarrassed as if she'd said it herself.

“It's all right, Chandelle,” Tony said, chuckling lightly. “Dior's got a point. Enjoy yourselves, no strings attached. It was great seeing you again,” he told Chandelle in parting.

“Yeah, it was,” she replied. “It was real cool.”

“What's cool is that the food is free,” Dior offered, with her finger pointing to the priciest items on the menu. “I want one of everything. Then I want three slices of bread pudding with extra syrup.”

“I'd like crab claws and sautéed shrimp over angel hair pasta, asparagus spears with those cute little potatoes on the side,” Chandelle recited, as she looked over the dinner selections for anything sounding remotely similar. The waitress, who appeared to be too consumed with herself to seat them initially, returned with a splendid personality fresh out of the box.

“Mr. Jones says you're special guests of his, so I'll see to it your dining experience is a pleasant one.”

Dior looked at Chandelle peculiarly. She was trying to guess whether the woman had read that line off the back of a notecard or had simply practiced being that plastic.

“My girl was wondering if y'all can make her something that's not on the menu?” Dior said, suggesting that special guests of Mr. Jones should get whatever they wanted and served however they wanted it. The waitress must have felt the same because she wrote down exactly what Chandelle had a taste for, down to the little potatoes on the side. However, she experienced a difficult challenge explaining to the chef why someone would order ribs, fried chicken, and catfish on the same platter, to go along with the French fries that Dior said she couldn't do without. The bottle of Cristal Tony had sent over served well as a decadent complement to Chandelle's seafood hors d'oeuvre. Dior declined to fiddle with an appetizer, she said, while real food was cooking in the kitchen.

C
handelle felt as if she were in heaven when dinner hit the table. Her entrée smelled divine and the presentation reminded her of fancy dishes displayed in food and beverage magazines. “Oh, I'm going to bust if I eat another bite,” she groaned, stuffing herself with the most memorable meal of the year. “Dior, you've hardly touched your plate. What's the matter?”

Dior picked at the catfish, took a tiny sip from her champagne flute, and then smirked uncomfortably. “I don't know, cuz, but something has my stomach knotted up.”

“It isn't the food?” Chandelle asked, patting her own stomach.

“No, it was tasty, but I have a friend who's not been doing well. He's kinda sick, chest pains and such,” she answered, talking about Marvin. “Problems at the job had him down for a minute, but things are looking up.”

“I hope you're not running behind Kevlin anymore. He can't do a thing but waste your time.”

Dior placed a cold French fry in her mouth and chewed on it slowly.

Chandelle could tell something was on her mind, something she didn't want to talk about readily. “What's gotten you staring into space all of a sudden?”

“Just thinking I should have ordered the steak,” she answered nonchalantly. That lie came out as easy as breathing. “But we'd better hurry up and finish. I heard they move the tables back and open up the dance floor at ten o'clock.”

Chandelle read her watch at nine-fifty. “I didn't see a dance floor when we came in.”

“That's because you're sitting on it,” Dior answered quickly. “Let's find the waitress so she can take these plates away. Maybe I can find her on the way to the restroom.” She left Chandelle with her third glass of alcohol, one more than she was used to, and champagne always went straight to her head. Dior had mapped out every detail of the evening. Now it was time to spring the second trap.

Tony's office was down the hall from the restrooms. Dior flew past them and hooked a left. When she approached the waitress who had been attending them, Dior overheard her complaining about ungrateful customers. Dior pulled two twenties from the thick roll in her clutch handbag. “Here's your tip,” she offered, with the discourteous intent to drive the waitress away. “Now see what you can do to earn it.” Backing away timidly, the woman studied the money, then stuffed it inside of a small black portfolio.

“Thank…” was all Dior heard before she slammed the door shut. “Tony, where have you been? Chandelle's been asking about you,” she lied. “And you act like what y'all had doesn't mean anything to you. I saw you, Tony, I saw how you looked at Chandelle when we came in, and I saw her getting goofy over you.”

“Dior, I have a bad feeling about this. Yes, I still care for Chandelle and probably will forever, but none of this seems on the level to me. Not to mention your being rude to my staff.”

“The meal was complimentary and that silly waitress has forty dollars to pocket. Trust me, she will make out okay. Back to you and Chandelle, though, her and Marvin are about done. There's poison between them. I wasn't supposed to tell you this but he got arrested for beating her. You know there's no way she's gonna bring it up. She's too proud to admit putting up with an abusive husband.” Dior was on a roll. She didn't mind stretching the truth on an ordinary lark. That night, she had a lot riding on Tony buying her story. “Look, she deserves better than him, than that. Chandelle bought her own home to get away from him and she deserves to be happy with a good brotha like you.” Dior hit the main vein with that one.

Tony shrugged his broad shoulders and stood up behind his desk. He envisioned himself as Chandelle's would-be savior from a violent spouse, and he liked the way it made him feel. “I would like to see her happy, but I imagined she was with what's-his-name,” he said with a soft smile on his lips.

“His name's not important,” Dior said. “What is important is you getting back out there with your charming self and show our girl the time of her life. Oh, and she can't handle her liquor, so I suggest you order her one more to get her good and loose.” Dior pulled a piece of paper from her purse and pushed it into Tony's hand. “You might need this,” she informed him. “See you at Chandelle's divorce party.” She opened the door, checked the hallway, and then scooted into the ladies' room before Chandelle came searching for her.

“What did you say to the waitress?” Chandelle asked, when Dior returned to the table.

“Why, what did she say I said?” she answered venomously.

“Just that you took care of her and something about you being off of your meds,” Chandelle revealed, behind a stifled laugh. “Don't trip, she wasn't too bent out of shape. Huh, she cleared the table in record time and took off, counting her money.”

“Good, let's head over to the bar,” Dior suggested. “They're starting to move the tables back.”

No sooner than Chandelle's behind landed on the wing-backed bar chair did Tony make another appearance. He hand-delivered a second bottle of chilled Cristal with three glasses. When she objected, Tony spread on the charm. “Chandelle, it's been years since I've seen you and there's no telling when you'll bless me with your presence again. At least do me the honor of having a drink with the prettiest woman I've ever been privileged to call mine.” He watched Chandelle waffling under peer pressure. To push her over the edge, he dug deep into his bag of flattery and came out with an ace. “My mama still says you're her favorite. Yeah, she doesn't mind letting every sistah she meets know that too. She misses you almost as much as I do.”

Chandelle read his face. There wasn't one sign of untruthfulness in his eyes, not anywhere. “How can I say no to your mama?” Chandelle answered. “Sue Ann did serve up dirt on you from your other girlfriends. I'll never forget that time your college sweetheart came home nosing around for you and Sue Ann ran her off with a broom, shouting how she was old news.”

Tony's expression glowed against the candlelit lamp sitting on the bar. “Monise hasn't gotten over that yet. She came in here last month, loud and still salty. I was forced to tell her that you and I didn't make it. The worse part was you and I couldn't even hold onto our friendship either.”

He poured two drinks but Dior placed a hand over her glass. “Uh-uh, Tony, you've already done more than enough and I'm driving, so maybe next time.”

“Yeah, like I was saying,” he joked, totally ignoring Dior. “You have someone, I respect that. Friendship like we shared doesn't come every day. To friendship,” he said, raising his glass. Chandelle nodded her head, thinking back on moments better left in the past, where they belonged.

“To friendship,” she agreed wholeheartedly.
He would have to be the finest friend a woman could hope for
, she thought.
My goodness, he still makes me feel like butter. Remember you are married, although not happily at the present. Hmm, Tony would have made an excellent husband if he weren't so driven. Success trumped his love for me. He made good on his dream after ours fizzled. I can't blame him. I wanted marriage and he needed to be somebody first. We both found what we wanted, so why am I sitting up here looking into his eyes and wondering how my life would have turned out had I committed myself to him like he did to his dream? Sue Ann said I was perfect for her son. Marvin seemed perfect for me. Whew, my head is spinning.

When Chandelle emerged from her daze, she was seeing double. “Tony, where's Dior?” she asked groggily, “and why are there two of you?”

“Okay, let me find her for you,” Tony offered, sensing she was sufficiently sauced and ready for the taking.

Chandelle's cell phone rang. She shook her head while feeling around in her bag for it. “Oh, here it is. Yes, uh…hello?”

“Chandelle, I am so sorry but that sick friend I was telling you about, well, he needs me right now.” Dior explained. “I hated to run out but it's a serious matter. See if Tony can call a taxi for you. Sorry, I'll talk to you later. Bye.” Once again she ended the conversation leaving Chandelle no choice and defenseless to reject her proposition.

“Okay, but that was not cool,” Chandelle replied, after Dior had hung up the phone.

Tony, playing the concerned
friend
to the hilt, listened as Chandelle asked him to ring for a ride home. Of course, he wouldn't hear of it. He instructed the manager to lock up at closing time, then had the valet bring his car around.

The young man took a glance at Chandelle stumbling in her heels as he maneuvered Tony's black S-Class Mercedes to the front door. “Uh-oh, another fallen angel. With Mr. Jones she's liable to be a devil by morning.” He handed the expensive sedan over to his boss and stepped back out of the way. “Have a
good
night, Mr. Jones.”

“It's not like that this time,” Tony answered without hesitation. “She's supposed to be my wife.”

Chandelle giggled when she heard it. “Your wife, huh? When was all this
supposed
to happen, after you made it big? I never asked you for a dime and I didn't need you to be anything other than a man who'd put me above all he cared for. Where are we going anyway?”

“I was not going to let some stranger get you home safe tonight so I'm doing it myself,” he answered, having memorized the directions Dior gave him in his office.

“Good, you're headed in the right direction. Keep on driving and make a right on Lake Highland. It's not too far from here.”

Chandelle drifted off to sleep shortly after that, babbling about friendship, marriage, Marvin, and mayhem. Tony cruised along, glancing at her body nestled against the leather seat. Even intoxicated, Chandelle was irresistible. He often contemplated how his life would have been had she given him a bit longer to realize she meant more to him than the things money could provide. Now that Dior had delivered her, perfectly gift wrapped, Tony had a second chance to get inside her head again. He figured that getting into Chandelle's bed wasn't such a bad way to connect their past and future with one steamy night of unrivaled passion.

Chandelle fumbled with the key when they got to her house. She stepped in to use her bathroom, passed out, and threw up on herself. She had gone from sensually sauced to dead drunk in the short drive to her house. Tony tapped on the bathroom door after she'd been there over ten minutes. “Chandelle, are you all right in there? Chandelle?” When he heard what sounded like snoring on the other side of that door, he twisted the knob and opened it. Chandelle had fallen asleep on the toilet. Tony did what any man in his right mind would have done in an instance that required precise execution during a difficult dilemma, he peeled off every stitch of their clothing, held Chandelle gingerly under a warm shower until she was clean, then he toweled her off and climbed into bed.

 

Dior pulled away from the curb across the street from Chandelle's house when she saw the lights go off in the master bedroom.
Perfect, I knew Tony would come through for me,
she thought.
It took him longer than I planned, but done is done.
Dior glided through an intersection wearing an impish grin. Within minutes, she arrived at Marvin's apartment. She used the key she had neglected to return after moving out. Within a few more minutes she wasn't wearing anything at all.

Marvin had helped himself to a stiff shot of the cognac she'd cleverly provided for such an occasion. He didn't stir when she eased past him toward the bathroom. Dior closed the door and flicked on the light. The bag she left behind earlier in the day was still there, tucked under the cabinet. She fastened on a wig with bobby pins, sprayed on Chandelle's favorite perfume, and licked her lips. Anticipation guided her into Marvin's bedroom. She slipped beneath the covers, began planting kisses on his chest, then lower. He murmured Chandelle's name and reached out for her, but Dior whispered insistently for him to relax. “No, baby, I've got this. Don't touch, don't move. Just be still and enjoy it.” His hips gyrated when she placed him into her mouth.

“Ooh, that's good, Chandelle,” he groaned. “I dreamed you'd use your key sooner or later.”

“I know, I know,” Dior answered, in a low, strained tone.

“I want you…I've missed you. Give it to me,” he pleaded, growing in size and desire exponentially.

“Okay, move your hands,” Dior ordered, when he made a second attempt to hold her by the waist. Unwittingly, Marvin complied. He shoved both hands under his pillow and let her satisfy him in her own way. Dior straddled his lap, forcing him inside her. Marvin's mouth watered. “Ohhh, it's good, Chandelle. Mmm, it's so good.”

“Uhhh-huh,” Dior moaned seductively, running her scheme at top speed. She smiled as Marvin's hips jerked erratically. This is what she'd been waiting for. “Come on,” she whispered, with an exasperated breath. “Come on, I feel it. Let it go, daddy!” she screamed as he climaxed. His muscles contracted and most of him pulsated.

“Ahhh, something's wrong,” he mumbled, trying to push Dior off. “Wait a minute,” he said, reaching for the lamp on the nightstand. “Something's wrong,” he repeated until the light exposed Dior and what they had experienced together. When it became apparent to him, he leaped from the bed with the sheet draped around his waist. “Dior? What the…What are you doing here?”