Three the Hard Way: A Play in Two Acts (25 page)

A female voice crept into my ear, "Will you be checking out this morning or will you be staying another night with us?"

Like a cold slap in the face, I was suddenly very aware of where I was, how I got here, and most of all, what I had done when I got here.

"Mr. Assante has made arrangements in the event you wish to stay.’

"No, I’ll be checking out."

"Are you sure? You have complete access to the hotel. That includes use of our exercise facilities, our spa, all of our restaurants and bars, and our gift shop," the now bubbly female said.

"No thank you," I said thinking about the spa. "I’ll be checking out within the hour."

"Okay," she chirped. "But if you change your mind, you can simply charge it to the room."

"Thank you," I said in the same sing-songy way, and hung up the phone. I wasn’t quite sure how I should take what I’d just heard. I already had some issues with what I had allowed myself to do last night. I believe "hoochie" is the word I used to describe myself. Now I feel used and cheap. Was this his way of paying me for services rendered, like some cheap hooker?

"Excuse me . . . high-priced hooker," I said and rolled out of bed.

As I paddled my way to the shower, I thought that maybe he was just being a gentlemen. Maybe this was how he would have treated me if he were able to stay.

"Maybe," I said and turned on the shower. I looked at my naked body in the mirror. I shook my head and placed my hands on my pouch—my children’s gift to me. I didn’t think I looked bad for a mother of two. Apparently he didn’t either.

I stepped into the shower and slowly washed his scent from my body. The movie projector in my mind replayed for me the finer more memorable moments of this morning’s love making, which we did repeatedly until I saw the sun coming up. I had never met a man with that much stamina, not to mention staying power.

When we were done, my body felt limp, but wonderfully and thoroughly satisfied. The last thing I remember before I passed out was him getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom.

As I drove home, a conflict raged within me. My morals and my sexuality were having a no holds barred, knock down, drag out fight about this morning’s behavior. My morals were, as they have been of late, dominating. My sexuality’s only defense against this breach of moral code was;
it’s been damn near three years, gimme a break.
And I had to agree. But my morals would have none of that. I was a hoochie, but a well-fucked hoochie. So I told my morals to kiss any part of my ass that Zavier may have missed.

I considered stopping at Wendy’s on the way home, now regretting not taking advantage of the hotel facilities. At least some breakfast, or lunch or brunch, whatever was appropriate, but I drove on knowing that I didn’t want to go in dressed like I’d been out fucking all night. I briefly considered the drive-thru but I was showing way too much thigh for that. Once I was home, I fixed myself something to eat, crawled into bed, and slept straight through to Sunday.

I went to work Monday morning to begin what I thought was going to be another dull workweek, and was caught off guard when I was met by a dozen long-stem red roses on my desk. The card read:

Thank you for a wonderful evening and the sensational morning! Sorry that I had to leave so early, but I’d like to make it up to you. I’ll be back in Atlanta on Friday. Maybe I could see you again.

Zavier

Once I finished reading the card, the office exploded in applause. Everybody knew I hadn’t been out much since my divorce, so the arrival of roses to them signaled the end of my dry spell. The workweek was still dull and seemed to drag on even more than usual. The difference was me. Now I was filled with excitement and anticipation of the weekend. Each morning my arrival at work was met with flowers and questions. Questions, questions, everyday more questions.

Who is he?

What does he do?

Where’s he from?

All questions that I wouldn’t answer, mainly because I couldn’t. As much as we talked about me, he was very elusive about everything about himself. At first it didn’t bother me, but day by day, those questions floated endlessly around in my mind.

Who is he?

What does he do?

Where’s he from?

On Friday morning I was surprised to see an e-mail from [email protected]—surprised because I had never given him my e-mail address. I did, however, tell him where I worked, so it wouldn’t be to big a leap to figure it out. I eagerly opened it and found that he had forwarded me his travel itinerary. He was scheduled to arrive at Hartsfield at 7:15 that evening. The e-mail contained no other information, so I assumed that he forwarded it to me so I could meet him.

I was there at the airport in time to see him looking around as he walked slowly toward the baggage claim area. He smiled when he saw me, as I did when I saw him. "Hello, Carla," he said and kissed me gently on the cheek. "I guess you got my e-mail?"

"I sure did." I was only a little put out by the cheap peck on the cheek, but I tried not to let it show. "I wasn’t sure if it meant that you wanted me to meet you or not. So I decided to take a chance and come on down."

"I’m glad that you did, Carla."

We made our way out of the terminal and I started to walk toward the parking deck. "I’m parked in the parking deck. It’s not far."

"Well, like I said I wasn’t sure if you were goin’ to meet me, so I made other arrangements."

"Oh." I know he could hear the disappointment in my voice. And this time I made no attempt to hide it.

"Don’t sound like that, Carla. All my arrangements this weekend are built around you. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got a plan in progress for the weekend. Come on, your car will be all right in the parking lot for the weekend," he said and took my hand.

As we walked hand in hand down the sidewalk, he continued to look around like he was looking for somebody. Suddenly, a black limousine came screeching to a halt in front of us. When the driver jumped out, I saw that easy smile return to his face.

"Zavier! Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a mess coming through downtown," the driver said as he took the bag from Zavier and placed it in the trunk. "Braves game."

"Who they playin’?"

"Mets," the driver replied as he held open the door.

"Damn, sure wish I’d known that. I could have gotten here earlier and we could have gone to the game. Do you like baseball, Carla?" he asked once we were in the car.

"It’s okay. I mean, I like it, but I just can’t watch it on television. Too slow and too much talk. So, you’re a Mets fan, huh?"

"Yankee fan, actually."

"Are you from New York?" I asked as my mission to find out something, anything about him, began.

"No."

"Where are you from?"

"From parts unknown," he smiled. "I always wanted to say that. When I was a kid I used to watch a lot of wrestling and the masked guys were always from parts unknown."

"Oooo-kay." Angry at his unbelievable evasion.

"I did spend a lot of time in New York growing up, but I’m from Antigua."

"So that’s where that sexy accent comes from." I said; satisfied that I now knew something about him. It wasn’t much, but it seemed to make my apprehensiveness subside for the time being. But I knew I had plenty more questions.

We’d been riding for a while when I noticed that we had driven through downtown Atlanta and were heading north on Georgia 400. My apprehension kicked in again. "Where are we goin’?"

"Oh, I’m sorry, Carla. Do you like the mountains?"

"Yes, I love the mountains. Why?"

"I made reservations at a resort in the mountains for the weekend."

"Did you really?"

"Yes, really. I know I should have told you, but I wanted to surprise you. You know, make up for slipping out on you at the crack of dawn. I hope you don’t mind?"

"That’s right; you do have a lot to make up for. And no, I don’t mind, but that is a little presumptive of you, don’t you think? I mean, I could’ve had plans for the weekend," I said, knowing that I had nothing to do and no place to go. Just another weekend of watching movies I’d rented and eating popcorn.

"When you put it that way, yeah, I guess it was quite presumptive of me. So, let’s start over. Carla?"

"Yes, Zavier."

"If you don’t have any plans, I’d like to take you away for the weekend."

"No, Zavier," I replied, smiling all over myself, but trying to sound as formal as possible. "I don’t have any thing in particular planned for the weekend. I think I would enjoy spending the weekend with you."

I knew that once we got where we were going that I would call Shika and let her know where I was. She already knew I would be with Zavier. I had to laugh at myself because this is exactly how it went last weekend. Me hoping that somebody saw me with this man. I had never been one to jump and run off with a man at the drop of a dime, even in my wildest days. I thought that you got more conservative with age, but just the opposite was happening with me. The list of chances I have taken with this man, a man I hardly know, was growing, and I seemed powerless to stop it. And if I choose to be honest with myself, I really didn’t want to stop myself.

The weekend was wonderful. Our cabin had a mini-kitchen, which consisted of a small refrigerator and a microwave. It had a cozy little living room with a fireplace, which, even though it was ninety degrees outside, I felt compelled to light, and a big bedroom with a Jacuzzi. The bedroom had French doors that covered most of the wall and led to a deck that faced the woods. I couldn’t have asked for a more romantic setting. When we arrived in the cabin, we opened the doors in the bedroom and we made love. No music, no lights, just the sounds of the great outdoors and the sounds of our passion.

I felt myself drifting off to a place where women go after they’ve been made love to and satisfied, when I felt Zavier roll out of bed. I lifted my head to ask him where he was going, but my head drifted slowly back to the pillow. I heard water running and shortly after, Zavier returned to bed. He laid down next to me and put his arms around me. I snuggled closer to him and buried my head in his chest. "I’m goin’ to get in the Jacuzzi for a while."

"Wake me up when its full and maybe I’ll join you."

Sometime after that, I couldn’t tell you how long, Zavier called me, "Carla!"

I opened my eyes to the site of him sitting up in the Jacuzzi. He had lit candles all around the tub and had a bottle of wine and two glasses. "When did you have time to do all this?"

"You’ve been sleeping for almost an hour, Carla."

"And what a good sleep it was," I said and rolled out of the bed. I started to pull the sheet off the bed to cover myself—part of me still clinging to my inhibitions—but then I thought about the fact that I had just spent hours doing things with and to this man. So there wasn’t much point in me covering myself up to walk less than ten feet, only to uncover myself to get into the Jacuzzi with him naked. Still, the sheet got wrapped around me.

"Are you cold?"

"No, just a little shy."

"You want me to cover my eyes?"

"No, just don’t laugh."

"At what?"

"My fat," I said and shed the sheet and got into the Jacuzzi. Zavier handed me a glass of wine.

"What fat? Carla you’re beautiful."