Unfaithful (4 page)

Olivia enters the clammy room. Steam wafts from the shower and is hovering just below the skylight like a cirrus cloud. The mirrors above the twin vanities are fogged; the glass stall is covered in perspiration. Yet, she can see her husband, his back turned to her, face to the wall, soap decorating his ass and thick legs. She is wearing a Japanese robe, a repeating pattern of blue cranes on white silk. Olivia considers crossing the three feet to the shower stall as is, but instead, she drops the robe where she stands by the vanity and goes to him on her toes, nude.

Olivia is one of those women who, as Miles is fond of saying, is far more beautiful unclothed than clothed. That does not take away from how smart she can look when she is dressed—but get her naked, and her true beauty shines like a flame.

Her body is thick—substance to her powerful, yet sculpted thighs, a slight bow to her legs, giving her a sensuous edge. She is equipped with an ass that any black woman would be proud of, large ripe breasts, and thick dark nipples that stand erect with the slightest breeze. Her sex is not shaved clean the way most men prefer. She doesn’t have time to keep it trimmed nor could she care less, so Olivia lets it grow—not run wild, but enough that Miles has to part her pubic hair with his fingers in order to find her sweet nectar center.

Olivia reaches the glass door, grasps the polished steel handle, and opens it silently. Miles senses her without turning around. Yet, before he can react, she is pressing against him—her cool body on his hot, soapy one; heavy breasts connecting with his back, her nipples making twin soap trails as she maneuvers into position. Hands wrap around his waist, face nuzzling against his neck as he leans back into her and sighs.

They are silent.

Words are not needed.

Olivia’s original plan was to wait for Miles to come to bed before continuing their conversation. But something didn’t seem right. The fact that he had seemingly snapped at her for no reason didn’t add up. It was reasonable for her to be curious about the conversation he’d had with Ryan earlier that evening, wasn’t it? She had thought for sure he would come home and want to replay the details for her—allowing her to consider every sentence and response.

But that hadn’t happened.

Miles had been drinking…that much was obvious.

So, she’d left him alone, giving him his space, until she couldn’t stand it any longer.

The not knowing.

The unknown.

Olivia knew, that like most nights when Miles went out without her, he’d return home ready for some action. Perhaps she could speed things along—get him in that vulnerable position where men would say and do anything their partners asked of them.

Olivia smirks as she readies her plans.

Her hands roam over his soapy skin, taking the loofah and body wash from him. Lathering it up, she proceeds to wash his entire body, beginning with his neck and shoulders, descending down his back to his waist, grabbing his ass in one hand, squeezing the flesh as she cleanses him, feeling his power and strength as her fingers and palm drift from one cheek to the other. Miles loves the spinning classes he takes several times a week at the gym several blocks from his office. Because of it, his ass, thighs and calves are well defined. Olivia spends some time on these parts before descending further. Miles stands there and allows her to take control, hands overhead and pressed against the sweating tile with his head thrown back. The rush of the spray is therapeutic. He sighs when she takes hold of his penis, her hands snaking around his waist, fingers gliding over dark skin, inching near until she feels him.

Miles is already erect.

Olivia smiles, rubbing the bulbous head with her palm, dropping the loofah so she can give him her full attention.

She begins to tug at him…a slow, deliberate motion that elicits a heartfelt moan. She kisses his neck and flicks her tongue around the fleshy part of his ear. She grinds her pelvis into him, letting him know she is turned on, as well. A moan escapes from her lips and she is cognizant of her own wetness that meanders down her thigh.

Miles turns.

His member brushes against her stomach.

Then his hands are on her ass, pulling her into him. He kisses her hard on the mouth, tongue darting between her teeth, and the beer taste is not undesirable. He is being aggressive, nibbling on her lower lip, hand rushing up and palming her breasts, tugging at the nipples before both hands dip back down and again find her ample behind.

Olivia’s response is pure rapture.

Miles pushes her against the back shower wall, cool tile on her skin as he palms both cheeks, spreading them apart. Instantly, she feels the rush of water on her skin, an avalanche of passion racing downward, a powerful spray on her neck to the small of her back, and downward still. Miles is sucking at her neck as he grinds against her. The rush of water is like a river; it finds her vulnerabilities and rides her like a wave.

Downward.

And when the water licks against her, Olivia finds heaven.

Fingers, his, find her core, spreading her wings, and as Olivia closes her eyes and soaks up the intensity of this wondrous feeling, a thought embraces her.
I’m a butterfly,
she thinks,
with wings of honey.

Olivia smiles at the imagery.

Then, in an instant, that icon is gone—disappeared, replaced by something else entirely.

Something she must grasp and hold on to.

Just for a moment.

Ryan’s fingers had found her core, too. His digits spread her the way her husband is doing now, this delicious instant. And she finds she can’t separate the two—as she stands this very second in the shower—knees ready to falter, legs all rubbery and about to give out, the lovely rush of hot spray against her clit, the tremor of Miles’ fingers filling her insides, distinct from Ryan’s smooth, slow, and purposeful touch.

Olivia remembers that evening with precision-like clarity—the way her best friend felt at that exact moment when he entered her. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Olivia wanted so badly to scream, but found she could not do so.

In an instant, she feels the tremor and gives in to its power. Before she can scream, Olivia is brought back to reality by Miles inside her, two bodies leaning against each other as the hot spray rains down, one leg hiked around his hip as he fills her in one flourishing stroke.

And that is fine, because Olivia is still sensing the aftershocks.

She grips her husband as he beats against her, hot breath on her neck, locs swinging to a silent syncopation, a slow groove that loses its rhythm.

Miles moves against her with abandonment, eyes closed, head thrown back, palms pressed on either side of her, fingers splayed and flat against the tile.

Holding on…

Holding back…

Then, no longer giving a damn, he grunts, groans, and comes.

It takes a moment for them to collect themselves.

Such is the way after really good sex.

Later, they towel off in silence.

Olivia suddenly longs for the warmth of her bed, and her husband’s arms that shield her and hold her safe from harm’s way.

She is hoping tonight, in the afterglow of their lovemaking, he’ll share the intricacies of the conversation between husband and best friend…a gift, just for her…the details of which she longs to hear.

But it is not meant to be….

At least not on this night. For Miles is uncharacteristically silent tonight. And there is nothing Olivia can do to change that.

Not a damn thing…

Ryan blinks.

He is sitting on a high stool, a thick, dark bar curving away from him in both directions. The shiny surface holds an untouched beer in a tall mug, which has been set directly in front of him. He is staring at the glass, attempting to focus on the details, seeing without truly seeing. He has no idea how it came to rest there. No idea at all how he came to be here.

The bile remains lodged in his throat. Ryan winces and reaches for the beer, hoping to erase the taste. Hoping to erase everything about the evening. But so far, that’s proved impossible.

How long? How long has he been sitting here?

Ryan does not know.

He glances around. A bar, for sure; name, unknown.

Low-lit, windowless, typical bar atmosphere almost to the point of clichéd: pool table towards the back, a few dartboards hanging on walls to his left, several patrons at the bar with heads down, lost in their thoughts or their sorrow. A few more at two-person tables. Mostly white folks; a few black people—none of them paying him any mind.

The bartender catches his eye and asks if she can get him anything.

Ryan takes a moment to consider her.

Brown skin, nice smile, hair done in afro puffs, slightly large—thick is the politically correct term these days—round ass in tight, low rider jeans. Pink Von-Dutch baseball tee showing off her D cups. A bottle opener stuck into the back pocket of her blue jeans. A short vertical stud bisects her right eyelid. Tiny diamond embedded in her left nostril. When she speaks, he observes a blue barbell in her tongue. When she turns and bends down, a hint of a tribal band tattoo peeks out, just above her café au lait butt.

Twenty-two, twenty-four years old—max.

Ryan’s been staring during the few moments it takes to consider her request. Now, he merely shakes his head, feeling nothing—not hunger, not thirst. Only the bile in his mouth is constant, and it won’t go away.

I received oral sex from a man…

The bartender nods and moves off. A second later, Ryan clears his throat and she stops in mid-stride, head turned his way. He waves her back over.

“Anything sweet,” he says barely above a whisper, then winces, swallowing hard. “Nasty taste in my mouth.” He starts to say something else, but shuts it down. Pushes the mug away.

She nods understandingly, and goes to work fixing him something else. A chilled martini glass is placed before him. She’s grabbing this liquor and that—a clear bottle followed by others he does not recognize. She is watching him, silent as she crafts his drink, giving him a smile when they make eye contact. He glances away.

She shakes the concoction in a cocktail shaker, does a show of twirling the gleaming metal in one hand in a quick flourish before pouring the frothy mix. She wipes her hand off on her jeans before she extends it to him.

“I’m Reese. Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

Ryan takes her hand, offering a weak handshake in return. Her hand lingers a bit before dropping to her side. He doesn’t provide his name—and she doesn’t press him for it. Reese walks away a moment later to attend to other customers, and Ryan watches her go.

The interior of Miles’ car; the unspeakable things he said, and all it entailed; passenger door flung open; Ryan stumbling, running; leaves and branches stinging his face and cheek; guttural screaming—emanating from his throat.
Ryan touches his face and winces in horror as he feels the welts on his cheek.
Engine turning over, tires squealing, Ryan peeling away; cars, taxis, streetlamps, government building…all a rush of imagery as he passes them by, seeing without truly seeing.

How he got here, he does not know.

He remembers pulling over beside some trash-strewn, vacant liquor store in D.C., thick black bars on the doors and windows. His driver’s side door left open as he went to the curb and vomited, the grotesque foul-smelling chunks nearly missing his shoes as he retched. He remained doubled over for nearly a minute, the pain so deep and intense he thought he would pass out, then righting himself because he suddenly felt the chill associated with premonitions—hair on his forearms standing up straight as if his life would momentarily be snuffed out on some nameless, ghetto street. So he bolted—reached the car in three quick strides and careened away, almost hitting a parked car as he fought to control his vehicle.

Not feeling safe.

Pulse not recovering until he was miles away.

Ryan blinks.

Reese is standing in front of him, stealing a quick sip from a glass of water.

“Drink okay?” she asks.

Ryan hasn’t touched it. He does so now, takes a slow sip…testing the waters, so to speak. He nods. Reese nods in return, then hands him a bar napkin filled with ice chips.

“For your face,” she says, gesturing towards him. He cautiously takes hold and applies it to his cheek, eyes never leaving hers.

I received oral sex from a man…

Am I a faggot?

Ryan scrunches his face as he considers the cold ice pack and the question that looms in front of him as clear as day.

Reese watches him, but says nothing.

He has regarded this question and the associated thoughts over and over for the past two and a half hours. Has pondered Miles’ words—dissected them over and over, reviewed them from left to right and then again from right to left—looking for an opening, a weakness he could exploit.

Nothing.

Miles was fucking with him. Telling lies.

Had to be, right?

Guys fuck with one another, right?

Poor choice of words, considering the circumstances. But the answer still is no.

There’s no way what Miles said could be true. What Miles was implying couldn’t be true—not in Ryan’s case.

Could it?

A woman’s touch. He felt it on his face and chest, moving downward, experiencing the fingernail as it grazed skin and navel before ending at the top edge of his boxers. He held his breath, and held his cock in his palm, as in offering. Take it, he willed her, before I go insane.

Could what Miles be implying be true?

Ryan didn’t know.

So, he forces himself back to that evening.

Measures the details as if he were reliving the entire episode frame by frame.

The feeling was indescribable. Her mouth was an oven and he thrust toward the back of her throat as he reached for her locs, the ferocity within causing him to tremble. Toes curling on the cool carpet, legs outstretched, holding her head in his hands while bucking his hips slowly. Darkness settled around them like a blanket. Occasional house creaks and groans, spiking the otherwise silent hush of the night.

And finds nothing.

Nothing of substance to clear him from the truth.

Am I a faggot?

Because I let another man
…

“STOP IT!”

Reese glances up sharply. He is yelling—not at her. Not at anyone in particular.

He drops his head and shakes it forlornly. This whole thing has been blown
way
out of proportion, and if he just closes his eyes, blinks back the tears that seem to be waiting in the wings, he’ll be alright.

He’ll wake up tomorrow, snug and warm in the confines of his bed, Carly on her side, spooning him as she’s fond of doing, everything the way it was before. Everything okay.

He hasn’t done what Miles alleges.

Ryan blinks.

He did not allow another man to fellate him.

He did
not
.

Could
not
.

Blinks again.

No heterosexual man in his right mind would.

Or could…

Right?

Ryan looks to Reese for an answer.

She smiles sheepishly when their stares meet and lock.

Sorrowfully, she lacks the answer to this fundamental question.