Maneater (4 page)

“D
amn you, Maverick!”

The sunshine beamed through the window. I sat on the bed, in front of the mirror, scared to start over. Had no desire to search for a new man worth getting to know. A man who appreciated my mind, respected my body. A gentleman I could live with. How soon would I find another one worth marrying?

My cell phone distracted me. Sniffling, praying it was Maverick calling to apologize, I hurried to the dresser, removed my PDA from the charger.

It was Danté.

Flatly, I answered, “What?”

“Hey, Seven. Maverick asked me to call. I'm out front whenever you're ready to leave,” he said, his voice professional, yet more compassionate than Maverick's.

“Thanks, but I don't need you to do anything for me,” I said, almost ending the call. “Wait. Danté?”

“What?”

“How well do you know Maverick?” I asked.

He paused, then said, “Not very.”

“But you're his best man. You must know why he's sending me away.”

“Seven, I'm Maverick's friend, not yours. All you need to know is…I'll never betray him.”

Ending the call with Danté before I cursed his ass out, I headed upstairs to the office. I carried my laptop bag to my favorite room, the library. The heaviness of the gun in the bottom of my bag weighed me down. I scanned the built-in shelves; fiction books were my escape from reality. Textbooks were my source of knowledge. I missed my mother, missed my college days. Studying. Socializing. Constantly in transit to an exciting destination, occasionally unknown. I removed my laptop, powered it on, sat gazing out the window. Exhaling, I logged on, tapped a few keys; the Web site appeared.

Punany Paradise.

A blend of cello, harp, and the sultry voice of a man moaning, “Umm,” barely above a whisper, relaxed me, sweeping away the tension that tightened my shoulders, my neck.

Seductively, he groaned, “Hey there, sexy.”

I admired his long, lean naked body, his muscles in the right places, his chest, abs. His dick reclined on his stomach.

“Yes, yes,” he said, nodding. “It's real.”

My tongue slid along my bottom lip, paused in the middle. I read the site aloud, “Exotic. Private. For women only. All-inclusive nude resort,” then softly smiled.

I circled the tip of my finger around my areola. Slid my hand over my stomach, lightly teased my clit with tiny circular motions. Opened my thighs.

Mama used to say, “Baby, when a man hands you lemons, he's not a real man. Real men, like your father, care about the women in their lives. If a man hurts you, he's trying to burden you with his psychological garbage. He's intentionally putting you down to lift his spirits or cover up a lie. Seven, don't ever let a man get or keep you down, baby.”

Waterfall sounds resonated from my speakers, from my vagina. Staring at my laptop, I sat quietly in Maverick's library, realizing I was in his, not our, house. The tropical island I'd dreamed of visiting was before my eyes, underneath my fingertips. A getaway I'd imagined traveling to two summers ago, right before I'd met Maverick. Before I'd gained twenty-five pounds. Before I'd gotten engaged. Before he'd changed the way I viewed myself inside and out.

The banner beckoned, “Come be my lady.” Eyes were fixed on me. Hands behind his head. His dick rose slowly, stood there, midair, as he said, “I'll teach you how to release your inhibitions. I'll stroke your mind with every part of my anatomy. Have me your way. Your satisfaction is our guarantee.”

Our? More than one?

Deliciously sculpted naked men, one after another, faded in and out of the photo slide. As I scanned them from their lips to their dicks, my pussy dripped with delight. Day before yesterday, none of these men would've tempted me. Today Maverick couldn't physically measure up to these men. He granted them space in his sanctuary. Maverick's lemons were sour but exactly what I needed. A new perspective on
my
life.

Thanks, Maverick, for reminding me how beautiful I am,
I thought, recalling the men I'd dated in college.
There's nothing wrong with me.

Thanks to my fiancé, I was ready to unleash the woman in me, fornicate, and pursue my fantasies in a safe environment before becoming his wife. Closing my eyes, I envisioned running barefoot in the sand, diving naked into the ocean, inhaling fresh, salty sea air, having handsome men cater to my desires.

“Do it, Seven. Fuck that fat farm. Go to the island of sexual seduction,” I said aloud, drooling over the fine-ass men licking their lips at me as though they were tasting my punany.

Punany Paradise was a place where no one would judge me, where men from all over the world would adore me. I'd get back that time in my life when I was happily single. When I proudly dated men, expertly flipping the script…a time when I boldly exhibited the character of a man. A time in my prime, before I'd met Maverick.

Call a man after a date? Why bother? That was solely his responsibility. If he was interested, he'd call. A seventy-two hour delay in his calling meant his number was deleted from my phone. Next. I'd usually been out with a few other guys since my date with a man who hadn't called in three days. Foolish men—some educated, others not—thought there was some sort of shortage of men, as though they were the hottest commodity in the highest demand.

“Damn, these guys look good enough to eat. All of them,” I said, licking my fingers like they'd been dipped in chocolate.

I clicked on the video of Jagger, and my pussy puckered when he smiled at me. I took a deep breath, ready to dive into the screen.

The money I'd inherited from my mother earned interest daily. I'd let Maverick believe I was a struggling college student. That was his assumption.

My mother had constantly told me, “Seven, listen to me. No man will ever treat you worse than you treat yourself, and no man should treat you better. No matter how much money he has, always be great to yourself, baby.”

I missed my mom. She'd outlived my dad, but I hated that now they were both gone. I felt abandoned. Nothing had filled the void in my heart until Maverick came along. Maybe going away by myself would give me time to find myself, the true Seven Stephens.

Exhaling, I wiped my tears, then dried my hand on my
I AM WORTHY

T-shirt. The vacation I craved teetered under my finger hovering over the mouse. My eyes were fixated on the words: “Ground transportation to and from the resort. Daily massages. Fantasies. Liberation. Libations. Unforgettable pleasurable encounters guaranteed or your money back.” The money back part didn't matter to me. I refused to spend my money to meet Maverick's egotistical demands. There was no way I was going to a boring-ass weight-loss camp to run myself insane until I passed out from exhaustion with a group of overweight people I didn't want to know.

The next scrolling banner of naked men read, “All we want is you. Leave your luggage. Your clothes. Your suntan oil. And your man…Ladies, we've got you covered.”

Damn, when was the last time my pussy had twitched from thinking about sex with a stranger? The fantasy intrigued me. I sat in Maverick's library, contemplating whether or not to click on the thirty-five-thousand-dollar
MAKE PAYMENT
button.

Glancing next to the laptop, at a picture of us dining outdoors at Mercat a la Planxa, a sidewalk restaurant, smiling, laughing, sharing a small serving of garlic shrimp, listening to the live band playing in Grant Park, reminded me of how we used to eat for quality, not quantity, until I started cooking from Gerry's
Dining In
cookbook. I didn't count calories or grams of fat or sugar. I didn't monitor the ingredients based on how healthy I was cooking. I measured my dishes for taste: a pound of butter, two cups of sugar, salt before and after tasting. Never again would I unconsciously cook or eat anything.

“Ooh, wee,” I yelled. Twenty-six dicks and thirty-five days should give me enough opportunity and time to lose twenty-five pounds, if I worked out with each man, limited my intake of calories, fat, and processed foods, and faithfully consumed eighty-eight ounces—half my weight, but in ounces—in water each day. Drinking that much water would be hard, but I could do it. I tried hard to convince myself that leaving Maverick for six weeks right before our wedding would make our relationship stronger. Plus, I'd be in great shape to push hard in the delivery room.

Nine months seemed so far away. The thought of having my first baby made me scared. Would I be a good mother, like my mom was? Would I end up a single parent? An unhappy wife?

“Girl, what are you thinking? You don't even know if you're pregnant,” I said aloud. “A week late is nothing. Probably stress.”

Picking up the phone, I called my best friend, professing, “Zena, I need you.”

“Girl, what's wrong with you? Why do you sound so sad?” Zena whispered.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you at work. It's just that…it's just,” I said. I sniffled in Zena's ear like a baby.

“Where are you?” Zena asked.

“Home. At Maverick's house,” I answered, massaging the lump in my throat, regretting I'd given up my apartment to move in with him.

“I'm ending a business call on the other line, and then I'm on my way, girl. I'll be there in twenty minutes or less,” Zena said.

“Thanks,” I said, ending the call. Then I closed my eyes and clicked the button. Within seconds the charges were billed to Maverick's business credit card. My trip to Punany Paradise was confirmed.

Mama used to say, “Never kiss and tell. It's not worth it. Better to ask the Lord for forgiveness than to ask your man.”

A
woman without at least one secret hadn't experienced much.

Pussy was powerful, but I didn't spread my legs for Deuce Callahan until after we'd gotten married.

“Zena, you proper? You need anything, honey?” Deuce asked, sitting on the edge of my desk.

“I'm making do. Business is a little slow but—”

Deuce reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved his checkbook, scribbled, then handed me a check for ten thousand dollars. “Here. Pay your mortgage, go to the spa, and take care of yourself.”

I placed the check on my desk, shook my head, looked into his eyes. I wouldn't give him what he wanted most.

“I know. You don't have to say it,” he said. “I have someone who's willing to have my baby. As soon as my citizenship is final, we will divorce. I will marry her, bring her to America, and she will have my kids.”

Deuce's mother was Nigerian. His father, European. Marrying me had allowed him to become American, too.

Six years ago he'd said, “Man should be free to roam the world freely. Once I am an American, I can go wherever I please. Marry me, Zena, and I promise to take care of you always.”

I touched his thigh, which felt hard like steel, then asked, already knowing the answer, “Deuce, can't we just be in love, make love, and not have kids?”

He stood, kissed my lips, then said, “A woman's body is her temple. I want to worship the woman I make love to. I want to hold her in my arms, put my dick in her, and fill her with love while we make love to create our baby. I cannot disrespect you. If you need anything, except this,” he said, touching his huge dick, “I'm here for you.”

Why me?

That six-nine, 250-pound, beautiful African man with the whitest teeth had made love to me one time. I'd been shocked. He'd eaten my pussy so good, made love to me until I passed out from satisfaction, then cooked me breakfast the next morning. That was the same day we got married.

Should've kept my mouth shut and my legs open. No, I had to tell him, “I don't ever want kids.” Well, that was the truth. I refused to ruin my figure or my life. My mother was a single parent by the time I was two, my brother was four, and my sister was six. Three kids, and my daddy left her, married some other woman with three kids, took care of them, and forgot about all of us. I vowed that would never be me. Marriage had no guarantees.

“I'll walk out with you,” I said. “Gotta go check on my girl Seven.”

Walking down the stairs, Deuce said, “You tell her not to marry that man. He is gay.”

I flashed him a look, nodded in the direction of my secretary. “Donna, I'll be back in two hours.”

“Okay, Ms. Belvedere,” she said, trying to pretend she hadn't heard what Deuce had said.

Once outside, I said, “Maverick is not gay. You think all Americans are gay. Besides, you've never met him. You've only seen pictures of him.”

He shook his head in protest. “Not all Americans are gay. Most. The others are either fornicators, molesters, rapists, or perverts. That one, that Maverick is no maverick. I looked in his eyes. His eyes are glossy, like marbles. Once a man has been penetrated in the rectum by another man, he loses his armor.”

We stood outside my office building on North Michigan Avenue.

“Look deep into my eyes, Zena. Tell me, what do you see?”

I stared at Deuce. My heart softened as I said, “Love. I see love.”

“The eyes do not lie, baby. Problem with most Americans, they look but do not see others, only themselves. If you change your mind about having my babies, let me know before it is too late. I'll stop by again soon.”

Babies? More than one?
What he really wanted was his own basketball team.

Just like that, Deuce Callahan disappeared into the crowd of tourists strolling along the Magnificent Mile. He'd be back. No one knew he existed, not even my best friend, Seven.

F
oolishly, I believed Maverick would love me the way I loved him, unconditionally. I'd never leave him over a few pounds. Irrespective of age, weight, or physical features, a body was a shell encasing the spirit, sheltering what mattered the most, the heart.

Mama had told me, “Peel away the skin, strip away the fat, and we all look the same.”

I'd forsaken my last year of grad school, fourteen units shy of getting my master's degree, to design state-of-the-art real estate in exchange for becoming Maverick's trophy.

A voice chimed in my ear.
Write yourself a check for a half million dollars, sign his name on it, cash it for relationship restitution in case Maverick kicks you out.

“I can't do that,” I responded aloud.

He'll never miss the money,
my inner voice replied.

I countered, “Stealing is bad karma.”

The devil on my shoulder poked me with a pitchfork.
You have my permission. It's not stealing.

I sighed, “His accountant will definitely notice.”

My subconscious jumped in.
It's compensation
.

My forehead wrinkled. “For what?”

The devil clarified.
Postponing your career. Possibly carrying his baby.

Still not convinced, I said aloud, “My rhythm was off. Whose fault was that?”

Confidently, my subconscious replied,
His
.

I removed a personal checkbook from Maverick's desk, picked up his favorite Montblanc Starwalker Cool Blue pen.
Stop it, Seven!
My mother's voice resounded in my head. Embarrassed, I tossed the pen and checks into the drawer. Racing downstairs to the spacious bedroom walk-in closet, I snatched my suitcase, then tossed it onto the bed. I had a better idea. If Maverick truly loved me, I'd know for sure by the end of my trip.

Just lose the weight, and everything will be all right,
I thought, with an upside-down smile.

He'd asked for my hand in marriage, and I'd given him my life. How could he throw me away with the same mind-set as putting out the trash?

Thankfully, the doorbell chimed, interrupting the monologue in my head.

Abandoning the overstuffed suitcase in the middle of his bed, I trotted to the first floor of Maverick's condo, located on the third floor of the building, then opened the double glass doors. Zena spread her arms wide. Collapsing into my friend's embrace, I clung to Zena, with streaming tears. I needed her to hold me.

Zena gently reassured me. “It's okay, honey. Whatever it is, it's okay. I'm here for you no matter what.” She dangled her keys. “See? I was prepared to let myself in if you hadn't answered.”

I smiled a little, glad I'd given her a spare set of keys to everything I owned—my car, my house in Mississippi—and to Maverick's home. I'd added Zena's name to the list of guests with authorized entry to the condo so she wouldn't have to check in with the doorman. Maverick would deny her access and demand his keys back if he knew. I had keys to Zena's home, too. We shared almost everything.

Closing the front doors, I headed upstairs to the kitchen, reached for the cold pitcher of sweetened iced tea, then shifted my hand, retrieving two bottles of flavored water. “Here,” I said, handing a crystal glass to Zena, along with the passion fruit-flavored water.

“Girl, I don't need a glass. I'm listening,” Zena said, unscrewing her bottle top as she followed me into the dining room.

Exhaling, I swallowed a sip of my passion fruit water, then said, “I'm leaving in the morning.”

Zena shoulders rose to her ears, then fell back into place. “And?”

“I'm going away for five, I mean, six weeks. If I don't lose every single pound I've gained since my engagement by the time I get back, twenty-five pounds to be exact, Maverick is calling off the wedding.”

“Shut up. Girl, you are lying. Please tell me you're lying,” Zena said, then bit her bottom lip.

“I wish I were.” I sighed, unable to tell Zena that Maverick wanted her to take over planning our wedding. I knew she'd do it for me. I just couldn't ask.

“Fuck Maverick. You can live with me. You don't need to leave for no five damn weeks. We've all put on a few pounds, but on our worst day, we are two of the sexiest divas in Chicago. What about his ass? Is he going to lose weight, too?” Zena asked.

Zena was more upset than I'd imagined. She never cursed or got the details wrong. It was six weeks, not five.

“You know how men are. They figure they are always the prize, no matter what,” I said, thinking about how my mother had taught me never to tell my girlfriends too much about the men in my life. Zena knew me well, but she knew very little about how well Maverick treated me. Well, used to.

“Thanks for the support. Girl, you're working so hard. Haven't you noticed you've actually lost weight?” I paused, then exhaled heavily. Maybe she had noticed and didn't want to hurt my feelings. “I'ma go, but I'm not going for Maverick. I'm going for me.” I wanted to add, “And for my baby,” but didn't.

“Where are you going? You want me to go with you for moral support?” Zena asked.

“And lose what? Your mind?” Firmly, I said, “I'm not telling anyone where I'm going. I need to do this alone.”

Zena snapped, “You can't just go to some strange place without telling me.”

“Can and will,” I countered. “I'll be careful, I promise. I'll be back two weeks before the wedding.”

Zena leaped from her seat at the dining table. “The what! Wedding? You're still going to marry that asshole? I don't care how much money he has, I wouldn't marry him.”

Okay, Seven. Don't get overly sensitive. I'm sure Zena isn't jealous.

Maverick wasn't an asshole. Up until now, our lives and love for one another had been perfect. Maybe the economy had impacted his investments. Maybe he was going through a tough merger or selling his interest in one of his teams and didn't want to discuss it. Men were like that, believing they could resolve every challenge on their own. Guess I wasn't much better, not telling my best friend I might be pregnant.

“He's entitled to his opinion. I don't want to make any irrational decisions I'll regret. He might be sorry later, but for now I'm good,” I said, trying to reassure myself we'd be fine.

Zena studied my face as though she could decode what I'd said. Sitting across from me, she said, “Aw, hell no. The old Seven said that crap. You're up to something, good girlfriend. I can smell it. I'm going with you.”

Slowly, I shook my head, concealing my smile on the inside.

Zena gulped the last of her water. “I couldn't take that much time off from running my business if I wanted to, anyway. Things would fall apart. Can't trust my employees to do the right thing for more than a few days at a time.”

“That's because you're married to your business,” I reminded her.

“That's because my best friend isn't allowed to hang out with me after”—Zena glanced at her watch, then continued—“six o'clock, or whenever the streetlights come on.”

I had to laugh. “That's changing. If Maverick and I get married, he'll be cooking for himself, and I'll be going out whenever I want to. When I get back, we can hang out as much as you'd like. Give me a minute,” I said, leaving the dining room.

Entering the library, I circled my finger on the mouse, clicked on the
DELETE COOKIES
button, powered off, then grabbed my laptop. I placed Maverick's credit card in the side pocket of my laptop bag. By the time his accountant received the next statement, I might have charged another thirty grand to stay six more weeks at Punany Paradise. Heading to the bedroom, I picked up my cell phone, stuffed my yellow Lycra panties in my purse, then double-checked to make certain I had my passport.

I approached Zena with open arms, giving her a big hug. “Thanks for being my true friend.”

Zena whispered in my ear, “You'd better text me every day. Morning, noon, and night, to let me know you're okay. Got that?”

“I hear you,” I said. “As a matter of fact, let's go hang out all day and all night. I can sleep on the plane tomorrow.”

Holding the laptop bag on one shoulder, my purse on the other, I left the suitcase and his bed. My baby and I didn't have to take clothes where we were going, and we wouldn't need them when I returned. We'd start fresh. Closing the front doors behind Zena, I left my candy-apple red Lexus convertible with a white leather interior in the garage.

Cruising out the long driveway in her own candy-apple red Lexus convertible, Zena said, “I wouldn't walk down the aisle with him if I were you. If a man loves you, he loves you from the inside out, honey. Trust me, I know. Dump Maverick, and find yourself another man. I'll help you.”

“You don't have time to find a man of your own,” I said, fastening my seat belt.

The matching cars were our graduation presents to one another. I loved Zena like the sister I'd never had. I clung to her for friendship and female companionship. Didn't know what I'd do without her. That was, until Maverick came along. Then I depended on him for everything.

“Where to?” Zena asked.

We laughed aloud, then replied in unison, “The House of Blues.” Somehow our listening to the melancholy lyrics of the blues always made us appreciate life.

Taking a deep breath, I confessed, “Zena, I might be pregnant.”