Maneater (11 page)

T
errified of going home, I went into hiding for three weeks.

Posted up at a small hotel in Peoria, Illinois, on Conference Center Drive. One phone call to my receptionist, Donna, when I'd gotten here to inform her I had an emergency, wasn't sure when I'd be back, and to tell her to take off until further notice. I told her I'd continue her pay; her job was secure.

A few unanswered calls to Danté and I decided it was best not to call his gay behind again. No texts or e-mails to or from Seven. No leaving the hotel for food, although the Granite City Brewery was within walking distance, as was Steak 'n Shake. Wasn't going out for clean underwear, yet I saw a Wal-Mart three blocks away. Made a deal with an employee named Hannibal to deliver everything I needed to my room. He was friendly and extremely accommodating.

If I'd found Seven's laptop at Maverick's house, I could've entertained myself instead of being bored. I did, however, manage to get away with Maverick's laptop, and as soon as I bought a charger for it, I'd find out his secrets.

All was quiet, including my cell phone, which had died two days into my stay. Car charger wouldn't do me any good because I refused to leave my room, drive around, or sit in the car, waiting for a charge that wouldn't last long. Could look out the window and see Seven's Lexus downstairs. Enough of holding myself hostage. It had come time for me to leave the hotel. I wasn't going to die here.

I put on my hand-washed panties that had hung over the tub, drying, overnight. I removed the plastic laundry covering from my clothes, got dressed. Opening the hotel door, I peeped my head out. After looking left, right, left, right, I exited the room and quietly closed the door behind me. The hallway was empty. Elevator empty too. That might have been the norm, but it felt eerie as hell, like someone was right behind me, breathing on the back of my neck. Constantly glancing over my shoulders, I saw no one was there, except my conscience. Not guilty. Cautious.

Exiting the elevator, approaching the lobby, I quickly checked out. Running through the parking lot, I got in my car, headed north on Interstate 55, with my cell phone recharging. No text. No voice mails. Nothing from Seven, Donna, Danté, or Maverick, that lying bastard. He probably had had no intention of contracting with me. I prayed Deuce had beat Maverick's ass by now.

There was light traffic through Bloomington all the way until I hit heavy traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway, then merged onto Interstate 90/94, exiting at 50B, onto Ohio Street.

Catching Maverick and Danté fucking wasn't at all what I'd expected. Not in a gazillion years! That was why Danté's ass hadn't answered my calls. He'd set me up for Maverick. That, and he was busy having link sausage for breakfast. Maverick and Danté sexing one another hard like a woman and a man—that messed me up, made me consider becoming a lesbian. I phoned my doctor's office, made an appointment to go in for a blood test to make sure I hadn't contracted any diseases.

“Yes, indeed,” I said, driving on autopilot straight to the pleasure store on North Halsted in case I didn't leave home until Seven returned. She had about two weeks left at that weight-loss camp. Storming through the doors, I passed the handbaskets and grabbed a shopping cart. Rolling down the aisles, I tossed in a silicone vibrator, a rabbit vibrator, a waterproof vibrator, a classic vibrator, a butt plug, a glass dildo, a magic wand, a beehive vibrator, a clit exciter, the pure gold clit stimulator, a few gold bullets, a double dildo, and a hundred condoms for my take-home dicks. I was done with these undetectables.

Three thousand eight hundred dollars later, I was in transit to my doctor's office for an HIV test. Entering my doctor's office, I requested an oral swab and a blood test. Gave my oral sample. Waiting for the results, I sat impatiently, my heart pounding against my chest while they drew blood.

A half hour later, I heard, “Ms. Belvedere.”

I stood and followed my doctor into a private room. Before I sat in the chair, she said, “Your oral is nonreactive. You're probably fine. We'll call you in a day or so, when we get the results of your blood test from the lab.”

I left without speaking a word to her. I drove home in silence. No music. No talking on the phone. Who could I tell that would understand? Deuce would definitely not feel me on this. He'd probably divorce me early, not caring about his U.S. citizenship.

This was a fucked-up situation. “Thank God we used a condom,” I mumbled, parking Seven's car in my driveway. Tossing the toys on the floor in the doorway, I ran to my bathroom off the foyer, knelt over the toilet, and vomited.

“Ugh, yuck!” I jammed my finger in my throat, damn near regurgitating the lining of my stomach. If I could, I'd puke out my womb.

“I can't,” I panted, “believe I sucked his dick.” Danté did not look or sound or act gay.

He had no gay tendencies. Zero. Nothing about him was feminine. After wiping my mouth with the guest bathroom towel, I went into my bedroom and picked up the pearls he'd put inside my pussy. Breaking each strand, I snatched them apart until they scattered over the floor, bouncing, then rolling, like marbles.

“Lying motherfucker! Why me? Why did that son of a bitch have to choose me?” I cried.

I splashed cold water on my face, showered, brushed my teeth, then slipped on a pink hooded jogging suit, along with my white and pink tennis shoes. I had to warn Seven.

I texted her, YOU NEED TO CALL ME RIGHT NOW GF.

I got back into her car, drove to a computer store, purchased a charger for Maverick's laptop, then drove to an intimate boutique inn on Ohio Street. I set up the laptop on a table in the back of the bar area, plugged it in. Sat where I could see everyone coming my way.

I signaled to the bartender, ordered a glass of merlot. “I'd like the fried calamari as well, please,” I told him.

There were a few patrons; the bar was almost quiet, like a library. Sipping my wine, I sat with my back against the wall so no one could accidentally see the pictures I'd taken of Maverick and Danté. Seven's X-rated photos were innocent in comparison to what I'd captured.

How much money would the media pay for this scandalous love affair?

Danté's dick was all the way in Maverick's ass in one picture. Halfway out in the next, with no condom. I wanted to slam my camera on the floor, but instead I sat there captivated, grinding my teeth, heaving with each frame.

“As soon as I download these pictures, I'm e-mailing them to Seven,” I whispered, dropping the camera in my purse.

When I opened the laptop, the sleep mode awakened.

RECOVER
or
START NEW
options appeared.

“Recover, of course,” I said, clicking the button.

The words
Maverick Maxamillion Incorporated
popped up on the heading of a document.

Inserting my memory stick in the USB drive, I saved a copy of the letter to send to Seven. Maverick's ass had lied about everything, including his parents being dead. I double-clicked on a file that was minimized on his toolbar. I covered my mouth, then whispered, “Oh my god.”

There was an official-looking contract for hire to assassinate…Demarcus Danté Davis and Frank Maxamillion on the same day, on Seven's wedding day. I froze, holding my breath, wanting to throw up my calamari and red wine. Exhaling, I felt my body tighten. This was more than I'd bargained for. I texted Seven: YOU NEED TO CALL ME RIGHT FUCKING NOW!

Saving the document to my memory stick, I quietly closed the laptop. Leaving it on, I packed the laptop in my oversize purse, then tiptoed out of the bar. Looking to my left, right, left, right on Ohio Street, I realized that Seven's Lexus was gone.

L
ove at first sight. Possible? Impossible?

I was getting Maverick's money's worth out of my vacation. Forget Zena and all of her lying text messages. I was not contacting her.

What was Jagger's motive? First, he said he never fell in love with any of the women; then he couldn't stop professing his love for me. Men. I wanted to believe Jagger but I'd learned I had to fuck them over before they royally screwed me. My heart was hardening. Toward Maverick and Zena. My pussy was balling out of control. I had reverted back to my old days of taking charge. Seventeen days left and I had a different guy lined up for every night, except tonight. Finally, the woman with the auburn locks was coming to my suite in two hours.

I checked my e-mail. Shocked when I saw I had an e-mail from Maverick. Subject: I Apologize, I'm Wrong, I LOVE You Just The Way You Are.

I felt tears bubbling up, so I cautioned myself, “Don't you dare fall for his pitiful attempt to get you back.” I clicked on the message.

I clicked on
REPLY
, then typed, You don't deserve me. I deserve better than you. Every woman deserves better than you. I inserted one of the nude photos Jagger had taken of me—breasts firm, stomach flat, thighs tight, and ass just right, with a perfect hook. Perfect size seven. What a difference a month of happiness had made in my life. I wasn't happy every moment of each day, but I was definitely happy more than I was sad.

Sent him another picture of my punany, with the caption, “Your lips will never taste my sweet pussy again,” clicked
SEND
, then walked away from the computer, like he'd walked out on me.

The last two years being with Maverick, I'd forgotten how liberated I felt being in control. I had my mother to thank. She'd spoken to me every day at Punany Paradise. I'd learned to sit still each morning, allowing her presence to feed my soul with unconditional love.

I poured a glass of pineapple-ginger juice, filled my Jacuzzi with warm water, stepped into paradise, and relaxed.

“I could stay here forever,” I whispered. Not physically. Mentally.

Closing my eyes, I recalled my dive with Quin. Reluctant to scuba dive, I'd confessed to Quin I didn't know how to swim.

“No problem, Seven. I'm the best. I'll teach you how to swim like a fish,” he'd said.

Three days later, our boat had sailed to a private cove. While I'd floated on my back, Quin had eaten my pussy in the shadows of the cove. Each of my orgasmic screams had echoed. As he'd dog-paddled behind me, his dick had entered me and his hands had teased my nipples, and we'd drifted together.

“Lean back,” he'd instructed, floating under me. “I got you, Seven,” he'd said, stroking my pussy to the rhythm of our buoyancy. At that precise moment, my only wish had been that every woman would experience Punany Paradise at least once in her lifetime.

I spread my legs in front of a jet stream in the Jacuzzi, kept my eyes closed, swayed my beautiful hips until I came. I stepped out, energized. After toweling off, I lathered my body with Almond Cookie Shea Soufflé.

Checked the computer to see if Maverick had responded. He had.

Seven, that's my pussy. He'd inserted a few pics of his own. Of a home, one based on the drawings that I'd created. My heart softened.

“Was that why he'd asked me to leave? He was trying to surprise me,” I said aloud.

A tear fell. I couldn't reply in a weak moment. Best to wait until my head cleared.

My date, dates, for the evening arrived in time to save me from emotionally falling. Opening the door naked, I said, “Come in.”

I made my way to my closet, wrapped my body in a peach sarong, and said, “I'm ready.”

I'd insisted that Jagger join us. Wanted to see him interact with another woman. Sense if his energy was the same as with me or different with her. We strolled the beach, Jagger in the middle.

“I don't want to exchange names. Just want to bond, enjoy some female energy, get fucked real good, and go back to my suite. That's cool?” asked the woman with the auburn locks.

I replied, “Perfect,” before Jagger responded, “I'm here to please you both.”

Jagger squeezed my hand. Had me trying to figure out if he'd done the same with hers.
Whatever.
I was having a good time regardless.

“Got an idea. You ladies game?” Jagger asked.

“Of course,” I said as she replied, “Certainly.”

He led us to the yachts, helped us aboard one; then we sailed out to sea.

As we floated under the moonlight, Jagger turned off the engine, reminding me of when Maverick and I used to go out on his yacht on Lake Michigan. Shaking my head, I fought to erase Maverick from my mind, my heart.

Jagger kissed me, then whispered in my ear, “Seven, let him go. Now.”

Turning me to face her, the woman with the locks untied my sarong, cupped my breasts, kissed me softly, then whispered, “Women are better than men.”

Her lips trailed behind my ear. She stood behind me, held my hair over my shoulder, then French-kissed my neck, her tongue dancing on the nape. Gently. Seductively. Making me cum in a way I hadn't realize I could. My body shivered as Jagger enclosed my areola with his wet mouth. Tongues dancing on my flesh in the night. Sea breeze whistling against my clit. Stars. Not the ones above. The ones circling in front of my eyes.

She moved to the front, again taking control of both of us. “Stand behind her,” she told Jagger.

He did as he was told.

“Spread your legs,” she said to me.

I did as I was told.

She took his dick into her hands, dipped his head in and out of my pussy as she laid soft kisses on my clit.

Looking up at me, she said, “Men are human dildos, you know. That's the way a real woman sees him, them. There's nothing a man can give you that a woman can't give you better. We're softer, sexier, smarter.” She planted those pussy-dripping kisses on my clit again as she dipped Jagger's dick inside me.

He held my breasts, teasing my nipples as if in disagreement with the woman licking my pussy.

Taking it all in—Jagger's dick was now in my ass, and her licks were now on my shaft—I came hard. Legs trembling, I stepped away from them, then dove into the ocean.

I'd swim my way back to sea or die trying to understand what life was about. Love at first sight? Blind faith? Jagger was winning my heart, but that woman made me feel things I'd never felt before in my life.