Chapter 4
The bellman finishes depositing Michael and Kennedy’s bags in their hotel room and gives them a quick tour. King-size bed, room done up in shades of purple and red, eclectic photographs on the wall, an oversized chaise lounge made of comfortable upholstery. In the bathroom, an enclosed-glass shower stall for two and a separate Jacuzzi spa that’s big enough for the both of them. Michael palms the bellman a ten-spot and closes the door. Kennedy rushes to him and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him close and offering up her tongue, which he readily takes.
“I LOVE it!”
“Me, too,” Michael responds.
“This view ... ,” she says, going to the window. They are on the fifty-first floor, facing west. The Hudson River shimmers in the distance. It is dusk, and lights in the neighboring skyscrapers are beginning to blink on. They linger at the window for a moment admiring the picturesque view as Michael stands behind his wife, holding her waist. They remain that way for a moment before Kennedy turns to Michael and says with a grin, “I’m starving.”
They find a restaurant within walking distance of their hotel in the Theater District, an Italian spot with plenty of atmosphere that serves generous portions, family style. Their entrees: veal parmigiana and clams in red linguine sauce. They share a very good bottle of Pinot Grigio between them while waiting for the food.
Michael, much to Kennedy’s contentment, sits not across but beside her in a cozy booth. While sipping their Pi not, Kennedy and Michael recount the ups and downs of their week. Their rule—they are allowed to spend no more than an hour bitching about their respective jobs. The rest of the time is to be spent on positive rhetoric. Not that either of them focuses on the negative. Their jobs are fulfilling, and for the most part they have bosses who are supportive and coworkers who are pleasant to be around. They chat about Zack and his school and friends, their family, and each other.
Once the veal and clams arrive, Michael has Kennedy laughing about one of his friends/coworkers. Marc is a senior attorney at Michael’s agency. He’s white and a few years shy of retirement. The Sean Connery look-alike is comical—he’s constantly hitting on the young interns and associates. He likes them young, fresh out of college. Anything older than twenty-two or twenty-three won’t do.
“The guy is slick,” Michael exclaims while forking a sliver of veal into Kennedy’s mouth. “He knows the boundaries with respect to his job. So as to not seem like he’s harassing these women, he attempts to hire them as his personal dog walkers for his two German shepherds.”
“I don’t like him,” Kennedy says.
“I know you don’t,” Michael replies, laughing. “But you have to give him credit—he is relentless—and it seems like every other week he’s getting one of the nubile young things over to his Georgetown condo under the guise of getting to know his dogs.”
“Nubile young things? Michael, if I didn’t know any better I would think you actually admire him,” Kennedy says.
“Ken, I admire his perseverance. The guy doesn’t give up, even though he’s not getting any!”
Kennedy’s turn.
She has a coworker, a paralegal named Jacqueline. Jackie, as she’s called, is dating this uptight dentist named Freddy. Michael remembers meeting them at an office function earlier this year. The dentist said all of two words the entire evening.
“Jackie went down south with him for his homecoming last weekend,” Kennedy explains. “While there she happened to check his phone and saw all of these text messages from other women.”
“She just happened to check his phone?” Michael asked.
“I didn’t get into all that.”
“Okay . . .”
“Anyway, she finds these messages, and they were definitely inappropriate for him to be having with anyone who was not his girlfriend.”
“Like?”
“Like ‘I made it safely, baby’ and ‘Missing you and what you did to me last week.’ ”
“Ouch.” Michael takes a sip of the Pinot and forks some of Kennedy’s clams into his mouth.
“So, get this. Freddy is sleeping when she’s doing all this. She goes into the hallway and calls these women on his phone. Two answer. She asks who the fuck these bitches are and what they have to do with Freddy.”
“Oh boy. Shit hits the fan,” Michael says.
“Sure does. One woman tells her outright, ‘I was dating him, but he tried to fuck me without a condom, and I wasn’t having that!’ ”
“You’re kidding? He should know better,” Michael exclaims.
“I know. The other woman says that she is Freddy’s cousin.”
“What? Just how gullible is your friend?”
Kennedy laughs. “Jackie confronts Freddy—she wakes his black ass up, and guess what he says?”
“I can’t even imagine how the good dentist handles this one.”
“He says, ‘I can’t believe you went through my phone without asking!’ ” Kennedy laughs some more as she pauses to enjoy her food. She has a touch of red sauce on her bottom lip, so Michael takes his napkin and dabs at the spot.
“Typical male response,” Michael says. “Deflect the conversation away from the real issue.”
“Exactly. What’s truly sad is that she started to doubt herself.”
“Hold up. I’m sure she pressed him about what the woman had said regarding not using a condom. I mean, how can he
not
address that?” Michael asks.
“Well, Freddy managed to do exactly that. He refused to speak to her, and the next day went to a football game without her.”
“She’s an idiot,” Michael exclaims. “Freddy treats her like shit because he can. Because she lets him.”
“True. The whole thing sickened me to hear. It made me realize how lucky I am to have what we have.” Kennedy leans in and kisses Michael on the cheek. “I’m blessed to have you in my life, Michael,” she says.
Michael glances her way and smiles.
“Does this mean I’m getting some tonight?”
Kennedy groans while rolling her eyes.
“You could fuck up a wet dream, you know that?”
After coffee, no dessert, they walk back to the hotel hand in hand. When they are inside their room, Michael throws off his running shoes and opens the drapes wide so that the splendor of Manhattan at night invades their window. He climbs onto the bed as Kennedy begins to undress.
“I guess we should start getting ready,” Kennedy says.
“Good idea. Ladies first.”
Kennedy retreats to the bathroom and closes the door. Michael reaches for his BlackBerry Curve and checks e-mails and voice mails. Afterward he presses a few keys, enabling the Chaperone feature on his phone to locate his son.
A few moments later an address displays on the screen.
A District of Columbia address.
Jeremy’s house.
Technology is a godsend.
He wonders what Zack is doing right now. Undoubtedly huddled in front of Jeremy’s Xbox 360 playing
Test Drive Unlimited, Top Spin 2, Amped 3,
or
Call of Duty 2
(his favorite).
Michael lays his head back and naps.
Kennedy makes a grand entrance close to an hour later. What Michael sees takes his breath away.
“My goodness . . .”
She stands before him, her hourglass-shaped body clad in a formfitting little black minidress that stops at the tops of her thighs. A plunging V neckline is open to right above her navel. Less than half of each breast is confined by fabric; the rest of her smooth, lovely flesh is on display. Black, shiny, needle-heeled boots end slightly above her knees. Her hair, flat-ironed straight down her back, is flawless. A pair of diamond-drop earrings in 14K white gold is her only jewelry. Her makeup looks professionally applied. Michael is speechless. He goes to her slowly, marveling at her as if she’s an apparition, reaching out to touch her, inhaling a scent of heavenly perfume.
An hour ago his wife was standing before him. Now this creature has emerged, something else. Something brand new to consider. A vixen. A siren. A dream.
Michael is inches from her face. His heart is pounding, and he is growing hard. He focuses in on the raisin-and-champagne-blended eye shadow. The red Bordeaux lip gloss. He resists the urge to lick her lips and taste her. Consume her right here and now. He is that hungry.
“Who are you?” he asks dubiously, in breathless anticipation.
And she responds, “My name is Celestial, and I’m your deepest, darkest fantasy come true.”
Chapter 5
The taxi drops them off on a quiet street on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, East Seventy-fifth Street, to be exact, a block away from Fifth Avenue, which lines Central Park, and a half-dozen blocks from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Michael pays the mahogany-hued driver, who has been staring incessantly at Kennedy through his rearview mirror ever since they got in. She nudges Michael and whispers to give the man a nice tip. Michael rolls his eyes while breaking off a twenty, telling the West African to keep the change.
The night air has chilled slightly, and Michael puts his arms about Kennedy’s shoulders; a beefy male greeter/doorman is standing in front of a narrow, reddish brown building, five stories tall, with beautiful oval windows. The man is dressed in designer black—yet he’s white, bald, and reminds Kennedy of that guy on Jerry Springer who’s always breaking up fights. Michael, wearing a well-tailored charcoal multistriped three-button suit with a collared button-down blue shirt, walks up and hands him their invitation—a black-on-black card with the word
BLISS
in large embossed letters. Underneath, the address, date, and time. The greeter beams at Kennedy, and, as an afterthought, at Michael, too, takes the invitation and fingers it, as if checking for its authenticity, before consulting a PDA. Michael gives him their names, the Jerry Springer guy uses a steel stylus to check them off a list, and he goes to the door, holding it open for them.
Years ago, Michael and Kennedy were vacationing in the Bahamas. There they met a well-traveled, engaging, hip-hop Generation Y philanthropist who became quite fond of them. They spent much time together, getting drunk and high, gambling and partying until the sun came up. RESPECT, as he’s called, is well known in the African-American community for being a poet, a contributor to many start-up Harlem businesses, and, mostly, a partygoer and thrower. Many actors, musicians, artists, and even politicians have coveted his invitations, for they know that there ain’t no party like a RESPECT party, and a RESPECT party . . . Well, you get the idea.
They enter on the first level and move toward the back of the building. The home is deep and surprisingly large. There are a fair amount of people milling about. A brushed aluminum bar in the back room overlooks the patio. Dark walls, African art hanging and spotlit from above, smooth jazz emanating around them like fog, a few couches and love seats where folks can chill. Everyone is well dressed. A mix of black and white, some Asians, some Latinos, a few Europeans. Mostly a mid-to-upper-twenties-and-into-their-thirties crowd. Michael spots a well-known rapper on one couch with his entourage of females. They make for the bar, Kennedy’s hand in Michael’s, as all eyes clock them. Michael nods to those who stop in midsentence to check out his wife. Behind the bar is a tall, good-looking brutha who is shirtless and wearing his hair in cornrows. He’s got a bunch of tattoos across his chest and down his arms.
“What can I get for you two?” the bartender asks. Michael appraises him. His words and demeanor belie his thuggish looks.
“What do you feel like having?” Michael asks his wife. The bartender flashes a smile at Kennedy. She replies, “I’m not sure yet.”
“I’ll have a mojito if you’re making them fresh,” Michael says.
“Of course. I’ve got fresh mint right here,” the bartender says, holding up a few sprigs between dark fingers, “and I use cane sugar.”
“Sweet.”
“And for the lady?”
Kennedy purses her lips with indecision. “Not sure what I’m feeling right now. Can you suggest something or just surprise me?”
The bartender considers her for a moment and then nods. “Not a problem.” He begins on Michael’s drink, mashing the mint sprigs in a tall glass. Moments later he is presenting Michael with his drink and then proceeds to make Kennedy’s. She watches him as Michael tests his and gives the bartender dap.
“Much respect,” he says.
“Yeah, mon!”
A half minute later the bartender slides a glass in front of Kennedy. She glances at it, then eyes him.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Taste it first,” the bartender tells her.
She does.
“Mmm, that’s good. Baby, taste this.”
“You like?” the bartender asks.
“Yes, thank you. What is it?”
The bartender leans in, chiseled forearms on the bar top. “It’s called a Piece of Ass. No disrespect. Amaretto, Southern Comfort, and sweet and sour mix.”
“None taken,” Michael says. “Besides, you got it right.”
He smirks while putting his arm around Kennedy’s waist. The bartender’s eyes drop to Kennedy’s near-perfect breasts. He licks his lips unconsciously.
Michael tips him, and he and Kennedy clink their glasses together. Michael’s mouth goes to Kennedy’s ear. He whispers, “You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman in here.”
“Let’s see if that is true,” she replies. And together they set off to investigate the rest of RESPECT’s party.