The Cocktail Club (2 page)

“Uh-oh. I thought, ummm—” he stammered and stumbled back slightly.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” I screamed. I pulled the phone back to my ear. “Hey, listen. I need to run. I'll call you back.” I didn't wait for Gordon to respond. I ended the call, and turned my wrath on Kyle's simple behind. He stood in front of me, looking like a complete ass.

Kyle wasn't a bad-looking man. Actually, he was quite handsome. The problem was he knew it. He had flawless, walnut-colored skin.
His large, dark, expressive eyes were outlined with the thickest, longest eyelashes ever. As if that weren't enough, he had a sharp, chiseled jawline with a cleft in his chin. Kyle's body was also very nice to boot.

“You are trespassing! You ain't got no right bombarding your way into my damn house like you paying bills up in here!”

“Peta, all that is uncalled for. I don't want no men hanging around my daughter, that's all. I heard voices up in here, and I didn't know what was what. You can't fault a brotha for looking out for what's his,” he yelled back at me.

I was so fed up with Kyle and his bogus excuses. He popped up at my house whenever the feeling hit him. It didn't matter how much I cursed or threatened him, my words seemed to bounce right off of him. He still did whatever the hell he wanted.

If the sex between us wasn't hotter now than when we were married, I might've been moved to change the locks. Instead, I convinced myself that he needed access to help look after his daughter.

“Mom, why you fussing at Dad? I asked him to come over.” Our daughter, Kendal, stood in the dimly lit doorway, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands.

“Sweetpea, it's late. What are you still doing up? You got school in the morning,” My tone softened instantly when I spoke to my daughter. There had never been a cross word between us. She was a great twelve-year-old, and gave me no trouble whatsoever.

Regardless of how I felt about Kyle, I never spoke badly about him in front of, or to, our daughter.

“I had a bad dream, and I called Dad. You were tired and trying to relax in your bath. I didn't wanna bother you. Now you guys are fighting all loud and stuff. And it's all my fault!” She pouted.

I released a trapped breath. The frightened look she'd worn so
many times made me feel guilty that I had gone off on Kyle. Even though he was wrong, it was painfully clear that our daughter still suffered from our divorce. It made me sick how he babied her, but I decided to let their relationship evolve in its own way.

“Honey, it's not your fault; it's mine,” Kyle explained. “I thought someone was in here trying to do something to your mom, and I kinda pushed my way in. I only did it to make sure she wasn't being hurt or anything like that.”

He made me want to throw up. I rolled my eyes at his explanation, but our daughter seemed to eat it up. The love in her eyes as she dreamily gazed at him sent a pang of jealousy through my heart, but it was short-lived. It was quickly replaced by the rage that I still felt toward Kyle.

“See, Mom, Dad was only trying to look out for you like he used to do when we lived together. You know, like a real family.”

Kyle's jaw tensed, and I fought the strong urge to sock him right in it.

I exhaled and ignored him.

“Okay, sweetie. Please go back to bed. I didn't mean to wake you with all the yelling and fussing.”

Kendal smiled faintly. “Daddy, are you still gonna come up and lay with me for a little while? Huh?”

“Of course, Princess,” Kyle said.

Her face lit up with relief. I watched as my ex guided her out of the bathroom. I was still pissed, but I had to let it go if I wanted to reclaim the serenity he had disrupted.

I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Uuugghh, what's taking Happy Hour Thursdays so damn long to get here?”

DARBY

I
rolled my eyes toward the vaulted ceiling as I listened to the angry voices on the phone. My heart raced, thinking about the words these shallow heifers were throwing my way.

“So, Kelly, you, Renee, and Callie thought this phone call was a good idea?” I hissed.

Kelly and the other ladies were members of a neighborhood playgroup. They lived in another subdivision close by, but we committed to meeting up so our children could play and hang out at least once a week. At first, I thought the call was about next week's play date. But, I quickly learned that this was their idea of an intervention of sorts. I listened to each woman plead her case. And the case was against me.

“For Christ's sake, Darby. You pull out your flask on the playground!” Kelly said.

Wishing I had it at that moment, I didn't respond. I wanted to tell her that my flask and I were the least of her concerns.

“I'm sorry, but is that against the law, or just against your rules?”

“We're not saying the kids can't play together. We simply don't think it's wise for you to come to the playground, if you can't leave the booze at home,” Renee said.

What these women didn't know was that I was just about as tired of them as they were of me. The reason I needed my “mommy
juice” was because their simple conversations bored me to tears. If I didn't have the flask, they wouldn't want me present.

“Okay, fine, I won't bring my juice to the playground.” I swallowed the sour taste in my mouth. I needed a drink now. We made plans for the next meeting and wrapped up the group call. I sighed and fell back onto my bed.

When the phone rang again, I thought twice before picking it up. But once I realized it was my girl, Felicia Cole, I answered right away.

“Hey girl, hold on a minute,” I said.

Before I could get into the conversation, turmoil began to brew on the other side of my bedroom door. I was already on edge from the phone call with Kelly and her drinking police.

I closed my eyes and tried to wait for the noise to boil over, but my thoughts traveled elsewhere.

Andrea Yates and Susan Smith were mothers who had killed their kids. And while I would never do it, these were the times that made me feel like I could halfway understand what had pushed them over the edge.

When I couldn't take it anymore, I finally hung up the phone with Felicia. The noise outside my door seemed to get louder and louder, until I could hardly hear myself think. I was pissed that I couldn't even talk on the phone in peace.

I closed my eyes, and prayed my husband, Kevin, would handle things. I was not about to go out there.

“Ma! Kevin's not doing what Daddy said,” my six-year-old son, Taylor, cried. His voice brought me back to the madness that was my life. Screaming kids, a lazy, penny-pinching husband, crazy family members, a secret relationship that some might consider beyond taboo, and not enough liquor to make them all go away. That was basically my life.

I squeezed my eyes shut, and prayed that I'd suddenly develop the super power to vanish into thin air. I had been tucked away in my room, and wanted to kick myself. I should have had the foresight to bring a little taste in with me. My purse was either in my car or in the kitchen. So that meant I was dry and completely sober.

“You stupid! Why you always gotta tattle?” Kevin Jr., my eight-year-old, screamed at his younger brother.

It would be only moments before the fight spilled into my room, and really drove me nuts. I already felt like yanking out my own damn hair. My eyes focused on the digital clock on my nightstand. I had no idea what was taking eight-thirty, the kids' bedtime during the week, so long to get here.

Should I go or should I stay?
I didn't want to get in the middle of their squabble, but I also didn't need it to escalate. If those little nuccas started throwing blows, one of them would end up hurt, and that would make matters worse for me.

“Ma! Kevin said a bad word!”

“No, I didn't! Liar!”

The next thing I heard were footsteps stomping toward my bedroom door. Suddenly, without a knock or a warning, the door flew open and the boys stood in my doorway, yelling and screaming in each other's faces.

“You did! Ma and Daddy said you don't call nobody stupid! That makes it a bad word and you know it! Stupid!” Taylor yelled.

“You stupid!” Kevin Jr. screamed back at his younger brother.

“No! You stupid!”

I exhaled, got up from the edge of my bed, and stood between the boys.

“Where is your dad?” I asked. I was exasperated, and completely exhausted.

I had fixed lunches, cooked dinner, divided dessert, supervised
baths, and thought I was finally about to relax. I tried to take advantage of the last minutes before their bedtime, when the boys usually watched TV. I didn't expect to have to referee a squabble. To make matters worse, my husband was nowhere to be found.

“Daddy had to go to the store, and he told Kevin to put on his pjs and go to bed,” Taylor said. His bony, little finger stabbed the air in his brother's direction.

There was no way my husband had gone to the store. Hell would have to freeze over three times before he'd step foot in a grocery store, and I preferred it that way. When I found out the only reason he bought two-ply toilet tissue or paper towels was so he could try to separate the roll and have twice as much, I was glad to keep him out of the stores.

My husband was a senior chemical engineer for British Petroleum, where he made very good money. The problem was he was a major tightwad, and unless it was absolutely necessary, he wouldn't spend a dime. He believed money was made to be saved and tried to keep me on a tight financial leash.

“That ain't what he said! He said put on our pjs and be ready for bed when he comes back!” Kevin Jr. retorted.

My youngest snatched his arms up across his chest, and stood with a menacing scowl across his face.

My husband made me sick when he slipped out, without as much as a whistle to let me know I'd be alone with the boys. We lived in a sprawling, thirty-five-hundred-square foot, four-bedroom house, yet when the boys fought, it might as well have been smaller than a six-hundred-square-foot efficiency.

“You two need to go to your rooms right now,” I said to them. They still had a good hour before bedtime, but I couldn't take the quarreling anymore.

They began to cry. Dammit, I wanted to cry, too. I was tired. The glass of wine that usually took me through the evening had worn off long ago. I felt irritated and alone.

“But Daddy said we didn't have to go until he got back! That's not fair! See what you did, stupid!” Kevin Jr. screamed at his brother before he stomped away.

Taylor stood there, tears gushing down his cheeks. I silently cursed my husband, and tried to console my son. When I reached for him, he jerked away and left me standing there. I threw my hands up in disgust.

I grabbed my cell phone and called my husband.

“Why didn't you say you were leaving?” I asked, the moment he answered.

“Oh, my bad! Sorry, babe. Bruce needed me to help him move a new workstation for his garage. I meant to tell you, but I had forgotten all about it, so when he called, I kinda jumped up and ran out. My bad.”

“Yeah, well, the boys are up in here going at each other's throats, and I had no idea you had even left.”

Since they were in their rooms, I eased into the kitchen, and opened the pantry door as I talked to Kevin. I tried not to look at his collection of fast-food ketchup packets that he kept in a large freezer bag. I hated when he used them to refill the ketchup bottle. Some habits never died, and if he thought it could save a buck, my husband would give it a try.

I reached to an upper shelf, and grabbed the tall, tin container that held spaghetti. As I listened to Kevin's half-ass excuses, I removed the lid, and pulled out the slim bottle. I poured a little more than a shot of the coconut-flavored Cîroc vodka into one of my fancy glasses, and added a splash of cranberry juice. I put the
vodka back inside the container, and stepped back into the pantry. I moved the bags of flour and sugar, and the box of bread crumbs aside, and put the tin can into its spot near the back of the shelf.

I hid my stash. I didn't need to listen to my husband complain about my drinking or the fact that my drink of choice was too expensive. Knowing him, he'd find a way to calculate the cost of each ounce.

I remember I had given up alcohol before. Something had clicked in my head years ago, when I found out that my twin sister, Darlene, had been killed by a drunk driver. Chandler Buckingham had been arrested three different times before for DWI.

After that, I couldn't stomach the smell of alcohol. But once I fell off the wagon, I couldn't comprehend how I had gone dry for even one day. I remember the moment that I laid eyes on Chandler. I instantly came up with a plan. I was going to make him pay; make him feel a fraction of the pain he had caused my family and me.

“Yeah, babe, my bad. Tell them boys I said to behave,” my husband said, like that would make everything better.