Authors: Devon Scott
She is in her cage, watching him.
She arrived at 7:00
A
.
M
. He arrived thirty minutes later, striding across the wide expanse of office space, meandering around cubes and conference tables with a purposeful step, briefcase in hand, a man on a mission. Didn’t offer up a glance her way. Not even for a second.
She watched him climb the steps to his office, his cage diagonally situated from hers. Observed him drop his bag onto the low, leather sofa, the one she’s so fond of. Monitored him as he went to his desk, settling into the chair, firing up the laptop before the walls went opaque. She’d swear their eyes locked for a split second before he punched the button.
Maybe. Maybe not.
It is now close to nine. Ryan’s been behind closed doors since he arrived. She checked Outlook. Nothing on the shared calendar, but a few of his design engineers sauntered up the stairs close to an hour ago and have been sequestered in his cage ever since. She checks her cell phone. No text messages, no returned voice mails. Nothing.
She’s called him—several times. The first was on Saturday morning after she’d hung up with Carly. Calling to see where he was. Wanting to know if everything was alright. Again, later in the day. Calls not returned.
Strange. Not like him at all.
She had spoken to Carly later on that afternoon, and learned her husband had indeed returned home that morning. Olivia had resisted the temptation to speak with him that very moment, the gnawing feeling regarding Friday and the conversation between Miles and he not sitting well in her midsection at all.
On Sunday, she ventured another call that went straight to voice mail. She left a short message, hoping all with him was well, and asking that he call her, needing to discuss a business matter, something that would be on the agenda at Monday’s staff meeting.
That call was left unreturned, as well.
Finally, on Sunday night, beyond frustration, the knot in the pit of her stomach a constant dull pain, like a nagging headache that wouldn’t go away, she text messaged him. Short and to the point.
R U OK???
Nothing.
Olivia checks her watch and sighs as she realizes it is time to get back to work. Forget Ryan, and whatever has crawled up his ass and made a home there. Too much to do. Work never stops; it doesn’t even slow down.
Ryan will come around. He’ll emerge from his funk; all will be forgotten; life will pick up its pace and they’ll move on. He’s just being a man—a Gemini, a regular Jekyll and Hyde.
Yeah, Ryan’ll come around.
In time, all men do.
The video con call with the Malaysian plant couldn’t wait. Problems with the line over the weekend dictated that Ryan handle the situation ASAP. So he got his team together and placed the call. No matter it was a 13-hour time difference. Business comes first.
He now sits in his chair, fumbling with the stylus of his Ipaq, half-listening to the back-and-forth banter between his guys and Chin, known to everyone as Chinny, the head of production in Malaysia. Ryan allowed his team to take the lead, as he is fond of doing, stepping away from the limelight, letting his guys run things, only inserting himself when leadership is needed.
As usual, the finger pointing is reaching an all-time high. Production blames Engineering for the defect, which has led to the slow-down on the line. Engineering, on the other hand, states unequivocally that their designs are sound. They have schematics and computer models to prove their case. So the drama continues.
R U OK???
Ryan stares at the screen. Taps the stylus against the glass quietly in time to a rhythm only he comprehends. Checks his watch. Sits forward, clearing his throat.
“Okay,” he says, standing, pressing his tie against his starched blue and white striped shirt, “I think everyone’s had ample time to make a solid case. Problem is, we still have an issue with the line. So…Jan, Chinny…I need answers and a game plan.”
He stares at his Senior Design Engineer named Janice—a dumpy-looking white woman in her mid-twenties, who dresses terribly and has clingy brown hair. A permanent scowl adorns her face, yet she is brilliant, the best they have. His gaze pans to the plasma attached to the back wall. On screen, Chinny is sitting at his desk juggling golf balls. As usual, he is smiling, no matter how dire the circumstances. “Two hours—handle it offline, cool?”
Janice nods.
“You got it, boss,” Chinny says a bit too happily.
“Great.” He shuts the call down. Janice and the two others rise; they gather their things to leave. He turns back to his laptop when they are gone, scans his messages and the calendar for the day. Isn’t feeling any of it. So, he picks up the phone.
“Sharon, I’m outta here. Let the department heads know, if you would.”
“No problem, but did you forget about the staff meeting—”
He cuts her off in mid-sentence.
“Anything critical—I’m reachable on my cell.” He kills the line before she can respond or complain.
R U OK???
Ryan picks up his briefcase, snaps his laptop shut. The sound is hollow, reverberating across the room. He reaches for the door, pauses momentarily, glancing back at his clean desk. He reaches it in two strides. Punching the button underneath, the walls go clear.
His gaze rises from floor to wall. Stare meets Olivia’s for a brief moment.
But only an instant.
Then he is descending the stairs, meandering through the expanse of cube-space as if on a mission, briefcase swinging indolently. Moments later, he is out the door and gone, and Olivia is left with the same gnawing feeling that, like bile, rises in her throat, making it hard to breathe.
Once again…
She is in her office, the sleek, black plastic phone cradled to one ear, her head cocked to the side, fingers splayed, rapidly moving as if playing an instrument. The clicks from the mini-keyboard are drowned out by the segment she’s editing—displayed on the flat screen on the wall in front of her.
She is nodding her head, emitting short grunts in agreement to certain action items in the conversation—details lost as her assistant hands her pink slips of paper that she ruffles through absentmindedly. To the left, her BlackBerry is vibrating, the blue plastic case shuddering as if in orgasm. Behind her, Outlook is chiming, signaling incoming mail. Her mind is a jet fighter—traveling supersonic, pitching and yawing, evading enemy capture. This morning, she is multitasking to her fullest capabilities. It’s what the job entails, and it is only after nine.
A shadow crosses her desk. Carly glances up, only to spy the grin of Tyler Nichols, dressed impeccably in a double-breasted, navy pinstripe suit. He is wearing a bright solid yellow tie, which is so incredibly vibrant that for a moment she ceases to hear the conversation from the associate producer in her ear. She discards the incessant vibrating like yesterday’s newspaper; forgets the din coming from her laptop. Carly is suddenly transported back to the islands—the flavor and aura of Barbados invading her mind like a sea storm from out of nowhere. This sudden onslaught is quickly replaced by thoughts of her husband and her/their pregnancy.
All of this in the rapid blink of an eye.
She raises her finger to Tyler, telling him to hold on. He nods and takes a seat in front of the desk without being told.
Carly uses the time to consider him without being caught. She swivels to the left, checking something on her corkboard while still on the phone, observing him. Associate General Counsel, the youngest BET has ever had. Top of his class at Howard, number two at U. Penn Law. Tall, athletic build, smooth face and features that indicate a gentle soul; short cropped hair, never a strand out of place. Handsome in a boyish kind of way.
Always impeccably dressed.
Always.
The women in the company are forever talking behind his back, searching for a chink in his armor. He’s been at BET for three years, and in that time, he has never dated an employee—never been seen with anyone outside of work. Still, he’s a man. He’s gotta have sexual needs—or he’s gay! The rumors run rampant, yet Tyler just smiles as he goes on about his business—professional to the core.
Except when he’s around her.
It’s no secret that he wants her.
Knows he can’t have her, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.
Carly jots down some notes, makes another edit to her segment, and signs off.
“Morning,” Tyler says cheerfully. “You’re at it early today.”
Carly nods, smiling momentarily before a scowl paints her face.
“I’m busy, Tyler. What is it?”
As soon as the words emerge, she regrets them, knowing she is being unkind. He hasn’t done anything to offend her or make her mad, but this thing with Ryan has been gnawing at her insides all weekend.
No, that isn’t right. This thing is now an open, festering wound.
Tyler continues to smile, showing off his white teeth. He is staring at her—never glancing away—always giving her or anyone he’s communicating with his full, undivided attention. She likes that—shows he has nothing to hide.
“You alright, Carly? Weekend go okay?”
“Tyler—I’m fine. Just busy. Too much shit to do, that’s all.”
He considers her for a second, then breaks into laughter.
She stares at him as if repulsed.
“Naw, Carly, that’s not it. Why are you always trying to front around me? You know that doesn’t work, don’t you?” He steeples his fingers on the smooth top of her desk and moves closer, eyes locking with hers. In that instant, she feels what she always feels around him—angst for this uncanny “gift” of his, for lack of a better word, this way he has of cutting straight through the morass of bullshit, seeing clearly, the way a laser cuts through smoke. She sighs, drops her shoulders a bit. Tyler watches her for a moment more before getting up to close the door to her office.
They are now alone.
Just the two of them.
Carly watches him silently as he walks behind her desk, his hands finding her shoulders. He begins a slow rhythmic massage of that spot where her neck meets her shoulder blade, tight unwieldy neck muscles. Strong, smooth hands glide along skin, taming the flesh, gently moving her hair out of the way.
She lets him.
Powerless to stop him.
After a few minutes of silence, he speaks.
“Husband of yours acting up?” Tyler asks, almost in a whisper. He questions her matter-of-factly, without the slightest hint of malice.
Carly’s head leans back; their eyes lock; hand goes to his, putting an end to this…thing.
“Stop it, Tyler.”
He backs away, hands in the air, a thin smile adorning his face.
“I’m just asking, Carly. No shame in letting me in. I’m one of the good guys, you know.”
She exhales sharply.
“Don’t have time for this shit,” she says, swiveling rapidly to her laptop, pressing a few keys, making herself busy to hide her impending anguish. Turning around, she finds him back in the chair across from her: calm, composed, as if nothing had happened.
“Need to make time, Carly,” he says.
Tyler moves in again. Steeples his fingers on the desk once more.
“You need to vent. It’s as plain as the nose on your face that you’re hurting. You might be able to fool some of these silly black people out there,” he says, gesturing towards the shut door, “but you can’t fool me. So stop fighting and fronting…and tell me what’s on your mind. You’ll feel better when you do.”
She watches him. Ponders his words. Tyler continues.
“Let’s do lunch. I know a place where we can talk. It will be good for you to get away, get you to relax a bit, unwind—and I really do want to hear what’s troubling you, Carly.”
Carly shakes her head.
“Can’t. No time today.” The words come out rushed, almost rehearsed.
Tyler’s brow rises.
“Can’t? Or won’t? Even a gal with a gorgeous figure like yours needs to eat. It’s all about proper nourishment, Carly. Surely someone with an Ivy League education knows that, right?”
Tyler is rising, smoothing his tie before opening the door.
“I’ll make reservations for one o’clock and get your assistant to put it on your calendar in ink if I have to.” He smiles, winks, and then is gone, leaving Carly to produce a smile that Tyler doesn’t see—the first in close to seventy-two hours.
Reese is fast asleep when the buzzer sounds. Never expecting anyone this early, the clamor catches her by surprise. She rolls over onto her side, pauses there as if out of breath, listening to the sounds emanating from the streets, the normal din of traffic—buses, cars, taxis, pedestrians, garbage trucks backing up, their incessant honking making it difficult to get any semblance of peaceful rest. Yet Reese has grown accustomed to anti-silence, allowing it to infuse into her being until she fears she cannot rest unless there is noise—as crazy as that may seem to some.
She waits a moment more, breathless. The buzzer returns. She rises slothfully, glancing at the cheap wind-up alarm clock on the nightstand.
Ten-eighteen
A
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M
.
Shit, she’s normally not up until way past noon.
She’s clad in her normal bedroom attire, tank top and panties. She scratches at her stomach and pulls on the stud in her right eyelid while moving slowly into the living room. Place dark, window shades down, almost eerie in the half-light. Goes to the wall intercom and presses the button.
“Who is it?” she asks rather gruffly.
A second or two passes before an unwavering voice comes through the box, loud and clear.
“Me. Dude from the bar a few nights ago.” A half-second before the voice adds, “Ryan.”
Reese stares uncomprehendingly into the darkened space, her mind and heart whirling. Ryan’s voice once again breaks the silence.
“Can you let a brutha up? It’s kind of cold out here….”
She sits across from him, staring into the space that separates them. He is looking good—well rested it seems, shaved, suit and tie. She hadn’t expected that at all—figured him for a blue collar kind of guy, even though his fingernails were clean and clipped, hair well kept. Now, he sits across from her, looking a bit nervous, eyes darting left then right, a bit afraid, it seems, to settle his gaze on her. She has slipped into a thin, tattered robe, but with the thermostat broken, the heat cranked on high, she leaves the robe open. Her heavy bosom under the flimsy tee is in plain view, and she feels a surge, a sense of satisfaction, as she knows she is making him uncomfortable. But that’s just the way Reese is…after all, this is her place—her world.
“Glad to see you made it home in one piece,” she says. Ryan nods, holding a steaming mug in his hand from which he gingerly takes a sip.
Reese is watching him silently, leaning back, elbows on the rim of an adjacent chair. The act projects her breasts more than they already are, and she spies Ryan glancing over for a half-second. She smiles in self-assurance.
“So to what do I owe this honor?” she asks. Reese, of course, knew he would return—understood he couldn’t stay away—but returning this soon was not anticipated.
“I don’t know,” Ryan begins, putting down the mug, looking uncomfortable in his suit jacket. “Hot in here,” he adds.
“Yes. Get comfortable,” Reese says. “You see I am.” She smiles again, locking stares with him. And Ryan returns a smile, feeling himself being drawn into this thing he can’t fully comprehend. He feels her power over him, and for a moment, he tries to wrestle with it, but then just sighs and gives in, feeling the rush, the attack, and infusion into his soul. With everything that’s gone on these past few days, this is a welcomed diversion. Reese, out of everyone,
understands
. Saturday morning, there was nothing between them other than intense conversation—Ryan’s insatiable need to gush what he was feeling—everything, every sordid detail to this total stranger because it just felt right—because Reese did not wrinkle up her nose in spite; she did not judge. And that is why he has returned. Because of how right it feels…
“Our conversation,” he begins, jacket off, sleeves unbuttoned, tie loosened, leaning back, too, his position a mirror image of Reese’s, “intrigued me. Does that make sense?”
“Of course. A lot was said.”
Ryan nods his head. Considers, for the first time this morning, the totality of his situation—the snowball that is rolling down a hill.
“It’s just…” and here he tries to find the right words, but falters. “I don’t know—it’s hard right now, trying to separate everything and make sense of it all.”
“You’re questioning your own sexuality,” Reese says, sitting up, putting her mug down inches from his. She is cutting to the chase, not bothering to dance; no foreplay. “It’s understandable, but only earth-shattering if you allow it to be.”
“How so?” he asks, sitting up, fascinated.
“Isn’t that the entire crux of your concern? Up until a few weeks ago, you were a normal guy who seemingly had it all—job, marriage, the works. Then this thing came at you from out of nowhere and knocked you on your ass. This thing that began with infatuation morphed into obsession. Now, that would have been fine—you and your best friend indulging in a bit of the pie that night after everyone had gone to sleep—except it didn’t turn out that way. ’Cause brutha-man seemingly had been pining away for you—had you in his sights—yet, you didn’t know it. That’s when things turned ugly.”
Ryan nods, eyes clear, knowing with full certainty that Reese has a better grasp of what is going on than anyone else in his sphere.
“And now you’re hurting,” Reese continues, “totally messed up inside because of what has transpired between you and this guy. It’s understandable, but as I said, not earth-shattering.”
“Easy for you to say,” Ryan quips.
“Not really. You men need to stop being so damned homophobic. I mean, it was only a blow job, nothing else.”
“Please! Just a blow job? You’ve got to be kidding!” Ryan exclaims. Suddenly, his arms are flailing wide.
Reese leans forward, placing her hand over his, which is now resting on the coffee table. “Listen, you need to chill. A blow job is a blow job, Ryan. You dug it. You sat back and enjoyed the hell out of it. Why? Because in your mind, this woman…what was her name, Nora?”
“Olivia.”
“Olivia, right. In your mind, Olivia was making love to you, not anyone else. And that’s what made it so special—so passionate. In your mind, it was her mouth, her hands, her throat. So, you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t make a conscious decision to stick your dick in another man’s mouth—it just happened.”
“Damn, Reese—do you have to be so graphic?” Ryan asks, and then laughs.
“I’m just saying…so chill, man. It’s gonna be fine. Doesn’t mean you’re whole demeanor has changed. Doesn’t mean you’re suddenly gay!”
Reese is watching Ryan, observing his eyes.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Ryan says, sitting up, taking a long sip, nodding as he swallows. “I’m not gay. That shit ain’t me. Nothing to worry about,” he says surely.
“So, do you truly believe that, or is this just a bunch of lip service?” Reese has suddenly stood, stepped away from the table so she can remove her robe. Her nipples are the size of quarters. They are dark and push against the thin fabric. For a moment, Ryan does not answer. He stares, allowing himself to drink in her features. And she allows him, letting his gaze paint her body with its intensity. Finally, as she returns to her seat, he answers.
“No lip service, Reese.” His eyes have not wavered from her bosom. “This is real.”
She nods, tugging at the stud in her eyelid. Licks her lips absentmindedly. The act is not lost on Ryan. “Good,” she says, “gotta get back in the saddle, then. Get some pussy and claim it as your own. Tame the beast; forget all about this thing that’s got you unnerved. You know?”
“Love it when you talk dirty.” Ryan grins. Reese just shakes her head.
“Got any more piercings?” he asks suddenly.
Reese considers his words. Her head is cocked to one side, taking in this new persona—and Reese likes what she sees.
“Perhaps,” she replies, drawing the word out as if it were a magician’s scarf, its length seemingly without end.
“Where?”
He has placed the mug down and stands to remove his tie. He flings it to the chair beside him. Another button to his shirt undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
“Aren’t we the inquisitive one?” she whispers, their stares locked in a tug-of-war.
The pulse in his forehead, neck, and chest is a syncopated fury that is exhilarating. Ryan remains standing, glaring at her silently.
“Well, let’s see. There’s this one,” Reese says, pointing to her eyelid, “and another,” she adds, feeling for the stud in her nose, “and another,” she grins, a half second pause before uttering, “between my sugar walls.”
Reese recites these words in singsong.
Ryan closes his eyes for a brief moment before pulling a chair over the bare hardwood floors with a scrape until only inches separate them. His fingers find the smoothness of her thigh, lightly running upward toward her panty line.
She does nothing to stop his advances.
“Show me,” he whispers, his breath a hot flash on her cheek.
Reese is unblinking as she counts the rhythmic seconds to her own pounding heart, the muscle threatening to tear her apart.
But she remains whole, and breathes deep.
Slowly, silently, Reese leans back, fingers hooked under white cotton fabric, legs parting leisurely, sugar walls coming unhurriedly into view…