A supply of toiletries sat on the left side of the dual-sink vanity: toothbrush, Scope cool mint mouthwash, Aquafresh toothpaste, Right Guard antiperspirant. The packages were brand new, unopened.
Interesting. He used the same brands at home.
Female toiletries that clearly had been used by Mika lay on the other side of the vanity.
It was coincidence that she’d bought the stuff he used all the time. Had to be.
He brushed his teeth and washed up.
He found Mika in the kitchenette, cooking. She wore a blue nightgown that ended above her knees; it was the same color as his bedclothes. Her long hair dangled in a ponytail.
“Good morning,” he said. He kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for the pjs and the toothbrush and stuff.”
“Morning, baby.” She smiled brightly. “The nightclothes look good on you.”
“When did you buy them?”
“Oh, I went shopping yesterday afternoon.” She winked. “In case a certain gentleman decided to spend the night. A lady has to be prepared, correct?”
Nodding, he went to the coffee machine on the counter. He poured some coffee in a mug. “Coffee smells good.” He took a sip. “Tastes good, too.”
“Does it taste familiar? It should.”
“Hmm. Actually, it does.”
“It’s Jamaican Blue Mountain.”
“Really? That’s my favorite.”
“I know.”
“How did you know?”
“You say so on your Web site, on your biography page. Ten of Mark Justice’s favorite things. I printed the list.”
“You did some research.”
“Yep.” She transferred several strips of bacon to a platter, and began to whip a bowl of eggs with an eggbeater. “You can have a seat in the dining room, darling. The newspaper is there. Breakfast will be ready shortly.”
The mahogany table was set for two. The day’s edition of
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
lay in the center, neatly folded.
But the sections had been rearranged: the Sports section was first, followed by Business, Living, Metro, and lastly, the front news page.
His eyebrows knitted together.
He read the paper in this exact order, each weekday morning.
Well, so what? She must’ve skimmed the paper earlier, shuffled the sections around. There was no way she could possibly know the order in which he read the daily paper; that kind of personal information definitely was not posted on his Web site.
As he read a story about the Hawks gearing up for the coming season, she came to the table carrying platters of food.
He started to rise. “Need help with anything?”
“No, no. Don’t you move. I’ve got everything covered.”
She served him a generous helping of eggs, bacon, and smothered potatoes. Two slices of toast with butter and grape jelly. A tall glass of orange juice.
“This looks delicious,” he said. “You’ve got all the breakfast foods I love.”
“Thank you. I love to cook. You should see what I can do at dinner.”
“You can burn, huh?”
“I don’t want to boast, but yes, I can burn.” She smiled, sipped her orange juice. “Why don’t we have dinner tonight, at your house? I’ll cook whatever you like.”
He stroked his chin. “I think I’ll be free this evening. But . . .” His voice trailed off.
“But what?”
He chose his words carefully. He wasn’t good at conversations like this.
“Mika, I like you a lot. I really enjoyed last night, I’m enjoying this morning, too. But I don’t want us to rush things.”
She stared at him, jaw clenched.
“So what are you saying?” she asked. “That you don’t want to see me again?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what do you mean, Andrew?”
“I want us to take this slow. Take our time getting to know each other, that’s all. But I definitely want to see you again.”
The tension vanished from her face. She smiled.
“Oh, darling,” she said. “More of that cautious man-speak.” She rose from her chair and sauntered around the table. She sat on his lap, her face inches from his. She crossed her arms behind his head and wrapped her legs around his waist.
The closeness of her body was like an aphrodisiac. His erection throbbed into life.
She ground her pelvis against him, gently and insistently, as if to remind him of last night. Drawing shallow breaths, he grew brick-hard.
“That big rational brain of yours says one thing, Andrew. It says, ‘Let’s slow down, I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing here.’ But your body is speaking a different language. Do you know what it’s saying?”
Her nightgown had a plunging neckline; he lost the battle to keep his gaze off the tempting swell of her cleavage. “What’s it saying?”
“Your body says, ‘I want to be with Mika tonight. I want to be with her all the time. Being with her is like heaven on Earth.’ ”
“You’re bad. Using your body like this. Like a weapon.”
“I’ve no qualms about using my charms.” She moved closer and whispered in his ear: “You know you want this pussy again. I’ll fuck you even better tonight, baby. Make you want to call your mama.”
She raked her nails down the back of his scalp—vividly recalling for him how her fingers had skidded down his naked back last night.
He broke into a grin. This woman was something else.
“Looks like I’ll be seeing you this evening, then,” he said.
“That’s my baby.” She kissed him, and climbed off his lap. “I’ll be back.”
She strutted away. He admired the sensuous roll of her hips.
He took a sip of orange juice, to try to calm his body down. But it didn’t help. The truth was, she had him whipped. Nose wide open. The amazing sex, the loving attention, the promise of more to come—he couldn’t resist. Besides, spending two consecutive nights together wasn’t a big deal. Was it?
You know the real answer, Andrew.
They were moving too fast. He knew it. Mika was in deep, convinced that he was her soul mate, and she was determined to reel him in. The wise thing to do was to slow down, not see her tonight, and wait a few days before going on another date.
But he couldn’t wait. He wanted her too much.
He felt like a junkie unable to refuse a hit.
She came back to the table. She carried a small cardboard box.
“What’s that?” he said.
“A gift for you.” The box had been opened. She dug inside, took out a red Motorola two-way pager.
“This is for me?” he asked.
“So we can stay in touch throughout the day.” She took another identical pager out of the box. “This one is mine.”
“But I keep my cell phone with me all the time. You can reach me on that.”
“Everyone has your cell number, baby. These pagers will be our
private
connection to each other, our secret bond.” Excitement filled her voice. “Go ahead, turn it on.”
He pressed the power button. Pressing buttons on her own pager, she went to the other side of the table.
His pager vibrated. A message appeared on the display.
YOU’VE GOT SOUL MATE EYES.
He looked up, smiled thinly at her. She was grinning.
What had he gotten himself into?
Part Two
LOVE CRAZY
Women accused him of running from love and commitment. He never
could make them understand that he wasn’t running from them. He
was running from the fear of losing himself in them. His freedom was
all he had. Take that away, you might as well take his life.
Chapter 11
O
f all the things in the world that Raymond disliked, going to the doctor was near the top of the list.
Doctors reminded him of illness, of his advancing age, of the looming specter of Death. Instead of dressing in white lab coats and stethoscopes, physicians, in his opinion, would have been more honestly represented wearing black robes and gripping devilishly sharp scythes.
But his wife had scheduled this Wednesday morning appointment for him, and he had promised her that he would go. He hoped that some good would come of it. He hadn’t enjoyed a sound night of sleep in weeks. If nothing else, he could get a prescription of sleeping pills that might allow him to slumber without nightmares.
His longtime physician, Dr. Michael Unaeze, worked out of an office in Stone Mountain, on Columbia Drive. Dr. Unaeze was a compact, bespectacled man who spoke in a measured voice that carried a hint of his Nigerian roots.
“So your wife says you haven’t been sleeping well,” the doctor said, hands on his hips. “She’s worried about you.”
“She’s always worried about something,” Raymond said.
Unaeze smiled. “That is a wife’s duty, to worry about her husband’s health. Especially since her husband hates to visit his doctor!”
“Work’s been busy lately, Doc.” He smiled sheepishly.
The doctor waved off Raymond’s excuse. “Let’s start at the beginning, eh?”
While Raymond sat on the examination table, Unaeze went through the routine for a general physical, finding everything satisfactory. He touched the bruise on Raymond’s temple.
“Are you experiencing any headaches or dizziness?” the doctor asked.
“Should I be?” He rubbed his grainy eyes.
“It would not be unheard of, after the head trauma you suffered.”
“Been having headaches,” he said. He indicated the bruise. “Feel ’em right here.”
Unaeze made a note. “They began after your accident?”
“Yeah.”
“How long does the pain endure?”
“Not long. Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe. But it’s intense, like the worst migraine.”
The doctor made another note. “Your wife says that you’ve been having nightmares as well.”
“Christ, did she tell you everything?”
Unaeze touched his shoulder. “Sorry, I don’t mean to offend you. But I must inquire, for your sake. Did these nightmares also begin after the accident?”
“Look, I’ve just got a little insomnia, that’s all, probably get these headaches ’cause I can’t get any damn sleep. Can I get some sleeping pills or not?”
Unaeze muttered something in his native tongue. He scribbled on a slip of paper and handed it to Raymond.
“This is a prescription for Ambien. It should aid your sleep, Raymond. I’ve given you a two-week supply.”
“Thanks, Doc. That’s all I needed.” He slid off the table and tucked the prescription in his pocket.
“There are possible side effects,” Unaeze said. “Your dreams could become more vivid than usual.”
Raymond laughed bitterly. “Don’t think that could happen to me, Doc.”
“Other potential side effects are difficulty breathing, nausea, temporary amnesia, and in rare cases, hallucinations.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Unaeze frowned. He wrote another note and gave it to him.
“This is a referral to a neurologist,” he said. “His name is Dr. Price, excellent doctor. I think you should see him. Your headaches concern me.”
“They checked out my head after the accident. Said everything was fine. Just had the concussion.”
“I’m aware of the health reports, Raymond,” Unaeze said. “But I strongly believe that you should seek a second opinion from a specialist, have some tests—”
“There’s nothing wrong with me that some good sleep won’t cure.”
Unaeze threw his hands in the air. “Why must you be so difficult? I’m only trying to help you.”
“Can I go now, Doc?” Raymond jingled his keys. “I need to get back to my office.”
Shaking his head, Dr. Unaeze ushered him out of the examination room.
Neurologist. Please. Going to Unaeze had been bad enough. There was no way in hell he was going to see someone else for more tests, so they could poke and prod him as if he were a lab rat and send his wife into a fit of anxiety. There was nothing seriously wrong with him. Sleep—pure, dreamless sleep—would solve his problems.
He had the prescription filled at a nearby Eckerd, and returned to his ReMax office on busy Panola Road in Lithonia. It was a quarter to eleven, early enough for him to still enjoy a productive day.
The sight of his office comforted him. It was a large, bright area, with several enclosed rooms. Sand carpeting, cream walls. Potted plants. Award plaques and photos he’d taken with community luminaries hanging on the walls.