Killing Them Softly (2 page)

When I walked out of the airport in San Juan, Puerto Rico, I immediately had to dig in my purse for my sunglasses. During the four-hour flight from New York, I had three vodka and orange juices, and the San Juan sun was too much for me. I had come to San Juan to make some decisions about how the rest of my life was going to go. Since I was making life decisions, really heavy stuff, and since the temperature in New York was in the single digits, I decided that I wanted to be some place with sun.

The cab driver, a real cutie that spoke very little English, took me to the San Juan Marriott Resort and Stellaris Casino. After I checked in, I arranged with the concierge to have my luggage taken to my room, while I went down to the La Isla Grill and Pool Bar, and ordered another drink. "Kettle One and orange juice; and let me see a menu," I told my bartender as soon as he dropped the napkin in front of me. I’d been drinking cheap vodka on the plane, and my stomach was paying the price.

The bartender placed my drink and a menu in front of me. Then he promised to remember me, and have a drink ready for me next time I did my drinking poolside. I assured him that by the time I left, we would be the best of friends. My plan was to spend a lot of time drinking. Liquor has a way of focusing, or I should say intensifying, whatever it was I was thinking about. I wasn’t planning on getting drunk, but I truly planned on staying fucked up.

The bartender, whose name was Manuel, and I chatted while I looked over the menu. Once I told him what I wanted to eat, he left me to do my drinking in peace. I gazed aimlessly at the pool, looking at what appeared to be nothing but couples having fun. Not that I was there to try and get with somebody, but damn, if I wanted to, it would have to be with one of the locals. And that wasn’t happening. Then I saw this fine-ass brother walking by the pool. Now, I could get with him, but he was with somebody. I turned around on my stool and looked at the beach. The view was breathtaking. I had chosen wisely. I just had to get out of New York for a while, and away from my husband Tyrone.

Tyrone and I met my freshmen year at Syracuse. He was a career student, and at that time, he was working on his second masters. His first was in economics, the second one was in finance. It was my second day on campus, and I was trying to get adjusted to life out of my parent’s house. We met in line at the cafeteria. He was in line behind me. I was about to reach for something, I don’t remember what, but he stopped me. "You don’t wanna eat that," Tyrone said.

"Why not?" I asked, and put it on my tray anyway, wondering who this man was, and why he was trying to tell me what I should eat. But it was my second day, and I thought it was inappropriate for the around-the-way-girl from the Bronx to come out.

"I can see that you’re new here," he said.

"Sure am."

He leaned close to me and whispered, "The food here is terrible. I never eat here," Tyrone said, and I noticed that he didn’t have a tray. "You should let me take you to lunch."

I thanked him very much for the invitation, but told him that I would have to take a rain check. After all, I didn’t know him from a can of paint, and I was not about to go anywhere with him.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," I said, and paid for my food.

"Well, my name is Tyrone Petrocelli."

"Avonte Braxton."

"It’s good to met you, Avonte. That’s a very pretty name for a very pretty lady."

"Thank you," I said graciously, and kept it moving, hoping that he wouldn’t become a pest, and I’d have to call security.

"I’m sure I’ll see you around," Tyrone said. Then he saw some guys he knew and went off with them.

After that, I saw Tyrone around campus from time to time. Anytime he saw me he’d come over and speak. We’d chat about how classes were going for me, and he’d invite me out to eat with him. I would always decline his invitation with some excuse about classes, or the need for more time in the library to study— which was true. Less party, more study. It’s not that he wasn’t a nice guy or that I was dating anybody else. I just never dated a white guy before. And it wasn’t because he wasn’t fine as hell for a white boy. He looked kind of like Brad Pitt.

By sophomore year, Tyrone had worn me down, and I agreed to go out to dinner with him. When he picked me up at my dorm in a white Lamborghini Diablo convertible, I thought I would faint. Over dinner and drinks, Tyrone told me that his father was in the shipping business, which he, at the time, thought was the most boring thing in the world—something he had no interest in whatsoever.

I had fun with Tyrone that night. Those years I always did. We went out a few more times before I finally agreed to come to his apartment for late-night cocktails. I knew what that meant and I was ready. Truth be told, that night, I was more than ready.

It didn’t take long after we got there for things to start happening. As soon as the door closed, we were all over each other. Tyrone turned me around and began kissing the back of my neck, and squeezing my breasts. Then he lifted my dress and leaned me over the table. Tyrone quickly took off my panties and entered me. It took some wiggling on my part, but soon he was deep inside me, moving his hips. I rocked my hips until I had him where he could hit my spot right. Tyrone squeezed my breasts as he moved in and out of me. I closed my eyes because it was feeling so damn good. I looked over my shoulder at Tyrone taking off his shirt, all the while pounding away.

Then, Tyrone abruptly pulled out of me. When I turned to face him, he took me in his arms, kissed me, and then he picked me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist and held on tightly. He kissed me again, and we stumbled into the wall as he tried to carry me into the bedroom. He pinned me against the wall, and kissed and sucked my neck and breasts.

My fingers dug into his back when he pushed himself inside me again. We were going at it so hard that after a while, both of struggled to breathe. Tyrone took me in the bedroom. I unzipped my skirt, and it fell to the floor. My stiffened nipples were popping out of my lace semi-cup. I stepped out of my dress and joined him in the bed.

I lay there next to him, not believing how hung he was. Every time he sexed me, I had to fight the overwhelming urge to explode as soon as he entered me. And when I couldn’t, Tyrone would drop between my thighs and try to sop every drop of my juices.

I knelt down on the bed because I love being taken from behind. Tyrone grabbed my hips again, and trusted himself deep inside me, finding my spot once more. My mouth dropped open, my eyes bucked, and I let go a gut-wrenching scream. When my body trembled from the pleasure, I knew he felt my warmth overflowing. I was in ecstasy.

We dated for the remainder of the year, until he received his masters in finance. He left Syracuse, and reluctantly, went to work for his father. We stayed in touch and would visit each other during my junior year. That was the year his father died, and suddenly, he was the chairman of the board. As you could imagine, I didn’t see Tyrone much after that, but when we did, the sex was great. We still talked almost daily. He would tell me how much he hated running the company, and about how cut- throat it was in corporate America.

The day that I graduated, Tyrone was there, and I introduced him as a good friend to my parents. I didn’t think my father needed to know that I’d been dating a white boy for the last three years. My father shook hands with Tyrone.

"Congratulations," he said to him, thinking that he, too, had just graduated.

"Thank you, sir," Tyrone said.

"What is your degree in?"

Tyrone smiled. "I have a master’s in economics, and another in finance, but I graduated last year. I’m in the shipping business now, sir."

"What do you do in shipping?" my mother asked Tyrone.

"I’m the chairman of the board, actually."

"Oh" was all my mother could say.

"Did you say you were the chairman of the board?"

"Yes sir. I lost my father recently, and I had to step in and run the company."

"Which he hates," I threw in.

"Actually, Avonte, I’m starting to get into it," Tyrone said, and put his arm around me and I almost fainted; but it was about to get deeper than that very soon.

"Well, thank you for coming out to see our girl walk," my father said. "If you are looking for a English major with a lot of drive and initiative, that’s your girl."

"I know that, sir. I’m sure that Avonte will make an excellent addition to anybody’s staff. But I was hoping that she would be interested in accepting a different position."

"What position is that?" I wanted to know.

We had talked many times over the years about what I wanted to do when I graduated, but he never mentioned anything about a job at his company. Since we really weren’t seeing each other on a regular basis, I had naturally assumed that he had moved on to somebody new, and I was just an occasional convenience. So I was surprised that he even showed up. And now he was about to offer me a job. Making big money, I hoped.

Tyrone looked at me, and then at my parents, before turning back to me. "I want to marry you, Avonte. Would you be my wife?"

So there my parents were, two simple black folks from the Bronx, and this rich white man just asked if he could marry their daughter. Needless to say, they were in shock, and so was I. I truly didn’t see that coming.

I stood there speechless, truly not believing the words that came out of Tyrone’s mouth. My father looked at me. "Avonte!"

"Huh?"

"Ain’t you gonna answer the man?" my mother asked.

"Would y’all excuse us for a minute? I need to talk to Tyrone," I said, grabbing Tyrone by the hand and leading him anyway from my parents.

"Did you just ask me to marry you?"

"Yes Avonte. I love you, and I want to marry you. Do you want me to get down on one knee?" And then he actually started to do it.

I grabbed him before he got down there. "No."

He reached in his pocket, took out a ring box and handed it to me. I excitedly opened the box to reveal a platinum engagement ring with the biggest diamond I’d ever seen. He took the box from me and took the ring out of the box. He took my left hand and eased the ring on my finger. "What do you say, Avonte? Will you marry me?"

There was no way I was taking that ring off my finger, nor was I going to refuse to marry a millionaire. "Of course I will. I mean, the ring fits and all," I said, and held out my hand.

"Right; and it looks so good on your beautiful hand," Tyrone said, and kissed it.

That was five years ago, and during that time, we had what I considered, a very happy marriage. One filled with great sex, travel around the world, and of course, there was the money. Lots and lots of money; and I loved having money.

But all that changed about six months ago. Tyrone started spending more time at work and less time with me. "We are right in the middle of a major acquisition—one that will make us a much stronger company. I know you’re not happy about this, but once it’s a done deal, I promise to make it up to you, darling." He was right. I wasn’t happy about it, but I had no choice but to except it.

I rolled along, finding new things to occupy my time. I even volunteered for this charity and that charity, but then Tyrone came home one day and said we needed to talk. I joined him in the living room, and sat down of the couch. Tyrone chose to stand.

"What do you want to talk about?" I asked.

"I want a divorce."

Just like that.

"What? What did you just say?" I asked, as the tears began to well in the corners of my eyes.

"I want a divorce."

Then Tyrone had the nerve to tell me that he had met somebody, and that he was in love with her. "Well, I didn’t just meet her. She’s an executive with the company we just acquired. We’ve been working very closely on the deal, and it just happened."

I couldn’t believe my ears.

"I know this is sudden, and I’m sorry," Tyrone said, and walked away.

"That’s it?" I yelled through my tears. "You waltz in here and tell me that you met somebody and you want a divorce. What about me? What about how I feel?"

"If it’s money you’re worried about, you know you’ll be taken care of. You’ll never have to worry about that," Tyrone said coldly, and left the house.

Before we got married, Tyrone asked me to sign a prenuptial agreement, and I agreed, but that wasn’t the point. I loved and needed Tyrone, not his money.

I ran to the door behind him. I wanted to stop him—try to talk him out of it. Even though I didn’t love him when we got married. I thought maybe it was for the money, but over the years, I had come to love and depend on him. I opened the door just in time to see him pulling out of the driveway, with some blonde in what was
my
spot.

I slammed the door and ran upstairs. I threw myself across the bed and cried until I had no more tears. Once I had cried myself out, I fell asleep, praying that when I woke up, it would be morning, and this would have all been a bad dream. But when I woke, Tyrone wasn’t lying next to me, and I knew it was all too real.

I spent the better part of the day crying and drinking. That day, I wanted to get drunk. I didn’t want to feel a thing. But after a while, when the bottle was empty, I began thinking about what I was gonna do. I didn’t really read the prenup before I signed it—a foolish move on my part. But when Tyrone said that he loved me, and would never even think about leaving me, I signed the paper.

It was then that I decided I needed to get away for a while. So I called my travel agent and booked my trip. The rest of my life began that morning, and I was going to have to begin living it.