Authors: Devon Scott
Obsessed (18 page)
Chapter 43
Michael gets home a little after nine.
Kennedy is on the couch in the family room. She has a glass of Merlot in hand, glasses on, flipping through a magazine. He goes over to her, kisses her on the lips as he cradles her head.
“Hey, you,” she says.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, glancing around.
“What?”
“You’re not working. No laptop. No BlackBerry in hand. Something must be wrong.”
“Ha ha. Very funny . . .”
“Zack asleep?”
“Yep. You hungry? I can heat up some leftovers for you,” she says.
“No, I’ll do it. Let me check on him first.”
Michael takes the stairs to the second floor. Quietly he peeks into his son’s room. Zack is asleep on his side. Michael touches his head and kisses him gently.
He comes back down and angles for the den. Bumps the mouse to bring the screen alive. Logs in and calls up AOL.
Michael’s tired. He worked late to make up for the days off. He’ll be doing it again tomorrow as well. Perhaps the day after that.
He’s thinking about all that he has to catch up on when what he sees stops his heart.
Michael’s veins grow cold.
A new message.
From [email protected].
The very same e-mail address of the offending photos that went to Kennedy’s job.
His heart rate spikes.
egnever.
Revenge
spelled backward.
spelled backward.
Michael opens the message.
Reads it.
In an instant, his world turns upside down.
He shuffles into the room slowly, like some hurt animal, silently holding a single sheet of paper to his side. When he is about six feet away and in front of the coffee table, Kennedy glances up, pulling off her glasses as she witnesses the look of devastation on his face.
She’s never seen that look before.
“Michael, what is it?” she cries.
He is silent for a moment, his stare boring a hole into her forehead. It takes everything he has, every ounce of strength, not to clench up his fists and attack.
His thumb and forefinger slide against the sheet of paper separating them.
“Did you . . .” Michael pauses. “Have you ever . . .”
The words falter.
He stares disbelievingly at his wife, incredulity written all over his face. He is weak; he can barely stand. The words come as mere puffs, meager whispers.
“What is it, sweetie? What’s wrong?”
Kennedy is staring at him, her own heart rate doing double time.
“Joe. You . . .
fucked
him.”
fucked
him.”
It was meant as a question. An accusation.
But it’s a statement, plain and simple.
Kennedy’s brow furrows.
“What? What are you talking about?”
She puts down the magazine. He has her full attention.
“Simple question. Yes or no. Joe. You had an affair?”
Michael’s lips are losing their color. They are mashed together as if he’s biting into the flesh of his own lip.
“Baby . . . what’s g-going on?” Kennedy stutters.
Michael holds up the paper. And lets it go. It flutters over the coffee table, landing on the carpet by her feet. She stares uncomprehendingly at her husband before picking it up slowly.
She reads the paper and grows cold.
YOUR WIFE IS AN UNFAITHFUL CUNT.
ASK JOE IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME.
HOW’S IT FEEL?
WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND . . .
Suddenly, Kennedy’s eyes are watery.
She can barely see the form that stands in front of her.
Kennedy opens her mouth to speak, but finds that nothing emerges. Her tongue is dry; she swallows hard, tasting saliva that is like paste.
“Baby, I—”
“Simple yes or no, Kennedy,” Michael demands. “This isn’t multiple choice or an essay. Answer the question.”
Tears are meandering down her face now. She makes no move to wipe them away.
The silence stretches toward infinity.
Michael remains where he is, not moving, a slow, steady breath that is the only sound in the room.
After what seems like an eternity, she responds.
“Yes.” Voice quivering above a whisper.
Michael stares at her, his eyes wide. It’s as if he’s been shot—the pain is sudden. Immediate. His entire body is experiencing death.
No. That doesn’t do justice to what he’s feeling now.
Michael continues to glare at his wife, his fists clenching and unclenching in anger.
“Baby, I need to explain—” she offers.
“When?” he asks. It’s delivered as a croak.
Kennedy blinks and shakes her head.
Teardrops running down her smooth cheeks.
“Seven years ago.”
Michael’s eyes are unblinking as they bore into her.
“Before . . . Zack?”
She swallows hard, the paste sliding down her throat.
“Yes.”
It is the last thing that Michael processes.
At this point he has shut down. He no longer hears or acknowledges her presence.
“My son may not be my own,” he whispers, and the words are not lost on Kennedy.
She stands, attempts to reach out him while silently mouthing the “No.” But it’s no longer any use. “Baby, you don’t understand. Please, Michael, let me explain. Do you remember when you got assaulted by those teenagers? Baby, you were—”
Michael has already shuffled away.
At this point, she no longer exists anymore.
Chapter 44
It’s as if she’s in a daze.
The last two weeks have been like that. Like she’s merely drifting along, being tugged here and there, no longer in control, simply wandering, a leaf in a meandering stream.
A migrant. A nomad.
Kennedy is at her desk. The door is shut. Several legal pads and a few binders litter the surface. Her elbows are on the table with her head in her hands. Fingers massaging her temples.
It’s been two weeks.
Two weeks since Michael left.
Left the very night he found out about Joe.
They’ve spoken only twice since then.
Twice—to make arrangements for him to see Zack.
The situation is unreal.
In two days it will be Thanksgiving. And for the first time in many years, she will be alone for the holiday. Michael has taken Zack back to his parents’ home in Ithaca. They will remain there until the middle of next week.
Kennedy could go home to Atlanta, but then she’d have to explain her situation to her family: she and Michael are now separated, the threatening e-mails and phone calls they’ve received, and the drama at her job. No. Kennedy would rather be alone than go through any of that.
Then there’s Robin. She’ll be in town this week—alone, of course. Kennedy could spend the holiday with her. But that’s a nonstarter as well. Kennedy’d rather slit her own throat than tell Robin that she and Michael have separated. She can just see her friend sitting there over turkey and stuffing, a self-satisfied look on her face as she says not a word.
But the look says everything.
It says,
I told you so....
I told you so....
So she’ll huff it alone. The thought almost brings her to tears. Except she has no more tears left to cry.
She’s running on empty.
Kennedy gets up, grabs her coat, and exits her office. She walks quietly past the ten or so staffers on the second floor, sitting at their desks and in their cubicles. Some glance up as she strides by, but they say nothing. They’ve kept mostly to themselves since she’s returned from exile.
Out into the fresh, cold air, Kennedy buttons her coat as she takes the step. She needs air; she needs to breathe. She begins to walk, not really knowing where she’s going—she’s a nomad now—knowing only that she needs to force her brain to concentrate on something besides her situation.
This fucked-up situation.
She’s heard from Joe only scarcely. He’s apologized for his behavior, but the damage’s been done. He’s aware that Michael is gone—aware that he, in some indirect or direct way, depending on how you view it, is responsible for Michael’s departure. So he keeps a low profile. Head down, working the case. One case among many. Nothing new to report. It’s as if Mr. C has vanished into thin air. And there are no other leads.
Kennedy walks.
Ducks into Azela Coffee Shop to grab some tea. It’s quiet in there, very few patrons as most are heading out of town to be with their loved ones. She considers taking a table by the window—there are several open—but decides against it when she hears the music wafting down upon her. A slow R&B song, lamenting lost love.
Kennedy grabs her tea and exits before her eyes grow wet.
Kennedy walks. Away from the bustle and noise of Eighteenth Street. West instead on California and a right onto Nineteenth. Down Wyoming Avenue, where it’s peaceful and quiet. Where she can be alone with her thoughts.
Not too long ago she had a family.
Things between her and her husband were good. Hell, better than good. They were damn near perfect.
A husband who doted on her. A beautiful son.
Kennedy remembers with an ache that creeps into her gut just how much she enjoyed herself with Michael in New York. A time that now seems like eons ago. A time when the pressures of everyday life slid off their shoulders like fried eggs off Teflon. When sweet, unadulterated loving took her to heights she never thought she’d achieve.
Those times were sweet. When she seemingly didn’t have a care in the world. When everything, she knew, would be all right.
So it’s those times that Kennedy conjures up now.
Times that make her smile, if only for a short while.
Chapter 45
My name is Celestial, and I’m your deepest, darkest fantasy come true.
It was Celestial who Michael unleashed from her cage. A vixen, a siren, a dream come true.
Michael had conceived her.
He had allowed her to dream of the possibilities, and he had not chastised her when she spoke of her fantasies. Just the opposite—Michael had nurtured them, allowed them to grow and blossom, until this new being emerged.
Celestial.
Kennedy remembers those times that defied words.
Times that moved in slow motion.
The staccato, hard-hitting, house music had engulfed the underground club in Paris, permeating every square inch of space.
But it was her touch, which was like lightning, igniting fire, but in a slow, steady motion—like midnight rain.
Her breath was on her neck as she stood in the darkened, narrow hallway after an hour of nonstop dancing. Low-voltage strips of neon blue bathed the hard floor. Otherwise it was dark.
She could feel her advancing. Feel her raise her arms as in surrender. Then she was against her, pressing her weight into hers, pelvis doing a slow grind against her ass.
Kennedy felt the heat, felt herself powerless to stop.
Hot breath on her neck. A lovely Parisian named Dominique.
Sucking at her earlobes, hands following the contours of hips and torso to her breasts.
Michael was beside her, steadily stroking the insides of her thighs.
Under her short dress, fingers glided under the elastic of her panties, finding the wet spot.
A quick rush of air as he thrust inside her.
Behind her, Dominique grasped Kennedy’s head, extending it so she could reach her waiting mouth. Her tongue found Kennedy’s. Instantly she began to devour the flesh.
Kissing her. Tasting her. Fingering her.
Almost a dream.
But the experiences were real.
All in slow motion.
There was Isabella from the Dominican Republic.
They met her in Punta Cana among the swaying coconut palm trees and white sand.
She had beautiful dark skin and an engaging smile.
Perfectly upturned breasts with dark cherry nipples.
Kennedy and her newfound lover would lose themselves in their private wood-and-glass cabana that was situated in a lush garden facing the Caribbean Sea. For hours they would make love, just the two of them, only to emerge later with a look of satisfaction painted on their suntanned faces.
Michael’s reward for their intimacy?
Isabella would lead him back to the cabana by the hand for some alone time while Kennedy sipped a Cuba Libre and smoked an Arturo Fuente cigar.
Chloe they met in London.
Interior decorator by day, spoken-word artist by night. Limitless energy and a wickedly seductive British accent, she played tour guide to them while they were on vacation—taking them to Plan B, Figit, and Electrowerkz. They listened to music, ate, and danced, flirting with Chloe until the passion threatened to wreck them. Then they took the Tube back to their hotel and fucked until the morning sun was high in the sky.
What amazing times they had had....
Jasmine in Aruba during Carnival.
Natalie, Lacy, and Irie in Jamaica.
A schoolteacher from Baltimore whose name escaped her.
Ana from Belize.
Mercedes, a model residing in South Beach, and another lovely thing whom they met while she was attending a conference in Miami.
Jayla and Brooke in Philly.
Brooklyn and Makayla in New York.
They all come flooding back now.
Their faces, their bodies, the way they felt pressed against her as they kissed and explored each other.
For some she remembers vivid details—the way they stroked her inner thighs, the way they flicked their tongues across her clit, driving her insane. For others, the details are lost—instead, the fond memories are of meeting, conversing, and then loving, either one-on-one or, with Michael there, as a trio giving each other pleasure until they were worn out, the scent of spent sensuality hanging in the air like exhaled cigarette smoke.
Wonderful memories.
Kennedy holds on to them for as long as she can.
These days, it’s all she has.
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