The One That Got Away

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

The One That Got Away

 

A
New American Library
Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
2005
by
Chester K. Robinson

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

 

ISBN:
978-1-1012-1049-9

 

A
NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
BOOK®

New American Library
Books first published by The New American Library Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
and the “
NAL
” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

 

Electronic edition: November, 2005

Acknowledgments

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Two Months Later

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Epilogue

A CONVERSATION WITH C. KELLY ROBINSON

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

With thanks to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, to my agent, Elaine Koster, my editor, Kara Cesare, and the New American Library staff. As always, I am thankful for Kyra, for my loving family (immediate and extended), the friends who continue to support me personally and professionally, and the Omega Baptist Church family. Finally, my sincere appreciation goes out to all the book clubs, bookstores, and fellow authors.

A
n hour before events ripped the scales from his eyes, Tony Gooden faced a moment of truth. The screen on his ringing cell phone announced the caller, and it was the last person he expected today: Serena Height-Kincaid, the college sweetheart he'd just seen for the first time in ten years. Though he was no stranger to stress—in three years as the Chicago mayor's chief of staff he'd battled both gangsters and gangbangers—Tony was useless in the face of a simple phone call. Sure, he wanted her back, but then, so did her husband.

 

An hour before the phone call, Tony had been hip-deep in denial. Making his way through the wedding's receiving line, he took Serena's silky-smooth hand and summoned an emotional force field. He'd spent the night before in a deep pool of his own sweat, choreographing this very moment, but now he radiated nothing but calm. To the groomsmen and bridesmaids surrounding them, he was just another guest, not the man who'd crashed that other wedding years before—Serena's.

Their bumpy, passionate history wafting between them, the two exchanged a civil, curt handshake. He was still trying to ignore
the flattering fit of her strapless pink dress when she spoke. “Tony Gooden,” Serena said, glancing to his left and right, a forced smile on her face. “No supermodel at your side tonight?”

“Frankly, you're a few years late for that.” His romantic history was strewn with the affections of girls with modeling experience, but he'd outgrown that phase by his late twenties. Surprised they'd managed this much conversation, Tony let his eyes rest on Serena's a little longer this time. “I'm just your average bachelor these days.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Serena's smile remained, but the grin was artificial. Her gray-green eyes, full of wary suspicion, spoke the truth. “You're not single by accident, Tony. Even your father was married by the time he was our age.”

Damn, that's cold.
Score two points for the lady; Serena had always enjoyed putting him in his place.
That's what you get for coming stag.
If not for that roller coaster of a heated discussion on Wednesday morning, his most recent lady friend, Colette, would be at his side, dazzling the wedding party with her beauty and shaming Serena into silence.

Colette wasn't there because Tony had finally asked her about the positive pregnancy test he'd found in her trash two months earlier. As each subsequent week passed and she hadn't said a word, he'd prayed that no stork was coming, hoping feverishly that he'd misread the test or that it belonged to one of her friends. Though Colette never ballooned on him or started puking every five seconds, something had finally made him ask the question, and he still hadn't fully absorbed her answer.

Catching Serena's confused glare, Tony realized he'd stayed silent for too long. Standing there outside the Hyatt Regency ballroom, he stood tall—as tall as you could stand at five foot ten, anyway—and leaned in toward his ex, one hand gently holding hers. The passage of ten years hadn't laid a finger on her smooth butterscotch complexion, her alluring little figure, or her cinnamon-apple scent, but he told himself he didn't notice. “Serena,” he said, determined to get through his script, “I just want to say—”

“Nice mustache, by the way.” Interrupting him, she released
his hand. Her gaze hardened, and filled with contempt. Even her fluttery, bubbly voice had developed a new edge. “Almost makes you look twenty.”

Don't take the bait.
Tony reminded himself he wasn't there to defend his facial hair, a recent addition meant to offset the smooth, round contours of his baby face. Even now he looked younger than his thirty-two years, but at least people weren't mistaking him for a college kid.

He leaned forward, getting back to his game plan. “I hear the pain in your voice, Dee,” he said, whispering Serena's nickname into her delicate, pointy left ear. “For the record, I was out of line with that stunt I pulled. I hope you and Jamie live happily ever after.”

Caught off guard, Serena froze in place at his words. As strains of Teena Marie and Rick James's “Fire and Desire” seeped from the ballroom into the hallway, her jaw clenched so quickly, Tony almost missed it. Looking over his shoulder with a cool stare, she said, “Ancient history,” while shrugging. Standing straighter, she matched his stare again. “Good to see you.”

That was it. She'd left him out there, forced to choose his next approach: a quick nod of the head to end things and shake the next hand in line, or an abject plea for her sincere forgiveness. There were men who might take the challenge, who might shed their pride in hopes of burying the hatchet with the woman they'd lost the most sleep over. On that day, at that moment, Tony Gooden was too much The Man to be that man. Catching Serena's eyes one last time, he shook his head slowly and said, “I'm glad you're at peace, then.” Pivoting smoothly toward the next bridesmaid, he extended a hand without waiting for Serena's reaction. He wasn't chasing after anyone anymore. Not even Serena Height-Kincaid.

When he had made his way through the receiving line, he stood alone, searching the crowd for Trey, his old friend and last-minute “date” for the wedding. His brow wrinkling with annoyance, he swept his eyes over the packed hallway.
Bet that fool's collecting numbers.
Here he'd asked Trey to come along for moral support in his hour of need, and the boy was lining up booty calls.

He still hadn't locked onto Trey when the groom, Devon, stepped out of the receiving line and rushed to his side. “See, that wasn't so painful, T,” Devon said, his gravelly voice barely audible over the gathering crowd. “You're still standing.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Tony said, loosening his silk tie and playing with the navy blue buttons on his tapered, professionally tailored suit coat. He shook his college roommate's hand, admiring Devon's sharp ebony tux and tails. “Again, man, I can't tell you how proud I am.” He meant every word.

Tony still vividly recalled the night Devon first met Kym, during their sophomore year at Northwestern. Devon, a tall, lanky English major who always slept peacefully while Tony pounded his mattress with the latest conquest, agonized for weeks about the short, shapely honey who'd caught his eye at the library. Bookish despite an occasional crazy streak, Devon had struck up a conversation with Kym but failed to pursue those seven magical digits. With Tony's coaching, his roommate finally tracked the conservative accounting major down and wormed his way into her heart. Their path to the altar hadn't been linear nor without drama, but today represented the culmination of his roomie's dream.

“Hey, we appreciate you celebrating with us,” Devon said, giving Tony another firm handshake. “Really wish you could have been in the ceremony, though.”

Tony glared at his friend, a deadpan look in his eyes. “Now, you knew that wasn't happening.” Kym, who happened to be one of Serena's closest friends, vetoed Devon's initial plan to include Tony among the groomsmen. Devon fought for him, but Tony quickly bowed out. In reality, the thought of standing before God and a crowd of hundreds with Serena just across the aisle wasn't his idea of fun. It was Devon and Kym's day; why infect it with memories of his own ass-baring at Serena's aborted wedding? Tony's last-minute antics kept her from walking the aisle that special day, but the following week she'd tossed his gallant efforts aside, eloping to Las Vegas with Jamie Kincaid. She was right. They were ancient history, and the book wouldn't be rewritten this time.

“Come on,” Devon said, throwing an arm over Tony's shoulder and peering down at him. “Let's get inside the ballroom. They're about to have toasts in a few, and I know you got a good one for me.”

“Ease up with the hugs, Dev,” Tony said, frowning playfully as he shrugged out of his friend's embrace. “You married Kym today, not me. I gotta roll. You don't want me and Serena in the same room for too long, okay?”

“Jamie's not even here, if that's what you're worried about,” Devon replied. The placid joy on his face slackened as his eyes grew serious. “Guess he stayed home with the kids. So since your hot date dumped you, it's just you and Serena in the mix here. If you don't start none, she won't. Kym and I already talked to her.” It still killed Tony that he'd introduced Serena to Kym all those years ago in school. Without his involvement, Serena would never even have been a part of today's nuptials.
No good deed goes unpunished.

“I have to jet,” Tony said, trying to pretend he wasn't curious about Serena's husband's absence.
He let his wife come here alone, knowing I'd be lying in wait?
He popped fists with Devon again. “I'm out, man, call me when you get back from Aruba. Now let me find Trey before I get charged for another hour of parking.” He didn't know why Kym's parents insisted on having the reception at a downtown Loop hotel, of all places: guests not only had to come off with an expensive gift, they had to pay thirty bucks to park their cars, too?

Devon shook his bald head, his bony shoulders quivering with laughter. “What the hell's gotten into you, dog? You used to roll like P. Diddy; nowadays you're pinching pennies like MC Hammer.”

“Long story,” Tony replied, still scanning the crowd for Trey.

“But, hey,” Devon said, “I thought you were getting paid behind Zora's success. I mean, you can't get away from her book.” Zora, Tony's half sister, had recently published her first novel, a hip-hop story of a girl gangsta, and the book was popping up on bestsellers lists across the country.

“The books are moving, man,” Tony said, “but we ain't been paid for half of 'em yet.” He turned away from his old roomie as he finally located Trey, who stood in the dissolving receiving line flirting with Jade, another of Kym and Serena's friends.
That's just what we need,
Tony thought. Since their years as college-age partners-in-crime, Kym, Serena, and Jade had formed an unbreakable trio. He hated to see Trey, the player of all players, get drawn into the web along with him and Devon. As Kym caught Devon's eye, waving him toward the ballroom entrance, Tony popped the groom's shoulder. “Tell my boy to get his ass over here, please.”

A minute later, when Trey finally broke away from Jade, a fresh business card in his palm, he smirked at Tony's impatience. “You tryin' to beat the next hour's parking fee, ain't you?”

“Damn right,” Tony replied. From a young age, he had been trained to appreciate the finer things in life: five-star restaurants, tailored clothing, front-row concert seats, Rolex watches, not to mention the Boston Whaler boat he co-owned with his father, Wayne. Unfortunately, like his dad's, Tony's income lagged a step behind his tastes.

Trey, who had grown oddly quiet, raised his voice at Tony as they stood waiting for an elevator. “Yo, you hear me? I said, have you gone cheapskate 'cause the station's still not paying you right?”

Worried about eavesdropping guests, Tony waited until he and Trey had stepped aboard an empty elevator to answer his friend's question. Quickly and curtly, he fed Trey the lowdown. A couple of years earlier, he'd retired from politics at thirty and taken a job as manager and minority shareholder at WHOT-FM radio, an attempt to seek his fortune. He earned a salary of a hundred grand, but in a major city that stretched only so far. What really chapped his ass was the phony accounting the station's holding company used to show a net loss; as a result, he had yet to earn a bonus.

Tony's wounded pride got the best of him as he stepped off the elevator, and he realized he was whining. “The station's ratings and ad revenues have increased each of the past two years,” he said. “They're pulling the wool over my eyes, man.”

Trey, who was just a few years removed from his “wigger” stage and who remained more interested in
Playboy
than
Business Week,
grimaced sympathetically. “That why you cashed out your ride?”

“Damn, I miss that M3.” Hands in his pockets, head momentarily bowed, Tony mourned his silver BMW, which he'd sold to avoid eviction from his luxury condo in Lincoln Park. This after having his life threatened by a pesky collections agent inquiring about his college loans, which he'd finally chipped away at by selling half his stock portfolio. As they strode through the garage, Tony allowed himself a rare moment of transparency. “Something's gotta give, Trey. This is killing me.”

Stroking his well-groomed beard, Trey glanced toward his boy. “What about that job O.J. hooked you up with?”

“What, working for that school? There was no money,” Tony said with a flick of the wrist. What else could he say? His friend O.J., WHOT's star radio personality, had hooked him up with a college buddy, Larry Whitaker, whose family owned a medium-sized conglomerate in Cincinnati. Whitaker Holdings owned a chain of supermarkets and an electronics retailer, but had recently branched out by founding a for-profit school for troubled teens.

“I thought Larry and his dad was high rollers,” Trey said as they arrived at his black Dodge Dakota truck, a Quad model roomy enough to hold half his kids.

“Yeah, well, they weren't trying to let me in on the high rolling,” Tony replied. “Can you believe they wanted me to work for their
school
? Doing something with media and government relations. The salary wasn't even six figures.”