Respect Me, Part 1 by Nia Arthurs
Jerrison
My home is a war zone.
It’s no wonder I haven’t been feeling like spending the night under my own roof. Harriet’s waiting like a drill sergeant, ready to scream at me over any little thing.
I really don’t understand that woman.
The storms have passed because I took care of it. Cindy’s been radio silent about her busted truck. I paid for her new vehicle and quietly swept any rumblings of a law suit under the rug.
The scheming little brat bought a luxury vehicle and put it under my tab. My pocket’s still smarting from an expense I shouldn’t have had to pay. If Harriet had only kept her temper in check, then I wouldn’t be so far in the hole for Cindy of all people. She was the most eager to give it up without any effort. I never budgeted to spend that much on her.
But it is what it is.
Harriet’s a free woman because of me.
And what do I get for my time and money? Dinner on the stove when I get home? Hugs? Kisses. Racy little underwear sets and candlelight?
Hell no.
I get nagging. Complaints. Roars of insults. And it all filters in after ten o’clock when she drags herself home. She’s working at the store all night trying to ‘catch up’. Catch up on what? I don’t know. She goes to work early in the morning with plenty of time to do it all.
I’m busy, Jerrison.
Liar.
She’s never been a good one.
Fine. She can avoid me if she wants. I can order take-out. I can set my own table and eat in front of a blank television screen.
But then Harriet comes home.
Rather than trying to make up, she’s harping on nonsense. The trash hasn’t been taken out. Didn’t she ask me to clean the bathrooms? We need to RSVP my cousin’s baby shower.
Everything turns into an argument these days.
If I say the sky’s blue, she’ll say it’s purple. And then she’ll go on and on about it.
Going home is not an option right now.
I miss my bed, but at least the whiskey’s good here.
I glance around the upscale bar. Crystal chandeliers. Gilded mirrors. Shelf of top notch liquor. The owner is a friend. I’m served the bottles they keep in the back. Gin so exclusive you can’t even ask for it.
The women are beautiful. Sirens in red. Wrapped in skirts that promise a short journey to the promise land. God bless the trendsetters who cut inches off the hems of booty shorts.
There’s a woman that’s been eyeing me since I walked in. She watched me when I sat alone. Noted when I smiled in her direction. Her head swung back and forth. Me and her martini. Me. Martini.
She’s going to make a move soon.
Her friend keeps nudging her. Keeps pointing to me.
I let it happen.
Let it flow and maintain visuals from the corner of my eyes.
Women are predictable in a way that can be tiring if a man isn’t careful. They simper and prance, thinking they hold the power, thinking they want loneliness and independence when, in all reality, they’re quite eager to have a man take control.
It’s simple for me.
Don’t seem too interested. Don’t chase.
Chasing is for after.
When I’m sure it’ll be mutually beneficial.
Blood rushes through my veins when the brunette sits beside me. She’s got long legs that I can already picture wrapped around my waist as I drive her against a wall. Her smile is wide. Big mouth. A gap between the two front teeth. Cute.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” she says. It’s a safe line. A hesitant probe.
“You either.” I give her a once over. She’s plainer up close. I can see the makeup gunking her eyes. Sweat’s already starting to melt her mascara. Poor thing lacks self-confidence. She’d look better without all that foundation on her face.
That was one of the things I loved about Harriet. She was a natural beauty. No fuss. No muss. More comfortable in a pair of boxing gloves than in heels and jewelry. Her brand of seduction was being blunt.
I want you.
It was natural to fall in love with her. To fall into the flow of her intoxicating honesty.
It was refreshing.
Until it became a buzzing in my ears.
I focus on the girl across the table. Names are exchanged. Drinks ordered. She sees my wedding ring and it flusters her for a second, but she doesn’t move away. Interested. It screams from her glistening eyes to her leg that touches mine every few seconds.
“Friends,” I tell her, giving her my card and taking her phone number. “Let’s be friends.”
She’s flirting.
So am I.
We both know this isn’t friendship, but she goes along with it and leaves my table, giggling with her crew.
I slip my phone into my pocket. Hear a beep.
She’s already followed me on social media. I don’t need to check to confirm.
At that moment, a hand clamps on my shoulder. “Smooth.”
“Dad.” I recognize the voice without turning around. “What are you doing here?”
“A work thing.” He groans as he falls into the chair the woman in red—what was her name again?—just vacated. Dad is short and broad with salt-and-pepper hair. The lines carved into his face are from years spent outside installing windows.
We don’t look much alike, except for the eyes. His are crystal blue, a shade as brilliant and startling as mine.
“A work thing? All the way out here?” I glance into the velvet booths, shadowy corners and cozy tables. This isn’t the place where people do business. “Is mom with you?”
“No.” He shrugs. No guilt. No hesitation.
“Ah.” I understand without him having to say another word.
Dad’s cheating is not a foreign concept to me, but I don’t think too deeply about it. It’s like catching your parents in the bedroom. Traumatic.
I don’t like to acknowledge what dad’s fooling around is doing to mom. Hell, what it did to me. Growing up, I always wondered why dad was always busy. Why his business trips took so long. Why he never had time to play with me. Turns out, he was a little too busy playing with other women.
Not like I can throw stones.
Dad can do whatever the hell he wants and I won’t stick my head into his business.
I just prefer not to think about it.
Dad gestures to the bartender and lifts two fingers. To me, he says, “Seems like a nice girl.”
“I didn’t ask for your commentary.” I sip my whiskey.
“Of course not. Of course not.” He bobs his head, carelessly leaning forward and resting his elbow on the bar. It’s his familiar ‘lecturing’ pose. He gets comfortable before he scolds me. “But this is a very public place.”
“And yet you were here as well.” I glare at him over the cup.
“It was a business meeting.”
Bull. “How’s mom?”
“Good.” His lips curve up cruelly. “How’s Harriet?”
Blowing steam from both ears and threatening to leave every couple days.“Good.”
“You,” he wiggles his fingers between the liquor bottles and the door, “aren’t being messy, are you?”
I groan. “Damn it, Dad.”
“Keep your business clean and you’ll be happier for it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your women.” Dad takes a drink and sighs contentedly. Staring into the amber liquid, he informs me, “A man’s ego can be his biggest weakness. Every time you think you’ve got a handle on it, a problem will pop up. Trust me. Be careful out there.”
His words claw at a scar deep in my chest. A wound that formed as a child, watching mom cry silently at night. Watching him leave with a crooked grin and a ruffle of my hair. Watching him break promises to the both of us.
I drop my empty glass on the bar. Plant my palm on the table. Lean over so I can whisper harshly in his ear. “I am nothing like you.”
“You sure about that?” Dad laughs.
An unsettled feeling tears at my chest. I try to shake it off, but I can’t reach it. Can’t explain it away or ignore it
When I get into my car, I think about the cause.
No answer shows up in front of me.
At that moment, my phone buzzes with a text.
It’s from the woman in red asking if I want to join her and her friends at a club. As I start to answer, I hear dad’s laughter in my head. The rock sitting in the middle of my chest turns into a boulder.
Rather than drive to the club, I head to a flower shop and pick up a bouquet of Harriet’s favorite flower—roses. Another stop. This time to grab a box of her favorite desserts. One more stop to quickly pick out an expensive piece of jewelry for her and I’m all set to go home.
The house is dark when I open the door.
Light pours from the second-floor hallway.
I hear heels clopping to the ground and step into our bedroom just as Harriet is about to unzip her skirt. She’s massaging her neck and shoulders, her hair spiraling down one side of her chest as she leans into the massage. My body tightens when I see her, moved by the graceful curve of her neck and the promise in her soft fingertips.
“Hey,” I say softly, approaching her.
“Hi.” She sounds withdrawn. Off.
I set the jewelry on the desk. Put the dessert on the bed. Offer the flowers to her. “Long day?”
“You can say that.” The plastic rustles as she accepts the bouquet and brings it to her nose. “What’s this?”
“My ticket out of the doghouse.” I put my hands on her shoulders. Rub my thumb into the knotted muscles of her neck.
“You think it’s that easy?” She glances over. Arches an eyebrow. Slants me that sassy look I fell in love with at first sight.
“You tell me,” I whisper, my gaze dipping to her lips. Harriet has these thick, luscious lips that are sweeter than honey. I used to trace them with my fingers. With other parts of me. I used to savor them late into the night, trying to find the secret behind them. Trying to quiet my obsession.
She smells like a Sunday evening in heaven. Like lavender and cookies. My hands slide down her side. A whisper of a touch beneath her shirt. A scrape of skin against a dark brown stomach.
Slowly, I bend down.
Closer.
Almost…
Our lips collide.
She moans softly.
The fight is over. At least for tonight.
Because tonight, I’ll be taking my wife to bed.
