ONE CUP (Part 15)

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53

Ray Garrett

The apartment complex was technically a gated community, however, the gates were standing wide open. Judging from the disfigured shape of one of the gate panels, I concluded someone must have driven into it, and it would need major repairs before it became functional again. Following Whitney’s directions, I took a left, crossed a couple of speed bumps and pulled into a parking spot in front of the third building on the right. The lot was poorly lit. Half the lights were out. The one nearest us was flickering. Combined with a light fog, it provided an overall eerie feeling to the setting. “Why don’t I walk you to your door?” I said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

As she opened her car door, there was a series of screeches, the unmistakable, unnerving sound of cats fighting, which caused us both to jump. “On second thought,” she said, “maybe I would like you to walk me to the door.” She reached into her handbag, withdrew a small canister of pepper spray.

I looked at it. When I looked up again, our eyes locked. I’d not intended to take advantage of her, but I supposed it would do no good to tell her. I nodded and said, “Understood.”

Her apartment was on the third floor, accessible by stairwells at either end of the building. She reached into her handbag. When her hand came out, the pepper spray was gone, replaced by a set of keys. So much for self-defense. “Thank you . . . Roy, was it?”

I shrugged. “Close enough. You’re welcome.”

54

I drove back to the hotel, thinking maybe I could make it back before the party broke up. I don’t know why. Call it separation anxiety, or whatever. I just wasn’t ready to let go of my major league experience yet. It would all end tomorrow.

The team was looking forward to a couple of days off before the playoffs, but first, there was one last game to be played. It would be meaningless with regard to the standings, and most of the team would prefer a rainout, but it was important to me. I would finally get my opportunity to be an official major league player. I knew I wouldn’t be back next year. Tomorrow’s game would be my one and only cup of coffee in the big leagues.

It wasn’t much, but it was all I had going for me at the moment.

I no sooner found a parking spot and killed the engine than the cell phone vibrated. Not mine. Hers. Whitney had left her phone in my car.

I shouldn’t have done it, but curiosity made me pick up the phone and look at the caller ID. It said, MVP. I thought of answering the call, just in case it was her trying to locate it, but then thought better of it.

Several of the players, their wives and girlfriends, and a few others who’d been at the party were now making their way out into the parking lot as I pulled in. Obviously, things were winding down. Who was I, to think for even a moment I would have been missed?

55

Kayla Prescott

Of course I knew who the woman standing next to Michael was. This crossing of paths, just like the one at the church a few days before, were been planned in advance. I followed Michael from the party, intending to confront him, pretending to be hurt and outraged by his betrayal. I would demand a divorce, and he would agree to dissolve the pre-nup. In fact, I was quite confident my soon-to-be ex-husband would in fact be quite generous in our divorce settlement.

I found her place easy enough. All I needed to do was look at previous destinations on the GPS of Michael’s Corvette.

I sat in Michael’s car, watching my husband as he hustled across the parking lot and took the stairs two at a time to the apartment on the third floor. I checked my watch. I’d give them some time, and then I would go up to her apartment and confront them. I have to admit I was getting excited. I turned on the dome light to check my hair and makeup in the rearview mirror. I take great pride in my appearance, even when I know I am planning to become emotionally distraught.

56

Ray Garrett

It occurred to me I might be able to get a message to Whitney through whoever had tried calling her earlier. I pressed the button on Whitney’s cell phone, and it lit up. There was a text message which read:

Wtf you thinkin?

We need to talk.

And there had been a missed call as well, the one that had gotten my attention earlier. There was no name, only the initials MVP. I could guess who that was.

I wasn’t curious before, when I’d been asked to take the girl home, because it was none of my business. But I was definitely curious now. I sighed heavily, and started the car. Whitney hadn’t given me the address when I asked for it, but I figured there was a better than average chance I could find the apartment complex where I’d dropped her off without any help. She would be needing her phone back. Maybe she would invite me in this time.

 57

Whitney/ Mistress Fredericka

“Explain yourself, pig!” My voice was sharp, my unblinking eyes ablaze.

“You took it too far this time,” he said, approaching me without permission.

I extended my right arm, pointing to the floor. “Kneel!”

“Listen, Fredericka, You can’t be coming uninvited to—”

I silenced him with a hard slap to the face. “I TOLD YOU TO KNEEL!” Stunned, he blinked twice, then silently nodded and dropped to his knees.

I slowly circled him, my stiletto heels clicking on the floor. Stopping directly behind him, I grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head backward. Our eyes met. “I didn’t tell you to look at me!” I spat on his face and shoved his head forward. I walked around in front of him. “You disgust me.” He sat there, kneeling, his chin against his chest, eyes cast downward.

“I told you to explain yourself, Michael. Don’t make me say it again.”

“I … I’m sorry, Mistress Fredericka,” he spoke with a quivering voice. “It’s just that . . . My teammates were there. My wife was there! And the other day at the church . . . I can’t have you coming around like that.”

I stepped closer. Close enough for him to inhale my aroma. “Really, Michael?” I said. “You really believe you can tell me when and where I can or can’t go?”

He shook his head. “I … I didn’t mean it like that … I just meant to say—”

I dropped a strap-on toy on the floor a few feet to the left of him.  “Fetch!” I commanded. And he did. Without rewarding him, I said, “Heel.” I then turned and led the way, with him following close behind on hands and knees, to the full-length mirror at the end of the hallway. I reached down, grabbed his hair, and forcefully yanked it up, tilting his head up. “Look in the mirror, Michael. Tell me what you see.”

His face was near crimson, such was his shame. He was sweating profusely, his breath coming in shallow, rapid gasps. Had he not been a superbly conditioned athlete in the prime of his life, I might have worried about his well-being. He dropped the toy from his mouth onto the floor in front of him. “I … I see you, Mistress. You are a vision of loveliness.”

Maintaining my grip on his hair, I stepped over, straddling him, then sat down on his back. I leaned forward placing my elbow on his head and rested my chin in the palm of my hand. “And what else do you see, Michael?”

He lowered his head, keeping it down as he raised only the eyes to peer at the mirror. “I see me,” he said meekly.

“LOUDER!”

“I see ME!”

I let his words hang in the air for a half–minute. Finally, I broke the silence. “Michael Prescott, SupahStahhh!!!” I waved my free hand in an exaggerated motion for emphasis. “What would your teammates think of you, Michael? What would your fans think if they could see you now?”

He began to speak. “I need to—” I grabbed his hair and gave it another yank. Hard enough some of it actually came out. Michael yelped in pain.

“Look at what you’ve done,” I said. “Shedding in my apartment. Turn around. Look at me.”

He turned his head, straining in the effort, and looked into my eyes.

“Open your mouth,” I ordered him. He hesitated. “Open it!”

He did as instructed, and I shoved the hair into his mouth. “Swallow it, pig.”

With tears in his eyes, streaming down his cheeks and a mouth full of hair, Michael said, “Filibuster.”

58

Mike Prescott and I sat at my kitchen table, sipping iced tea, our customary post-session refreshment. “So, why’d you use the safe word?” I asked. “We were just getting started.”

“It’s like I was trying to tell you,” he replied, “only I was getting caught up in the moment. I was getting off on it, I guess.”

I arched my eyebrows, said nothing, waiting for him to go on.

“But, really, this thing tonight . . . it was exciting, but it was way too dangerous. I mean, you showing up at the team’s celebration party! I don’t mind telling you . . . it really rattled me.” He shook his head slowly, “Hell, my wife was there!”

“You already said that. And besides, I knew she would be there.”

“It’s . . . It’s just too dangerous.”

“I thought you liked it, Michael. Didn’t you like it when I showed up at your church? Or the ball games? You don’t think I actually cared to come see you play, did you?”

I watched as he lowered his gaze, his eyes glancing up only for a moment. “That’s fine, Michael.” I knew better than to press it. He’d used the safe word and ended our session. Proper etiquette dictated I respect his wishes and not drop in on him unannounced and uninvited again. But my job was to push him to the limit, so I said, “In fact, I think it’s time we terminate our business relationship. I’ve become quite bored with you.” I stood, walked to the door, held it open for him. “Good luck in the playoffs.”

“No, no, wait!” he protested. “You don’t understand. I still want to see you. It just needs to be on my terms.”

“Excuse me?” I said. “Your terms? That’s not how it works. Now leave!”

Men are too easy. Just a moment ago he was trying to take control. Now, he was eating out of my hand again, but I needed to make him suffer for a few days before I allowed him back. “Here’s one for the road, Michael.” I slapped him hard, leaving a red mark on his cheek. “Explain that to your wife.”

He stood there, as if frozen. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Leave, or I call the police.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Michael suddenly became indignant. “You’d have a lot of explaining to do!”

“You’re the only one who’d have any explaining to do, Michael. You being the famous baseball player with the equally famous wife.”

I moved to the door, opened it.

He brushed past me then stopped, standing outside the doorway and said, “You can’t do this!” I closed the door.

I switched from Lady Fredericka to Whitney Ross/mom mode. I needed to collect Rylee in the morning. I could stay here at the in call apartment, catch a few hours of sleep first. I needed to buy gas and groceries. If I went to the store without Rylee, I could be in and out in fifteen minutes. If I waited until after I picked her up, it would take a lot longer. She’s always wanting things which aren’t on the list, having a fit when she can’t have what she wants, asking questions, and in general just distracting me to the point where I can’t even find my shopping list. I’d get up early and do my shopping first.

Thinking of Rylee reminded me I’d left her iPad in the trunk of my car. I would let her have it back in the morning, as long as she cooperated with me. I hated using iPad time as a punishment or reward, but with Rylee, you had to go with whatever worked. I did not dare hand the iPad to her without a full charge. The only thing worse than dealing with a kid whose iPad has been taken away is dealing with one whose iPad has a dead battery. Don’t go there. I slipped on an overcoat, so as not to draw attention or raise eyebrows or suspicion, and grabbed my key fob. I opened the door, and there was Michael Prescott, hand raised, just about to knock.

“What are you still doing here?” I said.

“Look,” he said, a bit too loud, considering where we were. “I’m not leaving until we have an understanding.”

“You need to accept it Michael. You broke the rules. Now you have to go. I won’t be seeing you anymore.”

“Who the HELL do you THINK YOU ARE?” Michael shouted.

 A neighbor three doors down opened the door, just a crack. Michael heard it, and immediately turned his head to avoid being identified.

“Lower your voice, Michael,” I said. “In fact, don’t say another word. Just go.”

I held up my cell phone, punched in 911. Just as I was pretending to be about to press SEND, Michael grabbed for the phone.

Everything that followed is fuzzy. Like a weird dream. I remember him grabbing at my arm . . . knocking the phone out of my hand . . . a struggle . . . the sensation of falling . . .