Unfaithful by Devon Scott

in. I’m one of the good guys, you know.”
    She exhales sharply.
    “Don’t have time for this shit,” she says, swiveling rapidly to her laptop, pressing a few keys, making herself busy to hide her impending anguish. Turning around, she finds him back in the chair across from her: calm, composed, as if nothing had happened.
    “Need to make time, Carly,” he says.
    Tyler moves in again. Steeples his fingers on the desk once more.
    “You need to vent. It’s as plain as the nose on your face that you’re hurting. You might be able to fool some of these silly black people out there,” he says, gesturing towards the shut door, “but you can’t fool me. So stop fighting and fronting…and tell me what’s on your mind. You’ll feel better when you do.”
    She watches him. Ponders his words. Tyler continues.
    “Let’s do lunch. I know a place where we can talk. It will be good for you to get away, get you to relax a bit, unwind—and I really do want to hear what’s troubling you, Carly.”
    Carly shakes her head.
    “Can’t. No time today.” The words come out rushed, almost rehearsed.
    Tyler’s brow rises.
    “Can’t? Or won’t? Even a gal with a gorgeous figure like yours needs to eat. It’s all about proper nourishment, Carly. Surely someone with an Ivy League education knows that, right?”
    Tyler is rising, smoothing his tie before opening the door.
    “I’ll make reservations for one o’clock and get your assistant to put it on your calendar in ink if I have to.” He smiles, winks, and then is gone, leaving Carly to produce a smile that Tyler doesn’t see—the first in close to seventy-two hours.

Chapter 17
    Reese is fast asleep when the buzzer sounds. Never expecting anyone this early, the clamor catches her by surprise. She rolls over onto her side, pauses there as if out of breath, listening to the sounds emanating from the streets, the normal din of traffic—buses, cars, taxis, pedestrians, garbage trucks backing up, their incessant honking making it difficult to get any semblance of peaceful rest. Yet Reese has grown accustomed to anti-silence, allowing it to infuse into her being until she fears she cannot rest unless there is noise—as crazy as that may seem to some.
    She waits a moment more, breathless. The buzzer returns. She rises slothfully, glancing at the cheap wind-up alarm clock on the nightstand.
    Ten-eighteen A . M .
    Shit, she’s normally not up until way past noon.
    She’s clad in her normal bedroom attire, tank top and panties. She scratches at her stomach and pulls on the stud in her right eyelid while moving slowly into the living room. Place dark, window shades down, almost eerie in the half-light. Goes to the wall intercom and presses the button.
    “Who is it?” she asks rather gruffly.
    A second or two passes before an unwavering voice comes through the box, loud and clear.
    “Me. Dude from the bar a few nights ago.” A half-second before the voice adds, “Ryan.”
    Reese stares uncomprehendingly into the darkened space, her mind and heart whirling. Ryan’s voice once again breaks the silence.
    “Can you let a brutha up? It’s kind of cold out here….”
     
    She sits across from him, staring into the space that separates them. He is looking good—well rested it seems, shaved, suit and tie. She hadn’t expected that at all—figured him for a blue collar kind of guy, even though his fingernails were clean and clipped, hair well kept. Now, he sits across from her, looking a bit nervous, eyes darting left then right, a bit afraid, it seems, to settle his gaze on her. She has slipped into a thin, tattered robe, but with the thermostat broken, the heat cranked on high, she leaves the robe open. Her heavy bosom under the flimsy tee is in plain view, and she feels a surge, a sense of satisfaction, as she knows she is making him uncomfortable. But that’s just the way Reese is…after all, this is her place—her world.
    “Glad to see you made it home in one