Woman on Top Page 2

  “Yes, with his wife,” snaps Constance.

  “Who else would he dance with?” Cyndi retorts.

  It has become quite comical seeing the tension between these two women because it’s no secret in my office that Constance wants Cyndi nowhere near me, especially when no one else is around. Being in my position, I’ve learned that women will go to extreme lengths when battling for position, and for the attention of a man that wields power.

  A grimacing Constance interrupts, “Cyndi, did you bring a date tonight?”

  While adjusting my bowtie, she quips, “Isn’t it obvious I’m working?”

  Constance stares blankly at Cyndi until someone else distracts her.

  Inconspicuously, Cyndi whispers, “Malik, I need to see you, tonight,” she glances back at Constance, “alone.”

  “That’s difficult.”

  “All I want is twenty minutes, please.”

  Mr. Haney

  Making haste to the elevator, I’m stopped head-on by a woman saying, “Greg Haney, is that really you?”

  Shit.

  “Dr. Ennis, how are you?” I unfortunately have to ask of the aging and most likely, drunk woman.

  “No need to be formal. I think we passed that years ago, but I will say you certainly have retained your looks,” she tells me, while blocking my path, forcing me to hug her.

  “And as always you still have that girlish bounce,” I lie, having no interest in ever bouncing with her again, well not unless she can be used as leverage, but I can’t talk to her tonight. Through my peripheral vision, I can see Tiffany posing for pictures, and now she appears headed in my direction. I can’t let that happen, her seeing me here is not part of the plan.

  “We should have dinner, catch up. You could come to my house in St. David’s.”

  Winking at her I ask, “Same number?”

  “Yes but. . .”

  “You’ll hear from me,” I say, swiftly walking away.

  Hurrying through the open elevator doors, I pray that the women waiting in my hotel room are prepared to be pushed to the limit but after seeing Tiffany so close up, I already know they won’t be enough. However, as the doors begin to close, a hand reaches in and I know I’m in trouble.

  Tiffany

  I make it to the corridor, but there’s no sign of him. I’m relieved, but also annoyed as to why his image was so vivid. Glancing back into the ballroom, I see Malik headed in the opposite direction, off to his interview. Instead of returning to the party, without paying attention, I slip through the closing doors of the elevator to make a quick retreat to our suite.

  Without looking up, I push the button repeatedly for the doors to close, and then PH for my floor, but as the doors begin close I know that what I’m feeling is not my imagination. I tell myself, maybe I’m paranoid, that the sensation I’m feeling of him being near me, being in this elevator can’t be real, but who am I fooling?

  Mr. Haney

  Damn, what the hell is she doing in here? I knew I shouldn’t have come here tonight but it’s too late. I must quickly find a way to adapt, and in this case take advantage of the moment.

  Sensing her panic, I close the short distance between her just to calm her fears but I go too far. Reaching around her, I accidentally brush against the unmistakably soft skin of her back, and having no choice, I pull the elevator’s stop button. This won’t take long.

  Tiffany

  I attempt to make out his reflection in the smoky mirrored doors and when I do, I am filled with dread. Don’t turn around I tell myself, don’t look the devil in his face.

  Keeping my eyes on the doors, I ask, “What are you doing here?”

  No response.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask again, hating the sound of my own pitiful voice.

  I feel him lightly pressed up against me, feel his eyes burning through my skin and I know he’s inspecting me, my clothes, my hair, my body, all of me. Why won’t he say anything? Why won’t I turn around?

  My breathing has hastened to the point that I fear I may have a panic attack, that is until he touches me, one finger tracing the outline of my dress along my lower back. Letting out a sigh of relief, he easily slips his hand through its opening, traveling down my stomach until his fingers touch the throbbing moistness that awaits him.

  “Turn around,” he tells me, but I don’t because the sound of his voice is paralyzing.

  When I don’t do as I’m told, he gingerly bites down on my neck until I no longer have a choice but to allow his lips to meet mine, and that’s when I feel the familiarity of his mouth, his tongue tasting of Old Grand Dad, mixed with the scent of the aftershave that lingers on his mustache. I attempt with all I have to pull away, until with a slow but steady thrust, his fingers penetrate me and my juices overflow down my thighs.

  “Please,” I moan, not knowing if it’s for him to stop or keep going, but he allows them to linger, until slowly he removes them one at time, only to smear their fragrant and intoxicating taste across my lips.

  Mustering all the strength I have, I reach for the button and the elevator slowly begins to move.

  “How. . . how’d you get out,” I cry, my raspy voice signaling a woman whose body has betrayed her.

  “Good behavior.”

  Chapter 1

  Happy New Year

  Waking up, I could hear Malik on a call in the other room. He hadn’t disturbed me yet, giving me time to nuzzle in deeper under the comforter. But in an effort to drift back to sleep, the dark reality of New Year’s Eve returned. Mr. Haney was home and he’d let me know in his very own way.

  I’d never gotten the opportunity to tell Malik because before we’d even made it upstairs to our suite, he’d been called away to the scene of the first murder in the New Year; actually it had been a murder-suicide, and he hadn’t returned to our suite until daylight. But what would I have said? I couldn’t tell him the truth then and I can’t now, yet I have to let him know the man is home.

  Even now, laying here, my mind goes from last night to that first night many years ago, the first time he’d taken advantage of me.

  Six years ago, while Malik and I were broken up, I’d lost my way and started dating G-Dog, Mr. Haney’s son; however on this particular evening his father had to come to Club Teaz, to personally deliver our permits. Why he came I never knew. But I was packing up to leave when he arrived and after some small talk, he asked for a drink. The bottles were all still crated, but he was the District Attorney, my boyfriend’s father, so I opened one and even though he’d never admit it, I’m certain he slipped something into my drink. That’s the only explanation for having allowed him to stretch my naked body over a drop cloth on a concrete floor, where he’d ravished me unmercifully as if he were punishing me for a crime I hadn’t committed. From then on I’d been drawn to him, making myself collateral damage between a father and son. And now that man was back in my life and if I wasn’t careful, this time he could destroy me.

  “What time is it?” I asked from the bed to where Malik stood in the mirror knotting his tie in the adjoining room.

  “Nine-thirty. We have to be downstairs by 10:47. Brunch starts at eleven.”

  “Can we talk? It’s about last night.”

  “Tiffany, I didn’t have a choice, I had to leave.”

  “You know I understand that; it’s something else.”

  “What’s up?” he asked, coming to stand in the doorway, as he fastened his watch around his wrist.

  I sat up in bed and said, “Last night when. . .” I couldn’t finish before there was a knock at the door.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Listen baby, I have a meeting before the brunch, then afterward I have to head over to the Mummers Parade. I’ll see you downstairs, that okay?”

  I nodded, knowing that I couldn’t blurt out that his arch nemesis had been released from jail.

  “No problema. I’ll see you down there.”

  An hour and two Advil’s later, I was seated bes
ide Malik on the dais, along with several ministers and their wives. It was hard to concentrate because I had my eyes out for Mr. Haney, hoping he wouldn’t make himself known before I could warn Malik.

  While Reverend Shoulders talked about the mission of the organization, my eyes canvassed the audience. Perhaps he was lurking about for another opportunity to catch me alone. Maybe he’d come to harm Malik. I checked the room for Malik’s security detail. Keenan was to Malik’s right and Phinn was near the entrance.

  There were about 150 people in the audience, half of whom had attended last night’s party and were easily recognizable from their red eyes and excessive coffee drinking. Then, of course there were those whose full attention was on the dais, appearing to stare right through us.

  My mind drifted back to the elevator, and how he’d touched me. I stabbed at the food on my plate, mixing the scrambled eggs into the potatoes. Meanwhile my husband was chowing down on his food.

  Unable to wait any longer, I took the moment before they introduced him and whispered in his ear, “I saw Mr. Haney.”

  The muscles in Malik’s face tightened, but he kept his face fixed on the audience and the television cameras that were stationed throughout. Leaning in closer to me, he asked, “When?”

  “Last night, here,” I replied, afraid to mention the closeness of our encounter.

  Reverend Shoulders was in the middle of the introduction. “At only 38 years old, Malik Skinner is not only the city’s youngest mayor ever, but also one of the most successful it’s had in generations. . . a God fearing man. . .”

  Not to draw any undue attention to us, he smiled up at the Reverend, but asked through tightened lips, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  My throat felt dry, so I paused and took a sip of orange juice. “I never had the chance. You were being interviewed, then you had to leave.”

  I must’ve been speaking too loud because Deacon Brown, who sat to my right, hunched closer to listen in on our conversation.

  “Did he approach you?”

  Now would’ve been the time to tell him at least half the truth.

  “Not really,” I lied.

  Over our conversation Reverend Shoulders continued. “Mayor Skinner has emerged as a rising star among the nation’s African-American political elite. . .”

  “Why would he come here?” Malik asked, more to himself than me.

  That wasn’t the reaction I’d been expecting. Shouldn’t he be concerned instead of so indifferent? Where was the outrage?

  I slammed my eyes shut, then squeezed my hand over his and with my voice low and shaky, I asked, “You knew he was out? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Our Mayor has revitalized this city’s infrastructure and displayed a preternatural gift for bringing business into Philadelphia and its surrounding counties. He is a proud representative of the African-American community and we are proud to present the Honorable Mayor Malik D. Skinner, with the prestigious President’s Award.”

  “We’ll talk later,” he said, then stood as the crowd thunderously applauded.

  For the first time in our marriage, my husband had kept a secret from me. Why hadn’t he told me that Haney was out? And how long had he known? Did he forget that if it hadn’t been for me, he would’ve never been able to put Haney behind bars, thereby putting himself on the fast track to the mayor’s office? Then again, if it hadn’t been for me. . . maybe a lot of things would be different.

  “Thank you, Reverend Shoulders and thank you to the Black Clergy of Philadelphia and the vicinity. . . It is an honor and a privilege to stand before this great religious body. . .”

  I barely listened as Malik spoke about what it meant to receive the award because I was fuming. What my husband didn’t know was that it was me who’d paid the biggest price. Haney had seduced me into an intensely erotic relationship that was wrought with alcohol, cocaine, and ecstasy, thereby making me a willing participant.

  “. . . My job, as your humble public servant, is to do everything in my power to make you feel safe strolling the streets of our city. . . to ensure our children are educated in a school system built to compete. . . navigate to decrease crime and to provide respectable employment for men, women, and young adults. . . in this New Year, I also ask that you pray for my administration, as they support me in guiding our city into greatness. . . because with a city of 1.5 million people,” he paused, then said, “what can we do, Philly?”

  “We can do better!” replied the now awake and enthusiastic audience.

  Smiling broadly and with his hand to his ear, Malik shouted again, “What can we do, Philly?”

  “WE CAN DO BETTER!”

  “Now folks, you know I wouldn’t be receiving this award if it weren’t for my wife, the beautiful Tiffany Johnson-Skinner, whose love, support, and God knows patience, allows me to be available wherever and whenever Philadelphia needs me. I would ask, if you’re able, that’s if you didn’t party too much last night, to tune into her TelEvent later today, and consider a donation to the Blessed Babies Wellness Center.”

  Hearing him say my name, I offered my painted smile in acknowledgement, while secretly seething, and praying that he didn’t ask me to say a few words.

  Twenty minutes later with his speech finished, he began working the room, shaking hands and promising meetings. And me? Well, I did much of the same, committing to attend various charitable events and church functions. Another twenty minutes passed and we were finally headed toward the escalator.

  When we reached the carport, two black tinted Tahoes with municipal tags awaited us. I made my way in the back seat of the first vehicle, while Malik stood outside shaking hands and wishing passersby Happy New Year.

  He leaned inside the open door and said, “I’m going to have Phinn drive you today.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Haney. I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable; Phinn will keep an eye on things.”

  Phinn Baker was second in charge of Malik’s security detail. He was a nice young white guy, but was a bodyguard really necessary?

  “Malik I don’t. . .”

  “Hold on,” he said, turning to shake the hand of a homeless woman, in which he enclosed a few dollars.

  With his attention back to me, he said, “Listen, until I speak with some people, I want to make sure you feel safe.”

  “If you’re worried, then why didn’t you tell me he was out?”

  He glanced at his watch. “When have you seen your husband worried about anything?”

  “Then why are you sending a detail?” I stated, colder than I intended.

  He slid in next to me, and closed the door. Holding my hand in his, he calmly responded, “Tiffany, please, relax; I’m doing it because this is how you’re reacting.”

  Shaking his hand loose, I told him, “Don’t patronize me, Malik, I’m not your constituent, I’m your wife!”

  “All right wife, then let your husband do his job. I promise you, he won’t be a problem.”

  One of his staffers tapped on the window.

  He kissed me on the cheek. “I love you, Tiff. We’ll talk tonight and good luck with your fundraiser.”

  If he would’ve stayed in that back seat one more second, I would’ve told him that Mr. Haney had already gotten too close.

  From the driver’s seat, Phinn asked, “Excuse me, Mrs. Skinner, are you ready?”

  “I don’t need anyone watching me.”

  “I have orders from the Mayor,” he said pulling into the Race Street traffic.

  “This is ridiculous. Take me to my sister’s restaurant, please.”

  On the ride to 18th and Walnut, I tried to think more of Kamille than myself. The only thing worse than my being involved with the Haney men, was that it was at this same time that Kamille discovered that the then-Philadelphia District Attorney, Gregory D. Haney II was her biological father. It was no secret that me, and my two siblings had been adopted, but it was Kamille who’d been obsessed with searching for her p
arents, and unfortunately, she found him. As for our younger brother, Julian, the only thing he cared about was professional baseball and women.

  The Halfway House Café located in Rittenhouse Square was a breakfast restaurant, whose normal hours were Tuesday through Sunday, one a.m. to eleven am. By it being a holiday, they’d extended their hours until two p.m. and justifiably so because the New Year’s Day crowd had a line that careened down Walnut Street.

  Not being in the mood to play First Lady, I rang Kamille’s mobile before getting out the car.

  “Sis, I know you’re busy, but I really need to talk to you,” I blurted out when she answered.

  “Happy New Year! How was the party?”

  “It was fine, but I need to talk to you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Circling the block in a city car.”

  “Come through the kitchen. I’ll meet you downstairs in my office.”

  I hung up, then said, “Phinn can you pull around back, please.”

  “Certainly.”

  Phinn eased down the narrow street, referred to as Hope Alley, lined with dumpsters, a few sleeping homeless men, and the ever-present, Halfway Hal, who lived between two recyclable bins in a cardboard tent.

  Not waiting for Phinn to extend the courtesy of opening my door, I climbed out into the trash-strewn alley and went inside.

  Entering the kitchen, I was overcome with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, mixed with the undeniable scent of pork bacon, and my growling stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten.

  Well-groomed wait-staff hurried about tending to diners, bus staff flipped tables, and three cooks yelled out orders, all while music blared from overhead speakers. Through the open kitchen, I could see into a packed dining room where New Year’s revelers ate in hopes of curing a hangover.

  Obviously it wasn’t a good time to interrupt my sister, but I didn’t have a choice.

  “Happy New Year, First Lady,” said one of the waitresses, as she passed by me with a mouth-watering tray of home fried potatoes, smothered in onions and green peppers.

  “Tiffany, what’s up?” shouted Chef Haak, the grill man, who not only wore a net on his baldhead, but one covered his Lihyah beard as well.