Woman on Top Read online

  Initially as I approached the lake, it appeared frozen; but as I got closer I could see that it was simply the way the sun laid slanted against the slow moving water. Taking a seat on a bench made out of tree bark, my eyes couldn’t seem to adjust to so much of Mother Nature; my senses were on overload.

  There were several bikers leisurely rounding the lake when suddenly I noticed a woman barreling toward me about to take a tumble, possibly into the lake. I held out my arms hoping to catch her.

  “Damn it!” the woman bemused, while toppling to the ground at my feet.

  I bent down to help her up. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, thanks, I’m fine.” She laughed. “I must be crazy to think I can still do this.”

  Her gloved hands brushed the dirt off her pants.

  “Here, let me help you with the bike.”

  “Leave it. I’m done,” she said, still down on one knee.

  “I’m Tiffany.”

  She gathered her footing. “Hi Tiffany, Max Welker. I see you’re the smart one, you’re on foot.”

  “It’s been a while since I rode a bike that actually went anywhere.”

  “First time here?”

  “How could you tell?”

  “You have that awestruck look, like how could a place be this beautiful.”

  I laughed. She was right.

  Max stood her bike upright and said, “Well I’m a regular, twice a year for the past three years.”

  “So you came by yourself, too?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Always,” she said.

  “Would you like to meet up for dinner later, unless you prefer to hang out by yourself?”

  Max’s eyes brightened when she responded with, “Dinner would be great. I hate eating alone. I do that enough at home. How’s seven?”

  “Perfect. Well, I’m going to head back. I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay, Tiffany, see you tonight and thanks again for helping me off my ass.”

  I waved goodbye and headed back down to the lodge.

  Chapter 5

  Make New Friends, but Keep the Old

  I arrived to TREE restaurant at 7:15 p.m. The room was tastefully designed, with red and green suede chairs surrounding square tables, and fortunately, not overwrought with ornate décor. I’m sure the wall of windows lent for a beautiful view during the day, but this evening the fireplace substituted as a great focal point.

  “My apologies for being late. I made the mistake of laying down after that incredible massage,” I explained to Max as the waiter pulled out my chair.

  “Not a problem. But hey, I didn’t realize earlier that you were Mrs. Skinner! I saw you on television right before I came down here. Wow!”

  “No need for formalities. Please, call me Tiffany and promise me, no political debates over dinner.”

  “You won’t get that from me, but you did once own a nightclub, correct?”

  “Yes, Teaz.”

  “That was a real upscale place; I used to go there sometimes.”

  Her compliment made me smile. “Thank you,” I said noticing she was probably my age, but simply dressed and her hair a mass of beautiful locs.

  “What happened to it?” she asked.

  “The climate in the city changed.”

  “Good evening, ladies, my name is Tim. Welcome to TREE. Is this your first time?” the waiter asked me, after giving Max a familiar smile.

  “Yes, it is.”

  Handing up menus, he continued, “If you allow me, I’ll share our specials with you for the evening.”

  Tim went through the list and Max suggested we have the steamed sugar snap peas and watermelon feta salad to start.

  “Might I suggest a bottle of the 2011 Caymus, Cabernet Sauvignon to accompany your appetizer?”

  “Sounds delicious. Will that work for you, Max?”

  “If it’s alcohol, it works.”

  Once the waiter stepped away, I said, “So tell me, do you live in Philadelphia?”

  “We live in Wyncote, right outside. What about you, you’re somewhere in South Philly right?

  “We’re in Girard Estates, but I’d love to move to the suburbs, maybe Jersey where I’m from. You know, a better school district, but don’t tell anyone I said that.”

  She giggled like we had a secret, then crossed her hands over her chest.

  “What’s good here?” I asked perusing the menu for an entrée.

  “I assure you, whatever you chose it’ll be orgasmic,” she replied.

  I put down the menu. “What line of work are you in? Wait, I can’t believe I’m asking that question. It’s such a bad habit. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I teach 11th grade math at Haverford High School. What about you? I guess you don’t work, or is that being presumptuous?”

  “I don’t have a traditional job, but being the Mayor’s wife comes with a host of responsibilities, along with my foundation and being a mother.”

  “Sounds like a job to me. Wait, I donated to your charity, Blessed Babies, right? A few weeks back, you had the television event. I missed it, but I donated through your crowdfunding page.”

  Hearing Max say that was nice because it gave me a chance to put a face to crowdfunding rather than it being donors who you never imagine meeting.

  “Thanks, Max,” I said, touching her hand, hoping not to come off as patronizing. “I really do appreciate it. You should come to the gala in June.”

  “If I can make it, I’ll do that. But I have to ask you, how’d you wind up spearheading such a difficult project?”

  As sad as the story was I never tired of telling it because it had a positive ending and I could see she was genuinely interested.

  “That’s always the question. What happened was, I was in labor with my daughter at University of Penn, and this young girl in the room next to me was having an extremely difficult labor. When I asked the nurse what was wrong, they shared with me that the mother was a crack-addict suffering from withdrawal and subsequently when her baby was born it would suffer as well. To make it worse, they told me that they’d have to administer morphine to taper the baby off the drugs. It was so sad.”

  “Well so much for HIPPA laws.”

  “Yeah, you’re right; I never thought of that.”

  “Did she leave him there? The mother?”

  “No, but after he was born, I could hear him violently screaming his poor heart out, so I asked the nurses if there was anything I could do. That night for an hour and the next night, I sat in a rocking chair in the nursery cuddling and soothing little Tej.”

  “Now that’s a check writing story.”

  “Not as much as you’d think. People don’t want to identify with it. ‘It’s not their problem’.”

  “I’m sure having your husband as Mayor helps raise funds.”

  “He tries to help, but he can only go so far without it becoming unethical. It costs so much to not only care for these children, but the hospitals aren’t equipped, and the nurses don’t have time to sit and rock every baby. So that’s how I came up with the idea of a center for them, though I didn’t quite realize what I was getting myself into.”

  “How costly is all that?”

  “We’re short about twenty-five million, which we need to be solvent and run as a non-profit for the next 10 years.”

  “Damn.”

  “The biggest challenge though is giving the babies the warmth of a body holding and cuddling them through those awful tremors. It’s hard to get people to commit to that.”

  Tim interrupted us, and placed bread on the table. Then, displaying the bottle of wine to us, he said, “Ladies, may I?” and poured for us both.

  Max held her glass up to mine and offered a toast, “To Blessed Babies.”

  “Yes, Blessed Babies.”

  “Are you ladies ready to order?”

  We placed our orders; Chilean sea bass for me, and Max ordered marinated lamb.

  “What about you Max, husband? Children?” I asked,
already noticing the beautiful diamond ring she was wearing.

  “My husband travels a lot; he’s a tractor trailer driver, which keeps Lynn on the road all the time. It also means there’s no time to make babies. But I’d love to be one of your cuddlers and I might be able to get some of my girlfriends to commit, you know, like a cuddling committee.”

  “That would be incredible.”

  “Hey, I don’t have my own baby so I might as well cuddle someone else’s,” she said, her downcast eyes giving away that she wasn’t happy about it, which made me feel bad that I’d been rambling on about children.

  Tim returned to our table, placing our appetizers and refilling our wine glasses.

  “They look delicious,” I said.

  “Let’s say grace.”

  We held hands while Max prayed over our food.

  As we ate, I shared, “I’ll tell you Max, the Mayor might as well be on the road for as much time as he spends at City Hall.”

  Resting her chin in the palm of her hand, she said, “Okay, I have to ask. Does he really do his own tweeting because I’m one of his followers?”

  “I think all 1.5 million Philadelphians follow him, but to answer your question yes, he does. He loves that stuff. Me, I haven’t tweeted or posted on Facebook in months.”

  “The kids I teach are social media junkies. They could run an entire business on Instagram alone.”

  Enjoying her upbeat personality, I smiled at her statement and asked, “How long have you been teaching?”

  “Long enough to think about retiring. But I can’t complain because I love my job and it allows me to live a comfortable life.”

  Max and I continued to talk and I had to admit, it was refreshing spending the evening with her. She was smart, quick-witted, funny and easily shared stories about her privileged students and their air of entitlement. I, in turn, told her about the pretentious and flirty women I met when attending events with Malik. The more we talked, the more we drank, and the more we laughed.

  Tim returned to our table and said, “Ladies, the Chef sent this over.”

  “Wow, nice, what is it?” Max asked him.

  “It’s from the Blackmore Farm. It’s their Garden Vegetable Ratatouille.”

  We both looked toward the kitchen at a smiling Chef.

  The other diners looked on at us, which made me realize we may have been getting a little loud but tonight I didn’t care. There were a group of women on a weekend bridal shower retreat, but mostly there were couples, which made me feel glad I’d met Max.

  “Okay, another question, I mean actually it’s an observance.”

  “Go on, what else would you like to know about the Honorable Mayor Skinner?”

  “Actually it’s you, on TV, and in interviews you look so uptight, always wearing that bun on top of your head. I mean, I remember you from the club and you definitely matured, I guess.”

  I patted the bun neatly centered on my head. “You mean more like I’m reserved and boring? I guess I’ve conformed to the honorable role of First Lady. But hey, am I boring you tonight?”

  “Not at all, I’m loving hanging out with you, Tiff. But be warned, I don’t care much for conformity, being a teacher is enough,” she said, shaking her head, her locs swinging back and forth.

  “Let’s toast,” I suggested.

  We held our glasses out, and Max said, “To new friends.”

  “Yes, new friends.”

  By the time our entrees arrived, we were halfway through our second bottle of wine and finished our ratatouille.

  Lowering my voice, I leaned in. “You know what, Max? It might be a shame to say this, but I’m glad to be away from my family, the city, and all the pretentious bullshit going on.”

  “Let it out, girl, ’cause guess what?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m glad to be away from them bad ass students,” she said, offering up another toast.

  We clicked glasses.

  “Are they really that bad?”

  “They’re bad in a different kind of way than the city kids. They think they’re smarter than you. A few years ago, I taught at West Philly High, and they’re actually the smarter ones because they work harder. The only real difference is the kids in the city carry guns, and the kids in the suburbs build bombs. And don’t tell nobody I said that.”

  We were laughing so hard that I almost didn’t feel my mobile vibrating with a call. I glanced at my watch and said to Max, “Girl, you can set your clock by my husband.”

  “Okay, I’m going to the bathroom,” Max said, giving me privacy.

  “Hi, Honey.”

  “Oh, you go away and I’m honey, I like that. You in your room?”

  “Not yet, is it that late? I’m having dinner with a friend.”

  “A friend, up there?”

  “Well, she’s a woman I met and we’re having dinner. How’d the press conference go?”

  “It was fine. Wesley stood there all stiff, then said what Cyndi wrote for him, you know the standard. ‘I’m looking forward to getting closer to the community on a daily basis. . . appreciate the opportunity.’ Then Jason spoke and that was it. It lasted 13 minutes.”

  “Do you think you and Wesley will be all right?”

  “Time will tell. But look, woman, I’m headed home. Enjoy your dinner.”

  It was close to eleven o’clock when Max and I left the empty restaurant and headed to our rooms with a slight stagger. We’d laughed until the point of soreness and I could honestly say I’d enjoyed dining with her. The plan was for us to meet for yoga at seven and then have breakfast before our Moroccan Oil manicure and pedicure.

  Entering my room, I noticed the hotel had given me turndown service. A thick bathrobe laid across the bed, along with a few devilish chocolate treats. I stepped out of my clothes and laughed while I undid my ridiculous bun, wondering if perhaps it did make me look older than my 36 years.

  Standing in front of the mirror naked, I noticed that since having Nylah not much about my body had changed. I had retained a few pounds that rounded out my ass and hips and there were two barely noticeable stretch marks on either side of my stomach. Either way Malik never complained.

  Feeling reckless, I turned out all the lights, opened the veranda doors, and stepped out into the freezing night air, for all of two minutes. I could’ve never tried anything like that at home on our backyard deck.

  Back in the room, I was getting into my robe when I heard a light tapping on the door. I ignored it, but then it came again. Figuring it was Max, without looking through the peephole, I turned the knob and flung the door open.

  “Evening, First Lady,” his voice crooned.

  “Haney, what. . . how. . .” was all I managed to say before taking too many steps backward, tripping over the table, sending the vase of flowers crashing to the floor with water spilling onto Freud’s Mistress.

  “H-How’d you get here?” I stammered, all while glancing over to where my mobile sat charging on the nightstand.

  “You need to make a call?” he asked, before stepping inside the room, and closing the door behind him.

  “How’d you get here?” I inquired again, noting that his black leather jacket and dark blue jeans, made him look much younger. Unfortunately, what I also noticed was his erection.

  “You see something you want?” he asked, his tongue peeping between his lips, indicating what I recalled him being so very good at.

  I was trying to think fast, but my thoughts were muddled from the wine, and my knees weak from the shock of seeing him. Tightening the belt on my robe, then pointing to the door I told him, “Get out of here right now, Mr., ah, Mr. Haney.”

  “Sounds like somebody had too much to drink,” he retorted, with that ridiculing laugh that had haunted me for months after he’d gone away.

  “I’m fine. Now get outta here before I call security.”

  He closed the distance between us. “I needed to see you, Tiffany,” he pulled the belt from my robe, “
like this.”

  My breathing hastened but my words were stuck. “I won’t, I swear I won’t let you do this to me again.”

  “I never did anything you didn’t want me to do, or should I say, beg me to do.”

  Immediately the scenario of our threesome at my summer house in Montauk, New York entered my mind – the way he’d forced me take that other woman, the unforgettable sweet and salty taste of her orgasm in my mouth, and the way we’d both rode him. I became flushed.

  “Oh you remember,” he said, probably seeing the carnal look on my face that I tried to hide.

  “Fuck you!”

  “As much as I’d like to,” his hands reached under my robe, pulling it from my shoulders, “I’m not going to do that, at least not yet. Believe me First Lady, if I thought that man was fucking you well, I wouldn’t be here. But I could tell by the way you tasted in that elevator, that well, you know, how do they say it, he’s not making it rain.”

  “Things are different, you can’t do this. I’m not that girl anymore,” I said, hating that I was pleading, attempting to cover myself with my robe.

  He bent over, picked a pussy willow branch from the floor, and tapped it on my chin.

  “Now tell me how are things different?” he asked, his voice condescending.

  Using the pussy willow stem, he circled one breast, then the other, hardening my nipples until they pulsated.

  “Please don’t do this, I’m begging you.” I pleaded, frozen in fear. Not of him hurting me, but simply put, of him fucking me.

  He only smiled and moved closer.

  The anxiety of his closeness was making me dizzy, so I grabbed onto the drapes for support, but fell backward into the chair.

  Bending over me, he forcibly gripped my breasts, one in each hand, and he said, “These are heavier than I remembered. From the baby, from Nylah?”

  “Don’t mention my daughter,” I said, squirming to regain my footing, but he had me blocked.

  “Your daughter? She could’ve been mine.”

  Pushing myself up, I moved around him. “You’re insane and you need to leave right now, or I’m calling security.”

  He turned me around, pinning my arms at my side, my back against his chest, and my behind against what I knew was his overgenerous hardness. I had to get away from him. I had to get out of that room.