Exposed:

by Anna J. Forrest

Genres: African American; African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

It has been said that in a marriage you only get eighty percent of what you need. When the other twenty percent is too tempting to turn down, do you decide to go with your family life, or do you take advantage of a once in a lifetime opportunity? Simone, Te'Nae, and Shay are picture perfect wives and career women. Although they're able to juggle prestigious jobs, motherhood, and wifely duties with ease, they share a dark secret that, if exposed, could ruin everything they've worked hard to maintain. They will only get one chance to figure out if their families and marriages are worth more than the risks they're taking. They better hope they make the right decision, because once good wives go bad, there is no turning back, and the consequences can be major.

Release date: September 24, 2013

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Does he threaten to hurt you, your kids, or a family pet? Does he make you ask for money? Does he threaten to harm himself if you try to leave? Does he make you stay in the house until he gets home? Does he treat you like a child?

“Bitch, why do you make me act like this? Why do you always have to do something stupid?” My rage-filled husband showered questions down on me one behind the other, but I was unable to answer him.

Whap! A closed fist connected with my right eye, making me see stars. This had been going on for what felt like the past twenty minutes, and I just wanted it to stop. I wasn’t even sure what I did this time, and I couldn’t curl up any tighter in this corner than I already was. My nose was bleeding from the impact of him slamming my face into the wall moments earlier, and a patch of my hair was lying next to me on the floor.

Does he go into drunken fits? Does he blame you for his indiscretions? Does he promise to stop the violence only to do it again? Does he beat you in front of your children? Is he different around family members?

“How many times do I have to tell you that I run this shit? This is my muthafuckin’ castle! I only allow you to live because I’m a nice person. . . .”

Crack! A size thirteen Timberland boot came crashing down on my rib cage; the pain was unbearable. He rained blows down on me like I was a stranger . . . like we hadn’t spent most of our lives together. The room was getting black, and I was almost certain I was on my way out of here. If I can just get to my pocketbook I can fix this....

Does he hold you hostage? Does he threaten to end his life? Does he promise to get help? Does he abuse you then want to have sex? Does he make you look like you’re the one with the problem? We’ll keep asking until the violence stops....

“You better not die on me, bitch, you hear me? I’m sorry I had to do this to you. You just get me so jealous sometimes. Come on, baby. Let me help you up.”

As I struggled to get up from the floor I saw the remnants of what used to be an abuse hotline packet. A nurse slipped it to me while I was in the emergency room a few weeks ago trying to explain how I broke my arm. Being a Philadelphia police officer gave me an excuse as to what happened, but the nurse wasn’t buying what my husband was trying to sell her. When she asked me what happened I opened my mouth to tell her the lie I already had formulated in my head, hoping it wasn’t one I had already used, but my husband of ten long years spoke before I did.

“She doesn’t speak English.”

Of course the nurse looked at me like she didn’t believe him, but I was wise enough to keep my damn mouth shut. Hell, keeping my mouth shut would have been wiser to do an hour before and maybe my ass wouldn’t have ended up in the emergency room of the University of Pennsylvania hospital at three in the damn morning when I had to get up for work in a few hours. I guessed I’d be using another one of those sick days the police force was kind enough to give me.

I wasn’t really sure when it all began, but tonight like so many other nights felt like déjà vu. I thought everything was going well. We were at a mutual friend’s house celebrating four years of marriage and a newborn child. I found myself gazing at the child absently, rubbing my hand across my stomach. Darius and I tried four times to conceive, and each time it ended in a miscarriage.

My doctor said that my stress level was way too high to carry a child, and that was part of the reason why my pregnancy was terminated early time and time again. We agreed it was the stress of the job, but I knew that wasn’t the only reason. Of course Darius blamed me, and he was right. I was stressed, but in a situation like mine who wouldn’t be?

Getting sick of hearing about how happy my friends were, and having to fake my own happiness, I got up to grab a cup of punch from off the table. Both me and my friend Michelle were on the police force; her husband was a cop also. Michelle and I went through boot camp together, and became fast friends. She met her husband on the force and I met mine in a damn club.

As a result of our occupation a lot of our coworkers were in attendance for the festivities. I had to pretend like I was happy because I didn’t need them in my business asking questions. I couldn’t even confide in Michelle because I was scared she would say something.

While standing at the table I got lost in thought remembering the times when we used to be happy like this. Before the first black eye he gave me, and the first lie I had to tell about how I got it. Before the first time he punched me like I was a man out in the street, and the first promise I got that it wouldn’t happen again if I stayed. Before the first child was lost, and I wasn’t even comforted, just beat near death because it made him look like less of a man to his friends in his eyes. Before I had to fix the problem; before I became nonexistent.

“See something you like?” Darius spoke low into my ear, sneaking up on me from behind. He had a tight grip on my already-sore waistline from the beating I endured last week, but I kept a straight face. Nobody could really know what was going on.

“What are you talking about? I’m just having a glass of punch,” I whispered back, smiling as a few coworkers walked by so they wouldn’t suspect my obvious discomfort.

“You’ve been standing here staring at dude for the past two minutes. Do you want that nigga?”

“Darius, I wasn’t even looking his way. I was standing here thinking about what I would do for you for our anniversary,” I quickly lied to try to take some of the heat off the subject. There was a time when I could calculate whether I would be getting dealt with later, but lately I could hardly pinpoint it. It was like I was dealing with a monster.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“But, Darius, I was only—”

“Shut up. Know that’s your ass when we get home.”

He gave me a hard pinch that was sure to leave another bruise on my already-sore lower back before he walked away to engage in a loud conversation with some of the other guys at the party. My hand began to shake slightly, and I set my glass down so no one would notice. He only had about nine drinks so I was hoping he would have a few more. Maybe he would pass out and forget once we got home. I thought for sure if he gave me the chance I could fuck him to sleep, and we would be on somewhat good terms again.

Taking a seat on the couch, I pretended like I was into the conversation the women were having around me, laughing at the appropriate time, and crying on the inside because I was nearing my breaking point. I can’t deal with this anymore.

When she tried to pass me her baby I denied it, faking like I couldn’t handle holding a child, and to some point that statement was true. I couldn’t handle holding her bundle of joy knowing I would probably never have the chance to hold my own. I saw Darius watching me from the other side of the room, and I didn’t want to give him any more reasons to swing on me later, so I cradled the child to my chest and smiled.

Much too soon the party was over and we wished the happy couple well, accompanied by fake smiles and rushed conversation on his part as we walked down the semi-dark street to our car. Well, my car actually, but I didn’t want to argue the point. My coworkers thought it was romantic that he dropped me off and came to pick me up from work every day, but that wasn’t by choice. Those were the rules so that he would know I wasn’t seeing anyone else.

I was quiet on the ride home, and I silently hoped the rest of the night would be the same. He sang along with the radio every so often if a song he liked came on as we made our way across town. He seemed genuinely happy as we recapped some events from the party here and there while we waited for a light to change, and I thought for four seconds that maybe God actually heard me this time and I was off the hook tonight.

When we pulled up to the garage I waited until the car was at a complete stop and I counted to ten in my head to make sure he was done parking the car before I moved to take my seat belt off. Before I could look for the key to the door he grabbed me by the bottom half of my face and whipped my head around to face him. The grip he had on my face was so tight I knew for sure if I had a glass jaw it would be broken right now. I didn’t dare blink an eye or let a tear drop because he fed off of that, and tonight I couldn’t handle it anymore.

“So you like looking at other niggas, huh?” he asked me through drunken eyelids, not really wanting an answer. I couldn’t answer if I wanted to because of the grip he had on my jaw, and I was barely breathing as it was.

I looked him straight in the eye waiting to see what he would do next. With his free hand he unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick, stroking it into an erection while never taking his eyes from mine. Lord, I just want it all to end . . . please.

“If I don’t cum in five minutes that’s your ass,” he said before forcing my mouth toward his erection. A part of me wanted to bite the bitch off and spit it in his face, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to get out of the car fast enough to save my life so I obliged. Sucking his dick like he was paying me for it, and hoping that it would be enough to get me out of an ass whipping for tonight, I put in work like my life depended on it. In all actuality it did.

Up and down, around and back down again, I worked him until two and a half minutes into it I was swallowing his thick cum down my throat and making sure to lick up any excess that may have dripped from the corner of my mouth. He had a tight grip on the back of my neck, and even though I was done I had to wait until it was okay for me to move before I did so. I didn’t feel like his fist caressing my face in the driveway this evening.

After an additional two and a half minutes he let me sit up, and I waited until he got himself together before I reached for my pocketbook. Feeling inside for the house keys while I waited for him to come around and open my door, my fingertips ran across the butt of my nickel-plated .22 and the pamphlet the nurse gave me at the emergency room with numbers for help when I was ready. It was no bigger than an ATM card, and fit right in the side pocket of my Dooney & Bourke bag. I just wasn’t sure which I was ready to use yet: the hotline number for abused women, or a nice shiny bullet from my gun.

He finally opened my door for me, because I wouldn’t dare open that shit myself and not allow him to be a man. The last time I did that the end result was my arm being slammed in the doorjamb repeatedly until it broke in two places, and us having to take a trip over to Fitzgerald Mercy hospital because we had already been to Lankenau twice that month.

I got out and hurried to open the door so that I could run upstairs before he had a chance to swing on me. I got into the house unscathed, and set my pocketbook on the kitchen counter, not really worried because my gun was hidden in a compartment beneath the material in the bottom of my overfilled bag. If I was smart I would’ve taken the bag upstairs with me, but I didn’t think he would look in it for anything.

I ran upstairs to the room and slipped into a nightie, being sure to take my panties off because he wanted easy access at all times and didn’t want to have to fight through no drawers to get what belonged to him. I lay down in the bed to wait for him to tell me I could go to sleep.

Ten minutes had passed and my eyelids were getting heavy. I figured I could close my eyes for a split second because I would be able to hear him coming down the hall. That dude must have been wearing clouds for shoes because the next time I saw him he was snatching me out the bed by my ponytail and dragging me across the room. I wanted to scream but that would just make it worse. That didn’t stop the tears coming from my eyes as I asked him over and over again, “What did I do?”

Does he embarrass you in front of friends and family? Does he control your every move? Does he make all of the decisions for the household, not giving you any say? Does he hit you? Does he prevent you from going out alone?

“So you’re in an abusive relationship, huh? My love ain’t enough for you, Simone? What you gonna do? Leave me now?”

“Darius, please let me go. What are you talking about? I’m not going to leave you, baby,” I said, trying to make sense of the situation. He definitely caught me slipping on this one because had I stayed up a second longer I would have been more prepared to duck his advances toward me.

“You’re not leaving me? Then what’s this, huh? What the fuck is this?” he asked, holding up the small pamphlet that I thought I hid in my pocketbook from the hospital.

I couldn’t come up with a lie fast enough before he was all over me, kicking and punching me like a madman, and all I could do was ball up in the corner and try to cover my face. If only I could get to my pocketbook I could fix this. . . .

Does he hit you? Does he promise to get help? Does he embarrass you in front of family and friends? Does he go into drunken fits? Does he isolate you from your loved ones? Does he intimidate you with weapons? Does he give you a curfew? We’ll keep asking until the violence stops....

I woke up the next morning feeling like I got into a fight with Mike Tyson. My head was pounding, and there was a constant ringing in my left ear that I couldn’t shake. I wanted to open both eyes, but my right one was swollen shut. Chancing a glance with my one functioning eye, I glanced around the room to determine my next move. From my prone position the scan of my surroundings first landed on the patch of hair that he ripped from my scalp mere hours before. There was blood splattered on the wall from, I was sure, my busted lip and nose, which I wasn’t quite sure was broken. The pamphlet that caused all of the drama lay on the floor in a million tiny pieces along with my ripped nightgown and one slipper. Lord only knows where the mate may be.

I closed my one good eye and listened to my surroundings. I didn’t hear any heavy breathing next to me, so that meant that Darius had already gotten up and started his day. By now, I was sure, he had already called the precinct to inform them that I wasn’t feeling too good, and would be taking the next few days off. There was a bubble bath ready where he would try to wash the bruises away; and a semi-hot breakfast would be waiting for me in the kitchen on the table decorated with fresh tiger lilies and the morning paper. A cushion would be in my chair because it would be too painful for my sore rear to make direct contact with the cherry wood of my kitchen furniture.

Today we would go shopping after he carefully positioned my sore body into a sweat suit because anything else would press against me and be uncomfortable. He would stand off to the side as I applied makeup, afterward carefully inspecting my face to make sure I’d covered any telltale signs of a fight. He couldn’t have people staring at my bruised face and knowing our business, after all. He would remind me to grab my sunglasses, and we would be off for the day pretending like we were happy, perpetrating a fraud for the world to see.

This was routine, and to be expected. Darius never changed, and it was almost like I knew what would happen next before he did. Why I never used this intuition to my advantage I’d never know. It was a tiring routine nonetheless, and unhealthy on top of all that. Maybe today I could actually talk him into getting some help, but I would just have to see how the day went. Darius was pretty predictable, but he was just as unpredictable and his mood could swing to the left at a moment’s notice. I’d see how the day went, but know that my hopes weren’t set high for a positive outcome. I could never get too hype about shit with Darius because you just never really knew how things would turn out with him.

I could only hope that God finally granted my prayers, and my day would be totally different. Today would be the day I got out of the bed and I would see the hair in the corner, the blood on the wall, and my tattered belongings. I would swing my sore body around to the side of the bed, and drag my naked body to the bathroom. Upon looking in the mirror I would be instantly reminded of how Tina Turner looked in What’s Love Got to Do with It, but my face would be worse off than hers was after the limo scene. I would shrug my sore body into my bathrobe and make my way down to the kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee got stronger as I approached.

I would walk into the kitchen and see Darius’s body slumped over at the kitchen table, with a pool of dark blood dripping from the table and collecting on the floor from the self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head with my .22 in his co. . .