Obsessed

by Devon Scott

Genres: African American; Suspense

Synopsis

Holding on to the one you love is the only way to survive. . . After nine fulfilling years of marriage, Michael and Kennedy are the envy of their tight circle of friends. Michael is even more passionate about his stunning, successful wife than he was when they first met, and he is everything Kennedy has ever wanted in a man. But everything changes when the couple starts getting mysterious phone calls and threatening emails. Michael and Kennedy are being stalked-and the stress has their once rock-solid marriage unraveling. Who could want to hurt Michael and Kennedy? Plenty of people, it seems. For the couple is hiding an intimate secret few people know about. . .and when it's revealed, nothing will ever be the same. . . Praise for Obsessed "This book had me on the edge of my seat. . . . If you haven't read this joint, what are you waiting on? And definitely pick up Unfaithful, another great read." -Anna J, Essence ® bestselling author "Sensual and uninhibited. . . . The suspense is intense and the characters are rich with personality." -The RAWSISTAZ Reviewers "With Devon Scott, you're guaranteed a deliciously devious must-read." -Mary B. Morrison

Release date: January 28, 2011

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 369

Sample

Zack comes into the bedroom holding a stack of Xbox 360 games. Kennedy stands in front of the bed, packing. She’s got one suitcase already full, and is placing a pair of boots into a designer bag. She glances down at him with a smirk.

“What are you doing with those?” she asks, noting that the stack is almost to his nose.

“You said I could bring my games to Jeremy’s,” her son replies, obsidian eyes wide.

Kennedy has to smile as she remembers that a seven-year-old takes everything you say literally.

“I didn’t say all of them, Zack!”

“These aren’t all of them! I left four downstairs, Mommy.” Zack pouts, as he’s fond of doing. Kennedy goes over to him and kisses his cheek, stroking his hair. Sometimes the maturity level of her son makes her pause.

“How about you pick five of your favorites? Don’t forget Jeremy has plenty of Xbox games too.”

“Ahhhh, Mom!”

Zack storms out, passing his father, who’s standing in the doorway, watching the exchange with amusement.

“Mom never lets me do what I want!” he exclaims to his dad, who just nods wretchedly.

Kennedy turns to Michael, whose arms are folded across his chest. He watches his son go down the stairs before returning his attention to the bedroom.

“He’s your son, that’s for sure,” she remarks. Michael grins.

Kennedy returns to her packing. She is tall—close to 5’ 9” and weight proportionate to her height. She wears her hair in a ponytail, slightly below her shoulders. A pair of tight-fitting Levi’s, Michael’s favorite, hugs her curves like a winding country road. Her jeans are tucked into caramel colored knee-high boots, and a light sweater tops her ensemble. Kennedy reaches for her toiletry bag and another pair of boots, these tall and black, fitting them into the designer bag. Michael shakes his head.

“You know we’re only going for away for a weekend.”

“A girl can never bring enough clothes.”

“If you say so.” Michael moves behind his wife, placing his hands on her hips. He moves in until no space separates them, wrapping an arm around her chest, feeling the flesh as he nuzzles against her neck.

“Sexy-ass,” he whispers in her ear.

Kennedy grins while pushing against him. “Don’t start nothing you can’t finish,” she says.

Michael cups her breasts in both hands, feeling their weight. He kisses her neck and chin. “Think I won’t?”

Kennedy turns and kisses him once on the lips. Then again, opening her mouth, tasting him this time. “I know you will, big daddy. Now let me finish.” Kennedy pushes him away, grinning as she witnesses him pouting. “You are your son’s father, that’s for sure.”

“You’re lucky our son is downstairs, that’s all I can say.”

“I know, baby.”

“We’re gonna finish this later. Wait until we get to the hotel.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Gonna tear it up.”

“I know you will, big daddy.”

“Gonna eat it good, too.”

“I’ll feed you myself!”

Michael grins. Kennedy stares at her husband for a moment: tall, good-looking, in shape, short hair, trimmed mustache and goatee. Dark jeans, button-down striped shirt, sleeves halfway rolled up his forearms. She resists the urge to kiss him again. Don’t start, she tells herself silently.

Michael retreats to the main level. Ten minutes go by before she comes downstairs, lugging her bags. Michael meets her at the bottom of the landing and takes them from her, placing the bags by the door. She peeks into the family room, spying Zack on the floor in front of the plasma, watching something on Nickelodeon. He’s wearing his TMNT backpack, ready to go. She goes into the dining room, grabbing her laptop from the table as Michael glides behind her, shaking his head.

“Oh no you don’t,” he says, prying the computer from her fingers.

She follows him quickly into the den. “Baby, I just need to—”

“Stop,” he says, spinning around, finger to his lips. “This weekend is a getaway. Get-a-way. No laptops. Those are the rules.” He puts the laptop down on the desk and powers down the desktop computer and monitor.

“But I have to finish this brief—”

“Stop.” Michael holds up his hand. “You are not the only attorney in this house. Nevertheless, there will be no briefs or work of any kind this weekend. Understand?”

“Are we ready to go yet?” Zack is behind them, glancing curiously at his digital watch before eyeing his parents.

Michael smirks. “As a matter of fact, we are. Go get in the car.”

“Cool! I’m calling Jeremy.” Zack digs into the lower pockets of his cargo pants and pulls out a cell phone. It’s one of those designed especially for kids, featuring a chaperone feature that lets adults see where their children are. He flips it open expertly, speed-dialing Jeremy as he saunters away. Michael shakes his head before returning his attention to his wife, who has managed to place the laptop behind her back.

“You are not slick,” Michael says. “Don’t make me kick your ass. Now, put the laptop down so no one gets hurt.”

Kennedy sighs heavily while grabbing her leather jacket and heading for the door.

“I call shotgun!” Zack squeals.

“Boy, if you don’t get in your car seat,” Kennedy exclaims.

They stand outside their stone, three-level, one-garage townhouse located on Taylor Street in Northeast D.C. The street is tree-lined and quiet. All of the rowhouses, as they’re called in the District, are stone, some the color of dark mud, others the reddish brown hue of autumn or the dull gray of slate. All are well-kept, with small, manicured bushes and shrubs. Michael and Kennedy bought this home shortly after they were married seven years ago. They were looking for something they could stretch out in and raise a family. The location is decent, as far as the city goes—quiet, Metro-accessible, a short drive from the private school that Zack attends and the downtown association where Kennedy works as a lawyer. Michael, who is also an attorney but works instead for a government agency, can make the short drive downtown as well or take Metro.

Their luggage—Michael’s garment bag, Kennedy’s two suitcases, and Zack’s gym bag and his backpack—is sequestered in the back of Michael’s Range Rover. Kennedy’s BMW is tucked in the garage. Michael jumps in the front seat and starts the engine as Kennedy supervises Zack buckling in. Once everyone is set, they take off.

The drive to Jeremy’s home, north of Children’s Hospital and Catholic University, takes about ten minutes. Michael double-parks on the narrow street. Then Kennedy gets Zack to the sidewalk. He quickly hugs her and races up the steps to the door, ringing the bell as his father gets out, leaving the engine running.

“Hey, can I get a hug or something?” he yells to his seven-year-old son.

“Oh, yeah. Sure, Dad.” Zack races down, backpack bobbing against his thin shoulders. Arms reach up around his father’s neck and hug him. “Buy me something in New York, PLEASE?”

“Is that all I’m good for? Lord!” Michael grins as Zack heads back up the stairs.

Jeremy yanks open the door and the two boys high-five each other before dashing inside. Jeremy’s mom, Lori, comes outside, a good-looking thirty-something woman of color, dressed comfortably in sweats and running shoes. She waves at Michael as Kennedy climbs the steps. They meet halfway.

“Hey, girl,” Kennedy says, embracing Lori. “Thank you so much for taking Zack this weekend.”

“You know it’s not a problem,” Lori says. “We’re going to have a great time. I’m taking the boys to the movies tonight, and we’ve got plenty of things to keep them occupied all weekend.”

“That’s great. Zack’s been talking about this sleepover all week.”

“Jeremy, too. You guys have fun. Don’t worry about a thing—I’ve got your number if we need to reach you,” Lori says before dropping her voice down a notch. “Wish I was going away with my husband. You need to have enough fun for both of us, you hear me?” She winks at Kennedy. Kennedy grins back.

The ride to Union Station takes less than fifteen minutes. Michael parks on the upper level, and together they lug their bags into the Amtrak station. They have a three PM reservation on the Acela Express and a half hour to spare before the train departs. Check-in is a breeze. They retrieve their boarding passes from an automated kiosk and grab a Caramel Frappuccino and a Danish from the Starbucks across from the waiting area. They take adjoining seats close to their gate and collectively breathe a sigh of relief.

“The vacation begins,” Kennedy says, placing a hand on Michael’s lap and leaning in until their foreheads touch.

“Love you, baby,” Michael responds, taking her head in his hands as he kisses her lips gingerly. Kennedy, for a moment, loses herself in the closeness of her husband, loving the feeling as she always does of her tongue on his. She opens her mouth wider, inviting him in, then pulls back, suddenly aware of her surroundings.

“Love you more,” Kennedy remarks back in breathless anticipation of things to come.

Their train rushes along, past buildings, warehouses, and backyards. Trees fly by as Michael glances out the window. Kennedy sits across from him, Amtrak-issued blue blanket draped over her lap, no one beside either of them. The ride is comforting, the train rocking slightly back and forth as it hurtles north toward Wilmington, Philly, Newark, and their destination, New York City.

The car is not at all crowded. Michael thought every seat would’ve been taken, seeing how today is Friday afternoon. But the travel gods are watching over them. Kennedy sits with her legs crossed, foot tapping to a beat on her iPod that only she can hear. In her hand is her trusted BlackBerry Pearl, which she is never far from. Head down, her fingers peck incessantly over the tiny keyboard—type, pause, type, repeat.

Michael has brought several magazines to read. They lie untouched on the seat beside him. The motion of the train is therapeutic, making him groggy. He’s got the rest of the trip and weekend to flip through the pages, so he lays his head back on the cushion and closes his eyes. He drifts off only to be awakened by a vibration on his hip from his cell phone. Opening his eyes, he observes the expanse of water as the train passes over a low bridge. The effect is that they are gliding over the water, traveling via hovercraft or low-flying helicopter. Michael reaches for his own BlackBerry as he stares at the scene before him for a moment more. It is peaceful and serene.

Back to the vibrating BlackBerry . . .

He owns a silver Curve.

His wife, a black Pearl.

Michael checks the oversized screen. An IM message. He open it and has to smile. It’s from a woman.

The woman sitting across from him.

He glances up. Kennedy’s head is down, but she raises it momentarily. Their eyes meet; she smiles seductively, then lowers her head, fingers never leaving the keyboard. He responds.

This time Kennedy doesn’t look up. She’s busy replying, foot continuing to tap as her iPod whirls away.

Michael makes eye contact with Kennedy. He raises his eyebrow as if to say, “Yeah? Go on. . . .”

Head drops back down, and she types and sends.

Michael grins. His fingers go to the keys, composing a response.

When Kennedy is concentrating on something, she inadvertently taps her tongue against her teeth. Michael observes her doing this now, and he finds it incredibly sexy.

Michael looks up into the eyes of his wife. She’s staring at him, eyes unblinking, her smile driving him wild. Michael cocks his head to the side and opens his mouth to speak.

“Right now?” he asks, his voice low.

Kennedy slowly removes the earbuds and shuts off the iPod. She leans forward.

“Find out.”

Michael leans back and sighs. “Damn,” he whispers. He fingers the Curve, typing a response.

Their stares lock once again.

Kennedy uncrosses her legs and stands, moving Michael’s pile of magazines in order to sit beside him. She re-drapes the blanket over both of them. She nuzzles close to him, her hand slowly gliding up his thigh. Her head is facing him and the window, lips dangerously close to his ear.

She whispers, “Will you fuck me later?”

Michael’s breathing spikes. His eyes scan over the other passengers, but they are lost in their own reveries.

“Yes, baby.”

Her hand creeps upward, dropping to his inner thigh. Fingers splayed, feeling the rise as he hardens.

“And eat me?” The words are puffs of air against his ear.

“You know I will. Love tasting you . . .”

Her fingers are on him, finding the outline of his manhood and massaging it. She squeezes his dick, feeling it grow between her fingers. Michael licks his lips and leans back farther as Kennedy unzips his jeans. She catches his stare and smiles—that seductive smile that drives him insane.

A moment later Kennedy’s hand is massaging his cock through his boxer shorts. He’s fully hard now, and Kennedy clutches him in her hand, the fabric and her fingers constraining him. She slips her fingers beneath the boxer shorts and is rewarded with the fullness of him. Fully engorged. Her fingers wrap around his girth and squeeze as she nibbles on his neck. Her lips graze his earlobe, tugging on it playfully.

“I love that you’re so big. . . .”

Michael turns his head to her.

“You make it that way, Ken.”

Kennedy begins a slow stroke, taking her time but maintaining pressure as she jerks him.

“I want you in me.”

“Does Amtrak have the equivalent of a mile-high club?” Michael asks playfully.

“I wish.”

Kennedy glances around at the other passengers. There is no one occupying the seats directly across the aisle from them. She glances back at her husband momentarily before lowering her head, pushing the blanket down in the process. Michael’s eyes grow wide. Her mouth consumes him in an instant. Kennedy takes him deep and fast into her throat. Several up and down strokes of his hard dick in her hot mouth, her hand providing the friction, before she sits up, covering him quickly with the blanket.

Michael is speechless.

Kennedy kisses him on the mouth passionately while giving his cock a final tug. Then she places it back inside the confines of his underwear. The entire deed lasted less than five seconds, but it was exquisite in its approach and execution.

“Always wanted to do that,” she says with a gleam of longing in her eyes.

The bellman finishes depositing Michael and Kennedy’s bags in their hotel room and gives them a quick tour. King-size bed, room done up in shades of purple and red, eclectic photographs on the wall, an oversized chaise lounge made of comfortable upholstery. In the bathroom, an enclosed-glass shower stall for two and a separate Jacuzzi spa that’s big enough for the both of them. Michael palms the bellman a ten-spot and closes the door. Kennedy rushes to him and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him close and offering up her tongue, which he readily takes.

“I LOVE it!”

“Me, too,” Michael responds.

“This view ... ,” she says, going to the window. They are on the fifty-first floor, facing west. The Hudson River shimmers in the distance. It is dusk, and lights in the neighboring skyscrapers are beginning to blink on. They linger at the window for a moment admiring the picturesque view as Michael stands behind his wife, holding her waist. They remain that way for a moment before Kennedy turns to Michael and says with a grin, “I’m starving.”

They find a restaurant within walking distance of their hotel in the Theater District, an Italian spot with plenty of atmosphere that serves generous portions, family style. Their entrees: veal parmigiana and clams in red linguine sauce. They share a very good bottle of Pinot Grigio between them while waiting for the food.

Michael, much to Kennedy’s contentment, sits not across but beside her in a cozy booth. While sipping their Pi not, Kennedy and Michael recount the ups and downs of their week. Their rule—they are allowed to spend no more than an hour bitching about their respective jobs. The rest of the time is to be spent on positive rhetoric. Not that either of them focuses on the negative. Their jobs are fulfilling, and for the most part they have bosses who are supportive and coworkers who are pleasant to be around. They chat about Zack and his school and friends, their family, and each other.

Once the veal and clams arrive, Michael has Kennedy laughing about one of his friends/coworkers. Marc is a senior attorney at Michael’s agency. He’s white and a few years shy of retirement. The Sean Connery look-alike is comical—he’s constantly hitting on the young interns and associates. He likes them young, fresh out of college. Anything older than twenty-two or twenty-three won’t do.

“The guy is slick,” Michael exclaims while forking a sliver of veal into Kennedy’s mouth. “He knows the boundaries with respect to his job. So as to not seem like he’s harassing these women, he attempts to hire them as his personal dog walkers for his two German shepherds.”

“I don’t like him,” Kennedy says.

“I know you don’t,” Michael replies, laughing. “But you have to give him credit—he is relentless—and it seems like every other week he’s getting one of the nubile young things over to his Georgetown condo under the guise of getting to know his dogs.”

“Nubile young things? Michael, if I didn’t know any better I would think you actually admire him,” Kennedy says.

“Ken, I admire his perseverance. The guy doesn’t give up, even though he’s not getting any!”

Kennedy’s turn.

She has a coworker, a paralegal named Jacqueline. Jackie, as she’s called, is dating this uptight dentist named Freddy. Michael remembers meeting them at an office function earlier this year. The dentist said all of two words the entire evening.

“Jackie went down south with him for his homecoming last weekend,” Kennedy explains. “While there she happened to check his phone and saw all of these text messages from other women.”

“She just happened to check his phone?” Michael asked.

“I didn’t get into all that.”

“Okay . . .”

“Anyway, she finds these messages, and they were definitely inappropriate for him to be having with anyone who was not his girlfriend.”

“Like?”

“Like ‘I made it safely, baby’ and ‘Missing you and what you did to me last week.’ ”

“Ouch.” Michael takes a sip of the Pinot and forks some of Kennedy’s clams into his mouth.

“So, get this. Freddy is sleeping when she’s doing all this. She goes into the hallway and calls these women on his phone. Two answer. She asks who the fuck these bitches are and what they have to do with Freddy.”

“Oh boy. Shit hits the fan,” Michael says.

“Sure does. One woman tells her outright, ‘I was dating him, but he tried to fuck me without a condom, and I wasn’t having that!’ ”

“You’re kidding? He should know better,” Michael exclaims.

“I know. The other woman says that she is Freddy’s cousin.”

“What? Just how gullible is your friend?”

Kennedy laughs. “Jackie confronts Freddy—she wakes his black ass up, and guess what he says?”

“I can’t even imagine how the good dentist handles this one.”

“He says, ‘I can’t believe you went through my phone without asking!’ ” Kennedy laughs some more as she pauses to enjoy her food. She has a touch of red sauce on her bottom lip, so Michael takes his napkin and dabs at the spot.

“Typical male response,” Michael says. “Deflect the conversation away from the real issue.”

“Exactly. What’s truly sad is that she started to doubt herself.”

“Hold up. I’m sure she pressed him about what the woman had said regarding not using a condom. I mean, how can he not address that?” Michael asks.

“Well, Freddy managed to do exactly that. He refused to speak to her, and the next day went to a football game without her.”

“She’s an idiot,” Michael exclaims. “Freddy treats her like shit because he can. Because she lets him.”

“True. The whole thing sickened me to hear. It made me realize how lucky I am to have what we have.” Kennedy leans in and kisses Michael on the cheek. “I’m blessed to have you in my life, Michael,” she says.

Michael glances her way and smiles.

“Does this mean I’m getting some tonight?”

Kennedy groans while rolling her eyes.

“You could fuck up a wet dream, you know that?”

After coffee, no dessert, they walk back to the hotel hand in hand. When they are inside their room, Michael throws off his running shoes and opens the drapes wide so that the splendor of Manhattan at night invades their window. He climbs onto the bed as Kennedy begins to undress.

“I guess we should start getting ready,” Kennedy says.

“Good idea. Ladies first.”

Kennedy retreats to the bathroom and closes the door. Michael reaches for his BlackBerry Curve and checks e-mails and voice mails. Afterward he presses a few keys, enabling the Chaperone feature on his phone to locate his son.

A few moments later an address displays on the screen.

A District of Columbia address.

Jeremy’s house.

Technology is a godsend.

He wonders what Zack is doing right now. Undoubtedly huddled in front of Jeremy’s Xbox 360 playing Test Drive Unlimited, Top Spin 2, Amped 3, or Call of Duty 2 (his favorite).

Michael lays his head back and naps.

Kennedy makes a grand entrance close to an hour later. What Michael sees takes his breath away.

“My goodness . . .”

She stands before him, her hourglass-shaped body clad in a formfitting little black minidress that stops at the tops of her thighs. A plunging V neckline is open to right above her navel. Less than half of each breast is confined by fabric; the rest of her smooth, lovely flesh is on display. Black, shiny, needle-heeled boots end slightly above her knees. Her hair, flat-ironed straight down her back, is flawless. A pair of diamond-drop earrings in 14K white gold is her only jewelry. Her makeup looks professionally applied. Michael is speechless. He goes to her slowly, marveling at her as if she’s an apparition, reaching out to touch her, inhaling a scent of heavenly perfume.

An hour ago his wife was standing before him. Now this creature has emerged, something else. Something brand new to consider. A vixen. A siren. A dream.

Michael is inches from her face. His heart is pounding, and he is growing hard. He focuses in on the raisin-and-champagne-blended eye shadow. The red Bordeaux lip gloss. He resists the urge to lick her lips and taste her. Consume her right here and now. He is that hungry.

“Who are you?” he asks dubiously, in breathless anticipation.

And she responds, “My name is Celestial, and I’m your deepest, darkest fantasy come true.”

The taxi drops them off on a quiet street on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, East Seventy-fifth Street, to be exact, a block away from Fifth Avenue, which lines Ce. . .