Hittin' It Out the Park Page 10

  “As usual, you’re right, Cheryl,” Mila conceded, and then ended the conversation by asking Cheryl what she planned on wearing to the next home game. “Being a former fashion model, I know you won’t be wearing jeans and a Yankees shirt.”

  “No, I won’t,” Cheryl said with a chuckle. “I haven’t decided yet, but whatever I wear will be couture-casual. I won’t be sitting behind home plate with the other wives next week. Jeff Roberts invited me to sit in his sky box, and since this will be my first time having such choice seating, I plan to make a good impression.”

  “Mr. Roberts never invited me to join him and his hoity-toity friends in his skybox,” Mila said in a pouty tone.

  “What can I say? It’s one of the perks of being married to Randy Alston. Maybe you’ll get invited next time,” Cheryl pacified.

  Sexy was suddenly livid. Why hadn’t she been invited to the owner’s luxury box? She looked just as good, if not better than Cheryl Alston, and the owner should have been honored to have her gracing his stupid skybox.

  Fuck this charity walk. I’m going back to the hotel to make an important phone call. If Yusef wants to marry me, he’d better figure out a way to get me in that damn skybox.

  * * *

  In Jeff Roberts’ skybox at Yankee Stadium, Sexy exited the private restroom right in time to see Cheryl’s arrival. Lingering near the restroom, she observed Cheryl with a scowl. Cheryl was overdressed in a whimsical white, embroidery and lace, calf-length dress, a wide-brim straw hat, and large sunglasses. The bitch was such a flamboyant diva. She was at a baseball game, for Christ’s sake, not a semiformal event.

  The scowl on Sexy’s face deepened as she observed Jeff Roberts greeting Cheryl with a warm embrace and then introducing her to several surgically altered, cat-faced wives of team executives. The gratuitous way he was acting, one would have thought that Cheryl was the Queen of Sheba.

  With one of the Botox-injected old crones at her side, Cheryl gave a big, fake smile as she accepted a mimosa and a lobster puff from the wait staff. Sexy could see right through Cheryl’s façade. The devious, gold-digging bitch is probably plotting on how she can trade up from Randy and get her greedy hooks into the owner of the team, Sexy mused cynically.

  Deciding it was time to make herself visible, Sexy emerged from the shadows with a sultry strut. Her slinky sauntering would put Naomi Campbell to shame. Her entrance was so spectacular, she turned every head in the skybox. Sexy got a kick out of observing Cheryl’s smug smile vanish from her face when she spotted Sexy heading in her direction.

  Wearing tiny, cut-off shorts, a tank, and stilettos, Sexy took long, runway-model strides while sensually swiveling her hips.

  “I’d die for those toned legs,” Sexy overheard the corporate wife say to Cheryl.

  I bet you would, Sexy thought with a little laugh. Unfortunately, your plastic surgeon can’t manufacture these legs!

  With her lips screwed up, Cheryl was obviously too pissed to comment. She guzzled down her mimosa and beckoned the server to bring her another.

  Adding insult to injury, Sexy sidled up to Cheryl. “So nice to see you,” Sexy said with a smirk.

  “Let’s get something straight.” Cheryl spoke through clenched teeth. “We are not and will never be friends, so please dispense with your twisted version of pleasant small talk.”

  “Excuse me, I had no idea you were such a mean drunk. Maybe you should water down your next drink and hopefully improve your mood. It’s simply a suggestion,” Sexy said with a one-shoulder shrug.

  “I’m not drunk and I don’t need your asinine suggestions.” Giving a huge sigh, Cheryl excused herself and walked over to one of Jeff Roberts’ other guests, a film producer who had expressed a desire to cover Randy, Yusef, and a few other Yankee players in a sports documentary.

  “Hello, Mrs. Alston,” the producer greeted.

  Before Cheryl could return the greeting, Sexy made a beeline to Cheryl and the producer. “How are you, Mr. Producer,” Sexy interjected, unknowing and uncaring of the man’s name.

  The producer’s eyes immediately danced away from Cheryl and settled on Sexy.

  Almost trampling Cheryl’s feet in an effort to get to Sexy, he extended a hand as he introduced himself. “My name is Hal Stevenson. I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, blushing boyishly.

  “Sexy Sanchez. Nice to meet you.” Sexy poured on the slut factor, batting her eyes and practically writhing, as if in heat.

  “Can I get you a drink, Sexy?” Hal asked with a dopey expression that prompted Cheryl to roll her eyes.

  “Sure. But I don’t want that mimosa-shit they’re serving. I want something stronger—like a Bone Crusher.”

  “Okay, whatever that is.” Hal assumed his dopey expression once again, and Sexy wasn’t surprised. She’d always had a strong effect on men.

  “The bartender should know how to make it,” Sexy said, giving Hal a playful wink. The poor sap seemed so eager to please, Sexy wouldn’t have been surprised if he went behind the bar and tried to whip up the drink himself.

  Sexy graced Cheryl with a glowing smile, but Cheryl turned her mouth down in disgust. “You interrupted an important conversation. There’s nothing cute about your crude behavior, little girl,” Cheryl said scornfully. “You need to learn some manners before you try to hang with a distinguished crowd like this.”

  “I didn’t hear that producer dude voicing any complaints about my lack of etiquette. In fact, he broke his neck to cater to my desires . . . exactly the way your husband does whenever he’s in my presence.”

  Cheryl let out a gasp and her face flushed. “My husband has never been in your presence except when you rudely inserted yourself into our conversation at his surprise birthday party.”

  “Is that what he told you?” Sexy shook her head pityingly. “Oh, you poor, naïve woman. Randy and I have been together a bunch of times, and if you can get past Randy’s country-bumpkin ways, he’s really sexy and a lot of fun.”

  “Keep my husband’s name out of your trampy mouth,” Cheryl hissed, carefully monitoring the pitch of her voice.

  “What you need to be worrying about is how you’re gonna keep your husband’s face from between my legs.”

  Cheryl’s mouth fell open, and then she quickly recovered. “Believe me, if my husband went after another woman, it wouldn’t be the likes of you.” She looked Sexy up and down sneeringly, her disapproving eyes lingering on the young woman’s cut-off shorts.

  Sexy laughed tauntingly and ran her hands over her curvaceous body. “Yo, ma, I don’t blame you for being upset about the way your man has been trying to get up on this—begging me to let him smash.” Sexy’s words and the defiant way she planted a hand on her hip, sent Cheryl into a blind rage. Somehow the mimosa she’d been sipping, ended up in Sexy’s face.

  Incensed, Sexy charged at Cheryl with clawed fists. “You try to act all high and mighty, but you’re nothing more than a ghetto-trash bitch,” Sexy snarled.

  Defending herself, Cheryl threw up her fists. And before the stunned group of esteemed guests, Cheryl and Sexy commenced to brawling.

  Holding Sexy’s drink in his hand, Hal Stevenson watched in stunned silence as the two women viciously scratched, slapped, and windmilled each other until security escorted them both off the premises.

  Cheryl

  That fucking ho!

  Cheryl fumed as she drove up Amsterdam Avenue toward Washington Heights. She always prided herself on being a lady—at least in public—and to have gotten into a physical brawl with Sexy in the owner’s skybox the previous night was not only out of character, it was completely out-of-line. If it wasn’t for the fact that Randy was one of the Yankees’ superstars whom the team couldn’t afford to piss off, and also that she’d already made a good name for herself, she probably would have been banned from the skybox for life. She knew for sure, though, that Sexy wouldn’t be so lucky. It would be a cold day in Hell before she was up there with the VIPs again.

  After pa
ssing 195th Street, she started looking for a parking space. Amazingly, there was one right in front of the apartment building where she was headed. Of course the elevator wasn’t working, and of course the stairway smelled like urine. Luckily, there weren’t too many stairs to climb; Jocko lived on the third floor.

  “Hola, mami! Que pasa?” he said when he answered the door.

  Cheryl rolled her eyes. “When did you start speaking Spanish?”

  The man grinned, revealing gold caps on his two front teeth. “Since moving up here with the Dominicans, babe. When in Rome . . .” He laughed, exhaling a revolting gust of rum and tobacco breath. “Come on and get your pretty little ass in here.”

  Cheryl walked past him into the living room and sat down on a raggedy and dingy-looking blue armchair without waiting to be asked. Her face and her actions both displayed the disgust she felt about being there, but she didn’t care. He needed to know how she felt. “If your ass didn’t get picked up on a parole violation, we could have had this meeting two months ago like we were supposed to.”

  “Hey, I’m lucky they only held me for sixty days. Wanna drink?” he asked, holding up a red plastic cup while pointing to a nearly empty bottle of Bacardi sitting on the coffee table next to her.

  “No,” she answered sullenly. “I merely came to take care of this business, and then I want to get the hell out of here.”

  “Yeah,” he said, pouring a healthy dose of rum into the plastic cup and taking a sip. “I was real lucky. They could have violated me and sent my ass back up the river for seven years, all for dirty urine. Ain’t that some crap?”

  Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Well, thanks for the information. I’ll file that under ‘shit I don’t care about.’ ”

  “Damn, girl,” Jocko sat down on the couch, spreading his legs open and his arms across the backrest, “No need for you to be sporting an attitude.”

  “It’s not an attitude; it’s the way I am,” Cheryl snapped. “Now can we get down to business?”

  A look of annoyance finally crossed Jocko’s face. “Fine. Did you bring the—”

  “I’ve got the seventy-five thousand handy,” Cheryl said, cutting him off, “but first we have to get some things straight.”

  “Handy? Exactly what does that mean?” Jocko’s lips twisted into a snarl. “You got the dough with you or what?

  “It means,” Cheryl said, leaning forward in the chair and putting her hands on her knees, “like I said . . . first we have to get some things straight.”

  “Like what?” Jocko growled.

  “Like the fact that I think that it’s real fucked-up that you charged me five thousand dollars for a social security card, passport and birth certificate, and I paid it without trying to chisel you down or anything; and now, eight years later, you contact me talking about you want another seventy-five thousand dollars.”

  “And?” Jocko didn’t bother to try and hide his smirk.

  Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. “So is that how you usually do business?”

  Jocko chuckled. “Occasionally. Like anytime I find that a person who was only probably worth a couple of ten thousand dollars when I did them a favor—”

  “A favor?” Cheryl said incredulously. “People don’t have to pay for favors!”

  “Is now worth a couple of ten million dollars,” Jocko continued, ignoring the interruption. “I’m a craftsman, top guy in my trade. I coulda charged you a lot more than a measly five stacks for those papers, you know. I cut you some slack because I knew you didn’t have a lot of money. But now you do.” He took a leisurely swig from the plastic cup, then got up and poured himself another large shot and sat back down. “The way I see it, you’ve been dancing to the rhythm for eight years, and now it’s time for you to pay the piper.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “And you’re full of money, and I want some,” Jocko said simply.

  “And if I don’t give it to you?”

  Jocko chuckled, then took another swig before answering: “You figure it out.”

  Cheryl leaned back in the chair, and chewed her bottom lip while contemplating him. “So, if I give it to you, how do I know you won’t come back at me for another shot?”

  Jocko shrugged. “You’ll have to take my word for it, I guess.”

  “Or,” Cheryl reached inside her Versace bag and pulled out a neatly typed piece of paper, “you can sign this contract.”

  “This what?” Jocko started laughing. “Get the fuck outta here. You want me to sign a contract saying that I provided you with forged documents?”

  “Not exactly,” Cheryl replied. “The contract says that in return for seventy-five thousand dollars, you agree to not contact me, or anyone in my family regarding any financial situation, and that you also agree not to leak any confidential information about me or my family to the media or to the public.”

  “You’re crazy.” Jocko shook his head.

  “I’m serious,” Cheryl insisted.

  “If you’re serious, then you’re not only crazy, but you’re also stupid,” Jocko said. “Even if I did sign it and then renege, what are you going to do? Take me to court? You’d be outing yourself, sweetheart.”

  “Maybe what I’m saying is that I’d rather out myself than keep paying you forever for something that’s already been paid in full,” Cheryl retorted. “I’m not going to lie down and play victim to blackmail.”

  Jocko let go a full laugh. “Bullshit. If you felt like that, you wouldn’t be ready to give up the seventy-five thou.”

  “You’re not getting it unless you sign,” Cheryl insisted.

  Jocko made a face, then waved his hand dismissively. “Fine, fuck it. I’ll sign. Give me the money.”

  Cheryl pulled a white bank envelope from her bag and placed it on her lap, then handed Jocko the paper. “Sign first.”

  An hour later, Cheryl was on the third floor of Bloomingdale’s. She and Randy were scheduled to attend a black-tie charity ball the following week, and while she had already bought a fabulous navy blue, floor-length Vera Wang formal gown for herself, Randy still needed something to wear. She looked over the tuxedos, vacillating between the Burberry London Milbury, and the Ralph Lauren Black Label Anthony. She finally chose the $3,000 Ralph Lauren, and then picked out a Ralph Lauren Black Label tuxedo shirt for $450 and arranged a time for Randy to come in the next day for custom fitting. She then purchased a pair of David Yurman Chevron cufflinks with black diamonds. Only $1,500.

  Riding down the escalator to leave the store and passing the second floor, she couldn’t help but remember the trip she had made there seventeen years earlier, when she was only fifteen and a wannabe shoplifter, trying to support herself. Now here she was dropping almost $5,000 on a single outfit without batting an eye.

  She made it to the first floor and was walking toward the exit when a display with men’s watches caught her eye. Randy needed two, she decided. One for special occasions and another for everyday wear. He needed to stop depending on his cell phone to know the time. It took her almost ten minutes, but she finally decided on a Movado and a Michael Kors. She looked up to catch the clerk’s attention when she saw a teenage boy looking at her intently. Staring at her, actually. He was tall, a few shades lighter than her own bronze complexion, but with the same reddish tones. Under the baseball cap that he was wearing backward, she could see that his hair was a mass of curly ringlets. He looked almost identical to a picture she’d seen of her father playing baseball in high school. Cheryl gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she did. It simply couldn’t be. Or could it? She hoped the young man hadn’t noticed, but all of a sudden, he started walking toward her.

  She lowered her eyes, and started edging toward the exit, but he caught up to her before she reached it.

  “Excuse me, is your name Cheryl Blanton?”

  Cheryl was shaking inside, but she tried to keep her face composed. Was it him? It had to be him. He looked to be about fifteen or sixteen. It had to be him. This was the bab
y she’d given up all those years now. The doctor must have told him her real name after all. And now he was here confronting her. Had he been following her? For how long? What would he want? Should she lie?

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Are you all right?” the teenager said, a concerned look on his face. “Do you need to sit down or anything?”

  “Why, why, why would you ask that?” Cheryl said, trying to control her breathing.

  “Well, you suddenly look kind of pale,” the boy answered. “And your hands are shaking.”

  Cheryl tried to broaden her smile as she leaned back onto a wall to ensure her knees didn’t buckle. “No, I’m fine, but I need to get something to eat.”

  “Oh, do you suffer from hypoglycemia?”

  “What?”

  “Low blood sugar. My friend’s mother has it. She gets dizzy whenever she misses a meal,” the young man answered.

  Cheryl shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh, good.” The boy grinned and patted her arm. “You are Cheryl Blanton, though, aren’t you?”

  “Why?” Cheryl’s heart raced. “Do I know you? Exactly who are you?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude, ma’am. My name is Ronald Davidson,” the boy said quickly, reaching out and shaking her hand. “No, we haven’t met, but I’m a big fan of your husband, Randy Alston. I play third base, too. I was hoping he might be here with you.”

  Relief washed over her, and she felt she could breathe again. His last name was Davidson. The doctor who had adopted her baby was named Nehru. It wasn’t her son. Her smile suddenly became genuine. “No, I’m sorry he’s not. But I tell you what, since you’re such a nice young man, if you give me your name and address, I’ll have him send you some tickets to one of next weekend’s games.”

  “Oh, man! Would you?!”

  Why am I tripping like this? Why would I, all of a sudden, imagine a kid was my child simply because he looked a little like me? Probably because of Randy talking about wanting a baby. Wanting a son. Cheryl walked out of the store, completely forgetting about the watches she had planned to purchase for her husband. I wonder what he does look like, though. Maybe he looks like me. Maybe he looks like his father, whoever the hell he is.