C.A.K.E

Chapter 4: You Knew She Was Comin'

"Close your mouth, Casper. You're drooling." Karma rolls her eyes, and breezes away from the front

door toward their bedroom.

They just walked Arden and Elliott out of their home. Casper has to admit, he did a horrible job at

hiding his affinity for Arden. Touching her felt like shoplifting, a rush of guilt, and intoxicating adrenaline.

Given the opportunity, he would make Arden his next five-finger discount. He stares at the door a

moment longer, before going after the one woman who should have his concern.

"I was telling her goodnight. I have to look at her to do that."

"You were looking at her breasts." Karma glares at him.

"I was saying goodnight to a friend."

She kicks off her heels and shoves them into their assigned space in the walk-in.

"Here's a word of advice, women's eyes are above the chest area. Remember that, next time you're

touching another man's wife."

Casper shrugs. "All I did was dance with her."

"But that's not all you wanted to do. I've seen the way you look at her." A hint of wounded jealousy

sparks in her expression.

"Then you shouldn't have invited her over here."

"You're not even going to deny being attracted to her?"

"That is not what I ... " He drags his hands over the trimmed hairs of his goatee. "What was this—some

sort of test?"

"If it was, you failed with flying colors." She turns her back to him, while she removes her earrings.

"Because you set me up."

A flash of clarity that comes with several years of marriage strikes him. No, that's not right. Be

apologetic. Don't make any more excuses.

He grabs Karma's elbow and asks her to look at him. "I was wrong."

"Yes, you were." She lets him pull her into his arms.

He kisses the crown of her head. "If she makes you that uncomfortable, we don't have to see them

again."

"I didn't say that." She lifts her head from his chest. "The Stones are the type of well-heeled people we

need as friends."

A revelation dawns on Casper, and he looks down into Karma's brown eyes with a knowing smirk. "Her

father ... You knew she was Senator Mitchell's daughter."

Karma moves away from his incredulous stare.

"Former senator," she corrects. "But still very connected. And yes, I thought I recognized her at the

culinary school. I wasn't sure until Elliott confirmed it tonight."

"You can't just use people to get what you want."

"Get off the damn high horse, Casper." She stabs his chest with her finger. "The only reason you want

Elliott around is to lust after his wife. Can you honestly tell me you want to be his friend?"

She's right. Casper knows seeing Arden means seeing Elliott as well. He makes polite conversation

with Eli because he's trying to ignore how much he wants to take a long stroll through the forbidden

garden of Arden.

"Elliott is a genuine guy, and Arden is a charming woman. Friendship is as far as my interest in either of

them goes."

Karma turns her nose up like she can smell the bullshit on him.

"You're not attracted to Arden?"

"Not in the least." He leans against the chest of drawers and crosses his right leg over the left.

"Casper, I'm paid to know when a man is lying." She sighs. "And you're terrible at it."

Her quick hands lift his shirt over his head and undo his belt. Karma kisses him the way she used to

when they were still in high school, and their Motel 6 was the backseat of his '71 Dodge Demon.

Shocked by her gentle show of affection, he forgets his train of thought. All he can concentrate on are

the doe eyes looking up into his. What he says next is the truth, at least at this moment.

"I can't think of anyone but you."

He holds the nape of her neck, letting his fingers get lost in the thickness of her hair. Karma smiles and

an impish giggle leaves her parted lips. Seeing the laugh lines crease her cinnamon complexion,

makes him feel like the sun just decided to shine on the dreary parade of their marriage.

He kisses her again, biting and sucking the blush pucker that is her greeting card for the world. She

relaxes, lets him lead. Casper lifts her and lays her body on their bed with a feather-light touch. After

some unzipping and unbuttoning, they're both naked as the day they were introduced to the world.

Casper showers her in kisses, starting at her toes and working his way up her dewy skin. She squirms,

as he nears her warm, sugary center. He goes slow, tasting her. How many licks does it take to get to

the center of a Tootsie Pop? ... a one ... a two ... a three ... He intends to find out. Karma places an

encouraging hand on his head, applauding his work with her low moans.

Casper's research is interrupted by the bombastic thundering of an orchestra from the next room.

Beethoven's Fifth Symphony in C Minor shocks the air with a power and presence that demands the

undivided attention of the senses. Having lost his concentration, he lifts his head. Karma flies from the

bed like she's fleeing the Titanic.

The first movement of one of the most significant contributions to classical music is cut short with

Karma's whispered "hello." Her voice moves farther from the open door of the bedroom, its tone quiet

and happy. Casper chases her vocal vibrations to the front of the house.

Still naked as a jaybird, she stands with her weight resting on her left leg and her right foot arched like

she's ready to transition to en pointe. That dancer's poise from her fifteen years of ballet training still

lives in her limbs. Old habits die hard.

Karma bites one of her black-lacquered nails and laughs with a clandestine gleam in her eye.

"Give me twenty minutes ... Yeah, he's here ... No, I'm on my way . . . I'll make up something ... "

Another sinful giggle. "All right, bye."

She smiles down at her cell and begins to saunter back to the master bedroom. Her seductive simper

disappears and her graceful gait halts, when their eyes meet in the hallway.

"Who was that?"

She slides past him. "Work."

He sucks his teeth and eyeballs her. "At this hour?"

Karma slips back into her flowy dress. Casper notices that she neglects to put on underwear. There's

nothing preserving her modesty, but the thin crepe garment. She answers without looking at him.

"A new witness came forward. I have to get his deposition."

"Can't Frome do that?"

"I'm not at the top of the totem pole. You know, I do all the grunt work."

Casper nods. "Uh-huh."

He watches her step into a pair of too-high-for-work (unless work is a street corner) black stilettos, and

pack a change of clothes into her YSL duffle bag. She slings the bag over her shoulder and kisses

Casper's cheek as she sweeps out of their bedroom. Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

"Don't wait up, okay? I could be on top of this all night." And with that, Mrs. Callaghan is out the door

and speeding out of the circular drive in her black Mercedes E350.

Casper stands in the doorway like a lost puppy, staring after the gravel kicked up by her hasty exit. The

night air on his legs reminds him that he's flashing the neighborhood. Good thing it's almost midnight,

and their house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac several yards from their next-door neighbors. He locks

the door and heads back to his empty bedroom.

He pulls on a pair of cotton sweatpants and strips the sheets off the bed. In the bathroom, he splashes

icy water on his face and gargles with a bit of mouthwash. After cleansing his wife's taste from his

palate, he throws himself on the bare, pillow-top mattress and closes his eyes.

Though he's alone in the darkened room, he feels the bed shift underneath him. The gentle weight of a

satin leg comes to rest across his waist, and a soft arm lays across his chest. He reaches down and

pulls her thigh snug to his body. Her hair caresses his dark skin like strands of velvet, as she settles her

head against him. Casper buries his face in her locks, letting his olfactory memory take over. He

breathes deep, remembering the vanilla and mandarin orange notes of her fragrance. Casper hugs her

closer, wanting the warmth of her body to envelope him and never let go.

Her fingers rub circles on the back of his neck, and he runs his hand along her back. She lifts her head

and he opens his eyes. Arden and her scarlet lips are smiling back at him. She's wearing one of his

pinstripe dress shirts. Its starched fibers are the perfect complement to her feminine curves. Sienna-

hued curls fall in her face, inviting his hands to send them bouncing and swaying in the wake of his

touch.

Then the angel speaks to him, her voice sweet as fresh lemonade on a summer day. "You don't need

her ... I'm right here."

He cups her chin in his hand, letting his thumb smooth over the small scar on her right cheek. She tilts

her head to kiss his palm.

"I'm glad you came," Casper whispers into the shadows, immersed in the intricate trappings of his

mind.

Arden lies down in his arms again and sighs. "Where else would I be?"

Karma didn't resurface until nine the next night, then vanished again Sunday morning. After she ran out

of their marital bed like it was on fire, Casper saw her for a total of six hours.

Her "disappearing acts" are becoming more frequent, and the excuses are getting even flimsier. She

didn't even bother to spin a tale for canceling their plans to visit the Horizons exhibit at the Birmingham

Museum of Art tomorrow. She and Frome, the chief prosecutor, need to prepare for Pollard's cross-

examination on Thursday. That was all the explanation he got.

Casper takes his thousand-dollar, ergonomic chair for a spin. Then he throws a stapler and other office

supplies at an annoyed, animated boss on his smartphone.

It's Monday at ten a.m. and he's bored senseless. The annual reports have been reviewed, and he's

sent off all his evaluations for approval. What takes a lesser person a month to do, he managed in two

weeks. And now he's twiddling his thumbs for seven figures—that's net, not gross. Oh, the joys of

working for a Fortune 500 company, and being skilled at the art of bullshit. Casper keeps his engraved

shovel handy on this job. It's the secret to his success, plus the fact he's a savant with numbers.

So that he doesn't feel so unproductive, and Big Brother doesn't see just how much free time he has on

his hands, he pulls out his Google tablet to work on a personal document. The words, "Lee walks onto

the set of his first lorno, sweat and lube puddling in his palms ... " stare back at him from a sea of white

surrounded by a couple of thousand other characters also swimming in its unsaturated depths.

The screenplay he's been slaving over for the last three months has not been a walk in the park. It's

been difficult to stay focused long enough to make any headway. The constant challenge it presents is

what has him eager to finish it. He's just about to write another line when his mobile rings.

"I've been blowing up your phone all weekend, and you are just now returning my calls? ... What the

hell, Cain?" Casper sounds upset. But he could never be mad at his baby brother.

"I was about to alert Birmingham's semi-finest. You're worse than that stalker I had in college. And that

girl was ten different shades of crazy." He chuckles.

Casper laughs along with him. "I was concerned. Thought Manali had finally killed your ass for that

selective hearing disease you have."

Cain and Karma being MIA most of the weekend, left Casper plenty of time to daydream about Arden.

So he isn't complaining too much about the unavailability of two of the most important people in his life.

"Ali could never take me out. My woman loves me." A smug answer as usual. "You and Karma on the

other hand ..."

"Karma would have to be around in order to murder me. These days a serial killer sees more of her

than I do." Casper puts his feet up on his desk and almost pouts.

"Quit bitching and moaning. She has bigger things to attend to than your separation anxiety."

"It wouldn't sting as much if my brother would hang out with me. How about tomorrow?"

"I love you, but some of us have to work for a living. We can't all be Rain Man like you, and just have

things fall into place on their own."

"You're a marketing exec." Casper scoffs. "You do five minutes of work a week. The ignorant nature of

the general public does the rest."

"Any other day, insulting my career would make me want to do your bidding." Casper hears him suck in

air through his teeth and groan. "But I've got a lot lined up this week. Can't spare a second."

"I'mma remember that."

"Remember it—write it down, take a picture, I don't give a fuck," Cain says.

"Okay, Smokey." Casper cracks up, dropping his tablet. "Get off my phone, and make some money."

"I make money in my sleep," Cain promises they'll get together when work slows down, then leaves

Casper to the silence of his corner office.

Casper retrieves his device from the floor and goes back to staring at the same few lines that refuse to

lend themselves to any further elaboration. His earlier spark of inspiration disintegrated with his

brother's phone call.

He spends several minutes in a fog of writer's block until a potential solution to one of his problems

surfaces. Though this idea won't add to his word count, it will give him more material for the nights

when Karma jets off to rid the world of injustice.

He relegates his script to the background, and types "Arden" into Google's Omnibox. His fingers begin

to input, "Stone," then decide to hit delete and form the surname, "Mitchell."

Casper taps enter and waits the approximate 1.3 seconds it takes the search engine to cull every

public record on his new obsession.

Articles praising her impressive achievements in high school scroll like a digital trophy case. Arden won

math tournaments, excelled at chemistry, and dominated on the volleyball and tennis courts—all during

her freshman year. Casper smiles at a fourteen-year-old Arden captured midair as she goes up for a

spike. The power in her body is indisputable, even in a photo.

He reads on about school plays, national honors, and rumors of qualification for the Olympic tennis

team. Casper is enraptured with Arden Elizabeth Mitchell, so much so that he begins to wish he had

met her during his days of acne and varsity football. Then he stumbles upon a headline on The

Birmingham News' website, al.com, that makes him sit as erect as a ruler in his seat.

"Fatal crash on 18th Street South leaves 1 dead, 3 in critical condition." He clicks on the article, curious

as to what this could have to do with Arden. He reads the deceased's name, and the article's relevance

becomes clear. The murky details of Arden's behavior the other night at dinner are also illuminated.

"The lone casualty of the accident was an African-American woman in her early forties, Lillian Dane

Mitchell." Arden's mother.

The report lists Arden and her brother, Adam, as the two surviving victims. "Mrs. Mitchell's son and

daughter were lucky to escape the gruesome collision with their lives, but are still said to be in grave

condition." The intoxicated driver also survived, but his name was withheld for obvious reasons.

Casper expands the image of the crash and grimaces. A sharp pain shocks his constitution. He can't

even tell the make and model of the vehicles from their soot-tinged frames. No one should have made

it out of that.

He selects a link to a related article at the bottom of the first archived story. It reads, "Drunk driver of

the fatal crash that claimed the life of local woman, convicted of voluntary manslaughter." A quote from

the Mitchell family attorney cites the testimony of Arden, then sixteen, and Adam, eighteen, as the

turning point in the trial that led to a guilty verdict.

A photo of Arden on the witness stand with a pair of forearm crutches beside her appears on the page.

Her hair is pulled back, and she's dressed in a somber navy jacket with a simple white blouse. A tear

hangs frozen in time on its descent down her face. The scar on her right cheek is more noticeable. Her

visage is an amalgam of emotion and incredible poise.

Another link below the picture of an anguished Arden states, "Olympic dreams of Homewood teenager

dashed after a tragic accident."

He stops his quest for all things, Arden, there and puts away his tablet. Knowing what he does now,

there's just one thing left for him to do.

Casper picks up his phone again. "Arden? ... It's Casper ... Are you free tomorrow?"