The Raping of Ava DeSantis Read online

  “Are you crazy? I’m getting off this phone.”

  “Lilly. Read the message to me again.”

  “I don’t even remember which one I was on…”

  Wesley was incredulous. “Did you say Ava DeSantis called or was that my imagination?”

  “Oh, yes. I spoke to her myself.”

  Wesley’s chiseled face turned to stone.

  “Here it is… She said she needs to meet with you right away and that you would know what it’s about.”

  Wesley tried to hide his concern. “Did she leave a number?”

  “Yes, do you need it now?”

  “No, no. I’ll get it later. Just leave it on my desk.”

  “I will. And you have about a dozen more messages, but I’m getting off this goddamn phone before you kill yourself. I’ll see you at the office later tonight.”

  Wesley wanted to get home faster than ever. “Okay, Lilly. Thanks.”

  ***

  Wesley turned onto Birchwood Road, a gorgeous oak-lined street in the prestigious neighborhood of Buckhead. The sun was drifting down and the wind was blowing gently, ushering colorful leaves across the road in front of him. He drove three hundred yards then pulled into the circular driveway of a large, brown Tudor style home. It was the kind of large single family home packed closely together with other large single family homes that one often finds in kill me now it’s so fucking Beaver Cleaver upper-crust Atlanta neighborhoods.

  Wesley parked the Escalade in the tan stone driveway, but he did not exit the vehicle. Instead, he sat in the driver’s seat, quietly meditating for a solid five minutes. His goal? Regain his composure before facing his wife. Because no matter what happens to him over the next several weeks, or months, or years, Michelle can never find out about Ava.

  Yes, Wesley finally realized how much he would lose if the truth ever came out about Jacob Saffroy…or the crime he committed fifteen years ago.

  Jesus Christ. What have I done?

  ***

  Wesley opened the front door of his new home with an unfamiliar gleaming silver key. As soon as he entered, his senses were assaulted by the smell of new paint and the visual of pristine, fluffy white living room furniture surrounded by dirty cardboard boxes. He carefully placed his briefcase on the faux-ivory foyer table before him, unsure of what the house rules were yet.

  “Baby! You’re home!”

  Michelle, wearing a pink Juicy Couture velvet jump suit, erupted from the sofa and waddled to the front door. She threw her arms around Wesley, hugging him tightly. “Baby, you were fantastic today. I’m so proud of you!” she exclaimed in her native South Georgia twang.

  Wesley looked into Michelle’s innocent, baby girl brown eyes, and then gave her a long, sexy, French kiss.

  “What was that for?”

  “For making me a better person.”

  Michelle grinned. “I think you need some sleep, honey. You’re getting delusional.”

  Wesley partially smiled back. Seconds later, he became emotional. “I was just thinking about us in the driveway, Michelle, and you know, ever since I met you, my whole outlook on life changed. You make me want to become a better man. For you and the baby. I just want to forget about all of this bullshit and start a whole new life. Something real, something wholesome, just the three of us.” He bent down and lightly pressed his cheek against her huge belly. “Y’all mean the world to me.”

  Michelle squinted her eyes, not entirely convinced of Wesley’s sincerity. “What happened to you today? Did you read somewhere that pregnant women need to be sweet talked like this or—?”

  Wesley interrupted her question with another long, passionate kiss. But this time, Wesley wanted his beautiful wife. He moved his hand to caress her bouncy brown hair…then down her back…over her small, tight ass…pulling gently on the back of her waistband, signaling that he wanted her to take those off.

  “Stop, honey. Please.”

  Wesley ignored Michelle’s words and continued pulling down her pink velvet sweatpants as he kissed her.

  She sharply pulled away. “I told you. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Come on, Michelle.”

  “What? I don’t get a say?” Her tone quickly turned dark.

  “Michelle, it’s been almost three months. There’s only so much hand lotion a married man can take.”

  “You’re disgusting!” Michelle marched back into the living room.

  “Come on.” Wesley followed her.

  “Well, why don’t I let you carry the baby for a while and we’ll see how much you feel like having sex!” She continued marching through the living room, down the hallway, and into the master suite, slamming the door behind her.

  “Shit. Michelle? Open the door.”

  Silence.

  “Come on Michelle? You’re acting childish.”

  CLICK. The door was locked.

  Wesley threw a fit, punching the air around him. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  Afterwards, he moped back to the living room, threw himself onto the fluffy white sofa and kicked his dirty dress shoes on the armrest…

  When he finally settled down, he passed out for twelve solid hours…

  Swearing in his dreams like a sailor, with a matching angry scowl on his sea-worn beautiful face.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Spin Machine

  Tuesday, October 10, 2006

  8:17 A.M.

  The ScarCom Gang squirmed around the spaceship conference room table, waiting for Wesley to arrive.

  “Should we start?” asked Dierdra, wearing brightly colored pumpkin earrings and a brown fuzzy sweater to match her free-spirited hair.

  “No, give him a few more minutes,” replied Lilly, looking sharper than ever in a sleek black shift dress. “He should be here any second.”

  Just as Lilly spoke, Wesley entered the room looking haggard and wearing the same Conservanazi ensemble from the day before. Lilly quietly pulled Wesley aside. “What the hell happened to you last night? I waited here for five hours,” she whispered.

  “Don’t fuck with me today” he said in a full volume voice.

  “Ouch.”

  The porn librarian receptionist popped her head in the room. “You needed something, sir?”

  “Coffee,” commanded Wesley.

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  He then turned back to Lilly. “Where are those messages from yesterday?”

  “I put them on your desk. Like you told me to do last—”

  “Go get them.”

  Lilly had no idea what was going on, but she knew that it was best to ask Wesley about it in private. She quickly heeded his command and left the conference room to retrieve the phone messages from his office.

  The entire room remained awkwardly still as Wesley fumbled to get his papers in order. They were all quite curious about what was happening to him as well, but instead of asking, the staff feigned light conversations with one another so as to not draw attention to their well-respected leader.

  See, most of the crew had been with Wesley since he opened the firm thirteen years ago. Back then, Wesley had just dropped out of Emory Law School after only one year, deciding instead to pursue a career in the one thing he knew he was good at: spinning. So he hired Atlanta’s top head-hunting agency and robbed the second best person from each of the public relations departments of Atlanta’s most powerful companies: CNN, UPS, Coca-Cola, Delta Airlines and The Home Depot. His only directive to the headhunter? Double their salaries. And just like that, Wesley built a loyal, racially diverse and formidable public relations team who considered themselves the X-Men of their industry.

  Lilly finally returned with a stack of pink lined papers and handed them to Wesley. He quickly shuffled through the messages until he landed on the one with Ava DeSantis scribbled across the top. He removed it from the stack, angrily shred it to pieces, and then shoved the pieces of pink paper one by one into an abandoned Coke can nearby.

  Everyone in the room took note of hi
s odd behavior.

  “Okay, folks. Where are we?”

  Ed cautiously raised his hand. “I’ve got The Journal re-running the Emerald Club expose from three years ago. My source tells me that Miss Vinson stirred up interest in that story again.”

  “Good. What else?”

  The timid Indian woman raised her hand.

  “Yes, Amoli. Go ahead.”

  “I ran a full background check on Saffroy’s wife and teenaged children. They’re clean.”

  “Good. What about Saffroy himself?”

  “Not so good. If titty bars gave out frequent flyer miles, this chump would be in Tahiti.”

  The room burst out laughing; hearing a comment like that come out of such a shy woman cracked up even the most humorless members of the group.

  The sexy receptionist entered the room, slicing through the laughter. She waltzed her tall red heels to the very end of the table, handing Wesley a steaming hot white coffee mug.

  “Here you go, sir.”

  “Hold our calls.”

  “Of course. Anything else?” Lola’s sparkling amber eyes behind her glasses reminded Wesley that she’s there for the taking.

  “No, not at this time. Thank you.” Given his weakened state, Wesley could not keep from looking at her large breasts dangling in front of him. “I’m sorry, Amoli. Please continue.”

  The Indian woman drew a deep breath and continued in her sweet accent. “It appears that Mister Saffroy has a real penchant for blondes. He goes to strip bars at least once a week and spends shit loads of money on the dancers. At least that’s what Rick Houston, the manager of the Rocking Horse, told me last night.”

  “So it’s possible Saffroy knew Vinson when she worked at the Emerald Club?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s a real possibility.”

  “Perhaps that’s how Sarah Vinson got her job?” added Dierdra.

  Ed jumped in. “Now we have motive.”

  “Right, ‘you owe me bitch, give it up,’” added Loretta, the middle-aged black woman.

  Wesley looked at Amoli. “Did you find out the last time Saffroy was at the Rocking Horse?”

  “Yes. He was there last night. I saw him myself.”

  The room gasped.

  “Are you sure it was him?” asked Lilly.

  “Yes. I ran his background check that afternoon so I know what he looks like. I watched him pay for two lap dances while I was there.”

  “Shit!” Wesley was angry. “Lilly, call Daniel Holt right now. Tell him to tell Saffroy to stay the fuck home. He is not to go anywhere but work and home!”

  “Got it.” Lilly rocketed from her seat and exited.

  “What else?”

  “That’s all I have sir.”

  “Good work, Amoli…Who else?”

  Awkward silence filled the room.

  “Come on, people. What else do we have?”

  Derek chimed in. “That’s all, sir. We’ve hit a brick wall.”

  “You hit a brick wall? What the fuck is that?”

  Derek was too ashamed to reply.

  “Y’all are public relations professionals. There’s no such thing as a fucking brick wall! Your job is to go out and find every single piece of goddamn information that’s out there about every single—”

  The receptionist interrupted. “Excuse me, Mr. Scarborough. Ava DeSantis is on line two.”

  “I said hold all of our calls, Lola.” Wesley was visibly annoyed.

  “But she said it was an emergency.”

  Wesley completely lost his temper. “I said take a fucking message!”

  The whole room was frozen. Wesley had never yelled that loudly before.

  “Yes, of course.” Lola hung her blonde-ponytailed head low and left the room.

  A sonic wave of silence filled the room.

  Ed ventured to break the ice. “Maybe I can fly to Louisville in the morning and see what I can find out from her high school buddies?”

  “Good idea,” added Lilly.

  “I can go back to the Rocking Horse tonight and do damage control,” said Amoli.

  “I’ll go with her,” added Dierdra. “We’ll make sure no one remembers seeing Saffroy. We’ll just need to take enough petty cash to make them forget.”

  Wesley glared at all of them. He couldn’t believe Ava DeSantis had the nerve to call him at work again.

  Lola timidly returned. “I’m sorry to interrupt again, Mr. Scarborough, but your wife is on line four. I think it’s the baby?”

  “Everyone. Go.”

  The ScarCom Gang scurried out.

  Wesley took the call on a multi-line phone in the corner of the conference room.

  “I’m on my way home now, honey.”

  “Hello, Wesley.”

  Wesley was shocked. “Ava?”

  “For some strange reason, I feel like you’re trying to avoid me.”

  Wesley’s blood boiled through his tanned skin. “Didn’t my mother finish paying you?”

  “Yes. Earlier this year, why?”

  “Then this conversation is over.” Wesley slammed the phone down and stormed out of the conference room.

  Lola sat quietly reading an issue of Vogue magazine when Wesley marched upon her desk. “If you ever put that woman’s call through again, you better dust off your fucking resume and buy a book of stamps. Are we clear?”

  Lilly stood nearby with Ed, watching the verbal attack.

  “But Mr. Scarborough—”

  “No more fucking excuses, Lola. You need to filter my calls or find another job!”

  “But your wife is still holding for you on line four.”

  Wesley was astonished. Lola picked up the phone receiver and handed it to him on the spot.

  “Michelle?”

  “Hey, what took you so long?”

  “I’m sorry. I just got tied up—”

  “I feel awful about last night. I want you to come home.”

  “Is the baby all right?”

  “Well, yes, I’m still pregnant if that’s what you’re asking. Just come home. I feel awful. I’ll make a picnic lunch for us. I could even meet you at Piedmont Park?”

  “I wish I could, Michelle, but I can’t leave now. There’s way too much going on.”

  “What about tonight then? I can make a romantic dinner. Anything you want.”

  “Tonight? Okay, tonight will work.”

  Lilly overheard Wesley’s conversation. “You have dinner tonight with your parents.”

  “Shit. I forgot we have dinner with my parents tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry, honey. I’m not upset with you. I’ll be home no later than five, okay?”

  “Okay, baby. I’ll see you then.”

  Wesley humbly hung up the phone. Lola, now afraid to make eye contact with him, excused herself and headed to the restroom.

  Lilly moved in closer to Wesley. “I don’t know what your problem is, but whatever it is, you better leave it where you found it because it’s bringing us all down, Wes.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “I know, Wes, we all do.”

  “No, Lilly,” Wesley’s sharp blue eyes peered into her soul, “you have no fucking idea what I’m going through.”

  CHAPTER 20

  A Tale Of Two Wesleys

  Tuesday, October 10, 2006

  11:15 A.M.

  Michelle was lying face down on her fluffy white living room sofa, trying to give her back a break from the weight of her belly while watching Dr. Phil on television. She was still in her plaid flannel pajamas from the night before, but her hair was already styled, and her thick Betty Boop eyelashes were all ready to go…ready for dinner with the in-laws five long hours from now.

  Instead of focusing on Dr. Phil’s inspiring story of a homeless woman’s venture into the competitive world of cupcake bake-offs, Michelle was busy running embarrassing labor scenarios in her mind. What if I defecate in front of everyone? Won’t it smell up the room? Dr
. Phil’s eyes widened as he tasted the homeless cook’s legendary cupcake. Wait, what if they need to give me an episiotomy and then I crap myself? Oh my God, I’ll never be tight again.

  The doorbell RANG, interrupting Michelle’s troubled thoughts.

  Please Lord, not Miriam. I can’t do twice in one day. Michelle struggled to climb up the white sofa and waddled to the foyer mirror to check her make-up. Fat, but pretty. Fat, but pretty. Michelle had been saying this to herself multiple times a day, hoping it would inspire her to take off the forty pounds of baby weight she’d gained over the last nine months. On a small frame like hers, forty pounds represented more than thirty percent of her body weight—a real disaster if her former beauty pageant coaches ever found out.

  The doorbell RANG again. Michelle finally mustered the courage to grab the brass door handle and open it.

  Outside, it was a perfect sunny, cool day. And there, standing on the stone-floored doorstep, was a gorgeous, tall woman with long, straight platinum blonde hair. She was holding a three-foot, dark cellophane-wrapped gift basket in her arms with a wine bottle and imported food items packed neatly within. Her dark oval sunglasses covered most of her elegant face, leaving only a perfect porcelain nose and shiny red lips beneath them. In fact, she looked as if she had just stepped out of a Tom Ford ad, wearing a low-cut black jumpsuit with a yellow Hobo shoulder bag and matching yellow spike heels…Yes, Studio 54 disco attire at eleven o’clock in the morning. Perfectly normal for Buckhead.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood!” she said in a deep, barely Southern accent.

  “Oh, how precious!”

  The woman moved the gift basket away from her face and handed it to Michelle.

  “Thank you so much for this. I’m Michelle Scarborough.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Michelle. My name is Ava. Ava DeSantis.”

  ***

  Ava sat on a stool at the black granite breakfast bar, elegantly sipping a tall, cut crystal glass of iced tea while Michelle straightened up the kitchen.

  “I agree, I just love that store. Which is really sad because I haven’t been there in forever,” shared Michelle. “Well, you know, they never carry anything over a size six, and right now I would die to get into a size six.”