Consequently, she didn’t have any high expectations that the men would be completely honest today. Most times they weren’t. Not at first. A man expressing his deepest fears, his darkest desires, or his insecurities went against his socialization.

  Dr. Dangerfield enjoyed the challenge, however. She enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game they played. And the fun in it all was trying to crack open their shells, just to see how big the nut was inside.

  Subconsciously, she licked over her lips.

  “Have any of you ever cheated on your wives?”

  Crickets.

  Isaiah folded his arms and pulled at his chin hairs, doing his own assessment of the doctor. Five seven without her heels on—almost six feet with ’em on; smooth, flawless skin; she weighed about a buck thirty-five, shapely in all the right places. Real sophisticated.

  He took in the two-carat diamonds in her ears, then the five-carat tennis bracelet on her wrist, before his gaze traveled down her legs and landed on the soles of heels.

  Red bottoms.

  High-end pussy.

  Probably a real live freak, he mused, not sure he wanted to flat-out admit that he was still fucking—on occasion—his son’s mother.

  Kendall glanced over at the life-like statue of a man standing with his legs parted; behind him was a woman on her knees, her breasts large, her face wedged between his white-marbled ass cheeks, her hands wrapped around the man’s thick erection.

  Damn.

  Kendall thought the piece erotic.

  It made him think of Persia. His very own cock-sucking, ass licker.

  And it made him want—

  Dr. Dangerfield cleared her voice. “Well, don’t all answer at once,” she said lightly. “How about you, Mr. Woods . . .”

  Roselle sat in his chair wondering what color her panties were, and—most importantly—what style they were. She looked like a lace and silk kind of woman.

  Nice bare pussy.

  I bet that shit’s pretty as fuck, he thought. He was glad to be sitting down—just the thought of her pussy made him start to get hard.

  She probably can’t take dick, though.

  Or maybe that shit had teeth.

  “Mr. Woods . . .?”

  Isaiah reached over and tapped Roselle on the knee.

  “Huh?” Roselle said as he shifted in his seat, his mind back in the moment, his semi-erect dick now deflated at the vision of her cunt gnashing its razor-sharp shark teeth at his dick. “Oh, damn. My bad. What was the question?”

  Dr. Dangerfield smiled, and then repeated herself. “I asked you if you’ve ever cheated on your wife?”

  “Yeah,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s really the only thing we ever fight about.”

  Kendall tore his attention away from the statue and looked at Roselle.

  Dr. Dangerfield nodded. “How many times have you cheated on your wife?” she asked Roselle.

  Roselle laughed. “You mean, how many times have I gotten caught?”

  “Damn, bruh,” Kendall said over a laugh of his own, “it’s like that?”

  “Man, what can I say . . . I’m addicted to sex.”

  “So you are saying, you’re a sex addict?” Dr. Dangerfield asked.

  Roselle nodded. “Yes. My name is Roselle Woods. And I confess: I’m addicted to sex.”

  Dr. Dangerfield shifted in her seat and then crossed her feet at her ankles. “So you’re saying sex consumes you, which is why you cheat?”

  Roselle shrugged. “Yeah, something like that. It’s like them panties be calling for me. I can see a fine woman and, before she speaks, I’m already undressing her. In my head, the way she’s walking, it’s like she’s thrusting her pelvis at me, throwing the cookie at me, wanting me to beat it up. And, nine times outta ten, if I step to her, I’ma get them drawz. Maybe not that same day, but if I get them digits, I’m definitely getting a sample of that cookie, too.”

  Dr. Dangerfield almost rolled her eyes up in her head. Being not only a psychologist and a certified sex addiction therapist, Dr. Dangerfield knew the difference between an addict and a pathological cheater. Yet, it seemed that every time a man (most) got caught cheating multiple times, the easy way out, the way to be absolved of any accountability, was to proclaim being a sex addict as if waving some colorful banner that said “I can’t control my dick” would make it all okay.

  When, in fact, the majority of cheaters were far from addicts. And they didn’t always meet the clinical criteria for sex addiction. They didn’t use sex to cope with feelings or with life in general. Sex wasn’t used as a drug. And a cheater wasn’t obsessed with sex. Nor were they riddled with shame and/or guilt for their behaviors the way a sex addict was.

  Many of them were simply thrill seekers. Pussy chasers.

  Dr. Dangerfield believed they were simply self-indulgent, irresponsible and/or amoral. Fucking multiple partners was simply one of many forms of manipulation and opportunistic self-gratification. They cheated because they wanted to. Cheaters genuinely believed their cheating was justified. They didn’t want to stop because it disrupted some moral compass. No. In their minds, they cheated because they could, because they could get away with it. Because they knew more likely than not there would be no real consequences, not any that would be detrimental to them. The women in their lives would curse and scream and fight and, more than likely, toss him out. But the cheater knew, she’d eventually—with some work on his part—take him back.

  Sadly, over and over again.

  So, no, Roselle Woods wasn’t a sex addict as far as Dr. Dangerfield was concerned. What he was, was a self-absorbed, selfish-ass bastard. Period.

  “So how many times have you cheated or gotten caught, Mr. Woods?” she asked.

  Roselle shrugged again, shaking his head. “Damned if I know. I’ve lost count.” And that was the truth. His dick had been buried inside more wet holes than his memory allowed him to remember. Shit. He couldn’t remember what half those bitches looked like. He nutted on ’em. Then bounced on ’em.

  “Tell the truth. It’s them long lashes and that wavy hair,” Isaiah said jokingly.

  Roselle chuckled. “Nah, nah. It’s the swag.” And the good dick he put on ’em. Yet, he didn’t feel the need to mention that part. All pretty boys didn’t have small-ass dicks, and they all weren’t minutemen. And Roselle was walking, talking, fucking, proof of that. And he had a string of well-fucked bitches to prove it.

  Dr. Dangerfield’s gaze landed on Isaiah. “What about you, have you cheated on your wife?”

  “Nah—I mean, does oral count?”

  Kendall chuckled.

  She nodded. “Yes. Oral sex is still sex.”

  Roselle shook his head. “Nah, Doc. Sorry. Eating ain’t cheating.”

  Roselle and Isaiah laughed, while Kendall pretty much stayed quiet.

  Dr. Dangerfield tilted her head. “Oh, is that so?”

  “No doubt,” Roselle said confidently.

  “Okay then,” Dr. Dangerfield challenged. “Tell me this, are you letting your wife know every time your penis slips into another woman’s mouth? Or the number of times your face finds its way between another woman’s thighs? Are any of you?”

  Roselle and Isaiah said in unison, “Hell nah.”

  “Damn, Doc,” Roselle added, “you tryna get me killed.”

  Dr. Dangerfield pursed her lips. “Mm. Then it’s cheating. Anything that you do with someone other than your wife—without permission—is cheating. Anything you do that you keep secret from your spouse is cheating. Anything that may have dire consequences in your marriage is cheating. There’s no way around it.”

  She looked over at Kendall. “What is your view on cheating, Mr. Evans?”

  Kendall stretched his neck from one side to the other, then looked at her. He wasn’t about to make a confession. But he still wanted to know, “What if you don’t wanna cheat; what if every part of your marriage is everything you want it to be, except for in the sex? Then what are you supposed do? Be sexually unfilled?”

  Dr. Dangerfield crossed her legs. “No. You talk to your spouse. You share with him or her what your desires are, what you would like for your partner to bring to the bedroom. But it has to be done thoughtfully, with tact, and with love.”

  “And if she isn’t open to that?” Kendall asked, pinning her with a penetrating stare. “Then what?”

  “Then you seek counseling.” Dr. Dangerfield studied him, her gaze lingering longer than it probably should. “Is that your story, Mr. Evans?”

  Kendall shook his head. “I love my wife, okay?”

  “But . . .?” Dr. Dangerfield prodded.

  But she isn’t everything I need in the bedroom. “There is no but,” he said instead.

  “Does she satisfy you?”

  Kendall’s lip twitched. He wasn’t comfortable putting his business out there like that, especially in front of other men. He didn’t know them. And he didn’t trust them.

  What was he supposed to tell her? That he wanted his wife to suck his dick and lick his balls and then, every so often, tongue his ass? He wasn’t about to share any of that to her, and definitely not in front of these jokers.

  Motherfuckers pillow-talked and gossiped more than females at times. So he wasn’t going to put his wife out there like that. He had too much respect for Krista. Maybe he’d be more open with the Doc in private. Maybe.

  “She’s a good woman,” was all Kendall offered for now.

  “That wasn’t exactly the question, whether or not your wife was a good woman.”

  Kendall quickly glanced over at the sculpture again, then looked back at Dr. Dangerfield. But he only replied with a shrug, as if to say, Oh well.

  “We’re good.”

  Dr. Dangerfield smiled. Less was sometimes more. She’d read between the lines. And so she moved on. “What about you, Mr. Lewis? Does your wife satisfy you?”

  Isaiah grunted. “Yeah. When she can keep her mouth shut. I wish she knew when to use it for more than eating and talking shit.”

  Kendall and Roselle chuckled.

  At that, Dr. Dangerfield simply gave Isaiah a sympathetic look as if to say, Poor thing. “I understand you’ve had a child with another woman during your marriage to your wife, and that seems to be a source of contention for her. Why?”

  Isaiah shook his head. “Hell if I know.”

  Roselle looked over at him. “Yeah, right. You know you still hitting that. Aren’t you? We won’t tell.” He laughed again.

  “Quandra thinks I am,” Isaiah said flatly. “That’s all we beef about—my son’s mother. I’m like, damn already—give it a rest. That shit stresses me out.”

  “She’s hurting,” Dr. Dangerfield said thoughtfully.

  Isaiah grunted, his face drawn into a scowl. “Hell, I’m hurting too. You see who I’m chained to?”

  Roselle shook his head. “I feel your pain, bruh.” He was thankful he didn’t have to wake up to a loudmouth bitch like Isaiah’s wife.

  “Try to see it from her perspective,” Dr. Dangerfield encouraged. “You not only at some point had an affair on her, Mr. Lewis, but you brought another life into the equation. A child is a constant reminder of the deceit. And that, for many women, is oftentimes more hurtful than the actual affair itself.”

  Isaiah sighed. “I can’t change that. My son is everything to me.”

  Dr. Dangerfield nodded. “I’m sure he is. And I’m sure your wife doesn’t expect you to choose her over him.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t care what she thinks. There’d be nothing to think about. I’d be out.”

  “Yo, keep it a hunnid,” Roselle goaded, “you still gotta thing for your BM, don’t you?”

  Isaiah shook his head. “Nah. It’s not even like that. She and I—”

  “Still fuckin’,” Roselle interjected over a laugh. He looked over at Dr. Dangerfield. “No disrespect, Doc.”

  She nodded, appreciative of his mindfulness. “None taken, Mr. Woods. So, Mr. Lewis, what you’re saying is, your wife’s accusations of sleeping with your son’s mother holds no merit?”

  “Only in her head,” Isaiah lied. “I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m gonna always have to deal with Cass. At least until my son is old enough to be out on his own. Until then, I’m stuck with her. And so is Quandra—if she wants this marriage. My son and his mother are a package deal, whether I want it to be or not.”

  Dr. Dangerfield said, “Okay. So it’s a package deal. But what exactly do you do to make sure your wife feels supported and comfortable with the situation?”

  Isaiah shrugged. “When Cass—my son’s mother—gets on her bullshit, I tell Quandra to ignore her ass. Of course she doesn’t listen.” He shook his head. “They both like keeping shit stirred up. They both crazy.”

  Dr. Dangerfield’s facial expression was neutral when she said, “You don’t end up with crazy because you’re the normal one. There’s usually some form of energy that someone gives off that attracts crazy.”

  He shrugged. “Then I guess I’m crazy for putting up with it.”

  Dr. Dangerfield sighed. Clearly, he’d missed the point. She glanced up at the time. “Well, gentlemen. That’s it for today. Time’s up.”

  Eleven

  Later that evening, as the three couples took their positions, the sun dipped low, giving way to a reddish-orange sky—the perfect magical backdrop for starry-eyed lovers.

  The gated-entrance to The Garden greeted its guests with colossal erotic sculptures situated atop enormous pedestals, marbled columns, and the sounds of hummingbirds. Surrounded by lush foliage, coconut palms, waterfalls, orchids, birds-of-paradise, and tropical hibiscus, there was also a lagoon with its azure-colored water and a nine-hundred-square-foot infinity pool.

  But the couples weren’t out here to enjoy the landscape. Nor were they here for the sunset. They’d been summoned to The Garden for a game of “I Know You Best.” The game was designed to see exactly how well couples knew their respective partners.

  Dr. Dangerfield believed that real intimacy began with not only knowing oneself, but also knowing one’s partners. What she’d learned over the years of working with couples was that many times than not—most couples simply didn’t know their partners as well as they’d thought or believed. Sadly, but horridly true.

  So, this evening, she—and each couple—would see who knew whom the best. The men were in partitioned booths, while the women sat up on stools facing their respective husbands on the other side of the garden.

  And Dr. Dangerfield—who was wearing a white off-the-shoulder blouse that crisscrossed in the front and then tied in the back paired with white fitted jeans and a pair of seven-inch, salmon-colored red bottoms—was looking as flawless as ever as she stood at the podium.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  That bitch gives me my whole life, Brenda thought as she glanced over at the therapist, before pulling at the hem of her white mini-skirt and then crossing her thick shapely legs.

  Brenda then glanced over at LaQuandra, who was sitting to the left of her. She was wearing a yellow romper and a pair of sandals. She looked cute. But her face was puffy-looking, and the way she was guzzling down bottle after bottle of Passion water—yes, the island had its own brand of water bottled straight from its springs—she was either profoundly hung over from all of her heavy drinking from the night before or somewhat still drunk from earlier today.

  Either way, she looked like shit in the face.

  The next stool over from LaQuandra was Krista, who was wearing a blue lotus-pattern fringed-trim skirt and long tank shirt with a wide floppy hat on her head and a pair of Birkenstock-type slides on her feet. She looked like an Amish woman gone rogue.

  Brenda shook her head and then glanced back over at Dr. Dangerfield.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Dangerfield said, leaning into the microphone. “Who’s ready to play I. Know. You. Best . . .?”

  The women clapped.

  “Yassss, baby,” Brenda said as she clapped. “We got this!”

  “Woo-whooo!” Roselle pumped a fist in the air. And then he whistled as he, Isaiah, and Kendall clapped.

  First up were the husbands.

  Dr. Dangerfield would ask a series of very simple questions that the husbands were expected to know about their wives. For every correct response, that couple received two points in the first round. Round two, another set of questions would shift to the wives to see how well they knew their husbands and each correct response would be worth three points.

  At the end of each round, the couple with the highest score would win a ten thousand dollar cash prize along with a seven-day, all-expenses-paid trip to the French Riviera.

  The music faded.

  “All right then, “Dr. Dangerfield said enthusiastically. “You know the rules. And you know what’s at stake. So. Let’s play—I. Know. You. Best. First question, gentlemen: What is your wife’s middle name?”

  As the theme-music—an instrumental version of “If You Don’t Know Me By Now”—played through the speakers, each person wrote their answers on a medium-sized white erase board.

  Each couple had thirty seconds to answer.

  “Um. Mr. Lewis. Please. Jot down your answer, please.”

  Isaiah grunted something inaudible, scribbling something down in red marker.

  “Okay, gentlemen. Reveal your answers.”

  The men turned their boards to face the women.

  Isaiah: CHARDONNAY

  Roselle: MONIQUE

  Kendall: NICOLE