CHAPTER ONE
Wednesday, April 6

The cheaters I typically investigate for Finding All Cheaters Enterprises, or F.A.C.E., are as generic as something from the dollar bin at Target.  Their situations are outrageous—a girl cheating on her girlfriend with the girlfriend’s brother, a guy cheating on his girl with the girl’s mother, but the cheaters are always generic, non-descript.  After investigating hundreds of cheaters, I can’t tell you what any of them look like.  Then Cheater Number 5302 stepped into my path and made an instant, distinct impression.

I stood in my bedroom, clad in only bra and panties as the MOD Squad, Raven, Daria, and Suzie, lay across my bed, flipping through Cheater Number 5302’s dossier.  On the first night of every new investigation, the girls come over to discuss the case and offer me assistance on what to wear.

“He is so fine,” Raven said as she stared unblinkingly at 5302’s picture.  She flicked her long, bone straight, black mane over her shoulder.  “I almost can’t stand to look at him.”

I looked at her through the dresser mirror.  She lay propped up on one dainty arm, her bright beige skin smooth and tight, her body tiny and lithe, her size-two Seven jeans painted on the nearly perfect curves of her ass, hips, and thighs.

She’s my friend, I thought.  The sexy bitch is my friend.

“Muy fine,” Daria shouted before offering Raven a high-five.  The trio began giggling like they were no older than 15.

“Okay ladies,” I said, turning to face them.  I dropped my hands on my ample hips and cocked my head to the side.  “We all know he’s fine.  I’m pretty sure he knows he’s fine.  How about you help me find something to wear.”

Raven hopped up from the bed and trotted into my walk-in closet.  “I gotcha,” she said.  “Pop in the video.”

I plopped down onto the bed between Daria and Suzie.  Suzie ran a hand over her stiff, black bangs, then handed me 5302’s dossier.  I had already read through it twice…and picked up 5302’s picture at least a dozen times.
Kenneth Stevenson was printed just beneath the picture of a guy who could definitely give George Clooney a run for his money in the looks department.  Typically, white guys weren’t my thing.  I was more a Denzel Washington chick; I liked a brother who was refined but looked like he knew how to do things properly.  But Cheater Number 5302?  I would straddle up on that stallion any day.  But he was married.  He was possibly a cheater.  I was sent to catch him in the act.  I was the act.  Therefore, no pleasure and all work.

I read through the brief summary that began the dossier:

Name:  Kenneth Stevenson
Age:  42
Height: 6’ 1 ½”
Weight:  195

Occupation:  Lawyer

Married:  8 years to Cynthia Stevenson

Children:  Two—daughter, 6, Rebekah.  Son, 4, Kenneth, Jr.

Reason for coming to F.A.C.E.:  For the last five months, Mrs. Stevenson has felt a disconnection from her husband.  He’s been working longer hours.  He’s consistently picking fights for no reason.  He has practically stopped having sexual relations with Mrs. Stevenson.

Suzie took the pictures from the folder and said, “They look so happy in these pictures.  I wonder what caused the rift.”

I looked in Suzie’s direction and smiled.  Though she was F.A.C.E.’s receptionist/secretary/informant/everywoman, I knew she had aspirations of being promoted to investigator.  Whenever a case came through, she was the first to read the dossiers, to prep the clients, and always made sure to offer her thoughts and opinions to anyone who would listen; I always did.

With a purple-painted fingernail, she pointed to a picture of the Stevenson brood.  Kenneth had Cynthia (the wife and unhappy client) wrapped up in a big hug beneath a willow tree.  They both wore t-shirts and shorts.  The kids covered their eyes and made sick, gaggy faces at their parents.  The kids could pass for white; it was the first thing I noticed in the picture, but in closer inspection, you could notice that the girl was the spitting image of her mother—except for the coloring, and Kenneth, Jr. was totally his dad, but with his mother’s big brown eyes.  They were an adorable family.  I frowned.  I hoped I wouldn’t find anything during my undercover work.

“Girl,” Daria said, “this chica looks just like you.”

“Yeah,” I whispered, “I know.  Who else could do this case?”

Vince, my best friend and co-owner of F.A.C.E. with me and our boy, Rico, thought we should first go with someone who resembled the positive attributes of Mrs. Stevenson.  Kenneth had to have loved her inside and out once upon a time.  Maybe my resemblance would make him want me.

Mrs. Stevenson was a full-figured, black woman.  Last I checked, my size 16 body qualified for full-figured stardom, and my cinnamon coloring made me a sistah.  She had the look of someone who should have had the biggest ego.  She looked smart.  She looked sporty.  She looked girly.  Cynthia really could have been my older sister.  Long hair, big brown eyes, nice curvy body.  She had about ten, fifteen pounds on me and an additional two or three inches in height, but those were incidentals when you looked at our faces, our bodies.  The more I looked at her picture, the more I wanted to protect her from her cheating husband.

“Ta-da,” Raven yelled as she ran out the closet.

In one hand, she held my Isabel’s, a sexy pair of red Blahnik sandals that really just consisted of spike heels and straps.  In the other hand, she held my black, almost sheer, empire-waist mini-dress.

“This has to be better than the Wal-Mart clothes and Adidas you’re always wearing,” Raven said.  She offered me her most sugary smile.

“Fuck you, bitch,” I bit out.

“You wish.  Now get dressed and somebody pop that damn video in please.  I know I asked like five minutes ago.”

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