In her tight red tube dress, she planted a hand on her hip and lifted a brow expectantly. “Drink, bitch.”
I shook my head. “Nope. Remember, I’m the driver. I’m not getting drunk and having to leave my car here, and you know straight liquor will have me straight tore up with the quickness.”
“You never drink with me,” she groaned, and then grabbed my drink, throwing it back, too. I was sure I’d be carrying her giraffe ass out of the place sloppy drunk by the night’s end.
“Oh, there’s the director! Let me introduce you!” She grabbed my hand, and I stumbled through the crowd behind her in my little blue dress, my big hair in full effect. Sage had beaten my face with precision, and judging from the winks and smiles I got from more than a few guys, I knew I was looking pretty good. No, I didn’t want a man, but the attention was nice.
An hour later, my feet were calling me all kinds of bitches and hoes—and I think I heard a couple of motherfuckers, too—so I excused myself from a huddle of actresses in deep conversation about all of them vying to be in a Fenty Beauty commercial and set out to find myself a seat where I could ride out the night until Bridgette was ready to go. Ten minutes later, my fruitless search ended with me leaning against a wall, lifting one foot at a time to relieve the pain shooting through the balls of my feet in my unnaturally high heels. I was mentally deciding which fast food joint I was going to stop at after we left when someone tapped me on my shoulder. I looked up to see an older gentleman in a black suit wearing a smile and some really nice cologne.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but I’ve been asked to escort you to VIP.”
“Huh? Who…what?”
His smile widened. “I’ve been asked to escort you to VIP. I’m George, the VIP concierge.”
What the hell was a VIP concierge? “Um, why are you—why am I going to VIP?”
He dropped the smile.
I guess that was a dumb question. Who would be concerned about why they were going to VIP? Plus, hell…surely I could get a seat up there.
“I—my friend...I can’t leave my friend.”
“Of course not. Your guests may accompany you.”
Well, technically, I was Bridgette’s guest, but anyway. “Uh...let me go get her.”
George followed me as I wove my way through the crowd, searching for Bridgette. Then my brain turned on and I thought to text her, hoping she’d see the message and meet me at the bar.
She did, her almond-shaped eyes wide with curiosity as she approached us. Her eyes darted from George, who stood at attention beside me, to my face. “What’s going on? You getting kicked out? What happened?”
“No…he’s taking us to VIP for some reason.”
“VIP?! Sage is gonna wish she’d turned down that job tonight to do that stripper’s makeup instead of coming with us when she hears this! Wait, you think it’s Sidney? Is he here?”
The thought of it being my ex hadn’t crossed my mind, but he was definitely someone who’d have access to the VIP section. “God, I hope not. If it’s him, I’m getting the hell up out of here.”
“Let’s just see. Maybe it’s not him,” she said. I could tell she was itching to get to that VIP section.
As we followed George through the crowd toward the glass staircase, I realized it had to be Sidney. Who else could it be, and where the hell did he get off summoning me to VIP? I was pondering the cursing I was going to give him when I saw a face that made me stop in my tracks at the top of the stairs. Confirmation of what was really happening came when George approached the door the man was standing by.
“I can’t believe this shit,” I muttered.
Bridgette, who somehow heard me despite K. Michelle screaming through the speakers, said, “Fuck! It’s Sid, isn’t it? Damn, I really wanted to see what the VIP rooms up in here look like.”
I shook my head. “It’s not Sid. That’s Big South’s bodyguard. I’m not going in there.”
Bridgette jerked me around to face her so fast, my head spun. “Let me tell you something. Jo, I love you like a sister, but if you don’t take your ass in that room with that man, I’ma punch you in the back of your damn head. And I mean it. Move!”
“Bridge—”
Her eyes narrowed. “Unless that motherfucker sexually assaulted you, called you a bitch to your face, told you your pussy smelled like fish, or touched Nat, carry your ass on in that room!” she hissed.
“Why would he say my pussy smelled like fish? What you tryna say? I washed my ass, Bridge—”
“Jo, I’m not playing with you!”
“He called me a side piece!”
“Because you work for a ho’ who’s known for screwing his employees! And you said he said, ‘my bad’ after you told him you weren’t one! Dayum!”
“You act like that’s an adequate apolo—”
“Biiiitch, take your ass on in that room before I kick it!”
“Shit! Okay! I’m going!” I shrieked. “Damn!”
Once I made it to the door, I rolled my eyes at a smirking Dunn and followed George into the room. Like the interior of the main floor of the club, it was bathed in yellow lighting and included an entire wall of tinted windows that gave a view of the first level. There was a sectional of black leather couches in the center of the room with a huge glass coffee table in the middle and a small bar with its own bartender on the back wall. After George left, the room was empty save the bartender and me and Bridgette. I turned and looked at Bridgette, whose face bore confusion identical to what I was experiencing.
Then she shrugged. “Girl, whatever. I’ma get me another drink and enjoy being in here anyway.”
As she did just that, I walked over to the window wall and peered down at the action, then decided to take my shoes off. I was sitting on the sofa while Bridgette chatted with the bartender when the door to the room opened and he entered, closely shadowed by his bodyguard. I froze, still leaning over clutching my right foot, cleavage smushed between my arms, mouth slightly agape.
If this man ain’t fine…
He stepped further inside wearing black slacks and a burgundy dress shirt open at the collar, a thick platinum rope hanging around his neck, his dreads pulled back into a ponytail. He smiled as he moved closer to me.
“Hey,” he said, like he knew me or something. He sat down beside me, not real close, but close enough to make me feel antsy as hell.
“Uh, hey,” was my response.
“Jo, right?”
I frowned, glanced back at Bridgette, whose mouth was hanging wide open, and returned my attention to Big South. “How do you know my name?”
“Park told me.”
“Oh…”
“You an actress?”
“Um…no, I’m here with my friend. She’s in the movie.” I gestured toward Bridgette with my head.
She took the cue and rushed over to sit on the other side of me.
“Word? I’m one of the producers,” he said.
Bridgette gasped. “Really? How did I not know that?!”
“I don’t want it known.”
Bridgette thrust her hand in front of me toward him. “Oh…Bridgette Turner. It’s amazing meeting you!”
As they chatted about how the screenwriter was an old friend of his, I stood and walked back over to the windows, tuning them out and gazing down at the crowd while my mind whirred with thoughts and my heart galloped in my chest. What the hell was going on? Why did he have me brought up there? What did he want from me? Sex? In a club? Hell, no! I wasn’t some groupie ho’!
“It’s packed down there, huh?”
He was right in my ear, and he scared the shit out of me. I flinched and turned to look at his tall frame as he moved from behind me to my side, his eyes shifting from the window to my face.
“Why’d you have me brought up here?” I asked.
He grinned, making his eyes crinkle in the corners. God, he was a gorgeous man. I’d always thought so, but standing there peering up at his face was overwhelming. “Straight
to the point, huh? You don’t like it up here?”
“You think I’m going to sleep with you?” I inquired, ignoring his question, because it was stupid. Of course I liked being in a VIP room. Who wouldn’t?
He lifted his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side. “Damn, well…since you asked. You wanna sleep with me, lil’ mama?”
“Can you stop calling me that?”
“Calling you what?”
“Lil’ mama.”
“A’ight, what you want me to call you, then?”
“My name.”
“Okay…Jo, you wanna sleep with me? If you do, I’m not gonna turn your ass down.” His eyes skirted from my face, down my body, and back. “That’s for damn sure.”
“You must think I’m some loose groupie or something like that chick you had in your suite.”
He frowned slightly like he was confused, then recognition lit in his dark eyes. “How you know she was a groupie or loose?”
It was my turn to frown. “You usually let complete strangers see your girlfriends’ naked asses?”
“I didn’t say she was my girlfriend, either.”
“Whatever she is, your total and complete lack of respect for her is disgusting, and if you think I’m about to put myself in her position, you are dead-damn-wrong.”
“That’s why you didn’t come to my party? Because you think I disrespect women?”
“Think? I know you do. If your music wasn’t proof enough, Exhibit B was Miss Naked Ass. You let me and a gigantic man in that room while she was nude and exposed! Didn’t even try to cover her up! You are a pig! A jerk! An asshole!”
He stared at me, his eyes burning into my face like a laser. A full minute passed of him just standing there staring at me before he finally said, “You think my music is disrespectful to women?”
“‘South in your Mouth?’ ‘She be Babysitting?’ ‘Bitches and Hoes?’ ‘Butt Her Face?’ ‘Pussy and Coronas?’ Do I need to run down your entire discography?”
“I made that shit close to twenty years ago when I was a kid who didn’t think about nothing but fucking. You just gonna act like I haven’t evolved at all?”
“Yeah, well, I saw that girl’s ass like three weeks ago. Big evolution. Plus, you basically called me a Peter Park ho’.”
He stared at me again, and the reality hit me that I was in a club, in VIP, arguing with a complete stranger who happened to be a bona fide superstar. I glanced around the room to see the amused eyes of Bridgette, Tommy-the-bodyguard, and the bartender on us.
I sighed and closed my eyes. “Look, all I’m saying is that was straight foul of you—”
I felt his body heat first, and when I opened my eyes, saw that he was in my face, so close his cologne was crowding my nose. With his eyes stapled to me, he murmured, “You’re right. That was fucked up of me. I apologize to you for calling you a side piece and to her for doing that shit you just said I did.”
“Um-uh…” I couldn’t think for shit! “Um, you can’t apologize to her here. That’s-that’s an indirect apology. Doesn’t count.”
“Can’t apologize to her directly,” he said, his face inching closer to mine.
“W-why not?” I asked, my eyes glued to his.
“Don’t have her number. Never saw her again after that day. Don’t plan on seeing her again. Shit, I can’t even remember her name.”
I frowned. “She—”
His lips met mine, cutting me off. Somewhere in the distance I heard a gasp that I think came from Bridgette. My mind was screaming at me, telling me to stop this, to stop him. I didn’t even really know the man! But I didn’t stop him. Maybe I couldn’t, because his lips felt so good on mine. No tongue, just his thick lips covering mine. Then I felt his hand on my arm. Then he was backing away from me.
“I’ve wanted to do that ever since you threw that damn necklace at me,” he said softly.
I lifted my hand and touched my lips. What was going on? Like, what the entire, total, and complete hell was happening? “Uh…what-why?”
“Just wanted to know if you’d taste as sweet as your mean ass looks. For the record, you do.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “Maybe even sweeter than I thought.”
“I didn’t throw your necklace at you,” was all I could think to say.
“Yes, you did, and that shit turned me on.” His voice was husky, low, and his eyes were on my lips.
“Uh…” I didn’t know what to do or say. I was feeling things in places that had lain dormant for a long time. Sensations were shooting through areas of my body I’d boarded up after my husband left me. My legs were weak, and the loudest thought in my mind was that I wanted him to kiss me again…and again…and again…and—
“You are sexy as hell, you know that?” he muttered, and moved in again, almost as if he’d read my mind. This time when his lips met mine, his tongue darted out. I quickly, eagerly—too damn eagerly—opened my mouth in response. I think I might have moaned or something when he grabbed the back of my dress and pulled me closer to him as he deepened the kiss, his tongue swiping nearly every inch of my mouth. Then he moaned, and my arms lifted on their own and wrapped around his neck. I had to fight not to wrap my legs around him, too. When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing heavily. He stood there, his eyes on me, a strange look on his face. I was so damn confused at this point, I was close to tears. What the fuck was going on?!
“Boss Man…” Tommy’s voice cleared a little of the fog, and I backed away from Big South a bit.
“I gotta go. Got a flight to catch,” Big South said, reaching up and rubbing a finger over his bottom lip. Then his eyes shifted away from me to Bridgette. “Nice meeting you.”
Bridgette said something. I have no idea what.
His eyes found me again, and all I could do was stand there. Leaning in close, he inspected my face. Then he smiled at me, turned, and left. I stumbled to the sofa and clutched my head, feeling almost intoxicated with confusion and well...lust. Bridgette rushed over to me yelling and squealing, but I couldn’t concentrate on her words, because my mind had left that room with the big, tall, fine, black man who was just as skilled at kissing as he was at rapping.
5
I have an obsessive personality. It’s something I inherited from my mother, one of the hallmarks of her mental illness. I was just fortunate I hadn’t inherited her other issues; the obsessive personality was more than enough of a burden. It makes you dissect and scrutinize the smallest of incidents, turn situations over in your head endlessly, analyze every syllable of an old conversation, ask interminable internal questions, and ponder the consequences of your actions fruitlessly. Hell, I’ve been known to ruminate over things I said years ago.
The premiere and after-party were on a Friday night. I spent all day Saturday and most of Sunday dodging Bridgette’s phone calls and obsessing over my encounter with Big South, feeling shivers shimmy down my spine at the recollection of his lips touching mine, of his tongue invading my mouth, and by Sunday evening, I was seriously considering powering up my long-abandoned vibrator to ease the consequential sexual tension that was inundating every cell of my body.
I hadn’t had sex in a couple of years, not since before Sid and I separated when I was six months pregnant. After I had Nat, I was too preoccupied with learning how to take care of her, since I had no one to show me, to even think about sex. My mom died a few years before I met Sid, so she couldn’t teach me; therefore, the motherhood learning curve was steep for me and required too much brain power for me to be worried about a penis. Up until that night at the club, my pelvic region had been hibernating. Big South had awakened it, and now, everything down there was acutely alive and active like molecules colliding in the atmosphere. It felt as if someone was throwing a damn rave in my yoni.
I was never one to be star-struck, so my obsession had nothing to do with the fact that he was Big South, AKA Southy, AKA Big 12, AKA The National Champ of Rap. Yeah, he was a celebrity, a gorgeous one with strong, chiseled
features, but what had my brain roaring was his effect on my body.
And none of this made sense.
So, I was horny and frustratingly perplexed.
I supposed he was attracted to my weird-looking ass for some reason. Maybe he had a thing for freckles, big lips, short slightly-bowed legs, and dusty-looking hair. He did say I was sexy. But why kiss me twice then leave without bothering to at least get my phone number? But then again, he knew where I worked. Maybe he planned to drop by Bijou Park to see me. Of course he wasn’t going to do that. I was nobody to him, just some girl he kissed. He was a star. I was merely a game he was playing…wasn’t I?
Shit.
If I kept this up, I was going to end up in a psych ward like my mother did.
My obsession led me to YouTube, where I watched countless Big South interviews, some so old he looked like a kid in them, chubby and baby-faced. His name originally came from his love of college football. Big South as well as Big 12, one of his other monikers, were NCAA conferences. The National Champ was another nod to his love of football. But one would think Big South was derived from the fact that he was from the south and was overweight when he first hit the rap scene. A big, tall, eighteen-year-old from Houston who spit witty rhymes with a distinct southern drawl. At twenty, he adopted a healthier lifestyle, eventually morphing into six feet, six inches of chiseled muscle, transforming him into a talented rapper who was also seen as a sex symbol. By twenty-two, he was in a relationship with British supermodel, Esther Reese, a gorgeous, six-foot, dark chocolate Barbie doll of a woman who was fifteen years his senior. The two were on serious couple goals status for anyone who saw them together, and as mismatched and unlikely as their pairing was, they married just four months into their relationship. Less than a year later, their daughter was born. The whirlwind relationship lasted another five years, spawned South’s acclaimed album, E2, a love letter to Esther, and ended after he cheated on her. As far as I knew, neither had ever married again, but both had been linked to several other celebrities in the tabloids and on the gossip blogs.
Let Me Love You (McClain Brothers Book 1) Page 3