Love Like Hallelujah

by Lutishia Lovely

  “What are you frowning about?” Hope asked as she walked over to hug her cousin.

  “Hope, you are glowing. That dick must be good!”

  “Frieda!”

  “Please, don’t be trying to get all churchy on me. Ain’t nothing wrong with enjoying yourself.” She stood up and spoke dramatically. “You’s married now, Miss Hope, you’s married now.”

  They laughed, walked into the living room, and sat on the couch. “Speaking of church, you want to come with us next Sunday?”

  “I might.”

  “We can pick you up and everything.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you when I know for sure.”

  Hope knew a dodge when she heard one. “Can I get you something?”

  “No, I just came from having lunch with my crazy friend, Joe.”

  Hope’s “male alert” antenna went up. “Your friend at work? I want all the details.”

  “And he wants my tail,” Frieda quipped.

  Hope raised her eyebrows. “Careful, Frieda, y’all just met.”

  “Oh, don’t trip. Joe’s my running buddy. I try not to mix business with pleasure. Break up with a nucka you work with, then have to see his ass every day? Not pleasant. He’s taking me to a party tonight, some mansion in the Hollywood Hills.”

  “How well do you know this guy?” Hope asked, concerned. “You don’t want to get yourself in a compromising situation, make me and Cy come and get you in the middle of the night.”

  “If my ass don’t get in a compromising situation soon,” Frieda countered, heading to the kitchen, “somebody gon’ get shot. He assured me I’d have a good time. Y’all got any water?”

  “Yes, and grab me one, please.”

  Frieda returned from the kitchen with two bottles of water. “Joe’s cool, he really is. I can’t say that for the rest of the stuffed shirts in the office. This one married dude is trying to talk to me though. I might let him hit it if he’s got some money.”

  “You are not going to do that. You are not going to sell yourself for money.”

  “Please, child, don’t you know? Everybody’s selling it, eh-ver-ee-body. The price may be different but the bottom line is the same. You give ’em some pussy, they give you whatever.”

  Hope shook her head in frustration. “Frieda, that is not true.”

  “Is too,” she replied. “You selling yours right now. I admit you got a good deal, a swanky home and a wedding ring, but pussy was still the means of exchange.”

  “What Cy and I are exchanging is love,” Hope responded in annoyance. She caught herself. “Oh, why am I even trying to reason with you? You’re going to think what you want anyway.”

  “Chill out, Hope…I know you’re in love. It’s all good. So,” Frieda began again after a pause, “it’s been what, two months now? You still happy?”

  Hope leaned back against the sofa. “It is wonderful. I can’t even believe it.”

  “So when are you going to start popping them babies out?”

  “Believe it or not, Cy and I discussed that on the island. We don’t want to wait too long, a year maybe.”

  “I’m still trying to get over the fact he owns an island!”

  “Well, I tell you what. Cy and I will plan a party for a few friends and you can come see for yourself.”

  “Plenty of fine men over there, right?”

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you, but yes, they are a very attractive bunch of people. But ours is a private portion of the smaller island. You’ll want to spend time in Grand Cayman.”

  Frieda was already figuring how much of her salary she could save per month, and who she could take with her. “That sounds wonderful, Hope. It’s about time I take a trip outside this country.”

  “You’ll love it,” Hope answered.

  After another hour, Frieda told Hope she had to go. She hugged her cousin and promised to do lunch soon. Back out in reality, the crazy California traffic, Frieda’s mind was buzzing. She joked about it, but seeing Hope so happy had her thinking about finding a man, settling down. She was three years older than Hope, and while she’d never really considered it before, marriage had its benefits. She held no delusions about finding somebody like Cy—that didn’t happen everyday. But a man who’d treat her right, someone to hang out with, help pay the bills…she could see some advantages.

  As she turned the corner of her block, her “wanna-be gangsta” neighbors, Marlon and Blunt, were in the middle of the street doing God knew what. “Get out the street,” she yelled, barely slowing down.

  “Dang, girl, you high?” Marlon shouted.

  “When you gon’ let me get at that?” Blunt added.

  Frieda pulled up to the curb and jumped out of the car. “Some other time, darlin’s. Mommy gotta hot date tonight.”

  “Just my luck,” Blunt said halfheartedly. “Somebody else gets to tap that ass.”

  Frieda had a window that faced Blunt’s building and was well aware of the string of females going in and out, mostly to see him, but also to support his side business, selling weed. “Ah, you do all right,” she said, heading inside. Their bantering was all in good fun. In fact, both men had helped her out a lot when she’d first moved in, adopted her in a way, kept the hard heads in check. As she opened her door, she thought of what to wear: something low, tight, F-me heels. A quick check of the voice mail and she jumped in the shower, still smiling at Blunt’s constant bid to hit the kitty.

  Frieda’s eyes widened as Joe pulled into the sizeable parking lot next to the huge house. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said incredulously. “We are not going in here.”

  Joe smiled. “Come on, my little pumpkin. This is exactly where we’re going.”

  Frieda suddenly felt uneasy. She looked down at her outfit, tight black velvet pants, a low-plunging spring sweater with metallic threads running through it, and four-inch heels. She’d gone to the beauty shop first thing that morning, had her short, flip hairstyle bumped to perfection. Her makeup was flawless and the acrylic nails just the right length and color. So, what was it? Normally she was confident, secure in her looks. She knew she had what it took to turn a head or two. But looking at this house, the size of an office building, made her wonder if she was more than a little bit out of her element. “I hope they’ve got something to drink in there,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  Joe put his arm around her as they walked inside. “Pumpkin, they’ve got anything you want!”

  Frieda tried not to gape as they stepped into the foyer. The mansion was quite simply gorgeous. A huge chandelier dominated the entry way, its crystal reflecting off the gold accents on the doors, walls, and ceiling. She’d never seen marble floors throughout a house before. A bar was set up just inside the receiving room. She sauntered over, taking in the scenery.

  “What will it be for you, pretty lady?” the jovial bartender asked with flirty eyes.

  “Are you on the menu?” she countered effortlessly.

  “Uh, I can be, if you’re ordering,” he said with equal casualness.

  This broke the ice, and Frieda felt better. She should have known, people were people, and men were men, wherever you go. “Give me something high-class, to match my surroundings.”

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  “You decide, but something relaxing, calm my nerves so I can get my party on!” The sounds of dance music drifted from the back of the house. “This is a big place.”

  “Yeah, well, the owner’s got deep pockets. Here, this will help you get in the mood.” He gave her a double shot of Goldschläger, a cinnamon-flavored liqueur.

  “What’s this floating in it?”

  “Pure gold, just like you.”

  “For real?”

  The bartender nodded. “Drink up, and then I’ll give you a glass of champagne to take along on your tour.”

  The shots worked miracles. Frieda soon lost Joe and made her way through the maze of people clustered in groups throughout the sprawling abode. Befo
re long, she’d caught a few eyes here and there, made small talk. Mostly, she was just happy walking around a place right out of the movies, taking it all in. She went through a great room, past a dining room with a table that could seat at least twenty people, and into one of the dens. That’s when she saw him, the man she determined on the spot was going to be her “compromising situation.” He was leaning against the mantel of a huge fireplace, speaking intently to the brother next to him. The man next to him said something. Her man tilted back his head and laughed. She decided to check him out from the other side of the room first, finish her champagne.

  Damn, he’s fine. Frieda had sworn off pretty boys a thousand times but they were still her weakness. And this brother, oh-my-God. His bronzed skin was smooth and even, the perfect setting for his straight, white teeth. The close-cropped haircut showed off a perfectly shaped head. Frieda imagined running her hands over it in a moment of passion. His lips could have been sculpted by Michelangelo. They were perfectly shaped, evenly thick on top and bottom. She couldn’t see his eyes that well, but based on everything else…my, my, my. He looked to be about six feet tall, and she hadn’t seen anybody wear a pair of jeans the way he did in quite some time. The man he was talking to was fine, too, in a rugged sort of way. Dark-skinned, buffed, his posture was that of someone completely self-assured. He, too, wore his hair close-cropped, almost bald. He was about the same height as the other man, maybe twenty, thirty pounds heavier. As she stared, her man glanced around the room and she caught his sparkling brown eyes. They smiled at each other. Hmm, I’ve got choices. She determined that either one of these brothers would do just fine.

  Pretty boy finished his drink. His friend did the same. They began walking toward the open doors on the other side of the den, casually speaking with two alluring women as they all exited. Frieda waited a moment. Dang! Are they getting ready to do a foursome? She didn’t want to appear to be following, even though that was her purposeful intention. She grabbed another glass of champagne from a server and headed in the same direction her “situation” had gone. Turning the corner, she saw his back just before he disappeared up the stairs. She wished she’d gotten there a second sooner so she could see her competition, which woman was pretty boy’s taste. She looked around to see if she could spot his friend. No, he was gone, too. She downed her champagne and set the glass on a nearby table. Having had nothing since lunch, she quickly felt the effects of the liquor, making her giddy and bold. She walked confidently to the stairs. The thought of breaking in on some wildly screwing couples was becoming exciting.

  A handsome man with reddish brown hair and green eyes stopped her. “Looking for me?”

  Frieda engaged in conversation for a brief moment, told him that maybe they could hook up later. Then she continued on her mission.

  It was quiet, serene, on the second floor. There was a large open space at the top of the stairs where a few people stood around. Then there were halls on three sides, each with a series of closed doors. Wow, this might get tricky. Frieda had never been one to back down from a challenge, and the longer it took to find her temptation, the more she was determined to do so. She walked down the hall to the right, and quietly opened the first door. It was a nicely appointed bedroom, but empty. She opened a few more doors and had to apologize to a couple who were making full use of a guest room. A bathroom and large closet completed that hallway. In the next one, it was more of the same. She’d gotten the gist though, and started listening at the door before opening it. Hearing grunts and moans saved her a couple times. But not from the group doing lines of cocaine, a group of naked bathers in a Jacuzzi, and another group surrounding a woman holding tarot cards. She quickly was on to the third hall.

  She stopped at the first door, listened. Hearing nothing, she eased the door open, stuck her head in, eased it open a bit more. This was a larger room, like a master suite. The door opened to a sitting area, the bed nowhere in sight. She was just about to close the door when she heard laughter, male laughter. She stopped. Silence. She slipped out of her heels and tiptoed across the carpeted bedroom, slid against the wall, and eased her head around the corner. Her heart pounded, she felt excited, a voyeur getting ready to observe someone doing the nasty. Slowly, she peeked into the sleeping area. What?!

  On the bed lay her “compromising situation” and his friend, naked. Frieda closed her eyes. This could not be happening—those two fine brothers could not possibly be sweet. She looked again. “Buff” had rolled on top of “Pretty Boy” and was kissing him passionately. “Pretty Boy” was returning the kiss stroke for stroke. Each had the other’s joystick in his hand, rubbing it like a good luck piece. She glanced around the room. Clothes had been hastily thrown over a chair near the bed. Frieda wanted to move but couldn’t; she was mesmerized. Of course she knew about the lifestyle, and knew in LA to expect anything. But she still wasn’t prepared for it straight up in her face. She stepped back and leaned against the wall. A light-headedness came over her; she almost giggled. I got to get out of here. She peeked back one more time, watched as “Pretty Boy” got behind “Buff,” joystick in hand, poised for entry. His eyes were closed in anticipated ecstasy. That was it, time to retreat. In her haste to leave, she turned the corner quickly and bumped a lamp on the table. She ran to the door, opened it as fast as she could, and held the knob so it would close quietly. She ran down the hall and down the stairs, past reddish brown hair and surprised green eyes. She needed food, and fresh air, and not necessarily in that order.

  Darius stopped, dick hard and pulsing. “Did you hear that, baby?”

  Bo pushed back against Darius, eager for the coupling to begin. “What, I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Sounded like a noise.” Darius leaned over and kissed Bo’s back, shoulders, neck, as he listened for additional sounds. Hearing none, he repositioned himself behind Bo. Time to finish what his beautiful lover had started.

  Frieda sat back against the patio chair, staring out over the lights of Los Angeles and sipping sparkling water. Her appetite assuaged with king crab cakes and pasta, she calmly contemplated the scene she’d witnessed earlier. It’s a damn shame, she thought, shaking her head. For something that fine to not want me. She sat her plate on the table and walked over to the stone wall surrounding the terrace. Leaning over it, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath of the night air. Two hard, tight asses popped into her mind. Frieda shouldn’t have been surprised to catch them bumping booties. But she had been.

  It was cool with her, though. She wasn’t one to get in other folks’ business. Her philosophy came from her beloved grandmother, who’d spouted it when Frieda had run in at the age of eight, with the gossip that the next-door neighbor was hugging someone else’s wife. “Here’s what you do,” her grandmother had said calmly, while ironing clothes. “You take six months and tend to your business, and six months to leave others alone. Any months left? That’s when you deal with other folks’ business.” Those words had stuck, and they played in her mind now as she thought of the two handsome brothers having sex upstairs. She thought of her friend, Joe. Maybe he was somewhere getting his groove on, too.

  “Aha, I found you,” a silky voice spoke against Frieda’s ear.

  She turned slightly and gazed into ambrosial green eyes, flecked with gold. “Was I lost?” She turned from the stunning city view and leaned against the stone wall to observe an equally stunning human one.

  “Admit it, you tried to run away from me,” the handsome stranger teased. “You came down those stairs like you’d seen a ghost.”

  Frieda had been too busy running to notice any onlookers witnessing her great escape. At any rate, what she’d seen had been all too real, live, and in living, buck-naked color. But she didn’t want to get into that. “What’s your name?”

  The stranger smiled. “Gorgio.”

  “Ooh, sexy name. You’re what, Italian?”

  “On my mother’s side. My father’s Black.”

  “Well,” Frieda said flirtat
iously, revealing the hint of a smile, “remind me to thank your father and your mother the next time I see them.”

  Gorgio laughed and leaned against the stone wall next to Frieda. The conversation flowed smoothly, effortlessly. Well, well, well, Frieda speculated. Looks like I might get compromised tonight after all.

  15

  Precious Lord…

  Darius reached for a helping of Bo’s homemade vegetable-fried rice. He loved Bo’s cooking, and had only snacked all day, in between the two church services and a last minute band rehearsal of that night’s musical selections.

  Bo placed a baked chicken breast on Darius’s plate and one on his own. “So, how was church?” he asked.

  “Long,” Darius replied. “Wish you were there.”

  “Baby, I told you, I’m just not feeling that. I’d take one look at you up there stroking those keys? The next thing I know, I’d be down on my knees.” Bo paused for effect. “And I’m not talking about praying.”

  Darius was flattered. Bo did this for him. Made him feel good, appreciated, loved—something no woman had ever done—certainly not Gwen, his ex-wife. It’s not that he hadn’t tried, to love women, that is. Growing up in a small Arkansas town, he’d learned at an early age that being attracted to other boys was not the thing to do. Or it was not the thing to admit.

  He remembered the first time it happened. He was about six years old, in gym class. He had a big crush on Bobby, a gangly, big-lipped seven-year-old, who was great at anything athletic. They were playing on the playground, wrestling. Bobby got him in a headlock. Darius wrestled back, enjoying the contact. And then for him, it turned into something else. He got the incredible urge to kiss Bobby. And he did. He went home with a loose tooth and black eye.

  Then there were the fire and brimstone sermons he heard, both from the grandmother who raised him and the pastor of their Pentecostal church. Darius’s mother had abandoned him before his fourth birthday, and he’d never known his father. So, sitting with his grandmother in the first or second pew, he’d imagine the fiery hell that was every Sunday’s focus, feel the accusatory scriptures on unnatural desires, hurled out like daggers aimed at his young heart, and fear the Sodom and Gomorrah story that emphasized God’s anger and veiled His love. The preacher would mention the big ones: adultery, killing, stealing, and of course, homosexuality. But Darius noticed how other sins, such as judging, gossiping, lying, backbiting, were ignored. He remembered how he’d hear old man Johnson, his grandmother’s neighbor, come over after Darius had gone to bed. His grandmother would reach into the top cupboard, above the refrigerator, and pull out the scotch. They’d get to talking, then whispering, and then the next thing Darius heard were her bedsprings creaking. They didn’t know he knew. He was only seven, eight years old at the time. But Darius heard, and he knew.