Four Degrees of Heat

by Rochelle Alers, ReShonda Tate Billingsley, Brenda L. Thomas; Crystal Lacey Winslow

  The house alarm had gone off with the electricity, so quite naturally there wasn’t a warning when my front door opened. My room was hot because I’d been too scared to open the windows, but he’d found me in the dark, in a bed he’d never slept in. Maybe he did love me after all. I didn’t want to say anything, ask why he’d come, because if it was a dream, then I didn’t want to wake up.

  He never said a word, just started at my feet, kissed their soles, and worked his way up to my calves, my thighs, and buried his tongue in the beating pulse between my legs. I lay still, scared that if I said one thing, I’d scare him away. My skin, moist from the heat, burned for him. When his mouth reached the top of me, he turned me over and took in the back of me, from the nape of my neck to my spine. I refused to open my eyes because I knew he’d vanish.

  He made love to me, slow and honest, not like I was his bitch, more like I was his woman, like he loved me. And afterward it was that spot on the left side of my clit that he searched for ever so gently with his tongue that brought tears from me. He felt the pain of my emotions and held me close to his chest. I loved him, and when I moved my lips to call out to Mason, the lights came on, and I found myself in the arms of Lynn.

  Lynn

  I assumed the storm had caused a blackout in her neighborhood. I knew that thunder and lightning frightened her, so I hoped she was okay. I wondered if she’d heard my noisy truck pull up, but I didn’t see any sign of her except for her truck, which was parked close to the front door.

  I’d called the school just yesterday, and they’d told me that she’d been out sick. I hoped she wasn’t thinking about quitting because I’d never really report her, even though I had to admit in my fit of anger the thought had crossed my mind. But I’m sure I was part of her sickness. Sick that I hadn’t even taken the time to hear her out. Hear her side of the story. But now I didn’t need to. I didn’t even care about any of her indiscretions. I just didn’t want to lose her.

  I still had the key she’d given me, so I was able to let myself into the house. I could feel Max’s loneliness in the empty house. I made my way upstairs to her bedroom.

  There she was, sleeping naked, legs curled under her. I watched her turn on her back, trying to get comfortable in the hot room. I could’ve stood there and watched her all night, but the rigid hard-on that was growing between my legs wouldn’t let me.

  I crept to the foot of the bed, kneeled down, and that’s where I started. At the soles of her feet I began to take back my Max.

  Mason

  Her neighborhood was dark, and so was the house. I hoped she was home. I thought to call her from the car before I rounded her street, but I’d decided to surprise her. I knew she thought that I thought she was beneath me, but she wasn’t. Max was actually a better person than I was.

  I attempted to pull into her driveway but found it partially blocked by a silver and red tractor-trailer. Maybe she had a brother or cousin who drove a truck. But then I realized she’d never talked too much about her family, so I wasn’t sure if she even had siblings. But then it hit me, this probably wasn’t family at all. Maybe Max really was a whore, a prostitute, and this was one of her customers in off the road.

  I sat there, the car idling, trying to decide what to do. I held on to the cell phone. If I didn’t go inside or didn’t call, then I might never know who Max really was.

  I looked up to her window, and there behind the sheer white curtains I saw her unmistakable silhouette. I hoped she didn’t recognize me, but then I realized that my headlights were still on, so I shut them off but it was too late, she’d pulled back the curtain and saw me, pitying me. And that’s when I knew that whoever was in there and whatever Max really wanted in life, it wasn’t me.

  Max

  So Lynn had believed me, and he’d come to me in a way he never had before. He wouldn’t let me talk or explain what had taken place during my summer break. And this time afterward I didn’t mind when I heard him snoring.

  As I lay there I could hear a car pulling up and then stopping. It seemed to be right in front of my house. I lay there waiting to see if it would move past, but it sat. Bright headlights shone on my darkened bedroom, and somehow I sensed it was him. I hoped he wasn’t here to make trouble.

  I crept out of bed so as not to disturb Lynn and went to the window. I hid myself behind the curtain and pulled it back just enough to confirm my suspicions. He was sitting there, staring up at my window, probably wondering what man I had in my house. I almost wanted to go to him and tell him that I forgave him for the things he’d said. But what would’ve been the point?

  I stood there in the darkness watching him, and before I stepped out of view, he looked up and we made eye contact. That was my moment of truth. I looked at Lynn comfortably sleeping and looked back at Mason. And that’s when I made my choice.

  Sex, Sin & Brooklyn

  Crystal Lacey Winslow

  Prologue

  March 2004

  My beauty was beguiling. So it’s not a shock that I used it to get everything I ever wanted. If there was room for manipulation, I was the manipulator. If a situation called for seducing, I was the seducer. I had been raised to be unscrupulous, and I made no apologies.

  When I was little, my mother once said I was so beautiful I’d break a lot of hearts. Actually, shehoped I’d break a lot of men’s hearts—payback for all the years of grief she endured in her search for real love. For me that conversation solidified the importance of beauty and gave birth to my affinity for naughtiness.

  Very early on, I was a disrespectful wild child who foolishly thought my mother was ugly. I despised her because she had a big head, large hands, and huge feet. I also considered her to be as black as tar. I would often taunt her, saying, “Your head is so big, like a St. Bernard’s.” That may have sounded mean coming from her daughter, but I was at a different place. Sadly, my mother would always say, “Shit! I know how I look. I keeps it real. I ain’t no beauty queen.”

  My mother was always the first to admit she wasn’t attractive. Now, when I look back, she hurt her own feelings so no one else could.

  Needless to say, I grew up in a dysfunctional family. I used to listen to my grandmother say to my mother, “Chile, you sure are ugly. Why don’tcha get outta my face right now? You makin’ my eyes hurt.” Then she’d laugh, a hideous cackle, and say, “The only reason I fucked your ugly-ass father is ’cause I needed somethin’ to eat. I was hungry—”

  During our brief talks, my mother said she had a hunch that she would have a baby at a young age. She didn’t want to put her child in the same position to be ridiculed for being ugly just as she was. In school she would often look at the black boys’ and Spanish boys’ features. Her conclusion was that the Spanish boys had softer hair and nicer complexions, so she decided to start having sex with the Spanish boys. She gave her virginity away to her first Spanish boy when she was fourteen years old. This boy wasn’t her boyfriend, and she wasn’t his girlfriend. They just fucked. Soon, all the neighborhood boys caught on that my mother was giving it up, and they all flocked around her. She told me all their attention made her feel loved. Her promiscuity made her the most popular girl in school.

  Soon enough, my mother became pregnant with me. At the hospital, my mother said, my father never showed up, but she decided to name me Nicoli after him—his name was Nico. She knew he’d never give his last name to me, so she settled for his first.

  To the surprise of no one, my grandmother doted on me from the first day I was born. She’d spend her last dollar on me, and at that time it suited my mother just fine. I had designer sneakers, shoes, and clothing. But eventually the baby my mother thought she’d love, she resented. So my grandmother took control of me and raised me, with my mother only occasionally intervening. I knew that my grandmother wasn’t my mother, but I called her Momma and called my mother Gail.

  When I turned fourteen my grandmother started taking me to nightclubs and local bars with her. My first drink was a Long Is
land iced tea. I had three drinks and handled it like a pro. My grandmother said people usually vomit on that drink, that only a “real bitch” could handle a Long Island iced tea. Even though I really didn’t feel well, I didn’t say anything to my grandmother. I didn’t want her to be disappointed. Her praise filled my adolescent mind.

  That year my grandmother died of sclerosis of the liver. I was confused and hurt, so I blamed my mother. I would lash out at her constantly, mimicking my grandmother and saying mean things—“Your head is as big as a five-pound bag of sugar. Get your ugly self outta my face!”

  By the time I reached fifteen, I had my own crew to control—Joy, Stacy, and Fertashia. We all met up on our block and clicked. Fertashia and I lived next door to each other, but we all lived in the same building. At the time, we were like sisters. I was the leader of the crew and pushed my views on all of them. Soon, they were all following my flow, and we loved it.

  I had been fifteen for less than a week when I lost my virginity. Ever since that moment, I’ve had this ferocious hunger to fuck. My hormones were continuously blazing. I was besieged with sexual fantasies, and at night I’d get so hot, I’d hump my pillow. When that didn’t work, I’d stick my fingers down my panties and massage my clitoris. When that didn’t satisfy my insatiable appetite, I had boy company. Soon my boyfriends were spending the whole night with me, which only made me even more popular. I foolishly thought I was grown and that these guys loved me for my inner beauty as well as my sex appeal. This went on for years, until I smartened up and realized men don’t really want to know thereal you. They like conversing with your representative. They like you pretending to be someone you’re not. That way, they in return can pretend to be someone they’re not. And at the end of the day, you two are merely strangers walking past each other in a crowded club.

  Truthfully, if someone had had the balls to look me in my face and tell me how immature I was and how petty my antics were, I would have laughed in their face. Who am I kidding? I probably would havespit in their face. I was the quintessence of lust, gluttony, and vanity. And I made no apologies.

  No one, least of all me, could have predicted that I’d completely change my views and values in life in just three short summer months. I went from a self-absorbed, money-hungry, promiscuous female to a young adult, channeling all her energy into being a positive role model.

  Basically, I now feel like I have an old soul. I know that sounds corny, but they say you get wisdom by learning from your own mistakes. Knowledge is when you learn from other people’s mistakes, and I’ve done enough dirt not to have to study someone else’s. Often I am amazed at how I was able to transform myself from a bad person to a better person. I used to feel that when I entered a room, no other female existed but me. Now I see people—not through them. I take time out to listen objectively to my friends and then offer my support in all their endeavors. The things I once thought were minuscule are more important than I ever imagined—like talking with my mother and looking into her eyes and making a connection.

  I used to exploit my body. Now I know that my body is a temple that needs to be nourished and cherished daily. I do this by abstaining from drugs, eating right, and surrounding myself with positive people and thoughts.

  The summer of 2003 was a pivotal one for me. I realized that instead of progressing into a young adult who had responsibilities, goals, and aspirations, I was simply honing my skills as a whore. I didn’t know it back then, but that summer fiasco taught me exactly what I needed to grow up.

  Chapter 1

  Summer 2003

  Iremember the first time Black and I fucked. It was the first day of the summer, 2003. My homegirl Joy had invited us to a BBQ out in the Hamptons where all the players were. The main attraction was the homeowner, Kevin. He had a clothing line called K-rockwear, and was the hottest record producer from coast to coast. He had had a short stint as a rapper, but when his music career flopped, he reinvented himself as an entrepreneur. I had already decided that I’d be willing to hook up with virtually anyone at this BBQ. But the challenge was Kevin.

  We all decided to get dressed at my house, and Stacy brought the weed. She rolled a joint, puffed, then passed it around to everyone except me. I didn’t smoke that shit. I didn’t indulge in any drug that might eventually fuck with my looks. My beauty is all I got to get what I want. Why my homegirls like to indulge boggles the hell out of me. But that’s them. I’m way over here when it comes to dumb shit going down.

  “Joy,” I said.

  “Wassup, playa playaa?” she replied in her husky voice.

  “You so stupid. Now, who’s gonna be there?” I inquired.

  “Kevin—Duffy—Jay…ummm, that nigga from the new flickHot Wire ,” she said.

  “Really?” Stacy exclaimed.

  “Word. This is some exclusive shit. It’s goin’ down, ya heard,” Joy continued.

  “As soon as I fall up in that piece, I’m baggin’ Kevin. You chicks can have any of the rest,” I affirmed.

  “The rest? Why settle for the rest when I can go for the best? It’s fair game, Nicoli, and I’m goin’ for Kevin,” Joy challenged.

  “Bitch, don’t play wit me! I already said that I was gettin’ wit that motherfucker, and here you go talkin’ sideways,” I exploded.

  “Damn, Nicoli, calm down. He don’t even know you,” Stacy reasoned.

  “But he’s gonnawant to know me,” I retorted.

  “I was just jokin’, yo. You need to chill out sometimes. You always flippin’ for no reason,” Joy said.

  They were always complaining that I had a temper because I didn’t take no shit from these bitches. Joy and I had a combative relationship, but in the end she always folded. She wasn’t a challenge.

  “Now, I ain’t one to listen to gossip, but I heard that Kevin’s girl Mya is ’posed to be there. She’s the half black and Asian girl in all his clothing ads. If she’s there, what you gonna do, Nicoli?” Fertashia asked.

  “I’ma do me. I’m a pretty bitch. No, I’m a pretty,sexy bitch, and I can get any man I want. If only for one night,” I joked.

  “Rumor is Kevin has a big dick,” Stacy chimed in.

  “Don’t tell Fertashia that. Her sneaky ass might fuck him in the closet,” Joy added.

  “Then deny the whole incident,” I replied dryly. Then we all burst out into laughter.

  “Y’all some hatin’-ass bitches,” Fertashia stated, then rolled her eyes.

  “Fertashia, if you tried some sneaky shit like that, I’d whip your ass,” I warned.

  “Nicoli, you really need to lighten up when it comes down to these niggas. Don’t nobody want Kevin,” Fertashia assured me.

  “Damn sure don’t. In fact, I got my eyes on Duffy,” Joy said.

  “I can take him too,” I countered.

  Joy just stared at me harshly because she knew that was most likely true. Inever lost a guy to Joy. But, truthfully, if I’m not there, Joy is runner-up over Stacy and Fertashia.

  Joy has light skin, shoulder-length black hair with a Chinese-cut bang, big brown eyes, and a sexy mouth. Her greatest asset is her ass. Joy has a pear-shaped ass that could literally stop traffic, and she knows this. So her wardrobe consists of only form-fitting outfits. Tight jeans, tight shorts, tight capri pants, and cropped shirts so you can see her tight jeans, shorts, and capris.

  Now Stacy is the opposite of us all. She isreally skinny. Her body is grotesquely underweight. She has pale skin, a straight nose, ordinary brown eyes, and is taller than all of us. She stands around five foot eight, whereas we’re all around five feet. Her hair is extremely thin because she’s trying to keep up with J-Lo and Beyoncé with the blond highlights. But she has a cute face and fashion sense, or else she wouldn’t have been down with my crew.

  Last is Fertashia. Fertashia is sneaky as far as personality goes. She’s the type that will go and fuck a guy, then come back and lie about it. I mean, we all girls. What’s up with that? But nevertheless, Fertashia is a six out of
ten beauty points. She’s dark-skinned with hazel eyes. Her hair comes just underneath her ear, and she has it cut into layers. Her round face gives her a cherubic presence, but don’t be fooled by the hype; Fertashia is no angel.

  We all have a common thread; we were born and raised in the ghetto. So we roll together on a consistent basis. We like the same clothes, music, and men. Yet we’re all different, if that makes any sense.

  As the girls got dressed, I ran and jumped in the shower. I was always the last to get dressed. While in the shower, I washed my hair and left a little conditioner in it. My natural red hair curled up immediately. My mother was surprised when I came out with a caramel complexion, red hair, freckles,and blue eyes. How could a black girl and a Spanish boy create such a baby? It turned out that my father wasn’t Spanish. His mother was white, and his father was black; thus, he came out looking Spanish. He’d later tell my mother that he’d deceived her just so he could get a piece. He said it was obvious that only the Spanish boys were able to hit it, so he pretended to be just that. He thought that his confession would make my mother angry. Instead, she reveled in the fact that she had a baby with a little white in her.

  Today, I decided on wearing a pair of white vintage hip-huggers that enveloped my ass. I had a cute ass; it was round and sexy, not too large and not flat. Actually, if I may say so, it was perfect.

  Then I put on a sexy halter top—also vintage. I mixed that with the latest strap Jimmy Choo heels and nylon handbag to match. I applied a pale pink MAC lip gloss and Christian Dior perfume, and I was ready. When I emerged from the bathroom, all eyes were on me.

  “That’s a good look,” Fertashia commented.

  “That’s what’s up,” I said.