Fool and Her Honey (9781622860791)

by Matthews, Kimberly T.

  He took a plastic bag of ice and placed it over my uninjured ankle. “Here. Hold this. Let me go get an ACE bandage so we can get it wrapped up. It doesn’t look like it’s broken.”

  “Okay,” I said, complying. “Thank you, Hamm.”

  “No problem. I’ll be right back,” he said, standing to walk to his car.

  “I can’t take you nowhere.” Dina shook her head.

  “I know, girl. You got me out here rolling all over the grass, looking a hot mess.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Some kind of way, I fell over a table.”

  “You fell over a table?” she repeated, then burst into laughter. “I wish I could have seen that!”

  “You didn’t miss anything.” While we chatted, I watched the bouncy-titty girl follow Hamm to his car, stand there for a few minutes, then go back to her post. I was going to have to find out if that was his girlfriend.

  Chapter 5

  Candis

  Hamilton and I had been talking almost daily ever since my fake injury. He’d even dropped by the house a couple of times to check on me and my ankle. I grinned like a man in a strip club whenever I saw his number light up the face of my cell phone, and this time was no different.

  “How’s that ankle of yours?” he asked.

  “I’m much better, thanks to you,” I answered. “Thank you again so much.”

  “It’s no problem. It’s what I do.”

  “So you work with the Cardinals, huh? I bet you’ve seen all kinds of injuries.”

  “Yeah, I have. Those guys take some really nasty hits out there on the field and do some serious damage to their bodies almost every game.”

  “I can tell,” I replied. “Football is no joke.”

  “So what do you do for a living?” he asked.

  “I’m a professional photographer.”

  “Sweet. Where do you work?”

  “I have my own studio.” It felt so good to say that. Made me seem impressive, I thought.

  “That’s great! Have you ever thought about doing sports photography?”

  “Not really.”

  “You should come out sometime to a practice or something and catch some action shots and see how you like it.”

  Was he asking me out on a date? That was what it sounded like to me in a roundabout way. And if he was asking, I definitely was going to take him up on it.

  “The Cardinals let just anybody into their practices?” I needed him to be more forward with his asking, just in case I was reading him wrong.

  “Not exactly, but I know a person that can get you in if you’re interested.”

  “Hmm . . . What does this person look like?” I teased.

  “He’s, ummm, kinda handsome, a little over six feet, got a few muscles, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Matter fact, I think you might have met him a while back, when you fell on top of some pots and stuff,” he said, laughing.

  “Oh, gosh! You mean some handsome man other than you saw that too?” I complemented on the sly.

  “Naw, just me, just me.”

  “That was just so mortifying.”

  “We all have our moments,” he said and chuckled.

  “Anyway! Can you tell the handsome guy you know that I’d love to go with him to one of those practices?”

  “I should be talking to him later on today. I’ll see what I can get worked out.”

  “Sounds great,” I said with a smile. “Maybe he and I can get together before the week is out.”

  “Oh yeah, he will definitely have time this week.”

  “Cool!”

  “All right, well, I’m going to get back out here on this field. . . .”

  “And I’m going to get back to editing my photos,” I threw in, suddenly realizing that I’d lost control of the call and he was trying to end the call with me, instead of the other way around. “My plate is so full.”

  “Okay, well, I will call you back this afternoon with a time for later this week.”

  “If you don’t mind, Hamm, can you text me? I have a shoot later on, and I won’t be able to answer.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  After ending the call, I did a little dance around my studio, excited about the possibilities of dating a new man. A new handsome man who had something going for himself. Yeah. I was liking this church thing. It was working out all right.

  As promised, Hamm texted me later that afternoon, offering to pick me up on Thursday, at one o’clock, to take me to the University of Phoenix Stadium for a working date. Although I read the text right away, I didn’t confirm until three hours later, then asked if we could make it two o’clock instead, so I wouldn’t seem completely available.

  Thursday seemed to take forever to come around, but when it came, I was ready. I dressed in a pair of tight capri sports pants that rose to only hip level and a stretchy tank that bared my midriff. I pulled on my Nikes, pulled my hair back like I was going jogging, and loaded my camera bag with a few necessary tools to play around and capture some great shots . . . not of the team, but of Hamm.

  It was only a few minutes after two when I saw his car pull up in the lot. Then my cell rang, displaying his number.

  “Hey, Candis,” he said. “I’m outside in the parking lot. You ready?”

  “Yep, I’m on my way,” I answered, a bit disappointed that he hadn’t gotten out of his car and walked to the door. “Don’t make it too serious, Candis,” I whispered to myself. “Start as friends. It’s all good.”

  I bounded down the stairs to his car, walked up to the door, and got inside.

  “The way you came flying down those stairs, I guess that ankle is really all healed up,” he said, glancing down at my feet.

  I’d forgotten just that quickly that I was supposed to be getting over an injury. “Yeah, it’s been feeling pretty good for the past few days.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it. Have you eaten yet?”

  “Not lunch. I had a bagel a few hours ago for breakfast.”

  “Well, you need to keep your body fed,” he said, glancing down at my abs. “Let’s grab something before we get out there to the field.”

  With my agreement, we stopped at Chipotle Mexican Grill to grab a couple of burritos, then headed out to Glendale. Hamm took me through the employee gate and gave me a tour of the locker room before we went out to where the players were.

  “You sure they won’t mind me taking photos?”

  “Nah. You’re with me. It’s cool.”

  I’d never seen so many hard-bodied men so up close and in my reach in my life. Their bodies glistened with sweat, and muscles popped out everywhere on several of them, while a few of them had some rolls that folded over the top of their pants. As taken as I was with Hamm, I found myself lost in a wonderland of flesh and had a great time capturing the players catching and throwing the ball and running up and down the field. Hamm even took me up close and personal, and I got to meet a few of the players and actually shake their hands. I kept my wits about me and didn’t act a complete fool, but I was a little starstruck.

  “Let me get a few shots of you, Hamm,” I requested as together we walked toward the stands.

  “You want pictures of little old me? Shucks, I ain’t nobody.”

  “If it weren’t for you, I might be walking with a limp right now,” I said and laughed, still living out my lie from community day.

  “I’m sure you know how to get yourself medical attention when it’s necessary. You would have been just fine had I not been around.”

  “Maybe so, but not without an exorbitant medical bill to go with it,” I replied, pointing the camera at him. “And I definitely wouldn’t have been swept off my feet and have found myself resting comfortably in the doctor’s arms.”

  “Oh, you liked that, huh?” He smiled and came toward me with his arms ready to lift me. I practically jumped in his arms this time, except instead of assuming a cradle position, I wrapped my legs at his waist. “Wh
oa!” he exclaimed, grabbing my thighs and holding me up.

  “What? Am I too heavy?”

  “Not at all,” he whispered in a tone that suggested he was perfectly fine with my weight and positioning.

  “How long do you think you could hold me like this?” I winked.

  Backing me into a wall and pushing his hips forward, he answered, “We can find out. I’m pretty strong, you know.” With a quick shift, he raised me up into his arms, bringing my pelvis up to his chest, and then proposed lifting me even higher than that.

  “Okay, okay, let me down,” I ordered and giggled. “Let me down.”

  “Oh, don’t get scared now.” He seductively bit his bottom lip and glanced at my breasts, which were just a quick jerk away from his face.

  “Being scared is not what I’m scared of.”

  “What is it, then?” he asked, still threatening to toss me up around his neck so that my crotch would meet his face.

  “I don’t want your girlfriend to catch us. She might not appreciate me too much.”

  “If I had one, you’d have something to worry about.”

  “So you’re not seeing anyone?” I asked, not wanting to make assumptions about his answer.

  “Not at all,” he said, looking up at me. “How do I know your boyfriend is not going to come popping up from around the corner, wondering what you’re doing up in my arms?”

  “If I had one, you’d have something to worry about,” I answered with a wink.

  “In that case, I think I could hold you like this all night, every night.”

  But just a few nights and a few dinners later, that “all night, every night” became a thing of the past--and so did Hamm. Regardless of my calls and texts, it was like Hamm and I had never even met. Even when I went to church after that, Hamm avoided me like an STD. Couldn’t get him to call me back if my quasi-sprained ankle depended on it. I was more embarrassed now than I had been when I’d fallen. I’d quickly and easily given myself away, thinking that somebody like Hamm, a churchgoing, worshipping man, would have more respect for me, or for the situation, than to just completely dis me. That was what those no-good busters in the street did, but I didn’t expect that from a church guy.

  I’d played myself, but lesson learned. Church or no church, all men were after only one thing, and after they got it, they were gone.

  Chapter 6

  Candis

  “Candis, I heard that Russell is getting married.”

  Russell? What? Hearing Dina say those words felt like a blow to my head with a baseball bat, but I didn’t want it to show. “Really? Good for him.”

  “Guess who he’s marrying,” she continued.

  I shrugged my shoulders, pretending to be preoccupied with engagement photos I shot of her and Bertrand that were spread out on my kitchen table. “It doesn’t matter to me,” I lied.

  “Well, I’m going to tell you, anyway. Girl, he is marrying Latrice Chambers.”

  “That’s nice,” I replied without hesitation, instead of verbalizing my true thoughts.

  Latrice Chambers? Four-kids-having Latrice? Big belly, bigger booty Latrice? Twenty- eight-pounds-of-weave- and cat-claw-nails-wearing Latrice? Humph!

  “Look at this one. It’s so cute.” I pushed a photo across the table toward her and Celeste while I tried to digest what Dina had just said. First of all, I wasn’t sure if she was being a friend or a foe by telling me that news. Why would she want to share that with me? But, on the other hand, I was sure to hear it eventually, and I guess it didn’t matter whom I’d heard it from.

  “I think it’s serious this time, because I got an invitation to her bridal shower,” Dina added.

  “What do you mean, this time?” I couldn’t help myself.

  “You know how Russell is. The same way he was with you. Noncommittal. This is, like, her third time setting a date, but she’s talking like it’s really gonna happen on this go-round.”

  “Are you going?” I asked, still not making eye contact.

  “I haven’t decided. I might.”

  “Oh.” I had mixed feelings about Dina’s indecision. I wanted her to say, “Hell no, I ain’t going to that wench’s shower.” She knew my history with Russell, but maybe she didn’t know that sometimes I still thought about him . . . a lot. Never to the point that I’d picked up the phone in the past year and called him, but I would often wish I could. In my imagination he’d answer the phone and say, “Baby, I was just thinking about you, wishing I could hear your voice. Wondering how I could make it right between us.” But that would be a lie. Russell never did put too much effort into us being a couple. It just wasn’t what he wanted. I would have liked for things to have turned out differently. I’d wanted the whole marriage, two kids, a house, and a dog thing with him. Regardless of the many ways I tried to make myself “the one,” simply put, I just wasn’t the woman for him.

  “Y’all want some more wine?” I stood and started toward the refrigerator to hide my face for a moment. The coolness from the fridge helped to keep my tears at bay, and I needed all the help I could get right now. I didn’t want to cry over Russell, and I really didn’t want Dina and Celeste to see it.

  To be fair to Latrice, she wasn’t really a wench. From what I knew of her, she was a nice girl, one of Dina’s hair clients. I just couldn’t believe he was marrying her instead of marrying me. What about me wasn’t good enough for him?

  “I’ll have a little bit more,” Celeste said, picking up her glass to sip the last little bit from it before she handed it to me.

  “None for me. Thanks,” Dina answered. She never drank, so really the offer was solely for Celeste.

  Russell and I did what I called “dating” for about eighteen months. He called it ‘just hanging out.” I was such a dummy for choosing to believe he felt more in his heart for me than what his mouth was willing to say, instead of believing the truth that there was really nothing between us as far as he was concerned. Well, initially, I could understand there being nothing. We were just getting to know each other, and not everybody falls in love, or even strong like, at first sight, but I sure did.

  Everything about the man appealed to me, from his piercing gray eyes and gleaming smile to the way he was dressed in tailor-made suits, to his slightly over six-foot build, to him owning his own insurance company. I was tired of dating blue-collar workers who often smelled like sweat, grease, and dirt. Not that there was anything wrong with blue-collar professions, but it was just something about a professional man in a suit that made my goody box hungry.

  We’d met at a Phoenix Chamber of Commerce event and started seeing each other on the sly, under the guise of business meetings. The first few meetings, we talked heavily about my “insurance needs” and made some small talk about our personal lives. He was single with a set of preteen daughters, had never been married but had a peaceable relationship with his girls’ mother, and had owned his own insurance agency for almost ten years.

  I thought we’d hit it off pretty well, enjoying each other’s conversation, sharing business strategies, and bouncing things off of each other, and I tried not to be too transparent with my personal interest in him, although he did a little flirting. I’d tricked myself into believing that men didn’t flirt with women they weren’t interested in. We started calling each other every day, meeting for lunch, watching movies at each other’s homes, all cuddled up on the couch, eating out of the same popcorn bowl. And eventually we started having sex. And once I started taking my panties off on a regular basis, in my book, he was my boyfriend. In his book, I was just a friend who afforded him a lot of benefits. How was a man spending the night at my house four and five nights out of the week, getting all the sex he could handle—including the extras—while I washed his clothes, cooked him meals, and even babysat his kids on the weekends when he had visitation but had to work, not considered a relationship? I didn’t understand what was so “just friends” about that. I was playing the part of the wife, to say the least, thinkin
g and hoping that one day he’d claim me as his very own, to have and to hold, etcetera.

  I was cool with that for a little while, knowing that having sex didn’t exactly make a relationship, but after several months of cooking him dinner, helping him with some of his business tasks, and freaking him like I was getting paid for it, I expected an official title. Like a fool, I thought he would eventually come around, but all I was doing was giving him 100 percent free punanny. I never got a thing for it, but not so satisfying sex and hurt feelings. Even though he wasn’t even all that great in the bedroom, I was willing to settle. I mean, it wasn’t that bad. Not really. Hell, who was I kidding? It was awful. He never really took the time to make love to me gently and tenderly, like I wanted at least every now and then, but he was always in a rush to satisfy his own selfish needs. Thrusting in and out of me like a wild dog, rarely lasting more than ten minutes, then rushing home or to work or just to sleep. But at least he wasn’t married.

  Clearly he just wasn’t that into me, but because I was in love with him, I just couldn’t let him go. It’s stupid, I know, but that was my reality. I just kept trying to win him. Kept cooking, kept trying to add value to his life, kept letting him in the temple, and kept believing that although he wouldn’t say it with his mouth, I was his girlfriend and he was in love with me too. He even took me to Jamaica one time for a whole week.

  We lay out on those beaches, wrapped in each other’s arms, watching the sun rise and set, kissed lover’s kisses and, of course, had sex like we were on our honeymoon. When our plane touched the ground back in Phoenix, I was all souped up in the head, thinking that finally we had something defined, but then I opened my mouth and asked, “Baby, what do you call this that we are doing? I mean, where do things stand with us?”

  “What do you mean, Candis? We just came from a beautiful trip to paradise, and you have questions about where we stand?” Question avoidance. That was typical for him.