by Kylie Adams
Simone sank deep into the silver leather banquette.
“Tell me all about it, baby girl,” Kevon said. “You got problems. I got solutions. Trust that.”
Simone believed him, and the relief of hearing those words nearly overwhelmed her. Far from being all cried out, tears sprang to her eyes again. The desperate yearning to be cared for conjured up old childhood demons.
She had been an international model at fifteen, a young woman on her own in Paris. And then on her own again when her parents’ lives imploded, and they embezzled every dollar she had ever earned to stave off their own financial ruin. It was always Simone looking out for Simone. Rarely had she ever had someone strong and capable to turn to.
Even during the best of times with Tommy Robb, he was hardly a source of support. The bastard was selfish and possessiveand cheap as shit. His money belonged only to him and his pig of a mother. Any woman who expected more than an occasional dinner out was a gold-digging whore. So Simone was open to chivalry any way a man chose to offer it. And at this particular moment, that included ghetto style.
“Tommy Robb took my cat, Chanel,” Simone announced. Kevon gave her an assuring smile. “Don’t worry, baby girl. We’ll get your kitty back.” His tone was absolute.
Simone just stared at him.
“Why’d he do something like that?”
“Because he’s a crazy son of a bitch.”
Kevon grinned. “Now I believe you could make a son of a bitch go crazy. With your fine ass. I definitely believe that.”
“Don’t make me regret getting in this limo,” Simone said quietly, noticing a bottle of Cristal iced down in a silver bucket.
He picked up on her distraction. “You want some bubbly?”He proceeded to do the honors before she could answer.
The cork popped as loud as a gunshot.
Kevon filled a crystal flute up to the top and presented it to her like the gift that it was.
Simone drank the champagne all the way down, then held out her empty glass for more. “I broke things off last year. On New Year’s Eve, as a matter of fact. And it’s been hell ever since. Not in terms of regrets. That was the best way to start the year—without him. But he won’t leave me alone. He kept coming into my apartment until I had the locks changed. I’ve changed my cell number half a dozen times.” She shook her head. “He always manages to find out what it is. He’s a spokesman for AT&T. Maybe that’s how he does it. I guess I should be with T-Mobile or something.” She laughed a little and tipped back her flute. “I used to live on this stuff. Back when I was a model. Cristal and cigarettes. I could run on that for days.”
She felt herself relax. The alcohol was going straight to her head for a tingling buzz, and the emotional turmoil seemed to be subsiding. Kevon had said he would get her kitty back. Somehow she knew that to be true.
“Tommy’s not relentless,” Simone continued. “But he’s persistent. I hear he’s that way with any girl who breaks up with him. I guess his ego can’t handle it. His harassment comes and goes, and just when you think it’s over for good, he comes back with more. But this business with Chanel is way over the line. I’ve been a wreck.”
“How did he get hold of your cat if you changed the locks?” Kevon asked.
Simone rolled her eyes. “He’s Tommy Robb. He plays outfield for the New York Yankees. There was a new super in my building who didn’t know our messy history. All it took was a good story and a signed baseball.”
“Shit, I’m Kevon Edmonds, baby. It takes less than that for me to open sesame. This is where Robb lives, right?”
Simone nodded.
“Is that motherfucker home right now?”
She nodded again.
“I say we wait right here and keep getting our Cristal on until he goes out tonight. Then I’ll slip inside that crib and get your cat back.”
Simone’s eyes widened. “You don’t understand. I can’t go in there. Security tossed me out not even thirty minutes ago.”
“Relax, baby girl.You don’t have to. Chill here. I’ll work it.”
“This is insane.”
Kevon topped her champagne. “It’s all good.” He paused a beat. “If I get your kitty back, though, you have to let me take you out to dinner. Deal?”
She found herself smiling at Kevon and clinking glasses with him. “Deal.”
For the next hour Simone drank, waited, and watched for Tommy while Kevon tried to impress her with newly masteredtracks from his upcoming CD, The Black Man Cometh. She tried to give the music a chance, but it sounded like so much of the ubiquitous hip-hop dreck already out there.
Kevon bobbed his head to his own beat. “You dig it?”
Simone could feel the half smile freeze on her face. Over a lilting groove (sampled from the Teddy Pendergrass classic “Turn Off the Lights”), Kevon was attempting to sexy rap a song called “Couples Massage” while a woman wailed orgasmicmoans in the background. Hmm. Did she dig it?
“It’s interesting,” Simone managed to say politely. “But I’m more of a Michael Bublé and Peter Cincotti type of girl.”
Kevon gave her a blank stare.
“They’re two young artists with sort of a retro-Sinatra vibe,” Simone explained.
Now Kevon was nodding knowingly. “Sinatra? That motherfucker’s the shit.”
Simone grinned at him. On some level, his street vernacularhad a certain charm. He spoke from the depths of his hip-hop heart. She had to respect that. Kevon was intriguing, too. He sounded like the thug next door, but his success was undeniable.
That a perfume with his name on it was in development at Lancaster spoke volumes about his popularity and ability to parlay his personal brand far beyond the music scene milieu. The company was a prestige label for Coty and responsible for fragrances by Calvin Klein, Jennifer Lopez,Vera Wang, and Sarah Jessica Parker.
Suddenly, the enormity of Kevon’s achievements began to marvel her. Simone had no delusions about her own career. For years she had carved out semi-success on the fringe with B-level modeling assignments, the occasional commercial, and small speaking roles on crime dramas. Now she had a major part in a bigger thing with The Beehive, but most of the criticshad labeled her the weakest and most disposable of the four hosts.Yet Kevon Edmonds managed to climb his way to the top in virtually every arena.
“How did you get here?” Simone asked. Her tone was close to being awe-struck.
“How did I get here?” Kevon teased. “I told my man up there to drive. That’s how.”
Simone smiled. “You know what I mean.”
Kevon drank deep, kicked back, spread his legs, and adjustedhimself. “Growing up, I used to go to the library and read about these Hollywood cats. You know, the old school motherfuckers who started in the mail room and ended up running the studio. I wanted to be that cat. Nobody’s going to let niggas run Hollywood, but we can damn sure run the record business. So I took a page from those West Coast cats. I did street marketing for Death Row when I was still in high school. Stupid shit like tacking up fliers and posters for Snoop Dogg’s first album. My philosophy was that I could learn a little something-something from every motherfucker I met. The executives taught me shit. The buttoned-up punk from accounting taught me shit. The receptionists taught me shit. Everybody. I soaked it all up for years until I could run my own motherfucking company. And here I am. Chilling on top.”
Simone felt her eyelids grow heavy. She had guzzled champagne on an empty stomach, and the impact was manifestingitself in a foggy, delicious fatigue. This idle limousine was so comfortable ... so quiet and safe. She just wanted to stretch out for a moment and listen to Kevon tell her more about his life. Oh, yes, that would be lovely. Why was she here exactly?
“Check it,” Kevon said, pointing to the sidewalk.
Simone glanced up to see Tommy Robb strutting away from the building, flanked by two bar trash sluts with stripper bodies and corner prostitute fashion sense.
Kevon gestured to his driver, a hulkish man wit
h a bull neck. “I can have my boy fuck him up a little bit. Just say the word.”
Simone half-considered the offer. In all honesty, it was tempting. Very tempting. “Just get my cat back for me.”
“You got it, baby girl.” Kevon swung out and pimp walked his way into the megabucks high-rise as if he owned the whole block.
And that was the last thing Simone remembered before waking up the next morning at the Mercer Hotel. She was still in last night’s clothes, and her head throbbed with the punishmentof Cristal’s revenge. But sleeping down by her feet and purring like a small motor was her feline friend, safe and sound. Lovingly, Simone reached out to stroke her.
In response, Chanel stretched out lazily, purring louder.
Atop the pillow next to Simone was a small black Chanel box dressed up in white ribbon. Groggily, she opened the gift. It was a collar. Crushed black velvet with a Chanel logo glisteningin crystals. Perfectly sized for her beloved pet. She smiled.
Apparently, gangstas were the new gentlemen.Who knew?
THE IT PARADE
BY JINX WIATT
Fill in the Blanks
Lady chic or biker chick? A certain news diva obviously reeling from a recent birthday that sent her careeningpast the half-century mark is bypassing the classy St. John duds in favor of things from Leather Tuscadero’s closet. Somebody must tell Miss Not-So-Young that the skull-and-crossbones look only serves as a reminder that she is indeed closer to the grave than the tight-bodiedtrendy tramps she’s emulating.Oops, better be careful. Why? I just got booked on this tragic case’s talk show to plug my new self-help manifesto, Ex Marks The Spot: How to Know When You’re Really Over Him. If every woman who needed this book—and I just mean the ones in Manhattan—actually bought a copy, I could retire for life!
13
Sutton
“Do you have any Pop-Tarts? Man, I’d love a fucking Pop-Tartright now. Either strawberry or grape. With the frosting and sprinkles on it. That’d be awesome.”
Sutton was just opening her eyes.
“This one’s pretty cool,” Scooter said, zapping up the volumeon the flat screen with the remote control. “Peter makes a volcano that shoots mud all over Marcia’s new friends.” He laughed.
Sutton experienced a burning sense of exposure. She had never even allowed Garrison to see her first thing in the morning.And he was considerably older.
Scooter glanced over with a sexy smile. “Do you want coffee or cock, sleepyhead? I don’t want to make assumptions. Some people are set in a morning routine.” He turned his attentionback to TV Land and The Brady Bunch.
Sutton just lay there, mortified, wondering when this boy would realize that he had woken up with a wretched old hag on a Sunday morning.
“Man, this mattress is amazing. I could stay in bed all day. I sleep on a futon and usually wake up with a crick in my neck. How much does one of these cost?”
“Forty-five.”
“Forty-five hundred for a mattress?”
“Forty-five thousand.”
“Whoa.Too rich for me. Guess I’ll just have to keep fuckingyou.”
“It’s by Hastens. They’re hand-crafted in Sweden.” Self-consciously,Sutton slid out of bed and carried the twisted top sheet with her, mummifying her body to cover almost every inch of flesh as she made her way to the privacy of the bathroom.
It took a moment of courage to face the mirror. When she did, the face that stared back was smudged with makeup but uncharacteristically vibrant and glowing. If this is what the best sex of your life could do for a fifty-year-old woman, then she wanted more of it. Lots more.
She splashed with cold water to remove the makeup streaks and rinsed with a strong mouthwash to freshen her breath. Last night Scooter had put her through quite a sexual workout.His staying power was relentless, and his creativity in the area of positions was intoxicating. In fact, the classic missionarymethod never even occurred to him. Sutton wondered if it was simply too traditional for such an inventive lover.
Feeling emboldened, she stepped back into the bedroom, still draped with the top sheet but now putting forth far less effort to cover every inch of skin.
Scooter remained captivated by The Brady Bunch. He had a thin blanket thrown casually across his waist. No matter, the imprint of his impressive cock and Prince Albert piercing was still visible.
Sutton smiled at him. “We don’t have to watch children’s shows. Meet the Press is on.”
“Is that some kind of game show?” Scooter asked.
“You’ve never heard of Meet the Press?” She tried to controlthe incredulity in her tone. She failed.
Unashamed, Scooter shook his head. “My test for everythingis whether or not they’ve made a Xbox game out of it. If the answer’s no, it’s probably lame shit.”
Sutton took a few provocative steps toward him. Oh, to be young, dumb, and working in the service industry. How gloriously simple life must be. “Okay ... back to your questionfrom earlier.”
He grinned. “About whether you want cock or coffee?”
Sutton nodded. “You should know that I don’t drink caffeineon the weekends.” Then she dropped the sheet to the floor, fully exposing herself. And damn proud to do it.
“I’m still craving a Pop-Tart,” Scooter said almost an hour later.
Sutton was deliriously satisfied, exhausted, and ready to go back to sleep. “I don’t have any Pop-Tarts,” she managed in a breathless, dreamy voice. “I might have some bran-fortified cereal.”
Scooter laughed, slapping her bare bottom with the palm of his hand.
Sutton squealed in response.
“I could get used to this.”
She rolled onto her back and immediately cursed herself for procrastinating about the breast lift procedure. In a sudden show of modesty, she covered herself. “Used to what?”
“This mattress ... this big apartment ... cable TV ... fuckingyou whenever I want.” One beat. “But not necessarily in that order.” He threaded his hand through hers, brought it to his lips, and began to suck on her fingers.
Sutton moaned softly in response. “What do you want? Drawer space and your own key?”
Scooter halted. “Maybe. Is that so wrong?”
Sutton reclaimed her hand abruptly.
“I’m kidding,” Scooter assured her. “Don’t get uptight on me. Up until now, you’ve been full of hell.”
She tried to relax.
“Besides, it’s no big deal. I can go back to that roach-infestedcloset I share with a meth addict.”
“We all have our battles,” Sutton whispered.
Scooter chortled and stretched out, cradling the back of his head with his hands. Not one for modesty, he just lay there—naked, tattooed, and pierced.
She reached out to finger the silver barbell adorning the equipment that had brought her such exquisite pleasure. “How much did that hurt?”
“Not as much as you’d think. Do you want your clit done? Because I know a guy.”
The mere thought caused Sutton to physically recoil.
Scooter laughed. “I was drunk when I did. My girlfriend was supposed to get her clit pierced at the same time. I went first. She tossed her cookies and chickened out. The whole thing was her idea, too.We broke up before it even healed.”
Sutton could not stop staring. “It’s fascinating.”
Scooter grinned, obviously pleased with himself. “You’re fascinated with my cock? That’s not such a bad thing.” He laughed again. “Whenever I hook up with a girl, we usually spend a lot of time talking about my dick. If every man knew that, they’d all be walking around with a Prince Albert.” He winked at her. “So how did you get so rich?”
“I’m not rich,” Sutton protested lightly. “Not at all. At least not by any New York standard.”
Scooter zeroed in on her with a give-me-a-break look. “You sleep on a mattress that costs forty-five grand.”
“I’ve done well for myself. I can indulge now and then. But I’m not rich.”
/>
“Well, shit, what’s middle class to you—the homeless?”
“Let’s not talk about money.”
“Why? Are you afraid that I might ask you for some?”
“No,” Sutton replied. “It’s just an awkward subject. Some people find it uncomfortable.”
“Talking about money doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” Scooter countered. “Why should it? I don’t have any.” His tone seemed to indicate that this was an honorable thing.
“Is that by choice?”
“By choice?” He rose up on his elbows as he threw back the words.
Sutton stared at him defiantly, braced for an argument and not willing to back down. “You call yourself Scooter and serve up beer for a living.Were you under the impression that you’d make the same salary as a stockbroker doing that?”
“You make me sound like some loser working the beer booth at a fair. I’m a bartender.”
“Well, unless you own the bar you’re tending, I don’t think you’ll ever be happy with the pay grade.”
“Man, you’re some kind of snobby bitch. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m in television. For years I was a broadcast news journalist,and just re—”
“Never heard of you.”
“I think that says more about your general awareness of things than my career profile.You’ve never heard of Meet the Press, either.”
“Well, shit, I’m poor and working a dead-end job. Why not label me a dumb ass, too?”
“That’s your self-assessment, not mine.”
“You know, you’re much more fun when you have a cock stuffed in one of your holes.”
“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” Sutton snapped back.
Scooter jumped out of bed and began retrieving his scatteredclothes from the floor. “I guess I should take off. I’ve done my part volunteering for the elderly.”
“You bastard!” Sutton screamed. In the heat of her instant outrage, she grabbed a crystal diamond-shaped paperweight from the nightstand and hurled the heavy object at Scooter. It hit the corner of his forehead, mere millimeters from his eye.