“What do you mean?”
“For if you ever make me mad.”
“I don't understand.”
“You're already kissing my butt,” she giggles. “If you ever make me mad, I'll have to think of something else to say.”
We laugh, and I plant a few more playful kisses on her ebony moons. She steps off for the bedroom as I hurry and dry off.
“Do you give massages?” she asks, stopping and looking back at me.
“I give outstanding massages.”
She points at a small suitcase. “There's some lotion in there,” she says, getting into bed.
I rummage through the bag, find some cherry blossom–scented lotion, and pour a generous portion into my palm. Desiree's lying flat on her back, looking like a perfect living sculpture. The majestic rise and fall of her chest and the downward slope of her firm, flat stomach makes my throat dry. Waves of sexiness rise from her, calling me, urging me, demanding that I hurry and love her good and thorough! But I'm going to take my time. I'm going to pleasure her slow and good while savoring the heat of my boiling blood and the pleading in my loins.
I step smoothly over to Desiree and, starting at her feet, spread the lotion along her body, moving up her legs, her stomach, her breasts, her shoulders, and neck. I pour some more lotion into my palm and slowly rub it into her skin, moving my hands in firm, caressing circles. Her breathing deepens. I massage down to the rich region of her inner thighs. She opens her legs a little more, and the intoxicating scent of her pleasure wafts up into my nose.
I kiss her body as I rub in the lotion, licking along, around, and below her breasts, eventually getting into bed beside her. I move over Desiree, gently lift her left leg into the crook of my elbow, and learn the secrets of her joy.
Desiree nudges me awake, ruining some of the most satisfying sleep I've had in days. And it was that good after-lovemaking kind of sleep, which is some of the best snoozing in the world.
“C'mon Denmark, wake up,” she gently but firmly urges.
“What's the matter?” I ask, speaking through a dry, raspy throat.
“Nothing's the matter. I just want you to get up.”
“Why?”
She gets out of bed and turns on a light. I blink my eyes quickly to adjust them to the sudden glare.
Desiree answers with a steely sweetness. “Never mind why. All you need to know is that I want you to get up and leave.”
I prop myself up on one elbow and rub my eyes awake. “What happened to Desiree the sex tigress who a little while ago was trying to hump my bones loose?”
Desiree puts on a thick bright white robe, ties its belt tight, sits down beside me on the bed, and pats my cheek. “She's still here, baby doll. But do you remember how I said I was flying solo tonight?”
I nod. Desiree's smiling, but she's serious. “That goes for you, too. We've had our fun, but it's time for you to leave.”
I look deep into her eyes. She definitely wants me gone, but it sure would be nice to hit that booty one last time for the road.
“What's the rush?” I ask, trying to loosen the knot in the robe's belt.
She slaps my hand away. “Why the sudden change of attitude?” I persist, easing my hands back over to the loosened knot. She glances down at my slowly working hands then looks back at me.
“There's nothing sudden about my change of attitude,” she says. “I needed to get away from Brice so I could clear my head. It's been nice being with you, and you were definitely good. But you're blocking my flow so you've got to go.”
“You don't want me to leave,” I counter. “You woke me up so you could get some more goodness.”
She rolls her eyes. “You really think you're all that?”
“Never mind what I think. It's what you think that matters. And you're thinking that you're still hungry for some sexing.”
“What I think is that you need to get up and …”
I take her hand and slide it over and onto her new best friend, who's stirring awake between my legs. Her eyelids lower seductively as her fingers slowly circle around her buddy, renewing their bond of friendship. I keep loosening her belt until her robe's open enough for me to see the full outline of her breasts. I lean forward and lick her nipple.
“Denmark, what did I say?” Desiree demands softly.
“Are you sure you want me to leave right now?” I ask, licking her nipple again and again.
“Yes, baby,” she says, breathing hard. “I want you to leave … right now.”
I kiss my way from her breasts down to her stomach and along her inner thighs. “You want me to leave this very minute?”
She opens her legs slightly. “Yes, I want you to … ”
I kiss closer in toward her sweetness. “Will you help me?”
She opens her legs wider. “Help … you do what?”
My tongue explains. She sighs deeply, pulls the covers off me, pushes me onto my back, and straddles me.
“You're distracting me from my solitude,” she says huskily, looking down at me.
“I'm sorry.”
“No, you're not.”
I smirk and shrug. She slaps me softly, closes her eyes, and has her way.
THIRTY-ONE
I drive home, floating on the afterglow of Desiree's sweet loving. I'd feel sorry for Brice—but forget him. He's the source of Desiree's hostility, so too bad. She's his wife, but if he can't satisfy her he'll just have to deal with the fact that I will!
I pull into my garage, press the button to close the door, park, and get out. I saunter into the kitchen from the garage, flip on the light, and close the door behind me. The lock closes with a nice solid click! Thank you, locksmith Linwood Powell. I get a beer from the fridge, pop it open, take a swig, and glance at my watch. It's almost 2:35 a.m. I need to hit the sack.
I stroll to the doorway and flip on a light to head upstairs—and my heart leaps into my throat. Blinker Hughes is sitting on the steps. Sitting on either side of him are his lean and lethal-looking pit bulls, Killa and Attila. Leaning against the wall beside the three of them is a very large, very muscular, very dangerous-looking man.
“His bugged-out eyes must mean we surprised ’em,” chuckles Muscleman.
Blinker smiles wickedly. “Yeah, seems like it,” he agrees, his voice deep and menacing.
My surprise turns to anger. “What're you doing in my house?” I demand to know, staring hard at Blinker.
The dogs growl and bare their teeth. Blinker's smile melts. Muscleman stands tall. Blinker grabs his arm. “Hold up, Troy.”
“He'd better show some respect,” Troy threatens.
“Or you'll do what?” I challenge, keeping my eye on the canines. If they move a muscle, I've got a bat in the closet next to me that'll send them to Jupiter.
Troy's eyes narrow. He's built like a wall, and putting him down won't be easy. But Blinker knows that when it's over, Troy will be scattered in pieces.
Blinker looks from Troy to me. “Give ’em a break, Denmark. Troy's from Minneapolis and don't know about the Brownfield District like we do.”
Blinker's reminder that he battled through the same mean streets I did resurrects chilling memories. And what I remember is that while I spent nearly every day back then dreaming, scheming, and planning my escape from that hell-hole, Blinker loved it. He lived for it, and he was nurtured and strengthened by it. He wanted to rule its abundant miseries. The more there was of its havoc and suffering, the more he adored that urban desert. He's risen from being its loving disciple to reign as its grasping tyrant, and now he wants to be elected its benign dictator.
Blinker stands and ambles over to me. “Let's talk,” he orders. The dogs fidget, and Blinker points a rigid finger at them. “Stay!”
They whine their displeasure but keep still. Blinker starts past me, heading into the kitchen. His caramel skin, close-cut hair, smooth-shaven face, wide almond eyes, and angular jaw give him the look of a ruggedly handsome movie action hero. His gleaming black b
oots, thighs bulging against his faded blue jeans, and biceps straining against the sleeves of his waist-length black leather jacket make him look even more powerful. If Blinker had chosen another path in life, his six foot three inches of power could've dominated the body-building world. But he's ruling the world he wants, and the buff body that would've bulged from magazine covers is just another one of his weapons.
Troy stays put like the other two well-trained pooches and flips me the bird. I chuckle, pucker my lips at him, and join Blinker in the kitchen, but he's not there. The door leading out onto the wooden deck is open. Blinker's reclining on a thickly padded lounger and smoking a cigarette. I step out with him and close the door behind me.
“Take a seat,” he directs, gesturing to a deck chair directly opposite him.
I ignore the command and half-sit on the deck's wooden rail. “How'd you get into my house?” I demand to know. “I just had new locks put on the doors and windows.”
Blinker chuckles, takes a drag of his cigarette, and blows smoke rings. He's right. It's pointless asking him that question. Alarms and locks are deterrents for regular people. For Blinker they're not even a nuisance. But I'm still going to give locksmith Linwood Powell a thorough fussing out about his not so good work!
“So tell me what's going on,” says Blinker. “How's you not handlin’ your woman suddenly my problem?”
“It's not your problem!” I insist too quickly. “It won't even be an issue if I can work things out.”
Blinker cuts his eyes at me. “I thought you said she's been slammin’ another dude.”
“She has been.”
“Then there ain't nothin’ to work out. Unless you talkin’ about her funeral arrangements.”
“Wait a minute, Blinker. I don't want you …”
“You think I came out here to talk about what you want?” he interrupts, crushing the cigarette out on the lounger's arm rest. His glacial eyes sweep over me. “I told you to never talk about me, didn't I? But'cha did, and now I gotta decide how pissed off I need to be.”
He shakes his head in disgust. “What happened to you, Denmark? What made you think a babe would do right and watch your back till death did ya'll part?”
I lower my eyes. “It was love,” I mumble.
“Say what?”
“Love made me think it.”
Blinker snorts his disgust. “Love has gave you something new to think about, ain't it?”
He unzips his jacket, stands, and stretches. The light beaming from the kitchen window shines onto the pistol in his shoulder holster. He starts for the door and stops beside me. “Am I gone have'ta fix this?”
“No, Blink. I’ll handle it.”
He studies me and lights another cigarette. “All right, outa respect for the old days I'm'a hang back and let'cha do your thing.”
“You're going to hang back for how long?”
He takes a drag of his cigarette and blows a jet of smoke that barely misses my face. “You've always been a smart brother, Denmark. Be smart now.” He goes in the house and calls for Troy and the pit bulls, and they leave.
THIRTY-TWO
Blinker's cryptic visit ruined an otherwise good night. I've got to steer Sierra and her lawyer away from him, but it's going to take some good legal help. That's where Hilda Vaughan comes in. Her law office isn't located in an imposing, severe modern building like where Nelson's downtown suite is located. Hers is a house in a nice, quaint historic neighborhood just on the edge of the city. It's also conveniently in the same general route that I take to get to work.
When I pass by Henderson Village, Burned-out Bobby's on “his” corner, gesturing at passing vehicles and pointing to his latest sign, which reads: “Got problems? Look up!”
Given his living conditions, Bobby ought to take his own advice. Better yet, he ought to get a job. But forget him. I've got to stay focused and on task to arrest my situation before it spirals any further out of control.
I stride briskly up Hilda's front walk, admiring the surroundings as I go. Rosebushes line the smooth walkway. There's a nice-sized backyard with the greenest, most brilliant emerald grass I've ever seen. In the thick old trees surrounding the house, squirrels chase each other, zipping and leaping from branch to branch.
I go up the steps and see the shingle hanging just to the right of the front door. The first line reads “Hilda Vaughan, Attorney at Law.” A second line reads “P3/6.”
“It must be some licensing designation or registration number,” I muse aloud.
The mystery of the shingle can wait. What I need to know right now is if Hilda can punish Sierra through the law the way Sierra's been punishing me through the heart. I knock on the door several times.
“Just a moment,” a woman loudly answers. I glance at my watch. It's 10:30 a.m. exactly. The door opens.
“Good morning,” says a smiling dark princess. “You must be Denmark Wheeler.”
If the earth, sun, moon, and stars had gotten together and said, “Brothers, let's get busy and fashion from the shimmering night an African angel who'll make men forget their woes, subdue their aggression, and intoxicate them with sweet desire,” it would be this woman before my eyes.
She's beautifully dark, with smooth, luxuriant skin. Her long black satiny hair flows down the sides and back of her head, framing her gorgeous oval face like a masterpiece. She's about five feet, five inches, maybe six, with a slim willowy body that curves in all the right places with just enough protruding emphasis so that everything's in balanced proportion. She has big slightly round eyes, like a Somali woman's, soothing and wise, hinting at a deep capacity for love. And her lips—they're full but not large, slightly moist, and beckoning.
“Hello?” she says playfully, waving her hand back and forth. “You are Denmark Wheeler, aren't you?”
I shake myself out of my gawk and try to answer coolly. “Yeah, I'm him. You must be Hilda Vaughan.”
“That's correct,” she says, opening the door. She extends her hand, and we shake. “I'm pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Come on in,” she says, gesturing me inside. “Just give me a second. I'll be right back.”
She leaves me standing in the doorway and hurries into a back room. She's dressed in a jogging warmup suit and wearing only white cotton socks on her feet. As fine as she is, I'm not feeling good about this.
The house's interior is as immaculate as the exterior. The shiny hardwood floors, soft tan walls, high ceilings, and African artwork spread tastefully throughout give the room a gentle but sturdy feel. Huge bookshelves line one wall. I stroll over to see what's in Hilda's library. Even if she turns out to be a good lawyer, knowing what she reads will tell me who she is as a person.
I check through her selections and see a title that immediately boosts her currency with me: Slave Rebellions in North America. I pull it off the shelf and flip to the section pertaining to Denmark Vesey: “… and so came the day of his execution. Vesey and his coconspirators were hanged for daring to take their freedom. Betrayal by one of his own cost him his life …”
“There they are!” Hilda says loudly, from a back room. “Lucille always puts my shoes where I can't find them.”
“Is Lucille a relative?”
She laughs. “No, she's my assistant, but she might as well be a relative. Why?”
She comes from the back room wearing running shoes on her feet and wrestling her thick long hair through a rubber band.
“When I called to make my appointment, I know you said she was your secretary, but she sounded to me more like your elder aunt.”
She gets the last of her shiny strands through the rubber band, and her hair hangs in a loose ponytail. “I do a lot of volunteering down at a hospice,” Hilda informs me. “Lucille was a patient there. The doctors had given her only a few months to live. We got to be friends. She beat the odds but was all alone. I needed the help, so I offered her a job.”
All I can do is blink. Coming from the Brownf
ield District and spending years in corporate America hasn't prepared me for such stories of kindness. But I'm glad I asked. It gives me some insight into Hilda. On the other hand, I hope she's not so kind that she can't do what's required to legally dismember Sierra.
“Okay!” she says, grabbing a waist belt wallet and strapping it on. “I'm ready to go.”
“Go where?”
“I hope you don't mind. I got up late and missed my morning run. We can talk at the track before I do my workout. I promise to be one hundred percent attentive.”
I purse my lips to swallow my irritation. She's jaw-dropping good-looking, no doubt about it, but bump this. She's too flightly for what I need. I'm going to chew off Nelson's ear for recommending this flake.
If this is any indicator of how Hilda practices law, I might as well mail Sierra my scalp and get it over with.
So when Hilda says, “Do you mind if I drive?” why do I answer with “No problem”?
She gestures me out, locks the door, bounds down the steps, and stops upon seeing my Corvette. “That's the only true American sports car,” she says.
I walk up beside her. “Yeah, it's a gem.”
“The closest I ever came to owning a Corvette was my ’72 Chevelle SS.”
My head snaps around to her. “Are you saying that you owned a 1972 Chevelle Super Sport?”
Her expression tightens. “Do I detect a sexist tone in your voice?”
I clear my throat and answer in a more gender-neutral fashion. “No. It's just that among the muscle cars, the Chevy SS was tops.”
She goes back to admiring the Corvette. “Mine had a 396 engine, positraction rear end, slick stick shifter, and roller-bearing cam. I loved that car, except that I had to keep on adjusting the timing belt.”
I blink at Hilda. She arches an eyebrow and smirks. “That's right. I worked on my own car.”
This woman's got some grit. Sierra sometimes has difficulty sticking her key in the ignition of her Lexus. But Hilda's running down engine, transmission, and power train specifications like she's studying for a mechanic's exam.
“I'd have kept it, but I had to get through law school,” she continues.
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