Head Games

by Mary B. Morrison

  Atlantis started grinding on me. First a little. Then more. Her pussy was amazing. I stared up at the stars to keep from coming prematurely. My chocolate shaft was coated with her thick white secretions.

  “Mmm,” she moaned.

  “Yes, baby. Take your dick. Get all of this dick,” I said, making sure my feet were planted. “Leave him. I want—make that need—for you to call off your engagement. I love you, Atlantis.”

  “François,” she exhaled.

  “Yes, baby.”

  “François,” she said a little louder.

  “Yes, Atlantis,” I answered, admiring the sweat rolling off her back.

  Glancing over her shoulder at me, Atlantis moaned, “Come inside your pussy, daddy. Please.” She pushed back on my dick until she couldn’t take in any more. Staring into my eyes, she exhaled and said, “I’m coming home where I belong.”

  “Oh, shit.” I felt her pussy walls rippling. My knees weakened. Foot slipped. Quickly I regrouped, strengthened my stance. Wanted to ask if she was serious. Couldn’t say a word with her squirting on my knees.

  “You coming?” she asked, facing the river.

  Lifting her hips higher, I yelled like a bitch, “Aw, shit! Yes, baby. I’m coming!” Did not care who heard me. My toes curled in my shoes. Felt as though I’d never stop blasting seeds.

  They said muscles had memory. Maybe that was why my dick never forgot how incredible her pussy was.

  Had to pull out slowly, step cautiously. Atlantis started crying. This moment was amazing. My ego was in orbit.

  A similar experience with any of the women on the yacht could’ve happened, but I wouldn’t have kissed or wanted to see them again. The difference with my wanting an encore was that it was all about my feelings for the woman I came inside of.

  In college I never got to know most women. My mottos were: Smash and dash. Come and done. Didn’t know the majority of them by middle or last name. Couldn’t remember half of their faces. Nor did I give a damn.

  “Sorry, I squirted all over you,” Atlantis said.

  “Does he make you squirt?” I asked.

  She shook her head. Truth or lie, instantly I was more in love.

  “François Dupree,” someone whispered.

  Shit sounded eerie in the darkness of the night. I tossed Atlantis her dress, yanked up my pants. Protecting Atlantis, I stood in front of her.

  Those words would’ve been cool if the woman my dick had come out of had said them.

  Kandy started clapping. Loud and slow. “François Dupree,” she repeated. Continuing to clap, she moved closer to me. “Congratulations.”

  Looking around, I refused to ask for what. I put on my shirt.

  “You all right?” Atlantis asked, standing beside me. She fluffed her dress, fingered her hair, stared at Kandy. “Uh, who in the hell is that?”

  “He knows exactly who I am, suga. And if neither of you want this sex video to get out”—she paused, smacked, then licked her lips real sexy—“I’ll be in touch, François Dupree.” Shaking her ass, Kandy slowly strolled along the Riverwalk in her high heels. She glanced over her shoulder. “Thought you’d like to know, my husband filed for divorce.”

  Atlantis started trembling. “Come back. I don’t know what’s going on, but you can’t let what we did get out. You can’t!”

  A vision of Walter flashed before me. My mother. Father. Siblings. The video would up my count, but my black ass would have to move in with Atlantis and put her nigga on the couch.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Atlantis said. “She’s getting away.”

  Obviously, Kandy wanted me to chase her. I wanted to move, but refused. I had to outsmart Kandy with capital k.

  “Until you do right by women,” Kandy said, slowing her pace, “François, you’re going straight to hell.” She yelled, “You fucked up my good life!”

  Atlantis did the unexpected. She ran toward Kandy.

  “Baby, no,” I called out. “Stop!”

  “Awwwwww!” Atlantis screamed, then fell to the ground.

  “Should’ve kept your bitch on a tighter leash,” Kandy said. Holding up a Taser, she resumed her stride. Speaking out loud, Kandy added, “You might want to give me a call. You have until noon, François Dupree. Not twelve-o-one.”

  Looking at the ground, Atlantis was shaking like a leaf in the gust of a category-three hurricane.

  Contacting Kandy was exactly what I was not going to do. But I swear, I never wanted to hear my full name come out of her mouth again.

  “AB. I’m sorry baby. You okay?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Trymm

  Day 17

  I retrieved my passport, placed our marriage certificate on top of my iPad, which was inside the safe in my bedroom closet, closed the door, reset a new combination, then texted it to Penny. Didn’t want to risk losing or relinquishing my iPad for any reason.

  Life went on. Felt bad about what happened to Atlantis. Was unsettled not knowing the intentions of Kandy, with a capital k. Prayed she was done doing the fool and I wasn’t next.

  While my homies were tossing back brews at Jax yesterday, my black ass was standing at the altar facing Francine Dupree’s happy ass. No apologies. I could never respect a spineless woman.

  Walter had ruled out Jamaica, the DR, PR, Bahamas, convincing my mother to send us to Dubai. Mom’s agreement—my blessing—was based on what she’d heard about how conservative Muslims in the United Arab Emirates were.

  Plan B was to never let the cert become a license. In twenty-nine more days, time would expire and the only way to make Walter’s commitment legal would be for Francine and me to restart the marital process.

  Fuck! More than halfway through the challenge and my count was frozen at 301. Would never add Atlantis. Hadn’t contacted Kandy or heard from her since that bitch stunned my baby.

  Sent a text to Atlantis: Ole gurl is jealous of you. I took care of her ass. Gotta handle out-of-town biz for the fam. Be back in a week. Gotta see you to apologize properly.

  “Honey, we have to go before we miss our flight,” Francine said joyfully. “We have to bring your parents back a thank-you gift for sponsoring our honeymoon.” Picking up my bag, I said, “I’m ready,” leading the way downstairs to the courtyard.

  Francine put her suitcases in my trunk, then loaded mine. She couldn’t stop smiling while I couldn’t crack one. I did a 360-glance before getting in my GLS.

  “I have to stop by the restaurant right quick,” I said, waiting for her to close her door.

  “Okay, honey, but remember we don’t have much time. This flight is international and it says we have to arrive four hours prior to departure.”

  Bitch, shut the fuck up! She had it twisted if she suddenly thought I was going to be one of those henpecked muthafuckers. This was her first time going through customs. Not mine. I was used to long flights. Needed to improve my attitude if I was going to make it fourteen and a half hours from Fort Lauderdale to Dubai. Libation was going to be my salvation.

  Parking in front of Dupree’s Seafood, I entered the front, exited the back. Devising a new strategy to secure my position in the challenge, I trotted upstairs, then knocked three times on Alex’s door.

  “Hey, François.” The tall, skinny Scottish man, with red curly hair, lots of freckles, wearing black-framed glasses, cheerfully opened the door wide. “Is my music too loud?”

  “Nah, it’s not too loud. Listen, Alex, I need a huge favor.”

  I was here to negotiate leasing the one-bed, one-bath apartment from our tenant living above our restaurant and prepared to compensate him to stay at an Airbnb for the last week of the competition. That way I could escape on breaks, let a few chicks suck my dick, then return to work before Penny noticed I was missing.

  “Lay it on me,” he said real smooth.

  “I have an old teammate coming in town for a week. He needs a place to crash until he finds a house, and I’d like him to crash at your spot.”

  “Thing
y! Perfect timing. I’m flying to the Saints tomorrow with my lady. Virgin Islands hopping. Croix. Thomas. John. Then I’m taking her to Bora Bora. I’ll be gone three weeks, man. Let me get you the spare key,” he said.

  This arrangement was meant to be. I was anxious to return from my honeymoon and get back into the game. I watched him open the cherrywood box on his coffee table. Smiling at me, he flipped up a white lid. A huge pink solitaire sparkled in my eyes, damn near blinding me.

  This guy lived a modest lifestyle, despite the six figures he earned in his profession. The woman of his dream was bland, dressed basic, loved life, people, fed the homeless, and I’d never seen her with any makeup, not even lipstick.

  “You think she’ll like this diamond for her wedding ring? I mean, is it big enough?” he asked.

  “If she doesn’t go berserk, ask me to marry you,” I told him, nodding.

  Snapping the box shut, he handed me a single key on a black-and-gold fleur-de-lis chain.

  Bonk! Bonk! Bonk! My horn blew three sharp times.

  My people loved them some Saints and that black-and-gold symbol. I did, too, but I doubted Louisianans understood what they were reppin’.

  Celebration? Or degradation?

  For me, I branded the fleur-de-lis on the left side of my back, next to my shoulder, to honor my ancestors who were branded with the symbol for trying to escape the whips, chains, and dying hours in the scorching sun picking cotton. If I was born a slave, I would’ve been a Nat Turner—kill for freedom or die trying—on some revolutionary shit. Fuck the Frenchmen that hung us from trees! And all the bullshit slave masters that brought their trifling ass to the Boot, enslaved and raped black women, then called the babies Creole, half-bred.

  History. The movie The Birth of a Nation changed my mind-set forever.

  “How much you want for the week?” I asked, clutching the fleur-de-lis in my palm, feeling as though it were my lucky charm.

  Bonk! Bonk! Bonk! My horn blew.

  “You know you’re my American idol. Any baller friend of yours is all right. Who is it?” he questioned, smiling up at me.

  His green-and-black plaid kilt, black knee-high socks, which flapped over, and white sleeveless buttoned-up shirt, which resembled a blouse, was representative of his heritage. He was an orthodontist, settled in New Orleans, not having any family or friends. Instantly we bonded. During the first of the five years he’d been in this small apartment, he’d met the nice, quirky, philanthropist girl, who played guitar and sang on stage at night in the Quarter.

  Thought of the player Alex loved most, then lied, “LB.”

  Dude started jumping, dancing, and clicking his heels. “LB is going to stay in my place! Shitload, man!” He slapped my palm three times.

  Perfect time to ask again, “How much you want?”

  “Pssst.” He waved his hand across his throat. “Your money is no good, but I’d love an autograph, and if it’s not asking too much, two courtside tickets to see him play anywhere in the world. I don’t care. I’m there.” He disappeared. Reappeared. “Have him sign my basketball. I’ll leave it on the bed so he doesn’t forget. Shitload, man!”

  “You got it. I’ll get him to sign a team jersey, too. One that he’s worn. I gotta go.” I took one step, pivoted back to him. “Oh, keep this between us. Don’t tell my sister, my dad, not even your lady. He’s is a real private person.”

  “You got it, François. You my homey.”

  I laughed. “Congrats on your upcoming ceremony,” I said.

  Bonk! Bonk! Bonk! My horn blew three sharp times.

  That bitch had one more time to lean in and I was dropping her ass off at the airport.

  “I love you, man,” he said with one more click of his heels as a tear connected the dots on his cheek. Alex locked his door from the outside. “I gotta do a few errands before I take off in the morning.”

  “Cool.” I trotted down the stairs, entered the restaurant through the back, crept up beside my sister. Penny was overseeing everything.

  First she rolled her eyes at me, then shook her head. “Don’t forget I voted you in. For once, be nice to Francine. It’s her honey-moon.”

  If I stopped playing games, no longer dogged women out, and started being nice, women would hate me. The last thing I wanted was for women to hate me.

  CHAPTER 13

  Francine

  Day 18

  DXB.

  “Baby, this is more beautiful than I imagined,” I said, unable to contain my excitement. Wish Rene could see me now. Interlocking my fingers with François’s, I finally had the title I’d longed for.

  François slid his hand from mine. “You can’t do that here. They’ll arrest you.”

  “Arrest me? What for? You’re my husband,” I said, reaching for him.

  He pulled away. “I’m serious. Don’t touch me.”

  The nine-hour time difference from New Orleans, on top of the fourteen-and-a-half-hour flight from Fort Lauderdale, got us here at noon. Scanning the baggage claim area, I spotted one couple hugging. “What about them?” I knew it was okay to show affection if you were married. I’d read it somewhere online.

  François mumbled, “Women. Y’all will search through a hundred muthafuckas to prove your point.” Retrieving our luggage, he extended the handles, rolled my bag to me. “Do not touch me.”

  “Whatever,” I told him, rolling my eyes and my luggage. Let him tell it I’d get locked up for that.

  Outside we got on a shuttle that took us to the Palm Islands. Pictures did not do it justice. Feeling the joy of when I was a child, I stared at everything we passed.

  BMW, Mercedes, Lamborghini, Rolls-Royce, Ferrari—fancy cars I hadn’t seen in New Orleans were in numbers I’d never seen, either. “This place is incredible. Is everybody here wealthy?”

  François was quiet. I wanted to hold my husband’s hand. Hated I couldn’t share my affection on our honeymoon.

  I unfolded a piece of paper. “We should go to all these places.” I flashed the map in his face, and he pushed it away. “JBR is a beautiful area in Dubai with lots of places where we can eat and shop late hours of the night. I want to buy a hijab, an abaya, visit the mosque in Abu Dhabi, shop at the souks in Sharjah, do a sunset dinner cruise, go to the sand dunes, tour the World Market. Oh, and I heard Rihanna is performing. Hopefully, we can get tickets from the concierge. This is going to be the best honeymoon, baby.”

  I was more anxious when the shuttle parked in front of the Atlantis. I twirled between the huge gold columns, danced under the skylight dome. Suddenly it hit me. Our hotel shared her name.

  François checked us in. I watched him remove and replace his SIM card.

  “Where’d you get that? Do I need one, too?” I asked, placing my phone on the counter.

  “Absolutely not. In fact, Mrs. Dupree, you won’t need to use your cell while we’re here. Give it to me. We will both use mine,” he insisted.

  That was the first time he’d acknowledged me as his wife. “I’ll hold on to it, just in case I receive any e-mails from my job.”

  Rene hadn’t attended my wedding or responded to my messages. I’d give her time. I texted her a few pictures. Immediately, I received a failed response. I missed my friend.

  “You can’t communicate here without WiFi. Give it to me so I can set you up.” François held open his hand.

  “Fine. Let me see yours.” This time I relinquished my device and took his.

  While my husband chatted with the gentleman that had checked us in, I noticed his cell was unlocked, read his last text to Penny. I took a mental snapshot of the new code to his safe.

  Snatching his cell, “I’ll explain more when we get upstairs,” my husband said, putting my phone in his back pocket.

  When the baggage handler opened the door to our room, François entered first. I stood in the hallway waiting for him to carry me over the threshold. He and the handler left me there.

  “Hello. Welcome to Dubai,” the most attractive woman
I’d seen since we’d touched down greeted my husband with an inviting smile.

  Oh, hell no! I crept behind my man. “François, can we speak in private?”

  “Take your time,” the woman said, real sexy. “I’m available your entire stay.”

  The woman on her stomach in the middle of the bed propped herself on her elbows and rested her chin in her palm. Her red heels in the air pointed toward the ceiling. She crossed, then uncrossed, her legs repeatedly.

  That woman needed to have on more than her panties and bra. And she needed to get out of our bed and out of our room.

  “Sure, I’m listening,” François said, leading the way to the bathroom. “I need to drain the snake.”

  I closed the door. He stood in front of the toilet, pulled out the dick I hadn’t seen in weeks.

  Folding my arms, I asked, demanding to know, “François, why is that woman here?”

  “My mom made the reservation, not me. It’s somewhat customary to have a . . . a—”

  “I’m not stupid, François. She’s a whore. Tell her to leave, before I do.”

  “Anything to please my wife.” Shaking his dick, he tucked it away, washed his hands. “I’m warning you. You need to calm down. This is not America. These people will lock you up and deport you for being rude.”

  Opening the door, the baggage handler was putting our clothes in drawers.

  I stared at François. He started talking to the handler.

  I shouted at the woman crashing my honeymoon. “You need to leave. Now!” Inhaling, I released the loudest “Get! Out!”

  The handler started repacking my bag. In less than sixty seconds, two security men entered our room and approached me. “You need to come with us.”

  François hunched his shoulders. He did not say a word in my defense.

  In less than three hours in Dubai, I was on a plane headed to Fort Lauderdale, without my cell and without my husband. Gazing at the clouds for fifteen and a half hours, I pictured that woman seducing my husband. Tears streamed down my cheeks, one quickly chasing the other.

  François warned me not to do what I’d done. I didn’t believe him. I felt lost without my phone. Lonely without my man. Why hadn’t I listened to my husband?