Smoke and Mirrors

by Tiana Laveen

  Paris slowly rose from the bed, gripping the sheets to her body as her anxiety grew. She wanted to reach out and touch him, tell him it was okay, to simmer down.

  “You cancel that shit or give it to another girl!” He pointed ahead of him, as if the woman stood right in front of his face. “I rarely put you on dates at night on the weekends anymore because I need you as an additional set of eyes and ears. We’ve already gone over this. I’m about to call Reggie. Never mind… Felicia, stop it!” He put his hand up like a stop sign. “I’ll deal with you later, and I mean that.” He angrily disconnected the call, then dialed again.

  Paris sucked her teeth and mulled over the shit she was hearing. Smoke’s bottom bitch was definitely out of pocket, and this was the second damn time Felicia had thrown some fit she was a witness to. She’d had a serious attitude when she showed up at his brothel for the first time, and she didn’t much care for it.

  “Hey Reggie, what’s up? I need you to get over to the apartment, a.s.a.p. and stay the night, watch the cameras. Seven of ’em have dates late tonight, and I need some eyes there to watch them, make sure they are okay…Yeah… Frank’s at the door, he’s got that covered, but I can’t have him two places at one time and Felicia is acting the hell up, so I don’t want her doing any damn thing…Yeah, I know.” He chuckled, seemingly calmed down. “I’ll double your pay since it is such late notice. Thanks, man.” He placed his phone on the top of her vanity, crossed the room, and slid back under the sheets beside her.

  “Are you okay?” She smiled sadly at him as she ran her finger down the center of his chest.

  “Oh yeah,” he said earnestly. He rolled his eyes and cracked a grin. “She does this shit all the time lately. Anyway.” He stared lustfully at her, focusing on her lips first, then her eyes. “I think I’d like to get a little more of that Parisian pussy…”

  Grinning, she gave him a look of mock shyness. “Whatever you say, Daddy!”

  He gripped her wrist, his expression tightening at her utterance. Her eyes widened in shock.

  “Don’t ever call me Daddy again. I’m not your pimp…I’m your man.”

  Her heart soaring, she broke out into a wide smile. Within an instant, she was on her stomach, her thighs spread, and a thick long dick plunging inside of her, singing her orgasmic lullabies…

  Good motherfucking night…

  *

  Chapter Nine

  FELICIA STOOD AT the front window of the house watching the strawberry crème and baby sapphire sunrise. It was stunningly gorgeous, in colors of streaky pink amongst white clouds, the canvas soft and warm. Never in her all her years with Smoke had she watched that sun come up and kiss the world without knowing where her man was, for more times than not, he stayed close to her. Smoke’s behavior as of late had been erratic. He’d spent so much time observing the brothel across the street, it had become some sort of obsession. Then all of a sudden, it simply stopped. She was relieved that it had, until he replaced the voyeurism with the real thing.

  It appeared that her man had his designs on that snooty bitch, the youngest Madam she’d ever come across, that lived across the way. When she went through the phone bills before giving them to him to sign off on, they showed the bastard was calling the woman twice, sometimes three times a day. Some of the conversations were brief, and she dismissed them as mere business talks, but then she noticed some that were quite lengthy, at strange times of the day and night. One call lasted upwards of four hours, until five in the damn morning! While she was humping her ass off and working double-duty as an extra set of eyes, his ungrateful ass was parked in the spare bedroom, probably kicked back with a smile and a glass of chilled chardonnay while he talked some real pimp shit in that bitch’s ear. She highly doubted they were discussing professional matters at such an hour.

  When she’d go to his home, she noticed the room that he kept previously unlocked, where he kept his private things, was now off limits, as if it were some cryptic vault. In this room he had incredibly expensive model airplanes, some made of gold, things like that. But one day she must’ve overstepped her bounds, and inquired about the small teal Tiffany’s jewelry box wrapped with an ivory and gold bow. He didn’t answer, never said a word.

  The credit card bills were the real clincher. He was buying this bitch all sorts of shit like some lovesick king and she, the Queen of England. Elaborate floral arrangements, custom jewelry, expensive shoes that cost more than her damn weekly salary, extravagant fruit baskets with nothing but assorted apples—who gets only apples?! He purchased tickets to some concert to see Beyoncé, for her and her whores. It had to have been, because Smoke hated most R&B. He only listened to grunge, classic rock, new-wave rock, contemporary jazz, neosoul, chillax and a select few hardcore L.A. rap tunes from his childhood that he’d grown to love. She knew that man as well as her own pussy, and he was definitely sniffing around some broad! It was ridiculous! Once she realized Smoke was falling for the bitch, she hated the woman with a passion.

  Why her?! Why Madam Paris of all people?!

  She’d known of Paris for years. The woman had an ironclad, untarnished reputation, and had been nicknamed the ‘Pussy Professor’ on the streets, due to her having a degree and speaking so articulately. She was a pretty woman; Felicia couldn’t take that away from her. Actually, she was more than pretty. Paris was drop dead gorgeous and had she been a few inches taller, there was no doubt she could have been a professional model. The bitch was flawless, even her damn voice sounded like a fucking symphony. Felicia appreciated that, especially since she was prone to giving a second glance at the same sex. She liked women almost as much as men and embraced her bisexuality. In fact, she’d set her designs on Paris many years ago, but soon discovered upon further investigation that the woman was not interested in having sexual liaisons with other women. No, she was strictly dickly, and along with her ‘Professor’ status, she had left her stamp of offering the best head game some of these motherfuckers had ever experienced. Regarded as a ‘Superhead’ of sorts, other hos had actually gone to her for training. She educated her own girls on the proper way to suck cock, and they went out to impress the damn world.

  When Paris had come to their door the other day, she knew her position in Smoke’s life was threatened. She saw the way they looked at one another, and how he seemed all but silly putty in her damn hands. His eyes sparkled and he had on one of the goofiest smiles she’d ever seen. It didn’t help that the woman was standing there, staring triple hard at the man’s body. He’d been practically naked, and the bitch no doubt enjoyed perusing every inch of what he displayed.

  Smoke had never looked at her that way, and in that moment, jealousy soared within her. She had no idea where the fucker was, but she’d bet her last ho earned dollar that he was up underneath or above that sadiddy sack of shit, with his delicious, big, firm cock entrenched in one of Paris’ damn holes. Paris had a keen eye for excellence, as did Felicia. She could spot a good quality cut of steak from the butcher, a worthwhile pimp, a superior whore, and a bodacious man when she saw one. Felicia was closer to Smoke than anyone else in his stable, possibly the entire world. He told her things from time to time, secrets that drew her even closer to him. She loved him like a devoted wife does a husband and yet, it never seemed enough.

  And here she stood, watching the sun, knowing that a new day had arisen, but her old, comfortable life was falling and crumbling like a bruised and unwanted apple from a tree, rotting in the heat. He had been emotionally pulling away from her for weeks; it came as no surprise he’d find comfort in another woman’s arms. She missed his passionate kisses, his strong embrace, the way he moved like a skilled surgeon when he’d fuck her. The man would make her fucking babble when she came, bring her to her orgasmic knees. The girls always looked forward to it, and she sure as hell didn’t want to share him with anyone else that wasn’t a part of their close-knit group. Smoke knew how to lay his lips not only on a ho’s pussy, but on her entire soul. He’d make a bitch
feel like she was the only damn woman in the world he ever wanted, ever needed.

  Regardless, he wasn’t fucking her no more, and according to the fam, they weren’t getting any of Smoke’s big ass cock, either. Knowing her man the way she did, it was safe to say Smoke was not the type to walk around for weeks at a time and not bust a nut. No, he was a man with needs and though he wasn’t what she’d call sex obsessed, when he wanted it, he wanted it right then, and he never waited too long between intervals. Someone was fucking her man, and she knew exactly who.

  I can’t compete with her…

  Felicia’s self esteem was intact. She was a bad bitch, down for her man, ride or die. Her body was a thing males dreamed of. She was the perfect ho package—from to the way she fucked, to the superb way she ran the damn house. The stroke of beauty hadn’t missed her, either. Standing 5’10 with a small waist, curvy hips and legs that lasted for days, she was a damn walking, living dream. She had long, soft hair, 36D natural breasts that perked up like orange traffic cones, a flat stomach, round ass and a pussy that stayed soft and wet. She could go toe to toe with any other ho, but Paris was different…

  Paris was graceful, controlled, cool under pressure, took care of her business, and always managed to come out on top. Born from pimp and prostitute stock, this shit was in her damn DNA. And now, the self-serving bitch had stolen her man. Felicia made a decision at that moment. If his ass didn’t come back to her, make this right, she’d leave. No questions asked. He knew damn well no one else in his stable could run the house like she could. The ultimatum hung in bold letters on the horizon. He’d be in a world of hurt and if anyone found out he was fucking and getting all googly eyed over a Madam, he’d seethe at the teasing that would ensue and he’d lose street cred. His reputation would be flushed down the damn toilet.

  She continued to look out the window, letting the minutes roll by. A slow tear ran down her face, but she didn’t wipe it away for it reminded her she was alive, this was happening, and the shit was real. Her man wasn’t coming home anytime soon. She could feel it. Smoke had done the unthinkable. He’d run off and fallen in love…

  *

  “WHY DID YOU drag me out here?” Smoke chuckled as he looked at his huge plate of fluffy buttermilk pancakes and turned it slowly from the left and right, studying it like one of his model airplanes. “I could have made this for you, you know. Instead, you want to show off and bring me to this fancy place, shake your money around,” he teased as he placed his short glass of orange juice to his lips. The pulpy grit raced up the side as he tilted it just so. If only it were filled with the climactic liquor of her pussy that he’d relished all evening and morning long, but for now, he simply had to settle for this.

  “Look.” Paris said between chews of her Belgian waffle doused in pecan syrup. She wore a satisfied smile on her beautiful face, proof that he was like milk with extra vitamin D; he’d done the damn woman’s body good. “They have the best breakfast in town. We worked up an appetite.” She grinned. “My housekeeper doesn’t work today so neither you nor I would be messing up my kitchen. No, sir! I’m a clean freak.” The woman sliced into her waffle and sank her fork into the gooey piece of waffle.

  “Hmmm, is that so?” He winked at her before taking another sip and returning his glass to the table. “I believe it.” He shot a quick glance around the place and lowered his voice for her ears only. “Especially with the way you cleaned my dick dry this morning. Goddamn, woman!” He was suddenly having flashbacks of the woman’s head game. The rumors were definitely true…

  She smiled proudly, as if she’d been nominated for an Oscar. She sure should have been; she deserved that and more. But soon, she went back to eating. Clearly Paris didn’t give a flying fuck about her notorious reputation, evident by her dismissal of his compliment as she dug her fork into her scrambled eggs and took a hearty bite.

  “Smoke, can I ask you a personal question?”

  He nodded as he picked up his cellphone, seeing yet another call from Felicia that he was prepared to ignore.

  “Sure, what’s up baby?” He kept his eye on the phone, which was now being besieged by angry text messages from the woman.

  SMOKE! WHERE ARE YOU?

  I THOUGHT YOU RAN THIS DAMN HOUSE?

  WHO ARE YOU FUCKING? I KNOW YOU’RE BALLS DEEP IN SOME BITCH’S PUSSY!

  WHO ARE YOU WITH? IT SURE ISN’T ME!

  He grimaced and placed the phone on vibrate, returning it to the table, face down.

  “You know, this whole thing between us is new to me, and I’m just learning as I go.” She covered her mouth with one hand to block the food she’d shoved inside.

  “Me too, Pussycat.”

  “Yeah, in that aspect though, just like my work, and all that I do, I like to research everything, unlock every hidden detail. It unnerves some people.” She swallowed heartily then picked up her glass of cranberry juice and took a small sip before continuing. “But, because we’re doing this, you know, trying to move forward together, that means we need to do some catching up, feel each other out…just like you asked of me, last night.”

  “I agree. I have no problem with that.” He waved the waitress over, wanting a refill on his coffee. “I’m always going to be real with you. This is me right here, Brent, not Smoke.” He pointed to himself.

  She nodded in understanding.

  “That’s good because I want you to tell me who I’m really in love with, Smoke. Some parts of you are a complete mystery.”

  His eyes narrowed as he tried to catch and hold onto her drift. Seemingly sensing his confusion, she leaned in, placed her hand on the table, and elaborated.

  “Tell me about where you grew up, what it was like? Don’t get me wrong, you’ve let me in some, I can feel it, and I applaud your efforts but I want to understand how you came to be the person that I smile about in my dreams.”

  He gave a weak smile as he cocked his head to the side and sighed.

  “I knew of your father, I think everyone did. You look so much like him too,” she grinned, a bit of sorrow in her expression. “I didn’t even know he had a son though, but of course, I was still a kid back then and then I left and went to college, removed from the life. When I returned, I heard he had passed. I’m sorry…”

  Smoke glanced out the window and crossed his arms. Cars moved about, but he only saw blurs… He wanted to escape, fly away from the current scene. He thought he was ready, but was dead wrong. Leave it to Paris to not only dig, but dig deep. What did he expect? He’d done the same exact thing to her. Did he not believe she’d be coming for his ass in due time? He was still swimming in the afterglow of their sexual marathon. They’d been fucking practically non-stop steady since he stepped foot into her house, until twenty minutes before they’d left the place to get a bite to eat. Hyped and amped, his mind now floated in a pleasant fog. But suddenly, the smoke had cleared…

  What he loved about her, her curiosity and fine-tuned perception, had turned on him, causing him to hate those traits which reflected his own personality. She was everything he was in female form, with a few twists along the way. And she was right. If she was going to take a chance on them, she deserved to know about from whence he came. He needed her to take a chance on him, too, and she finally had; there was no point in derailing everything, fucking up his long, hard efforts.

  “Alright.” He swallowed, placed both palms on the table and decided to handle this shit head on. “I grew up in Monroe, Ohio… Ohio is the birthplace of aviation. That little detail means something to me.” He offered a slight grin as he cleared his throat.

  She shook her head, encouraging him to continue.

  “Thanks,” he said to the waitress as she poured fresh coffee into his cup. “Monroe is a strange place.” He took a breath. “It’s not quite Southern in the way many believe, you know.” He leaned a bit forward, feeling the swirls of heat rising from his mug and warming his face. “There’s a lot of land, and it is just small town America. Some would call me whi
te trash, some would call me a hillbilly, and that’s fine. I don’t really care because no one defines me but me, but I’m no redneck.” He stroked his chin as he deliberated and looked into her eyes. Paris gave a light chuckle before biting into her slice of bacon.

  He traced the table with his fingertip, gearing up to continue, to expose his core—to reveal more of the real Brent to her.

  “My parents had a shotgun wedding. Now, my mother’s version of this varies from my father’s. … My mother told me they were madly in love; my father said no, he got her pregnant with me and tried to do the right thing. Regardless, the truth is probably somewhere in the middle. They had bad blood between one another, so as the years passed, drugs came into the picture, as well as bitterness and pride. People sometimes see their past differently than how it actually occurred, and things just never fully recovered. It is what it is.”

  “Yes, I understand.” She nodded in sympathy, her expression soft and comforting.

  “So anyway, things were not good for me in Monroe.” He sighed. “Not that I thought I was better than anybody, but I always felt like it was too small for me, that I wouldn’t get anywhere in life if I stayed there. I knew that if I reached adulthood there, it would be so ingrained in me, I’d never leave, like so many others. I kept begging my mother to let me go live with my father, but she refused. She didn’t know he was a pimp though by the time she conceded and let me go. If she had, I think it’s safe to say she would have never let that happen.

  “Regardless… wait a minute, let me back track a bit.” If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. “My mother and I were very poor, Paris. When I say poor, I don’t mean California poor, I’m talking no food in the house, lights off, about to be evicted poor. We lived in run down rental homes or busted out trailers for the most part. Sometimes there was no running water. It sucked. I wanted to look nice. I wasn’t materialistic by a long shot, but like a lot of kids, I wanted clean clothes, preferably ones that were in fashion. Instead, all of my shit came from the Salvation Army or discount stores and my toes would hurt real bad because my shoes were always too small.