“Grow the fuck up.”
Okay, it’s not exactly a mic-drop moment, but it’s what I’m thinking. There’s so much wasted potential in that man.
I push through the door and am back in the ballroom, once again surrounded by elegant wealthy people.
I suck in a breath when his fingers touch my nipple. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been touched like that and it feels so amazing that a quiet moan escapes from my lips.
Ronald has been doing fine up to this point. He’d taken me to the movies—a romantic comedy, no less—and to a French café for a scrumptious late-night dessert. Afterward, when he asked what I wanted to do next, I surprised him by suggesting we go back to his place. Recently, I’d been spending far too much time thinking about sex, and about Marcus Jennings in particular. I could tell it was time I got laid.
The first real kiss between us was promising, and things quickly escalated. Now that he’s got my shirt off and is touching me, Ronald suddenly shifts into hyperdrive. He unclasps my bra and removes it, then immediately unzips my pants and pulls them down, along with my panties. Two minutes after we tumble into his bed on top of the covers, he’s got me naked and is taking off his own clothes, giving me a view of his medium-brown skin and semi-hard cock.
I try to relax and enjoy the coming sex, but Ronald seems to want to get into it—and me—immediately, with little foreplay. He gives my pussy a perfunctory stroke or two, doesn’t bother to look for my clit, then slides a finger into me. Good thing I’m so eager for this that I’m already somewhat wet. I watch as he opens a condom pack and slides the latex over his shaft, then he’s quickly on top of me, pushing into me.
As he begins thrusting, I do my best to find a rhythm with him, but it’s difficult. He’s seemingly oblivious to any desires I may have and it occurs to me that I might as well be a blow-up doll—hardly the thought you want to have about a lover during sex. After only two or three minutes, his thrusts get harder and he begins to groan, finally hammering at me as he spends himself. He quickly pulls out and heads for the bathroom, returning after he flushes the evidence.
I’m lying there, naked and frustrated, as he stops at the end of the bed, his cock already limp. He looks over my body, then smiles and lies next to me. What he says next is a surprise.
“Rashida, I am so sorry about that. It’s been nearly a year since I’ve had sex, and you’re so damn beautiful that I can’t believe you’re even in my bed. I guess I just couldn’t control myself. Give me a few minutes to recover and I’ll make it right, I promise.”
It’s such a sweet thing to say that I forgive him for rushing through things. We lie in bed and talk for a while as he traces circles on my belly with his fingertip. Eventually, that finger goes lower and his mouth soon follows. Ronald is not great at oral, but he’s good enough to lead me to an orgasm that I was more than ripe for in the first place. After I come, he’s half-hard again and we fuck once more, also in missionary position, only this time he’s calm enough to proceed slowly. I don’t reach another orgasm, as I rarely do in that position, but it’s better than not having sex at all.
Afterwards, he asks if I want to spend the night, but I decline because I need to get home to Jayden. RaeJean would probably agree to stay late, but I don’t want to be subjected to any questions from a six-year-old in the morning. We get dressed and Ronald drives me home, giving me a final kiss at the door of my condo building.
“When can I see you again?” he asks.
Although I guess I shouldn’t be, I’m caught off-guard by the question.
“I’m pretty busy for this next week. Maybe after that?” I first need time to decide if I want to see Ronald again.
“The week after this I’ll be at a convention in Hartford. That means two full weeks of thinking about tonight—that might just drive me crazy.”
I smile and kiss him gently on the lips.
“You’ll survive.”
I didn’t mean it to be snarky, and hopefully it didn’t come off that way. I just don’t know if I like Ronald enough to continue seeing him. Dating him would mean sleeping with him, which would become a thing, and I’m not sure I want to have a thing with Ronald. A couple of weeks will give me time to think it through.
Tonight, I finally broke my long sex drought with a good-looking, thoughtful man who actually apologized for rushing sex. I got a much-needed orgasm due to a man’s tongue doing the right things. All in all, even if I’m not crazy about Ronald, I should be content that I finally got laid, not exactly an easy thing for a single mother.
Consequently, it makes me furious that when I’ve dispatched RaeJean and tucked Jayden into bed, then finally climb under my own sheets, all I can think about is Marcus Jennings.
11
Marcus
I take a sip of Snapple and look at the three people around the conference room table at Restaro, a meeting set up for me by Mason. Nice touch that they would have my favorite drink waiting for me, not to mention the big dish of Skittles in the center of the table. There are two men and a woman with me, ready to get down to business after a few introductory pleasantries.
“What has Mason told you about Restaro, Marcus?” This is the guy named Andy, the only one at the company Mason mentioned by name. He’s probably in his forties, with gray hair starting to creep in here and there. He’s in great shape though, and his suit is obviously expensive, as are the Prada glasses he’s wearing.
“I know that you do public relations, and that you’re going to help me get my Q score up.”
All three of them smile at once, and it makes me feel uneasy.
“We don’t do public relations, per se,” he says. “We do image rehabilitation.”
I must have a blank look on my face. Not because I don’t understand the concept, but because I don’t think my image really needs to be rehabilitated as much as just polished up a little.
Jennifer leans forward. She’s young, probably just older than I am, a serious type with above-average looks and short black hair in a stylish cut. Her clothes also look expensive—as do all their clothes and the office space, as well—and I can’t help but wonder what it be like to fuck her.
“Basically, Marcus, we usually function in an emergency capacity,” she says somberly. “If someone’s career goes off the rails—a DUI or drug bust, a prostitution sting, domestic violence incident. That sort of thing.”
Andy cuts her off. “Obviously, nothing like that applies to you, which should make our job much easier, although in a way actually makes it harder. Mason wanted us to help you find ways to be more likeable. And yes, the goal is to raise your Q-rating.”
The other guy at the table is William, a thirty-something black guy. I can’t help but wonder if he was asked to sit in on the meeting as a token of diversity, but once he speaks he quickly dispels that notion. This is one seriously sharp dude. “I was responsible for putting together your profile, Marcus, and to be blunt, you are an odd case. We’ve done a nationwide survey and have identified three groups we want to target. The first is people who generally like you as a player, but perceive you to be selfish on the court—and they automatically assume you are off the court as well. The second: people who dislike you strongly, mostly because they also see you as selfish. And the final group is people who have never even heard of you.”
“Restaro can definitely help with that last group,” Jennifer says, “by finding ways to raise your profile. Viral and guerilla marketing campaigns, etc. For that, we don’t need much from you. Maybe a video shoot or two, or guest appearances on popular TV shows. Relatively easy stuff.”
Andy’s turn now. “Those first two demographics are more difficult, though. We can accomplish much with careful rehab planning, such as driving sympathy via charity work, but you yourself will need to make changes in the way you play the game to truly take it to the next level.”
I bristle at that last remark. Andy is not a basketball expert, and for all I know, he’s never even played. My game h
as gotten me to where I am today, and fuck anyone who thinks I need to change it.
“Since you only have handful of games left, it might not be realistic to do anything this season.” Like a lot of people in LA, Andy evidently doesn’t think we have much of a shot at the playoffs. He looks me dead in the eye. “But you need to play for the Olympic team this summer. That’s the fastest way we can get you a new audience and sway the opinion of those who don’t like you.”
“I’ve already turned them down.” I have no desire whatsoever to waste my summer playing for free, especially in Brazil with that Zika virus stuff going on. No thanks.
“Yeah, but they’d take you in a heartbeat if you change your mind before they start practicing in July,” William says. “The team as it stands is veteran-heavy, and those guys aren’t going to want to play big minutes. They need young legs. They need you.”
That’s the same argument Coach Margulis, the Olympic team coach, used when he tried to convince me to join the team. “We need your energy, Marcus,” he told me.
Jennifer pipes up. “You winning a gold medal this summer will do more for your image than anything else.”
The three of them fall silent and I realize they’re waiting for a reply. Instead I give them a frown.
“Mason thinks it’s a beautiful idea,” Andy says. “And to be honest, it’s a no-brainer if you’re serious about raising your Q score.”
Well, fuck. That would be two months out of my summer.
“I’ll consider it,” I tell them, knowing full well I have no intention of playing for the Olympic team.
They all grin in relief and we move on to the next item on their list. Jennifer asks me what charities I’m involved in.
“I just attended a fundraiser for the 4gotten Kids Foundation,” I tell them.
“What else?” Andy asks.
There’s an awkward pause.
“I go to some of Drake Manning’s charity functions when he asks me to. That’s about it.”
The other two look at Andy with concern, and he asks, “Okay, that’s a start. Is 4gotten Kids a cause you believe in?”
“Sure,” I say. I was an underprivileged kid myself. Even though my dad worked, when I was very young we lived in a housing project in Oakland. Dad still insists on keeping his job working for the Oakland Department of Sanitation.
“Then let’s get you more personally involved in that,” Andy says. “How would you like to go to Disneyland with a hundred kids?”
I can think of almost nothing I’d like less. Except maybe playing for the Olympic team.
“Sure.”
Andy smiles. “Great. You’re going to make this your personal cause, Marcus. You’ll attend one of their functions at least once a month, and we’ll make sure it’s well publicized. You’ll only be obligated for twelve days a year, but you can spend more if you want, obviously. The summer Disneyland trip will be a yearly thing, and you’ll pay for it out of pocket. I’ll get Disney to comp the tickets and food, so you’re just looking at renting a bus or two, and maybe buying souvenirs if you want. The big deal will be that you’ll stay there with the kids, take them around the park, and we’ll make sure TV crews are there to cover it. Sound okay?”
I nod. Sounds like one day’s time and less than a thousand bucks. I’m okay with that.
“Let’s not waste time, then. This first Disneyland trip should happen ASAP.” Andy looks at his phone’s calendar app. “Are you busy this Saturday?”
I consider it for a minute. I resent being forced into shit like this, but Mason told me these people know what they’re doing and that I should go along with their recommendations.
“Yeah, that works. Whatever it takes.”
“Okay, I’ll call Disneyland and the foundation and set everything up. I’ll rent the buses and send the bill to Mason. All you have to do is show up, Marcus. I’ll call you with the details once everything’s in place.”
Like I said, whatever it takes. Except the Olympics.
The memory of my father triggered during the meeting reminds me that we haven’t talked in a couple of weeks, which is rare for us. I call Dad on the drive home and tell him about the prospective endorsement deal, the concept of Q-ratings, and the possibility of altering my game. He’s the one who has guided me through my high school, college, and professional careers. Dad always has a perspective and a wisdom about these things, and best of all I know he’s in my corner.
“You’re intelligent, Marcus,” he says, “Much smarter than I ever was. At this point in your career, I don’t know if I can help you anymore. You do what you think is right and you’ll be fine. You’re a man now, son.”
I’m not sure what Dad means by all that, but to me it sounds a lot like, “Think for yourself. You’re old enough to make your own damn decisions.”
This Disneyland thing is not nearly as bad as I thought it might be. I mean, I like children in general, and the look on the faces of these kids who never get to do anything like this is priceless. Who wouldn’t like being a part of that? To bring a little ray of light into the lives of kids who usually know only the crush of poverty makes me feel good about myself. More than that: It makes me happy. I almost feel like a kid myself as I show them around the park. Since half a dozen volunteers from the 4gotten Kids Foundation are there to help keep things in order, it’s an easy day.
Two Disneyland employees have been assigned to help as well, so we get to bypass long lines and I go on rides with the kids whenever possible. One of the Disney employees is a guy dressed as a prince. The other is a hot little thing, no older than twenty, I’d guess. She’s wearing a Snow White costume, with the long yellow skirt, blue top with short puffy sleeves, a black wig topped with a red bow that matches the color of her lipstick. More importantly, Snow White keeps giving me that look, too, the one I see from women outside the Staples Center after a game. Because of her costume and the wig, I really can’t tell much about her looks, but her face is cute enough. Throughout the morning, she talks to me every chance she gets, and I can tell she’s interested in more than showing me around the park.
Eventually we break for lunch, and Disneyland has roped off a bunch of tables for us. While the kids are in the middle of their burgers, a bunch of Disney characters show up to keep them entertained—Goofy, Donald Duck, Pluto, Belle, Jasmine, Pocahontas, and, of course, Mickey and Minnie. Suddenly it’s a madhouse and the kids are squealing in delight. I feel one of them tug on my arm and turn around to see it’s not a kid at all, but Snow White. She gestures for me to bend down, then whispers in my ear.
“Wait a minute, then follow me,” she says.
When I look at her, she gives me a slutty little grin and I know right away I’d follow her just about anywhere. I watch as she walks to a doorless building next to the one housing the concession stand, and she turns and smiles at me just before disappearing behind it.
Looking around, I see that things are so chaotic no one is likely to miss me. Just in case, I tell one of the foundation volunteers that I’ll be right back. I stand next to the little building and, when I’m sure nobody is looking, quickly duck behind it to find Snow White waiting there. I walk up to her and she hands me a slip of paper. On it is written “Snow White” and a phone number.
“You could’ve handed me this out there,” I say.
She grins. “I wanted to make sure you called me,” she says, then slowly begins to lift her long yellow skirt. Up it goes, inch-by-inch, and I watch speechlessly, wondering where she’s going to stop. To my shock, she continues until she’s holding the hem of her skirt at her waist, exposing the cutest little pussy, perfectly bare with just a hint of pink showing between her lips. She keeps the dress raised for a few seconds before slowly lowering it again.
“That’s waiting for you, Marcus. Be sure to call me.”
“Fuck yeah, I will.”
I kiss her on the forehead. She smells good and I wish I could fuck her right here.
“You go out first,” she says.
“I’ll wait a minute before I rejoin the party.”
I slip around the corner of the building and rejoin the group. Some of the kids run up to me as I approach, but nobody questions my brief absence. Moments later I see Snow White looking my way with a huge grin on her face. For the rest of the afternoon, we keep locking eyes and smiling at each other.
At one point I whisper to her, “Did you put your panties back on yet?”
Snow White gives me a devilish grin and says, “Nope.”
As the day winds down, two TV crews show up to get footage of the group, with a reporter interviewing me and a few of the kids. With the camera on me, I shout, “Who wants souvenirs?” The scream I get in return is going to be priceless on TV. We head to a souvenir shop and I tell the kids they can each spend fifty bucks. I know it’ll cost me five large, but it’s worth it for the publicity. I’m also aware of the joy the junk they buy will bring them. I’ve grown fond of these little ones and make a note to request their presence again at the next event I participate in for the foundation.
Just before we leave the park, Snow White finds me and says quietly, “Anytime you want, Marcus.”
Settling into my seat on the bus, I think about Snow White flashing me and grin. I’ve got other things to think about right now, though, so I push her out of my mind and instruct the bus driver to take us to the ice cream place we passed on our way to Disneyland. These kids deserve an ice cream cone to cap off their big day.
I open the door of my Range Rover and climb in. No way I was going to take the bright yellow Lambo into Inglewood. The Rover is replaceable; fully loaded it cost less than a hundred grand. I remove the paper from my pocket and dial Snow White’s number.
“Hello.”
“Hey there, Snow White.”
“Well, hello there, Marcus,” she says in a sultry voice.
“When do you get off work tonight? I’m eager to see the rest of you.”
Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 3: Marcus Page 8