“Talk to you soon,” she said to him even as she gave her young secretary, Jamal, a hard stare for openly turning up his nose at the loud and boisterous crew filling the outer office.
He instantly flipped his frown up.
Monica glanced at her Cartier watch as she closed her office door and turned to make her way back to her desk. The blunt edges of her waist-length weave brushed lightly back and forth against her shirt as she moved. She raked her navy-painted nails through the bone-straight hair that was parted down the middle before picking up the phone headset as she plopped down into her seat.
Knock-knock.
Her finger paused over the phone. “Come in,” she called out, looking down at the keypad as she dialed.
Her face filled with confusion at the sight of K-Hunta’s manager, Usain Hands, poking his head into her office. Monica forced a smile. “What’s up, Usain?” she said, still holding the phone. “I didn’t know you were here.”
He stepped inside, looking suave in a pinstriped suit and paisley tie with plenty of diamonds to prove to the world he was successful as an entertainment manager. “Just wanted to thank you for doing me that favor and seeing Kelson,” he said, his eyes hidden behind dark shades.
Monica wondered if he slept in them because she had yet to see the man without them. Hanging up the line, she nodded. “No problem. Hopefully he’ll take the advice I give him so we can set him for life after entertainment, you know,” she said, really anxious to finish her call.
Usain laughed as he twisted his watches and bracelets on his wrist. “You make it seem like he has a shelf life.”
Monica leaned back in her chair and shrugged a bit. “Just being realistic, Usain,” she offered lightly. “But you never know, right?”
He nodded. “Right,” he said, coming forward to extend his hand. “How about joining me at the Hip-Hop Awards next week?”
Monica slid her hand into his even as she let her surprise fill her face. She took in his handsome face and clean-cut style with a bit of edge but there was nothing about Usain that piqued Monica’s interest and she had never picked up the vibe that she sparked his. “Business or pleasure, Usain?” she asked, having gained even more boldness in her late twenties than she dared to ever have before.
Success had bred confidence.
He smiled, highlighting his looks. “Business for me . . . pleasure for Kelson,” he admitted. “He asked me to ask you along.”
Monica frowned at visions of an armored SUV filled with more weed smoke than LA fog and more profanity than a hundred street-lit books combined. And she wanted K-Hunta even less than she could fake a desire for his manager. “I politely decline both,” she said, easing down into her seat.
Usain laughed as he nodded in understanding. “You can’t blame the brotha for trying,” he said.
“No, not at all,” she agreed, already dismissing him and lifting up the phone handset again to finally make the call he interrupted. “Be safe.”
“You too.”
The sound of the door closing echoed as Monica closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair as she listened to the phone line ringing in her ears. She swiveled and looked out at the expanse of towering buildings across the street from her two-room office suite on the sixth floor of the Seventh Avenue building in the heart of Manhattan.
Not bad at all, she thought, swiveling again in her chair and leaning forward to replace the handset as the call went to voice mail.
She beamed a little as she looked around at her stylishly decorated office, but it was her degrees framed on the wall above her low-slung bookcases that made her smile widen. Those degrees, her internships during college and grad school, her diligence to fulfill her dreams plus one hell of a lucky hookup from a classmate led to a black girl from a so-called broken home in Newark, New Jersey, owning her own business and making six figures at it.
And she wasn’t done yet. She had just begun to scratch at her bucket list.
She leaned forward again in her chair and pressed the intercom button. “Jamal, I think we’re done for the day. See you Monday,” Monica said, lightly massaging her chin with her free hand.
“Should I call for your car?”
Monica nodded. That’s what she loved about the young man who recently graduated from New York University. He had plenty of initiative and drive. He was hungry for success and looked for ways to make Monica’s life easier. “Yes, thank you.”
She hadn’t quite figured out if he was gay or not and she completely didn’t give a fuck either way. Her interest in him was completely above his neck and not below his waist.
“See you Monday, Ms. Winters.”
She rose to her feet as she picked up her briefcase and slid a few files into it before grabbing her purse. By the time she made it out of her office, Jamal was long gone with his desk left tidy and the light of the outer office already dimmed for the night. She locked up and walked down the tiled hall to the elevator shared with the two other office suites on the floor.
“Time for the weekend,” she said softly as she pressed the button to summon the elevator.
As she stepped between the opening doors a soft smile touched her glossy lips. There was a time when an upcoming Friday night meant something more than lounging on the couch with a glass of wine and files to review. High heels, short skirts, and the club with her friends were a long way from that.
But that was a long time ago.
The heels were still high but the friends she hadn’t spoken to in close to five years and the club were off her to-do list. Surprisingly, she didn’t miss either that much. Her priorities had changed.
Bzzzzzzzzz . . .
As the elevator landed she reached in her purse for her iPhone. “Hey, mama,” she said, after checking the caller ID.
“This your daddy, LadyBug.”
Monica pinched the bridge of her nose as she walked across the lobby. “And does your girlfriend Andrea know you’re laid up on your ex-wife’s phone?” she asked, waving at the security guards at the front desk open before strutting through the glass door the doorman held for her.
“Andrea and I are not together.”
Monica paused and almost collided with a dog walker and his five clients on a leash. Her driver was standing outside her blacked out Yukon Denali waiting to help her slide into the back. Monica ignored him as she turned her back. “Did she get tired of you dipping back to swim in my mama’s goodies?” she said, stretching her eyes with vaguely contained sarcasm.
“First off, I was swimming in your mama’s goodies long before you came out of them,” he said, his voice amused. “Secondly, whatever is going on between me and your mama is none-ya. Third, and most importantly, I’m your father and you need to find your mind and your respect because you obviously lost both.”
And just like that Monica felt properly chastised and put in her place without her father raising his voice or changing his dismeanor one bit. “I apologize, Daddy,” she said, turning on her five-inch crocodile heels to finally make her way to her SUV. “You know what I went through with Mama all those years after you two got divorced. She can’t take it if it all goes wrong again . . . and neither can I.”
Monica slid onto the butter-soft leather of the rear seat, dumping her briefcase and purse beside her as she kicked off her heels. “Matter of fact, Daddy, I can’t even handle this now. So, with all due respect to the man who made me and raised me . . . I’ll holler at you two lovebirds later.”
She took a deep, encouraging breath and ended the call.
Beep.
“Headed home, Ms. Winters?”
She nodded at her driver, Sampson, even as she closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the headrest. Soon the soft sounds of Ledisi filled the vehicle and Monica felt her shoulders relax. Sampson knew her well. Somehow in the year since he was hired as her driver he was able to sense her frame of mind and played music to suit it. The only time he didn’t mess with the music? If she was mad as hell and not in
the mood. Then the twenty-minute ride home was as silent as death.
Monica let herself stay in that relaxed zone until she heard Sampson climb from his driver’s seat and close his door. “Home sweet home,” she mouthed, opening her eyes and looking out the window at the upscale high-rise building on New York’s Upper East Side.
It was a long way from Newark, New Jersey’s central ward.
“A long ass way,” she muttered, before entering the building.
Even though it had been over a year since she first pressed stilettos to the marble floor, her breath was still taken away by the grandness. She wondered if she would ever get used to it. Just accept that this was her life now. This was her reality. And it was a reality that topped every one of her childhood dreams.
I made it.
“Good evening, Mr. Steele.”
Monica stiffened in surprise before she turned and smiled at Cameron walking into the lobby with the confidence to fool anyone into thinking he owned it. Correction, we made it, she thought, her heart pounding like it had been years since she had seen the man she loved, instead of just that morning.
He walked right up to her with his eyes missing not one detail about her before he used one strong arm to sweep her body up against his to dance her in a small circle right there in the middle of the lobby. He kissed her neck and hummed some tune she couldn’t recognize as she brought her hands up around his neck and enjoyed the movement of their bodies.
This was their home. Well, the lobby of their home. Theirs alone. Both names on the mortgage. Together.
“People are staring at us,” she whispered up to him as she eyed their neighbors.
Cameron chuckled and began to move them toward the elevator. “Let’s not be the dancing Negroes in the lobby then,” he said with a chuckle.
“No, let’s not.”
He dipped her with one arm and reached for the button to summon the elevator with the other. “Love,” he said, smiling down at her.
Monica’s eyes sparkled but not as bright as the light his words exploded inside her chest. “More love,” she replied, as were their custom.
The elevator arrived. People got off and a few more got on along with Cameron and Monica. They snuggled close together with his head resting atop her head as she leaned forward into his chest. Lost in each other.
And she did love him. For his love as her man. For his intensity as her lover. For his power as the chief financial operating officer of Braun, Weber. For his security. His understanding. His humor. His humility.
As soon as they stepped off the elevator onto their floor, he slapped her ass soundly and then massaged it before scooping her up into his arms to carry her down the tiled hall to the door to their two-story condominium. She reached down and pressed her thumb to the pad to unlock the door.
“Are you ready to make a baby?” he spoke against her neck.
Monica froze as he carried her over the threshold. “Say what now?”
Cameron pressed his lips to her cheek before sitting her down on her feet. He pulled his iPhone from the inner pocket of his tailored blazer and then used his thumb to swipe across the screen several times. He handed it to her.
Monica’s heart was beating fast as she looked down at the calendar reminder he titled: Baby Making. And then she remembered. Last year when Cameron last brought up having children she begged off for a year. A year ago to the date. Leave it up to this Negro to set a motherfucking reminder.
Not once during the year had they broached the subject of children. Not once. But he had just been lying in wait. Like a predator on her uterus.
Monica visualized gaining eighty pounds, her nose spreading, ankles swelling, and her neck darkening. Morning sickness. Constant peeing. And labor? She fought not to shiver at the thought of that. Fuck to the no.
She cut her eyes over at him and his eyes were leveled on her. She smiled and rose up on her toes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Not this week, baby. Aunt Flo came to visit this afternoon,” she lied.
“Damn,” Cameron swore in disappointment.
She pressed another kiss to his mouth before she dropped down to her knees and bit her bottom lip. “Let me get some of that pressure off,” she said softly, unzipping his pants.
He smiled, spread his legs wide and thrust his hips toward her playfully. “Do what you do,” he said.
“And do so well,” she teased, the sound of his zipper being undone echoing in the air.
Monica licked her lips before she pulled his dick free and licked him. Stroking the length of him until it hardened in her hands. The faint scent of him, his sweat, and his soap surrounded her as she took all of him into her mouth. He hissed in pleasure and tightened his fingers in her hair as he flung his head back and slightly pumped his hips.
“Hmmmmmmm,” she moaned, enjoying the stroke of his dick against her tongue.
“Mo,” he moaned.
She sucked him harder, closing her eyes as her cheeks caved with each deep pull. She could taste the slight drizzle of pre-cum coating the tip. His balls lightly rocked against her chin with each back and forth motion of his hips. His buttocks were tight as his thighs quivered from the pleasure she gave.
Usually, Monica would blow him until he was close to a nut and then jack him the rest of the way home, but not this time. This time she listened to him gasp harshly and then cried out as his release filled her mouth. She sucked harder.
It was the very least she could do for him because she had absolutely no plans of getting pregnant. Ever.
Chapter 6
Keesha (née Dom)
Keesha licked her lips as she lit a cigarette and eyed the frame holding the covers of her two books. It was poster sized and hung in the center of the far wall of her office. She smirked a bit at the urge she felt to set fire to it. Burn, motherfucker, burn.
She had poured her heart and soul into that first book. It was fed by her misery. She thought writing it would release her demons and instead she had to draw upon them to write the second book centered on a crazy stripper named Lick Me who was battered and bruised emotionally and physically.
The first book had been a release and she poured her all into it.
The second book had seemed like a torture that drained her of her all.
And now the third? Keesha was still on empty.
She twisted her bottom lip to the left and exhaled the cigarette smoke in a smooth stream upward as she cut her eyes to the screen of her laptop. The blinking cursor on the blank screen mocked her. You ain’t a real writer, bitch.
Knock-knock-knock.
She rolled her eyes heavenward and ignored whomever was at the door. Outside that solid wood was a party she regretted throwing in the first place. Her agent and editor were on her to turn in her proposal for a third book. No proposal. No new book deal. No hefty advance. No money.
And she had been one of the lucky ones to score a good agent who negotiated a hefty six-figure advance and then sold the movie rights to her book for another good amount. There was no promise of the rights actually being picked up by a great production company to make the film, but the money and the extra press about the deal had been nice. And had led to the push for a new book in the series.
But the words would not come.
No story would develop.
“Shit,” Keesha swore, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray.
Knock-knock-knock-knock—
“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?” she screamed at the top of her voice, picking up the same ashtray, about to fling it at the closed door. Her frustrations made her dizzy. Unsure.
The door opened a crack and the head of her preteen daughter, Kimani, peeped in. “Ma, you busy?” she asked.
Keesha sat the ashtray back down and shook her head, causing her chin-length asymmetrical bob to swish back and forth. “What is it, Ki?” she asked, forcing herself to calm down as she used her hands to sweep up the ashes and cigarette butts now littering the top of her desk.
&n
bsp; “Uhmm, Diane just got here and she got pissed to see Pops. They’re arguing,” she said, picking up one of Keesha’s advance review copies of her second book, Lick Me 2.
Keesha felt a twitch above her left eye like she was about to stroke the hell out. Standing up she came around the wooden desk and took the book from her daughter’s hand. “I knew I shouldn’t have invited her,” she mumbled, her flip-flops slapping against the hardwood floors as they made their way down the stairs of the townhouse and to the open patio doors leading to the backyard.
Her mother and her father were nose to nose but only her mother’s hands were flailing in the air.
“You fucking sperm donor!” Diane yelled.
“I would’ve been more than a sperm donor if you didn’t lie on another motherfucker about being Keesha’s father!” William shot back.
“Great idea to bring the whole family together. You know Diane stay trippin’,” Kimani said, running off in her sundress to reclaim her seat by Keesha’s little sister, Hiasha. Keesha didn’t have time to once again contemplate that both her father and she had children the same age. She had to put a kibosh on the drama unfolding between her parents . . . who hadn’t seen each other since a pregnant Diane decided to kick the mailman to the curb in favor of a money-making drug-dealing future drug addict.
Keesha eyed the partygoers. Some openly stared. Others tried to pretend the drama was not unfolding in front of them. She saw a couple pack a plate and head for the gate leading to the front of the house where cars were parked.
“You just going to stand there?”
Keesha stiffened and then looked over her shoulder at Corey carrying a tray of raw hamburgers out to the grill. His dark complexion looked delicious in the navy shirt he wore with white shorts. She shook her head. “This your house too. You could break up Holyfield and Tyson,” she told him, her Newark accent still in place even though they had moved to the suburbs of South Orange, New Jersey.
Corey made a face before he kissed her cheek and moved past her. “And risk Diane flipping out on me? Naw,” he said before heading out the patio doors.
Never Keeping Secrets Page 5