Politics. Escorts. Blackmail.

by Pynk

  Beryl was barefoot, wearing a white tee and white workout pants. She had been bitten by the New York bug ten years prior. “We can’t get too comfortable because Brady’s known for getting hot. It ain’t over ’til it’s over.”

  She returned from the kitchen with more cold beer and popcorn, and laughed over a Coca-Cola commercial with polar bears. “That’s wild. Get ’em,” she said, as she set the bowl and cold bottles down on the coffee table.

  Kemba laughed too, then headed to the bathroom and closed the door when Beryl yelled out, “Your phone is vibrating.”

  He replied loudly, “Okay,” from the other side of the bathroom door as he heard Beryl actually answer his phone.

  “Hello.” He tried to hurry so he could hear the exchange. “Who are you calling?” he heard her ask. “Yes, this is Kemba’s number. Dallas?”

  Kemba listened intently, pissed off that she’d actually answered it.

  “A friend? Oh my God.” Her voice lowered. “I know this isn’t who I think it is…Ursula?”

  Kemba’s panic showed itself and he pulled up his pants and hurried to exit the bathroom.

  “You have got to be kidding me. Why are you calling this number? I know you’re not returning my man’s call.”

  Kemba stood right next to Beryl, nerves on high, and reached for his phone. “Give it to me.”

  She pushed Kemba away and spun around, turning her back to him, and continued talking. “You have to go? Oh, hell no. See, this shit is a trip. Sleeping with my husband wasn’t enough all those years ago and now you’re trying to take my new man? Fuck what you have to do. I want answers right now!”

  She listened, frowning, and Kemba stepped closer to where she stood.

  She began to yell. “It was a mistake, all right. Why in the hell do you go after my men? Because I know you’re not just Kemba’s friend. Kemba doesn’t have female friends.”

  “Beryl, stop,” said Kemba, sounding level-headed but his heart was pounding.

  She ignored him and kept talking, getting even louder, flailing her hand around as she spoke. “You’re a dirty whore. You’re married, but that doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

  “Hang up,” Kemba demanded.

  Beryl gave him a look of evil, yelling at him while his phone was to her ear. “You stupid-ass fool. This is the woman I saw you eyeing down outside the gym that day. The one who came out of Sylvia’s restaurant. The woman whose husband is running for president. You know her. The woman I’m 100 percent sure you’ve been fucking. The woman who shares blood with me.”

  His jaw dropped. He stood next to her and waited for what she’d said to sink in.

  “Asshole. Your newest trick, Ursula, is my fucking sister!”

  “Hold up.” He waited, as if he needed her to repeat what she’d just said.

  “No, you hold up.”

  He gave a confused, angled stare. “How can she be your sister when she’s black and you’re white?”

  She yelled at the top of her lungs, still holding the phone, “We have the same white mother and different fathers, if you must know. Her father is black and mine is white. What fucking difference does it make? She’s my damn sister, dummy! And I know she saw me in the taxi that day with you.” Beryl then screamed as she heard what Ursula said over the phone. “What? No big deal? Oh, yes, it is a big-ass deal. Kemba is my man. We live together, bitch. It’s not what I think, it’s what I know. You of all people know that I am not dumb. Surely there’s enough dick in New York City for you to cheat on your husband with, than to be cheating with my man, again.”

  Kemba stepped toward her. “Beryl, calm down.”

  Beryl backed away from him as she looked at the screen of the phone and bellowed, “Oh, I’m gonna call her ass back right now.” She scrambled to press Call.

  “No, you’re not. Calm down.”

  “Fucking voice mail!” She tossed the phone onto the couch. “How long have you been fucking ‘Dallas’? Dallas was her nickname from her favorite TV show when we were kids.”

  He gave her a careful stare, as if looking for a way to ease her anger. He put his hands up. “Why don’t you just take a breath?”

  “I don’t need a breath. I need some damn answers!”

  “Look. Okay. You and me, we have an open relationship. I don’t answer your phone. And honestly, I don’t appreciate you answering mine.”

  Her eyes popped out of her head, and a deep vertical line formed between them. “Oh no, you are not going to go there. I’ve got the right to do whatever the fuck I want. I pay that damn phone bill. I pay every goddamn bill around this motherfucker. Now I can either go back and check the bill to find out exactly how well the two of you know each other. Or, you can just tell me now.”

  “You can, but listen—”

  “The only thing I want to hear is you telling me what the fuck is up. Or did you not hear me say that she is my fucking sister!” Her head shook like she was on the brink of losing it.

  “I heard you.” He looked down for a split second, as though hoping for the right words to come to mind, then looked back up at the face that had changed from the football-watching girlfriend to the green-eyed monster in no time flat.

  “Bet you didn’t count on this shit, huh? That she’d be my fucking relative, did you? But shit, why not? You’ve fucked every damn body in New York. This was bound to happen. Lusting over her when she came out of the restaurant. You think I didn’t notice that. You weren’t even cool about it. You looked like you were about to come in your damn pants.”

  “Beryl, it was all business with her.”

  “What? Lip Service business? So you’re saying you did fuck her?”

  “No and yes.”

  “No and yes what? Does the yes go with the question about you fucking her?”

  “Yes. Don’t ask me any more questions. I told you it was business.”

  “Fool, your clients who you fuck for business don’t call you on your cell phone. They call Lip Service and then Lip Service sends you a text. Ursula said she was returning your call. Why’d you call that trick-ass bitch?”

  “She’s not a trick.” He stood still and kept his sights on her hands, in case she started swinging.

  “Oh, really?” She flung her hair from one shoulder to the other and aimed her right ear toward him. “So you’re gonna defend her ass now? Then what the hell is she if she paid you to fuck her?”

  “She didn’t pay me. She’s a friend.”

  “Make up your mind. Is she business or a friend?”

  He looked frustrated. “You pick one.”

  Beryl tightened her jaw and squinted her eyes then said at the top of her lungs, “She’s a fuck. You’re fucking my sister, Kemba. And you’re gonna stand there and get defensive about it? Like I’m the damn problem?”

  “This whole thing is a problem. I have no privacy. You answered my phone and then you jumped the gun without giving me a chance to explain. I’m sorry if I made contact with your sister. I didn’t even know you had a sister, black or white or anything else. I don’t know much about you anyway,” he yelled back.

  The sound of the football game resuming sounded in the background. “Because you never took the time to ask! And I answered it because I saw the fucking caller ID read Dallas.” She turned around and grabbed the remote to turn off the TV and threw the remote onto the carpet. “But don’t you worry about that now. Things are gonna turn around. Your well has run dry. I can never be with you again, knowing you’ve fucked her nasty ass. That stupid bitch broke up my marriage, and I thought I’d cut her out of my life for good, but she shows up on a Sunday, calling on my man’s phone.” She paced back and forth from the TV to the sofa, shaking her head. “It’s bad enough that I have to see her on TV, with the husband she snatched up just so she can be in the White House. That’s all she talked about when we were teenagers was marrying a politician. I’ll tell you one thing, I’m about to put a stop to that shit. You best believe that.” She took fast, heavy steps back to
ward their bedroom.

  He looked at her incredulously. “Beryl.”

  She turned on a dime as she hit the hallway, pointing back at him. “I give you thirty fucking minutes to get your shit out of here or else I’m calling the police. Don’t play with me. I want your hooker ass gone.”

  “Wait. Please.”

  For every word she said she took a step toward him. “Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. House. NOW!” Her eyes watered and her lips quivered.

  “A’right. Damn.” He walked past her and went into their room, where he packed some things into a large suitcase. He also made sure to pack the Bible his mother had left him years ago. He’d always had it; he just never opened it.

  Ten minutes later he rolled out the large suitcase and a shoulder bag. He went to the sofa to get his phone, putting it in his pocket.

  She simply stood by the front door, holding it open, looking anxious. Her cheeks were flushed.

  He said, exhausted as he walked to the door, “I’d like to be able to get the rest of my things later.”

  She looked down at her phone with a scowl of disgust. “Don’t make me call 911.”

  He stepped out and she slammed the door within an inch of the base of his suitcase.

  He stood there for a minute, then headed to the elevator and took it to the lobby, and exited the building he’d called home for two years.

  Having fucked up his sugar-momma good thing, all he could think was, Damn, it’s a small-ass world.

  And trip off of women. He’d been kicked out by his girl, and left by his own mom.

  Fox News projects Senator Darrell Ellington has won the Nevada caucus, capturing twenty-eight delegates and knocking Kalin Graves down a peg in a close race that came down to the wire.

  Twenty-Five

  Kemba

  Super Bowl Sunday—February 5, 2012

  That evening, after checking into the stylish Aloft Hotel on Frederick Douglass Boulevard, not far from the home he had once lived in, Kemba left the hotel and went back out into the thirty-three-degree weather. He wore gloves, with a knit cap over his head, easing himself in the direction of his place of literal physical therapy, the gym.

  His mind was busy. He didn’t dare call Beryl, and she hadn’t dared to call him. Not even a text to cuss him out further. And as much as he wanted to, he definitely didn’t dare call the tall, brown one whose oversized clit he fell in love with, sexy Ursula Ellington.

  “Sisters. Of all the luck,” he kept telling himself out loud into the still of the chilly night. “Who needs them?”

  He entered the doors of Planet Fitness, and the club was nearly empty. He scanned his membership card at the front desk and entered the men’s locker room, placing his gym bag down on the bench. He removed his Jordans and took out his lock and towel, then pulled off his sweatpants, tossing them inside and locking them in. He used a safety pin to attach the key to his gym shorts. He sat down, lacing up his tennis shoes.

  “You must come every day,” he heard from behind him.

  He looked back. “No.”

  Romeo stood near the water fountain by the door, not far away. “I know you. I figured it out. You’re with Money, right?”

  “Why?”

  Romeo walked closer, wearing Under Armour gym shorts and a tight muscle shirt, exposing his buffed arms. “I know you know me.”

  “I do.”

  “Good. I mean, technically, you don’t really know me. Only what you’ve heard. But, hey, I say we’ve gotta change that.”

  “Look. I’m about to go work out. Tonight is not the night, okay?” Kemba stood up, giving him a look of impatience.

  “Wait. I just wanted to say, that, uh, I talked to Money the other day.”

  “Good.”

  “Told her I’m willing to bet you are her greatest asset right about now.”

  Kemba turned to him. “Romeo, listen. Please,” looking like he was in no mood.

  Romeo said, “Oh, it’s cool. I understand. I just wanted to say, I have something to talk to you about.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe we can talk when you’re done. I know you’re ready to get your workout on. Me too. Maybe we could watch the rest of the Super Bowl game somewhere. It’s dead in here. I can’t believe anyone’s in here at all with the game on. But hey, either way, I just wanted to let you know there’s a whole other side to the game that Money plays. I think, with what you’re working with you could be wearing a Rolex by now, living in Trump SoHo.”

  “I’m good.” Kemba looked bored.

  “I’m better.” Romeo seemed to be kidding, but maybe not.

  Kemba stood a few feet from him, managing a faint smirk. “Oh, so you’re the shit, huh?”

  “I can tell you about it. Let you decide.”

  Kemba took a step. “I’ve gotta go.”

  Romeo told him. “I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Surrey, Upper East Side, in say, an hour and a half, two hours.”

  Kemba nodded. Then he said, “Two.” He walked away, tossing a towel over his shoulder, ready to work out his frustrations.

  Kemba had taken the short walk back to his temporary residence, showered, dressed, then caught a cab to the Surrey.

  The formal-looking doorman held the door open as Kemba went inside, heading to the upscale but tiny lobby.

  Romeo walked over to him after stepping out of the elevator.

  Kemba asked, looking confused, “Funny. Where’s the TV?”

  “In in my room.”

  Kemba angled his stare. “You said watch the game in the lobby.”

  “I said meet me in the lobby.”

  “Look. You know. I’m sure that game is just about over. On the way here I saw tons of people in the streets, hanging out, looking like they were celebrating. I hear the Giants are up.”

  “They are. It’s not over just yet. So, you’re not coming up?”

  “Why? What’s up with the hotel? You staying for the night or what?”

  “I live here. Extended stay. Follow me.”

  Romeo turned back toward the elevator. Kemba looked at the doorman, who was watching them. He followed Romeo.

  They headed up and walked inside the large, contemporary hotel room. Kemba looked around like he was in Emerald City. The last few minutes of the game were playing on the widescreen television in the living room.

  Kemba said, “Sharp. You’ve gotta be paying at least eight thousand a month to stay here. Why?”

  Romeo set his keycard and phone down along the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. “Got my reasons. Sometimes I check into different places after a few months. I do have a spot in Harlem at the Langston, near the gym. It’s cool, but you know, all depends on where I need to be.”

  “So life is pretty good to you then, hey?”

  “Well, let’s just say, with all the people I have working for me, I’ve got a good life.”

  Kemba still hadn’t sat down. He just looked around. “I see. And all this is just for you? You don’t live with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “How many bedrooms are back there?”

  Romeo walked into the kitchen. “Just two. I have company from time to time. Mainly when I want one of my girls to feel special. But they can’t stay too long. The doorman keeps an eye on things. I like it uncomplicated.”

  “I see.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Romeo asked.

  Kemba walked to the long granite bar. “What do you have?”

  “What do you want? And please don’t say beer.”

  “Beer and football go together, right?”

  “Try something different. It’s Super Bowl Sunday.”

  Kemba asked, “Like I asked, what ya got?”

  “Everything.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Okay, how about, a Long Island iced tea.”

  Romeo nodded. “That’s it. Good choice. I’m a New Yorker. If I know anything, it’s Long Island. That’s where
I’m from.”

  Kemba said, leaning over the bar, “Really now? But you have everything to make it?”

  Romeo looked over at the shelves and then opened a cabinet. “Oh, you mean vodka, tequila, rum, gin, triple sec, sweet and sour, Coca-Cola, lemons?”

  “Okay. Excuse me.”

  “Yep. Got that. And more.”

  “I see.” Kemba looked over at the TV and back at Romeo before taking a seat at the bar. Romeo grabbed a few bottles, and a glass from the overhead glass holder. He used a cocktail shaker, and once everything was added, he filled it with ice, shook, and poured, all while Kemba watched.

  He set the tall glass in front of Kemba, upon a napkin. “There you go.”

  “Impressive.”

  “It’s nothing. Just from my bartender days.”

  “So you had a life before all of this.”

  “I did.”

  Kemba asked, scooting the glass closer, “You gonna have a drink with me?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “All that alcohol you’ve got up in here and you don’t drink?”

  “Nope.” Romeo poured himself a glass of Dr. Pepper with ice and held up his glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Kemba said, holding up his glass, too.

  Romeo added, “To you. To me. To us having what we really want.”

  “Looks to me like you’ve got enough.” They raised their glasses and each took a sip. Kemba said, “This is cool, man. I like it.”

  “Good. But hey, as far as having what we really want, I’m not there yet. But I plan to.” He asked, “So what do you want?”

  Kemba managed to joke, looking over at the TV, “I wanted the Giants to win. Looks like I’ve got that.” The crowd was going crazy. The celebrations had begun. The Giants were the 2012 Super Bowl champs.

  “You can do better than that.” Romeo looked uninterested in anything but Kemba. “You want more.”

  “Where my life is going right now is a mystery. Honestly, tonight, my woman found out that I was hitting her sister.”

  “Her sister?”