“Hell yeah, boo. I like it a lot.”
Good, she had his attention. Nothing turned Topps on more than watching what he often referred to as her “bubblelicious” behind. Neema made her lips look pouty as her hungry eyes caught the stirring in his sweatpants. “And no panties to get in the way,” she whispered to keep from being heard by the person he was talking to on the phone.
“Is that right?” Topps was licking his lips with mounting excitement. “Check it out. My little freak of the week is here. Yeah, I’m feeling you big time.”
Neema sat down next to him and began rubbing his wide chest, marveling at the results of what four days per week of pumping iron could do. Washboard abs felt like hard rubber beneath her manicured fingers. “Did you miss me?”
“Slick…man, hold up a fucking minute.” Topps took the cell phone away from his ear. “Hell yeah, I did. What took you so damn long to get here? You know I hate to wait.”
“Baby, I know you do, but I had to wait for him to get the money from his safe, and then he started counting it and talking about nothing. I got here as fast as I could.” Neema rubbed one of her hardened nipples to keep his mind focused on the pleasure they would be having later.
“The hell you did, but that’s alright. Check this; let me finish handling my business and I’ll deal with you as soon as I’m done. Know what I’m saying? Matter of fact, make yourself useful and go make me a sandwich real quick. Don’t forget to wash yo’ hands first.”
“Excuse me? Make you a what?” She knew better. One look at his twisted sneer confirmed that her response jumped off incorrectly.
“Bitch, did I stutter? You heard me. I said, I’m hungry and for you to go make me a damn sandwich!”
A few seconds of defiance flashed in Neema’s big eyes before she came to her senses. Oh, damn. What the hell am I thinking? Disobedience was a no-no. Topps Jackson was a man who hated to be told no. At thirty-five, he was twelve years her senior but looked younger. A young face that belonged to an old spirit. If Topps told you to do something, regardless of what the task was, you sucked it up and you did it. End of story.
“Sure, Daddy.” She sniffed and stood up. “What kind of sandwich would you like?”
“Try using your brain for a change and surprise me.” His words had come out more like an insult. Too bad. He watched her walk away, knowing that he had to hurry up and wrap up his business so he could deal with her. “Lucky bitch.”
He smiled to himself. He could name a slew of freaks waiting to take her place. Neema happened to be the flavor of the week. When he got through with her luscious behind, she wouldn’t be able to walk straight for weeks. The thought made him grin. He put his cell back to his ear. “Yeah, man, like I was saying, that area is ours and we don’t back down. Hell, send some soldiers out to pop their asses. Every last one.”
In the large room, Neema could barely contain herself. “What an asshole,” she mumbled, looking around the state-of-the-art kitchen. Topps had owned the three-thousand-square-foot home for all of two years and she still wasn’t used to it. Each time she paid him a visit, her top-of-the-line, expensive surroundings in the split-level dwelling nearly took her breath away. Ooh wee, and just think, this could all be mine one day. Mrs. Topps Jackson. Hell yeah. That shit had a good ring to it.
She popped her fingers and danced herself over to the sink with the intention of washing her hands. “Forget him. Germ-crazy bastard.” She reached under her dress and rubbed her hands back and forth over her pussy. “There. Eat some good-coochie germs, nigga.” She then walked over to the wide Sub-Zero refrigerator. Imported tile and marble were everywhere she looked. Everything was tastefully done with a mere hint of a woman’s touch; thanks to the services of a professional interior decorator.
Quiet as it was kept, Neema felt that she could have done a better job, but Topps had acted funny every time she had broached the subject; even going so far as to joke, “Yeah, and then you’ll be moving yo’ shit in.” More than once he’d made it clear that he wasn’t ready for cohabitation; at least not with her.
“Whatever,” she mumbled. She didn’t need to be underneath him twenty-four-seven anyway.
She pulled out plastic containers filled with assorted deli meats and cheese and got busy.
Fix me a sandwich. Count this money for me. Pick my package up. Neema, do this, and Neema, do that. She didn’t like it. The way he talked to her sometimes, his quick temper, nor the way he treated her when his so-called cronies were around. Just because he was the father of her two kids didn’t mean he owned her. Topps Jackson was arrogant and demanding. She couldn’t say that she loved the man, but the love of his money, and the lifestyle he provided, remained solid.
“Must think I’m his damn maid or something.” Neema had known from the beginning that their relationship would be a difficult one. They had met over seven years ago at The Pink KittyKat over on Slauson and Overhill Drive where flashing fake IDs had gotten her and her running crew in. Flashing big bank practically all night, Topps had ended up buying them a truckload of drinks. Chillin’ like a big-baller, Topps had even shared news about an off-the-hook party. He had singled her out with his sexy smile and suggestive eye contact, and she had enjoyed every minute of his attention; sucking it up like a sponge absorbs water.
They met, they clicked, and less than a week later, he was dick-ing her down good. Good friends with benefits. On the real, Topps treated her better in the beginning. Still, she stayed because she loved that new Range Rover he’d bought her and spending his money. Having access to drugs and being his baby’s momma, his first lady, was the icing on the cake.
“Nigga, yo’ azz need to learn how to treat a woman. That’s what you need to do.” Neema was putting the finishing touch on a monster sandwich. She turned around to find a plate for her culinary masterpiece and there he was. “Oh!” She jumped, startled. “Dang, Topps. Don’t be sneaking up behind me like that. You scared me.” Damn. She hadn’t even heard him come into the room. He was like that sometimes; quiet and sneaky like a cat. “Baby, you ready to eat?”
Her query was about food but the look in Topps’ eyes suggested something else.
“Hell, yeah, I’m ready. I’m starving.” He grabbed the sandwich and bit into it, but after a few bites tossed it aside. “Guess that takes care of one appetite.”
“Hey. Thought you said you were so hungry. I took my time with that sandwich.”
“For real? Guess that means I have to take my time with you. But first, did you take care of that business for me? Took yo’ass long enough. You know I hate waiting.”
Like he had to ask. “Don’t I always?”
“You have my money, right?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course, I have your cash.” Topps was standing so close that she could smell the soapy scent from his recent shower. Thick hair from his chest brushed against her arms. “Baby, you know I’m always on target.” She moved her body closer into his for a long, hard kiss. Tongues battled for position before someone had to come up for air.
“Damn, girl, you always excite the hell outta me. You know that, right?”
She moaned. “Umm, and that’s a good thing. What say we take this to the bedroom?”
He hefted her body up to straddle his like she was as light as a feather. Her clingy, red dress rode up and over her hips to expose her “bare asset.”
“Hell, yeah. But you know how I am? Cleanliness first.”
Too caught up with kisses to her neck and nibbles to her sensitive earlobe, Neema knew exactly what he was hinting about. Topps was a man who enjoyed a good tongue-probing between her honey-brown thighs, but such a treat always followed a bath or steamy shower. Always!
“Ahh, baby, let’s just do it. Live on the edge.”
Still straddling his body, Neema allowed him to carry her into the spacious master bathroom where he eased her meaty rear end onto the marble countertop. His tongue was practically down her throat as his hand fondled the sweet and delicate pin
k between her womanly folds. Neema was about to explode with her first release before he abruptly stopped.
“I’ll turn the shower on for us.”
Damn, Neema thought. Here he goes again with that mess. “Baby, I’m already squeaky clean. I took a long bath before I dropped the kids off at my mom’s.” She planted a few gentle kisses on his neck. “And you smell good already; like you just showered.” She grabbed the rim of his sweatpants and playfully tugged. “Let’s get naked and get busy.”
He smiled at her, but something about his eyes took away from it. “I showered a couple of hours ago, waiting for you. Now take that shit off.”
“Topps, I told you. I don’t need another shower. I’m good.” Her tone was firm.
“Bitch, how many times I have to tell your ass about giving me a hard time?”
He walked over, grabbed a clutch of her hair, and pulled her, screaming and all, over to the marble shower stall where he cut on the water, adjusted the temperature, and pulled her into the stream. They were wedged between two large potted palms that graced the large shower area.
“Topps, stop it! I don’t want my hair wet. Stop it now! I’m not playing.”
“Shit, neither am I!” He pulled the ruined wet garment up over her head and flung it to the floor.
Before she could protest more, he had his body pressed hard into hers. All six feet of man, complete with a six-pack and a half. Neema squirmed and wiggled but he was a brick wall that couldn’t be moved. Warm water pounded flesh as he nuzzled his lips against her neck with her still trying to assert rejection.
Topps reached for the bottle of liquid soap. “Here,” he said, passing it to her. “You wash my back, and I wash yours.”
Stubborn at first, she took it and began the process. His back, his buttocks, tight like a drum, the back of his legs. He turned around to face her, his dick pressed against her wet thighs.
“Damn you, Topps. You be tripping.” One minute she had been ready to claw out his eyes, but such aggression rolled away when his mouth locked onto hers. “Look at my hair,” she swooned, coming up for air. “It’s all jacked up now.”
“Yeah, but don’t I make it worth your while?” He took the mango-scented soap from her hands. “Don’t be mad, girl. Spread them pretty damn legs.”
“Nigga, you didn’t have to ruin my dress.” She turned her back to him, but that had never stopped him before. It was always Topps’ way or no way. His hands lathered soap onto her perfect rear like a professional waxing an expensive vehicle.
“You still feeling mad at me?”
“Ooh, Daddy, no. That feels so good.” She moaned as his hands soaped between her legs, slowly lathering her delicate spots, fingers slipping in and out of wet warmth. She could feel him using the handheld showerhead to rinse the places he wanted to get to.
He kissed her before placing the showerhead back on its cradle, then pulled her down onto the thick, rubber-matted shower stall that was large enough for four bodies to lay side by side. He was a comfortable fit, and felt her shiver as he kissed the inside of her thighs, his tongue tasting sweet nectar.
“Love how you taste, boo.”
“And I love how you taste me.”
The thrill of his warm tongue between her legs, the lukewarm water cascading down on them, made her back arch and welcome every sensual second of it.
“What’s up now? Still mad about yo’ hair?” he asked, rising up on his knees to slide ten inches into her.
The sounds of pleasure filled the room, mixing with the patter of water hitting their tangled bodies.
FIVE
“Mama, call the police. Call Children’s Services. Call somebody. That’s what I would do.” Myra Bradshaw was extra careful, smoothing back the gloss along her dark-auburn French roll. From her Coach bag she pulled out a gold-crusted compact to check her reflection. Perfect. Not one strand was out of place. Too bad she couldn’t say the same for her mother’s hair. Dry and lifeless, it looked like a neat bird’s nest. Several times in the past she’d offered to hook Hattie up with her stylist, but her mother seemingly preferred the old and frumpy look. Maybe it was stress.
“Nah…” Hattie shook her head to the offending suggestion. “I’ll give her more time. You know how Neema does. Eventually she’ll show up.”
“Mama, please. That could be days, maybe even weeks. Think about it. Why should Neema rush back to see about some kids when she knows they’re in good hands with you?” Annoyed, Myra tossed her compact into her purse.
“You’re right…but—” Hattie reflected on her words. Myra was her oldest. Maybe even her favorite. As much as she hated to admit, the woman was right—Neema was taking advantage of the situation. Still, she didn’t see how turning Nita and Brandon over to Child Protective Services would teach Neema much of a lesson. If anything, it might further traumatize the kids. “It’s bad enough their mama left ’em. Then some police officer or social worker coming and taking ’em away from here? I couldn’t do that.”
“Humph. You a better woman than me. I wouldn’t put up with that mess.” Myra walked her thin, regal frame over to open the sliding door’s screen so she could holler at one of her twins for throwing rocks. If it wasn’t so darn hot out she’d go out and shake some sense into that child. She knew better. “Val, don’t make me tell you again. Leave them rocks alone!” Besides, she couldn’t risk getting dirt on her white linen, two-piece outfit.
Every other Sunday Myra gathered up her three children and took the hour-and-a-half drive down from the high desert of Victorville to her mother’s house. Valena and Kalena, her six-year-old twins, still looked forward to seeing their grandmother, but not eight-year-old Trayvon, who preferred staying at home with his video games. On this visit, it was only her and the twins.
“Where’s Tray?” Hattie didn’t look up from stirring a pitcher of grape Kool-Aid.
Myra took a deep breath, thinking about that boy. “At home with his father in front of the PlayStation 3. You know how those two love playing video games.” There had been times in the past when her husband, Glen, had made the trip with her, but lately, the burden of being a top oncologist with a large hospital in Rancho Cucamonga had taken care of that. Glen refused to do long drives on his days off. “It’s called abandonment. I still say call the police and let them deal with her kids. That should teach Neema a lesson.”
Myra fanned herself. Though she lived in a hot climate herself, she had access to central air, which she utilized. However, Hattie’s house was old and wasn’t blessed with such. How the kids could stand being outside in all that heat was a mystery.
“Myra, you know I wouldn’t do that.”
“Mama, why not? Stop letting Neema take advantage of you like this. How long have you had the kids this time?”
“Since yesterday.” At her stove, Hattie removed the top from her pot of beef stew. She stirred the heavenly smelling brew with a large wooden spoon before tasting it. Perfect. Another twenty minutes should do it. Laughter from her four grandchildren playing in her backyard gave her a warm cozy feeling but that was short-lived. “I tried calling her apartment but either she’s not there or won’t answer.”
She slid on an oven mitt, opened her oven, and pulled out her skillet of jalapeño cornbread and set it on top of the stove.
“You try her cell phone?” Myra asked, checking the makeup on her honey complexion for the umpteenth time. Her need to feel and look glamorous never stopped.
“Tried that, too. Nita said her mama has a new cell phone, but I guess she forgot to tell the kids her new number. Guess she forgot to tell me also.”
“Like hell she did. She should be ashamed of herself; dumping hers kids off on you like this. You know it won’t stop ’til you put your foot down.”
Hattie snorted. “My foot was down when she dumped them off yesterday.” Sometimes Hattie felt weak; like she had to endure nonsense to make it to forgiveness. Maybe God hadn’t forgiven her for what had happened to her baby over almost thirty years
ago.
“I feel sorry for you, Mama. I really do.” Myra shook her head.
“How come Glen didn’t drive down with you?” Hattie’s attempt to change the subject was thin. Sunday dinner was almost done. Normally she looked forward to Sunday dinners with her immediate family. But, this thing with Neema was weighing heavily on her mind. Neema loved her two children. At least that’s what Hattie wanted to believe. How was it that she could run off and leave them for days at a time and not even call to check on them? The thought nagged at Hattie, making her feel exhausted. The sooner she could get everybody fed, packed off, and headed back to their own space, the sooner she could get off her feet and relax. “I miss when Glen used to come with you.”
“Yeah, well, you know how it is being married to a doctor, Mama.” Myra was talking, but her mind was really on her dog, Princess. She was worried about whether Glen would remember to feed her. “Their first love is their job. Glen doesn’t like to do much on his off-days. Golf and playing videos; that’s about it.”
“Even doctors need to spend quality time with their wife and family.” Hattie took up a spoon to stir her mushroom risotto. She was sure that she’d made enough. Thank goodness, she’d made the salad earlier. Of her two daughters, Myra loved to bake. The lemon coconut cake she’d brought down with her would go well with some ice cream. “Can you set the table for me?”
“Tell me about it.” Myra fetched plates and arranged them along the table. Silverware came next. “I really can’t complain about Glen. I realized what I was getting myself into before I got married.”
One of the twins opened the sliding door and ran into the kitchen. “Nanny, Brandon called me a bad word!”
“He what?” Hattie feigned anger. That child could be a cussing fool and she knew it. “You tell Brandon I said one more bad word and I’ll be using a bar of soap to wash out his mouth.”
Love Trumps Game Page 3