The Vow

by Denene Millner

  “Mmm… nice,” he said in my ear as I rubbed harder back into his lap and then pushed against his large fingers. I wanted to feel him inside me, but he knew what I wanted and began to tease me. Two fingers danced around the edges of my lips, slipping in, slipping out, in, out.

  “Oh God. Damon… Damon.” Suddenly he grabbed my arms and pulled me up on top of him and kissed me hard. Our tongues flicked around each other as he rolled over on top of me. He sucked hard on my neck and massaged my breasts, softly pinched my nipples. He moved hungrily back and forth between the two mounds as if he couldn’t decide which one he wanted. I arched my back to give him better access and wrapped my legs tightly around his. I was lost, and loved every minute of it.

  When he gently pushed my legs apart, pushed aside the thin strip of lace with his tongue and then buried his face between my legs, I inhaled sharply. I couldn’t even think, it felt so good. His tongue played with me, sucking and gently biting. I closed my eyes and threw my arms over my head saying his name over and over. And then when I thought I was going to explode, he thrust into me. Always smooth—I hadn’t even noticed that he’d already put on a condom.

  I put my arms around him and pushed him over, straddling him again. I put him inside of me, sliding up and down faster and faster, clasped my thighs tightly, and massaged my breasts. I rocked back and forth, up and down. I took him deep inside of me, rolling my hips, squeezing and releasing him until I felt the beginning waves of my orgasm.

  “Oh, I’m about to come,” I moaned deeply as I slid up almost to his tip and then came down. I felt my body convulse. He arched his back up off of the bed, grabbed the back of my head and pulled my hair as his body contracted with mine.

  We both collapsed against each other in a tangle of sweaty limbs. I rested my head on his chest and fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

  OH MY GOD, what was I thinking? I was supposed to be putting it on him last night, so how did I end up getting turned out? Drinking and sex do not mix. Especially with the college ex you never quite resolved things with. Suddenly the bathroom opens. Steam fills the doorway. I see Damon slathering shaving cream on his face. Droplets of water from the shower cling to his broad chest, and a crisp white monogrammed hotel towel hangs loosely around his hips. Good God, I could eat him alive.

  Determined to look better than I feel, I assess my post-booty attractiveness factor. Grabbing loose strands of hair with one hand, I feel around in the tangled sheets for a stray bobby pin to twist my hair back up. My mouth could use a HAZMAT suit right now, but seeing as there’s no way for me to get to my toothbrush without breathing on Damon, I find my purse and pop a few Altoids in my mouth. My stomach contracts sharply but I clench my teeth and will the mints to stay down. Then I grab my tube of lip gloss from my bag and run it over my dry lips and then try to dig last night’s makeup out of the corners of my eyes. So not sexy.

  “Well, someone’s finally awake,” says Damon as he emerges from the bathroom and sits down on the edge of the bed next to me. Each word is like a nail being driven into the base of my skull. I pull the sheet over my head.

  “Are you hung over, baby girl?” he asks, using his pet name for me in college. He laughs and tries to pry the sheet out of my hands.

  “Hung over doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel,” I mumble hoarsely from under the sheet. My tongue feels puffy and rough like it’s made of sandpaper.

  “Must have been all the champagne you drank while you seduced me last night.”

  I lower the sheet just enough to flip him the finger. I would kick him out of my bed, but the effort to lift one of my legs would surely send me into cardiac arrest.

  “Not that a brotha’s complaining,” he says, lifting the edge of the sheet and sliding next to me. He reaches around to cup my breasts, softly rolls my nipples between his fingers, and begins to kiss the back of my neck. He’s lost the towel. He glances at the nightstand and sees the lights flashing insistently on my cell and BlackBerry.

  “Looks like you’re pretty busy these days. Must be hard for a man to compete with all of that.”

  “Well, lucky for me I still don’t believe in all work and no play,” I shot back. I can’t believe he’s bringing up our same old issue.

  “Damn, what happened to the sweet girl I used to be in love with?” he asks with a chuckle as his hands begin to make their way down my body. “Now she’s all hard with this edge.”

  Just when I’m starting to think that a little morning activity might be the perfect hangover remedy, my stomach contracts and I give a dry heave. Bolting upright with one hand over my mouth, I wrap the sheet around my naked body with the other hand and scamper across the bed to the bathroom. Lunging for the toilet, I kick the door shut behind me.

  As Damon’s deep laugh vibrates in my ears, I lie on the cold marble floor, cradling the toilet bowl, waiting for the waves of nausea to pass. How could I have lost control like that in front of him? I loved Damon a long time ago, and in a moment of weakness I let him get to me again. But what’s past is past. I won’t allow myself to go back.

  Silently I curse the day I introduced myself to Elise on the playground; curse Elise and Will for getting engaged; for asking me to be in this stupid wedding; for that damn basket; for inviting Damon back into my life. And then I remember that I only have myself to thank for this mess.

  2

  AMAYA

  Amaya, if you don’t stop moving your head, I swear to God I’ll never do your hair again,” says my hairdresser, Lily, for the umpteenth time this morning.

  “If you don’t stop pulling my hair, Lily, there won’t be anything left on my head for you to work on,” I shoot back as I screw the top on the bottle of clear nail polish and blow softly on my glossy French manicure. After all these years, I still hate getting my hair done. A blessing and a curse: I was born with the type of hair that makes men erect at the very thought of running their fingers through it, and women look for any opportunity to snatch it right out of my scalp. Long, thick, and midnight black—I’d never straightened my hair a day in my life until I was chosen to be the Dead Straight Hair Relaxer spokeswoman back in 1995. Even though a simple blowout was more than enough to keep my hair straight, the company insisted that I chemically straighten my locks. And, much like my life, it hasn’t been the same since.

  Between the mandatory six-week touch-ups and turning down the random weirdos with hair fetishes, I often wonder if winning that raggedy competition ten years ago was worth it. But then I remember my face plastered across every box of Dead Straight, and that the commercial campaign put me in front of—and underneath—some of the most powerful men in the entertainment business. Dead Straight is my launch pad to a career in the movies. Besides, the cute little check I’m still receiving from the nice folks at Dead Straight sure comes in handy when the first of the month rolls around.

  Pain in the ass or not, having my do tightened up for today’s big event is a must. I’m a staunch believer in looking on point at all times. As my acting coach, Ms. Lamar, always insists—fake it till you make it. Not to mention, there are going to be a whole lot of movers and shakers in the house tonight, and I’m certainly not going to blow this opportunity to make a connection by looking less than perfect.

  More important than my career, though, Elise is my girl. From the moment I spotted her at the Alpha Delta Zeta informational tea sophomore year, I knew we’d become friends. While most of the girls were running around stressed out, trying to meet and leave lasting impressions with the room full of sorors, Elise looked completely relaxed. Her nonchalant attitude made it clear that none of the pomp and circumstance, much less catering to anyone’s ego, mattered to her. Seated behind her, I nearly pissed in my knockoff Liz Claiborne pantsuit as I spied her nodding off during one of the boring Sunday-afternoon speeches given on the history of the organization. When one of the sisters tried to embarrass her by asking her to recite all the names of the seventy-five-year-old organization’s founding members, I di
screetly whispered the names in her ear as she rose from her chair. We’ve been tight ever since.

  Ironically, Elise was one of the sorority’s top choices for our pledge class. In addition to being a straight-A engineering student with a magnetic personality, Elise’s parents are stinking rich. She easily made it onto ADZ’s spring 1994 line.

  I, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as fortunate as Elise. The product of a severely dysfunctional single-parent home, and only an okay student, I was well into my sophomore year with no declared major to speak of and a bad attitude. However, it was common knowledge on the yard that the ADZ girls—and their parties—were the shit, and I wanted to be down. So just as I did in every difficult situation in my life when money and influence were in short supply, I’d compensate with determination. While the other interested girls studied the chapter’s illustrious history and memorized the Greek alphabet, I studied the current members of the campus chapter. After much intensive “research,” I located a copy of a sex tape starring the super-righteous Big Sister Laqweeda that a member of the Alpha Kappa Omega fraternity had secretly recorded after a particularly notorious keg party during her promiscuous freshman year. I used this tape to “convince” her of what an asset I would be to the sorority.

  I always thank my lucky stars for those two inches that placed me in back of Trista and made Elise my back on our pledge line. From the very first time we were lined up to this very day, she’s taken care of me. With her quick thinking, there were plenty of times Elise saved me from a long night of hazing during our eight weeks underground together. Most memorable was the night our spiteful Big Sister DeTonya attempted to cut my ponytail when she caught me nodding off during one of our all-too-frequent night-long study sessions. Just in the nick of time, Elise swatted the scissors from her hands. It cost her a good paddling, but in many ways she literally saved my life.

  It was to Elise that I first confided my desire to become an actress. So when I finally worked up the nerve to enter the Dead Straight Spokesperson competition, Viv, who, ironically, fell in line right behind Elise, convinced her to drive us around town in the middle of the night, so that we could tear down all the posted contest announcements—you know, to reduce the competition. And when I won, Elise was the first person backstage with an armful of roses and a huge hug.

  “I’m finished, Amaya,” Lily says as she steps back and admires her handiwork.

  “Finally! Jesus Christ, Lily, were you reinventing my hair?”

  “Sweetie, why don’t you turn around and take a look before you start running your mouth,” Lily replies as she spins my chair around to face the mirrored vanity table.

  “Aww shit! Now this is why I love you,” I exclaim as I admire the thick cascade of glossy curls that Lily has brushed over to one side (the right, of course, as this is my better side) to frame my face. Elise wanted us bridesmaids to wear our hair in a classic French knot but I’m sure by now, girlfriend knows I always do my own thing.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever, Amaya,” Lily says. “Just pay me so that I can carry my behind home and get back in the bed. You done worked my nerves so bad I can’t even go into the shop today!” she playfully complains as she packs up her curling irons, combs, and brushes into a black leather carrying case and drops it into her black nylon Prada tote.

  “Now, Lily, you know you haven’t been in the shop on a Saturday since you left L.A. and moved to Atlanta six years ago! Talking about you want to get back in the bed—you need to blame that man of yours for wearing you out, not me,” I joke as I grab my wallet and remove two crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Anyway, you know you love me.”

  “Ugh, don’t remind me,” Lily grumbles as she tucks the money into her jeans, blows me a kiss, and heads out of the bathroom.

  As the hotel door closes behind her, I pick up my Louis Vuitton cosmetics case and place it on the vanity. I turn back to my reflection and carefully study my face in the mirror. Not bad, not bad at all, I think to myself. All those damn yoga classes and expensive oxygen exfoliation treatments are really paying off. At thirty-one and a little bit (twenty-three on my head shots), my smooth chocolate skin is line-free and tight. I know I probably won’t need surgery for years, but I am already saving for it. Some people have 401k’s; I have a plastic-surgery account for a few nips, tucks, and lifts when the time comes. That’s money I’ll definitely need, since Viv won’t even let me ask her ex-man, an A-list plastic surgeon and former classmate, for a little Botox hookup. But as I step back from the mirror open my robe and survey my still-perky 34C breasts, 24-inch waist, and 32-inch hips, even I’m impressed.

  “Damn, I look good.”

  Taking a seat back at the vanity, I begin removing my sable makeup brushes, NARS eye shadow compacts, and foundation from “Louis” and place them on the marble counter. I’ve been on enough music-video shoots and movie sets to know how to do my makeup like a pro, so in addition to using my own hair stylist, I declined Elise’s offer for a professional to come by this morning. I glance briefly at my pager and debate whether or not I should try Keith again before doing my makeup. I’d already paged him three times since arriving in Atlanta two days ago—and all of them went unanswered. There’s nothing more aggravating than being ignored. I know for a fact that he received the pages because there are always two things you can count on with Keith Cooper: first, as the head of Beat Down Records, he always has his BlackBerry with him, and second, he’ll always read the message. Its annoying vibration has interrupted many a sweaty sex session. I smile at the memory of our last encounter.

  Last month Keith had to go to New York City on a promotional trip with his new rap artist, Killer Dun. At the last minute, he sent me a first-class round-trip ticket to join him for the weekend. With visions of long days of shopping on Fifth Avenue and even longer nights at the Plaza dancing in my head, I gladly threw on a pink Juicy suit, my favorite pair of Jimmy Choo sandals, and hopped a plane out of LAX. When the car he’d sent for me reached the hotel, there were keys to the room and an envelope with his platinum American Express waiting for me at the front desk. As much as I had hoped he’d be in the suite for me, I didn’t trip because I knew the deal; Keith wouldn’t be returning to the hotel until much later that night. Until then, the Big Apple was mine.

  So I simply turned around without even going up to the suite, hopped back into the waiting car and headed over to Fifth Avenue. From Bendel to Gucci, Tiffany to Prada, I spent the rest of the afternoon working that credit card like Bella at Bliss does my deep-tissue massage. I purchased enough beauty products, clothing, lingerie, and jewelry to keep me stocked for the next two weeks, let alone the two days I’d be in the city. When I finally returned to the hotel, I had to tip two bellboys to carry all of my purchases to our suite.

  The look on Keith’s face when he opened the door and found me standing there waiting for him in only a new red lace Cosabella g-string and a pair of red lace-up stilettos holding a glass of scotch for him was priceless.

  “Goddamn, girl, you are fine as hell,” he said as he shut off the BlackBerry he had been talking into and grabbed me by the waist in one swift movement.

  “Oh yeah,” I answered huskily. “Well, if you think I look that good, can you imagine how I taste?”

  “Mmm-hmmm, fuck the imagination,” he whispered hoarsely as he dropped to his knees and nuzzled his face in my freshly manicured pubic hairs. “I’m about to eat you alive.” Using only his tongue, he deftly pushed aside my underwear and proceeded to massage and suck until my clitoris swelled up to the size of a large pea.

  “Jesus,” I moaned as I stood over him and grabbed the back of his head to steady myself.

  “Naw, girl, not Jesus— Keith.”

  “Fuck you, Keith,” I tried to whisper but the words were caught in my throat as my body convulsed in what was sure to be the first of many orgasms that night.

  “Funny, I was just about to,” he said as he stood up and flipped me over the back of the couch. At the very sound of his zipper c
oming down and the condom wrapper ripping, my legs started to quiver again. Because if there’s one thing in the world that Keith Cooper can do, it’s fuck the shit out of me. When he’s inside of me, I forget about the two long years I’ve wasted loving his married ass. I forget about all the broken promises to leave his wife and the times I’ve been stood up. I forget about the nights that I spent at home alone, crying my eyes out.

  Just as I had felt the tip of Keith’s penis on my inner thigh and braced myself for his entry, his BlackBerry went off. “Baby, don’t answer it,” I begged. “Please don’t answer that.”

  “Amaya, you know I’m working. I got to answer at all times,” he said as he hopped away with his pants around his ankles in search of the device he’d dropped at the door.

  Instead of cursing Keith out, the idea that he is so important and busy that he can’t be out of communication for more than two hours before his office sends out an electronic search party turned me on even more. So I stepped out of my thong and walked over to the bedroom, where he was sitting on the bed arguing with someone, and knelt down between his legs. As I circled his tip with my tongue and gently massaged him, he began replying to every question with a satisfied mmmmhmmm. When I finally pulled him deep into my throat, he started stuttering so badly he was again forced to hang up the phone. I’d won. Love is a funny thing.

  AN URGENT KNOCK at the door interrupts my reverie.

  “Amaya, are you in there?” screams Viv through the hotel door. Lord, if she weren’t one of my very best friends in the world, I’d curse this heifer out for yelling my name like she’s on some playground.

  “Amaya Tomasa Anderson!”

  “Vivian Olivia Evans, I am coming!” I answer as I close my robe and make my way to the door.

  “Chile, if you aren’t the slowest-moving individual I have ever met in my life… ” she exclaims as she sweeps into my room, dressed in the violet bridesmaid gown.