“That’s ridiculous. I know he didn’t say that. His mom and dad taught him about the important things in life, like love and family. Not being out there in the streets without a good solid foundation.”
“Torino just seems to be the odd man out when compared to Claude and Mason. He seems so different from his brothers.”
“Different in what way? Do you want to go into Macy’s?” Mercedes asked, pointing toward the store.
“No, I’m cool. He just doesn’t seem like he ever really connects with them. Like he’s still trying to find his way, yet they seem to have managed to find theirs.”
“Perhaps that’s one reason why he’s so reluctant to settle down. Maybe he expects more from himself. After all, he is the youngest.”
“I suppose so. But he never even wants to talk about our future. He just doesn’t seem to have enough time for me.”
“Well, you need to think about that. Is that enough for you? But then again he does work hard at that club,” Mercedes reminded her.
“It’s mighty funny that he seems to manage to spend time with his boy Kyle, or wining and dining all those high rollers that come in night after night.” Colette was distracted. “Did you just see that young teenager wink at me?” she asked, turning her head as a young man walked by breaking his neck.
Mercedes didn’t even bother looking back. “That’s a good sign, girl, please. He was probably looking at your ass.”
“Why is it the only asset men see is our ass?”
“Probably because we’re always showing it.” Colette was wearing a pair of J. Crew stretch jeans that looked like they were spread on with a knife.
“I’m sick of being defined by my butt.”
“It’s just a black woman thang. Enjoy it while you can before that rear starts dragging to the back of your knees.”
“Oh, hell no. Never.”
Mercedes asked, “Anyway, what is that like for you just walking into the club, hanging out while you know he’s at work, charming the patrons and working the room?”
“I’m used to it by now. But every now and then we get into it when I spy some chick sniffing up behind him. He thinks I don’t know that he has this system where I’ll be in the VIP area, yet he might have some little honey on the other side, just behind the bar,” Colette said while frowning.
“Oh, is that how he does it?”
“Mercedes, please, like you don’t know.”
Mercedes stopped again. “No, Colette, I don’t. Usually when I go in there I sit my butt down and run my mouth with Mason until it’s time to go. Maybe I would notice if I were in your shoes.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t even notice all of the groupies hovering around Mason.”
“And?”
“And, doesn’t that make you feel, I don’t know, territorial?”
“I don’t think a situation can make you feel territorial. I think you either are, or you’re not. And I’m not. I can’t afford to be, being the wife of a famous athlete. Groupies will always be out there. It’s how your man reacts to them that matters. And that’s something you can’t control.” They started walking back along the other side of the mall. “I trust Mason. Don’t you trust Torino?”
Colette blew a forced breath from her nose. “Not really. I wouldn’t put it past any man to stick his finger in some woman’s coochie under the same table you’re sitting at and not miss a beat.”
“Dang. It sounds like you just don’t trust men in general.”
Colette explained her position. “Oh please, my last boyfriend had two cell phones. One for me and one for his hoochies. I busted his tired butt and slapped the hell out of him and moved on. And these freaks out here don’t even care if a man’s taken or not. They just make it easier for men to play their game. They’d just like to get their hooks in the men we’ve got.”
“Look, you’re not going to get very far without trust, Colette. That goes with the territory because we have some hot ones, the Wilson brothers. I will say that.”
“Well, I plan on keeping mine, thank you very much.”
“Don’t try too hard with your emotional self. That’s usually the very attitude that makes them run away—you know, holding on too tight,” Mercedes said as they stopped at the window of a shoe store.
“Those are nice,” Colette said, pointing to a pair of Matori black spiked pumps. “Not holding on tight enough causes there to be enough room for infiltrators. That’s not about to happen,” Colette said, sounding very serious.
“Okay, Colette. Sounds like you’ve made it your job to keep up with him.”
“Speaking of jobs and to change the subject because you are definitely getting on my nerves, what is my assignment for tomorrow?”
“You didn’t get a call from Vicky yet?”
“No. And I’ve been checking my cell all day.”
“Call her in the morning. I don’t think you have anything until late afternoon from what I remember.”
“Cool. By the way, I’ll see you Sunday night at your house for dinner.”
“Uh oh. See, now that’s a good sign, coming by for dinner for the first time.”
“Anyway, I’m about to get going. I’ll find something to wear later. Thanks for the lovely conversation,” Colette said, walking in the opposite direction.
Mercedes proceeded toward the exit door. “Yeah, you too. Drive safely.”
Mason missed Star’s college night, but made it home that Saturday afternoon, just in time for the formal affair later that evening at the Meridian hotel. It was an event to celebrate black athletes in tennis and golf. It was a fund-raiser for the YBAA, the Young Black Athletes Association.
Mercedes always tried to be understanding of Mason’s relationship with his business partner, Cicely James. But did Cicely have to attach herself to Mason’s hip at every function to promote his career and their nightclub?
Cicely and Mason were very close way back in elementary school in Texas. When the Wilsons moved to Los Angeles, so did Cicely and her mother, even moving into a neighborhood near Ladera called Westchester. They both attended Westchester High School and they’d hang out every now and then. Cicely and her mother then moved away from Los Angeles to Atlanta, but Cicely came back to go to college in Los Angeles and she stayed. After she graduated, her mother died of cancer.
Mercedes met Mason in college at USC. She got pregnant one summer when she went away to spend the weekend with Mason while he was on an amateur golf tour overseas. Mercedes was amazed that Cicely called three and four times a day while Mercedes was there, yet Mason never let on that Mercedes was around. It was a known fact to everyone on the outside that Cicely was his main woman even though Mason denied it.
Mercedes was taken aback by Mason’s attention at the time, especially his promises and charms. He gave her the impression that he was not interested in Cicely on a romantic level, that they were more friends than anything else, and that her calls were on a friendly level.
Mercedes was satisfied just taking on the role of Mason’s lover. When Cicely found out that Mercedes was pregnant, she was actually woman enough to call and congratulate her, letting her know that what she and Mason had was strictly platonic and that she was definitely doing her own thing. Cicely had been seeing a guy whom she met at Pepperdine College in Malibu. He was a promising young basketball player who was considering an offer to play pro ball. But, he died on the court during a pre-season game. He had a heart attack. Even today it seemed like Cicely had never had a real love affair since then. She’d always bury herself in her work at the club, and in her marketing business that she ran from her home.
Cicely was an intense walnut color and she had big eyes, almost the color of dark rum. She wore a naturally curly bob-cut. Tonight she was sporting an elegant, black Chanel dress with a simple gold Christian Dior hip-belt and gold leather slides.
Cicely hooked her long, thin arm along Mason’s buffed, brawny bicep. Her dimples were in full effect. She rested her dainty wrist upon his
hairy forearm, topped by her other hand, and took him away from his wife without asking. She introduced her business partner to the long line of well-wishers who gathered to meet and greet the well-known, well-dressed, African-American golfer.
Mercedes smiled a fake smile their way. Mason motioned for her to come over and join in on the niceties. She acquiesced in support of her husband. Cicely played with one of her locks of hair and smoothed it behind her ear. She dropped Mason’s arm as Mercedes approached. Cicely backed away and gave Mercedes the once-over before she made her way over to another group of guests.
“So, when do you enter the senior’s tour, Mr. Wilson? Isn’t the age limit fast approaching?” a male, Caucasian guest asked, trying to be humorous.
“No, actually the senior’s tour does not start until the age of fifty. I’ve got a good eleven years yet.”
“How about the Ryder Cup Tournament? Is mat fast approaching?” his female companion queried, holding a glass of sherry in hand.
“It’s next month. I’m looking forward to it. The course is beautiful and the weather in England is always nice.”
“You live in Florida, do you?” the male inquired.
“No. We live in Ladera Heights.”
“La who?” he asked.
Mercedes said, “Ladera Heights. It’s between Culver City and Inglewood.”
“Oh,” said the woman, turning up her nose. “Near Inglewood, huh?” She took a swig from her glass.
“That’s right. Actually it’s one main street away from being considered Inglewood,” Mercedes replied.
“Oh,” the lady responded with a puzzled stare, taking another big sip.
“So, is this the lovely lady who keeps you dressed to the nines?” another male asked, encouraging a chuckle with the nod of his head.
Mason gave one quick titter. “Good one. This is my wife, Mercedes.”
“Do you still own the modeling business I read about?” the woman asked, obviously up on the background of the Wilsons.
Mercedes responded. “Yes, I do. It was originally a talent agency but I changed the name to Simpson Models. Simpson is my maiden name. It was a business passed down from my parents when they died.”
The woman seemed concerned. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
The other male changed the subject. “That’s quite a responsibility, running your own business. How on earth do you juggle being a mother, wife of such a visible man, and still run a business?”
“It pretty much runs itself sometimes. I have great employees who step up and help out a lot,” Mercedes said with pride.
Mason added, “And she still manages to be my right arm,” offering his right arm to Mercedes as she took hold.
“No, I’m sure you’d be able to handle things just fine, even without me,” Mercedes said, looking over at Cicely who was watching from afar.
“I never want to know that feeling, dear. Excuse us,” Mason said as he and his wife headed for a cozy love seat near a corner fireplace.
Mercedes spoke close to his ear. “I think your own fans don’t really know you’re black sometimes.” They took a seat.
“Oh they know. They know that above all else.”
Chapter 3
Torino Jesse Wilson pulled up to his reserved spot in the rear parking lot of club Foreplay just before seven in the evening. Torino exited and closed the door of his BMW.
Torino was a gifted football player back in high school. He was highly recruited as a tight end. While Claude and Mason got their degrees from USC, Torino played at UC Berkeley. But he was involved in a car accident and broke the fibula and tibia in his right leg just before his last year. He had surgery but didn’t get much attention from the NFL after that. The good thing was that he stayed in school and took advantage of his scholarship. One thing Torino was not, was a quitter.
Torino loved the limelight and loved to make sure that his patrons, especially the famous ones, were treated royally, and they knew it. His height allowed him to look some of the taller than average bailers straight in the eye. He wore short dreads and had handsome features. He wore small gold hoops in each ear.
Torino was well-known amongst the professional athletes and actors who either lived in Los Angeles, or traveled in town for a little fun, as the man who could get the job done.
He was a die-hard bachelor and wanted to stay that way. He could make old women blush and young women giddy. On any given evening, two or three of his admirers could show up and make an, “I’m his lady” appearance without warning. So, the guys at the door and the ladies in the booth always let Torino know over their walkie-talkies, who was in the house and what their twenty was. He had a system for keeping them separated, especially from the watchful eye of Colette Berry, the only one who could really claim a legitimate stake to his affections.
Torino knew how to wine and dine people, flashing his bright white teeth. His perfect complexion and big brown eyes were just a couple of his physical assets. Those who didn’t know him would have sworn he was twenty-something because of his hip-hop ways and trendy, up-to-date look. But actually, thirty-four was just around the corner.
Torino’s eldest brother, Mason, had purchased Foreplay about six years ago. Mason co-owned the club with Cicely, but Torino, who had been the club’s manager since its grand opening, was responsible for its success.
The club was always packed, and you could always count on a long line outside. Partially because of Mason’s reputation, but also due to Torino’s promotional skills. Torino wanted to someday own his own club, but for now, Foreplay was his home away from home.
“Hey, dudes, you need to get that kitchen together as per the inspectors. They’re going to be back next week and they aren’t gonna let us slide this time. I want it sparking clean and smelling like its deserving of an A grade. I’ll check back with you in a couple of hours, now. Don’t play with me,” Torino warned his kitchen staff.
Foreplay nightclub looked like a juke joint, but with sophistication and elegance. It had a second floor balcony slash VIP area, lined with a chrome banister, overlooking the entire club. Everything in the club was black and red. Mason loved bold red and thought there was no way to get around using black for richness and class.
The oblong bar aligned the entire rear potion of the club. The top of the bar was deep red, veined, solid marble that looked like speckles of brown sugar were thrown here and there. A dozen or so black leather sofas and love seats were scattered throughout with wine-shaded suede throw pillows. The dance floor area was mirrored all around, which made it look twice as big. The large disco ball hovered overhead, shedding triangular bits of light in rainbow hues.
The restaurant area was located through the double doors just to the right of the roped-off, VIP stairway. Restaurant evening hours were only from eight until eleven and usually for the serious dinner crowd. Appetizers were served at the bar until closing time. After eleven o’clock, Torino used the restaurant as a private sanctuary for special, high-profile VIPs who needed to be secluded.
The club was about to be on and crackin’. At nine o’clock it was usually scarce but by ten, double digits, people felt the need to make their way in.
Just around ten, an impeccably dressed Torino, wearing a navy blue Italian suit and black silk muscle shirt, saw Sequoia Smith coming his way.
“Hey, Sequoia. How’s it going?”
“Cool. I talked to Mercedes the other evening. She’s doing well. She was watching Mason on TV,” Sequoia replied, wearing a form-fitting, baby blue velour J-Lo sweat suit with dark blue suede Manola Blahnik Timbs. She was not hurting for money.
“I’ll bet. That brotha’ is always on TV.”
“That’s what I reminded her. You running the place by yourself tonight?” she asked, looking all around.
“Yeah. Cicely’s been out of town. She was in Hawaii but I think she’s back now.”
Sequoia paused. “Hawaii. Isn’t that where Mason was?”
“I suppose so. I don’t k
eep up with him. But I surely keep up with my boss. She said she’d be back tonight.”
“Oh really?”
“Really. And what brings you out tonight?” Torino asked, looking dead at her cleavage. “You’re looking all toned and tanned and voluptuous.”
“Yeah, kinda similar to Colette’s build, huh?”
His heart-melting charm was not working. “Not really. But…”
Sequoia put her hand up. “But what, Torino? You are not God’s gift to women.”
“But, I just gave you a compliment. That’s all.”
Sequoia started talking loud. “Boy, don’t you know after all these years I see you as my brother. You, Claude, and Mason. When are you going to give up and stop trying?”
Torino shook his head and scratched the back of his neck. “I see your ego has grown with age, huh?”
Sequoia put her arm through the tiny round silver handles of her handbag and leaned into Torino as she slid it up over her shoulder. “And so has your big head if you think I’ve waited this long to find Mr. Right to start playing cat and mouse with you, Torino. Especially with you. Lord knows you’ve got enough mice running around up in here.”
“Hey, Sequoia,” said Kyle Brewer. He was Torino’s running buddy, the spitting image of Derek Jeter, light eyes and all. Kyle was a fireman and he’d met Torino years ago when they both interviewed for a position with the department. Torino did not get the gig. “You’re looking mighty good tonight.”
She stood up straight. “Can it, Kyle. By the way, thanks for putting my name on the list, Torino. See you later.” Sequoia switched away with extras.
Sequoia was easy on the eyes. Sexy as hell, she was built like a brick house, sort of sturdy and curvy-firm like Serena Williams. Her brown hair was a long and curly weave, but it looked natural. She had a way of accenting her nutmeg skin with just the right amount of makeup to make her look like a movie star, even though her profession was running her aging mother’s travel agency.
Torino’s eyes were glued to her very being. “That will be the last time her stank ass comes up in here trippin’ like she’s Janet Jackson.”
Hot Boyz Page 3