Felicia called for a taxi and sat in the living room lacing up her boots as she waited. Within half an hour an old blue car with white lettering on the side door pulled into the circular driveway out front. Felicia could see plumes of black smoke trailing the bumper and the hood vibrating. It wasn’t the horse and carriage that she dreamed about, that was for sure.
She got up in a hurry. Even though she’d been sitting doing nothing for a good ten minutes, she wasn’t prepared for the cab’s arrival. She grabbed her coat and hung it over her arm. She looked around for her purse, found it on the couch. Made sure she had the spare key Desmond cut for her, and headed for the door as the horn sounded a third time for her outside. Desmond was out on his own jaunt, so she didn’t have to bother leaving him a note. She’d probably be home before him, unless her thug lover put it on her as she dreamed he would. She shook her head and smiled at the thought of the dreams she’d been having for the past week. She’d had more than enough opportunities to give her greatest gift to a young man, but the time had never felt right. Today, though, and with Slay, it felt right. She couldn’t explain why, and hadn’t even tried to analyze why. All she knew, finally, she was headed for her thug love. She hoped he appreciated what she was about to give him.
She walked outside, scooted in through the back door of the taxi. The driver turned around, his arm up on the seat, and looked her up and down. He had a Yankees cap, two sizes too small, squeezed on his head, but Felicia could see that his black hair was graying throughout. The skin on his cheeks was pink and peeling. He had a thick wide nose with hair protruding from his nostrils and bushy eyebrows that carelessly connected in the middle.
Felicia could smell the mix of coffee and cigarettes on his breath. She noticed the Yankees pennant banner and the nude-model deodorizer hanging from his rearview mirror. Great, she’d hit the cabdriver jackpot. She had to be sure to thank her thug lover for subjecting her to this.
“Thought you weren’t coming out, sweetness,” the driver said. “I’m glad I waited, tho’. Where you headed looking so—” he stopped and kissed his fingertips “—divine?”
Felicia rolled her eyes. This guy was the cover boy for Stereotypes magazine. The Guido issue. “Berkeley Carteret, along the boardwalk in Asbury Park,” she said.
“Ooh, a nice little ride so we can get acquainted,” the driver said. He smiled and his eyes continued to soak up the whole of her. “By the way, my friends call me Mondesi.”
“What do the people who can’t stand you call you?” Felicia said.
He smiled. His teeth were both yellow and brown. He shrugged. “Sonovabitch, I guess.”
Felicia tapped her watch and pointed to his steering wheel. “I’m on a tight schedule…sonovabitch.”
Mondesi smiled again, pointed his finger at her and narrowed his eyes. “Ha, I get it. You’re a little firecracker, aren’t you? I shouldn’t say little, though. Geez, your legs are longer than my Joey Nightstick.”
“Joey Nightstick?”
Mondesi smiled, a habit for him, it seemed. “Yeah, you want to meet him?”
Felicia shook her head. “Some other time.” What was it about her that brought out the crassness in men? Other than her thug lover she couldn’t think of the last guy that showed any sexual restraint in her presence.
Mondesi turned around and pulled the transmission handle down to drive. “Suit yourself.”
It wasn’t much longer after that exchange before he pulled up in front of the Berkeley.
“The royal Berkeley Carteret, sweetness,” he said.
Felicia unzipped her carry purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“Twenty-one,” Mondesi told her.
“Dollars?” Felicia’s voice rose and her eyes were threatening to bulge from the sockets.
Mondesi licked his lips. “We can do some other type of exchange if you like.”
Only one person she wanted to barter with, thug lover; her wit and wisdom in exchange for his street smarts and rugged sex appeal. Her wet tunnel for his hard shaft. Felicia pulled the money from her purse and handed it to Mondesi. “It’s been real, sonovabitch.” She stepped from the cab and switched inside.
The lobby was an ultrachic blend of fall colors—mustards, tans and various browns. There were several large paintings hanging on the walls and a soft-playing classical piece emanating from some small, wall-mounted speakers. The bellhop, dressed in burgundy, smiled as Felicia passed. An old white couple boarded the elevator, their arms interlocked, with the husband singing some old tune to his blushing wife as the doors closed.
Felicia rang the bell at the main desk and a young black gentleman emerged from the back. He had on a simple dress shirt and slacks, a gold-plated nametag—Barkley inscribed on it—and a deep black beard that looked as if it had just been trimmed that day.
“Hello,” Felicia said. “Shammond Slay told me I should stop and have you give me the key to his suite. You’re Barkley, right?”
He nodded. “Felicia Rucker?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, Slay told me to expect you. He’s not in as of yet.”
Felicia nodded.
Barkley swiped a plastic key through a machine and handed it to Felicia. “His suite is on the third floor. We’re having a problem with the elevator, but you can take those stairs right over there.” He pointed to a door in the far corner of the lobby.
“I just saw someone ride up the elevator,” Felicia said.
“It chooses when it wants to break down. I’ve called maintenance three times today,” Barkley said. “Management wants me to pretend there’s no problem, but I wouldn’t want to see a sistah get stuck. You know?”
Felicia gripped the key and smiled at Barkley. “Thanks.”
He picked up the phone and half smiled. “Glad to be of service. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
Felicia walked through the stairwell door; it slammed hard behind her. She stopped and looked at the stairs before her. Don’t dwell on the glitches so far—the cabdriver from hell and three flights of stairs—think about the thug love, she thought to herself. The music from the lobby was piped through to the stairwell also. Felicia wrapped her little carry purse in her coat and placed it under her arm, started the climb upward.
As she rounded the turn for the next landing she heard a heavy door above her slam shut. Some low voices and snickers echoed down to her. She climbed on.
Halfway up the set of steps that led to her floor she paused. A group of four young black males surrounded the door. They were facsimiles of one another, all wearing big goose-down jackets and oversize jeans and unlaced boots. All with baseball caps on, the caps pulled so low you couldn’t clearly see their faces. They looked as if they were waiting for her. Didn’t Slay say something about renting a string of suites? They were probably here for the party that would begin later. Felicia swallowed and regained her strut up the stairs. The four stood, watching her move to them. Felicia glanced down at her feet as she climbed, as her heart rate climbed as well.
“Open the door for the lady,” one of them said as she neared the top. He was dressed in all FUBU.
Felicia relaxed. She’d been worried for nothing. She smiled in appreciation to the FUBU-clad boy and went to move through the door. The young guy holding the door shut it just before she could clear the entrance.
“Not so fast, chicken,” he said to Felicia.
Felicia looked to FUBU, hoping his earlier courtesy continued. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled wickedly. “Excuse me,” Felicia said, raising her arm to take the handle herself.
One of the other two, who’d moved behind her, took hold of her wrist.
Felicia turned to the owner of the ashy, rough hands. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t say a word. She wrestled her wrist free and reached for the door handle again. One of them took hold of her shoulders, pulled her back to the corner of the landing.
“No,” Felicia said. She felt herself falling back into their arms. She felt sa
ndpaper fingertips gripping her ankles. Sandpaper fingertips running up her thighs, hiking up her beautiful and fashionable skirt. Sandpaper fingertips tugging at her panties. “No,” she said again. Sandpaper fingertips touched her waist and poked at her breasts. Her voice left her, and tears came, sudden and warm against her cheeks, as those sandpaper fingertips whittled away her dignity. This certainly wasn’t the thug love she had had in mind.
Saturday.
Nighttime.
An opportunity for some much-desired love.
Desmond stood in Cydney’s kitchen sipping on a flute glass of sparkling cider as Cydney prepared a bowl of popcorn. He wore only his boxers and a smile. Cydney wore only his dress shirt, the buttons unfastened, her breasts stable beneath the material. The back of the shirt stuck to her moist shoulders, the shirttail hung low but jutted out slightly as it passed her round ass. Desmond was content just watching her, she could be his movie.
“Why are you staring at me?” Cydney said after a while.
Desmond moved his lips from the flute glass and licked the moist cider from them. “You’re beautiful. I could see it becoming a habit of mine.”
“I’m determined that we watch this movie before we do anything else,” Cydney told him. “We’ve been going at it like two horny little rabbits.”
Desmond moved to her, wrapped his arms around her waist as she removed the dish of melted butter from the microwave. “Can we snuggle while we watch the movie?”
Cydney moved to the counter with her lover draped over her like a shawl. His arms wrapped around her, making her task difficult and awkward, but she dare not tell him to release his hold, it felt too good. “Snuggling, that’s a must,” she answered him. She poured the butter on the large bowl of popcorn, sprinkled salt, picked up the sugar bowl and dipped out a spoonful of the sweet stuff. Desmond’s weight eased off her back.
“What are you doing with that sugar?” he asked her.
Cydney looked at him. “I’m going to sprinkle it on the popcorn.”
“Wait a minute,” Desmond said as he moved beside her and leaned an arm on the counter. “Salt and butter, I understand. But sugar?”
“Not a lot of sugar, just a few pinches.”
“That’s odd.”
“Trust me on this, it gives the popcorn a special bite. The salt and sugar contrast nicely.”
Desmond waved his hand. “Do your thing.”
Cydney pinched off some of the sugar and sprinkled it on the popcorn. “So you really want me to come with you and meet your family for Thanksgiving?”
“That’s right.”
“Should I be looking into that gesture for something more? I mean, does it signify something about our relationship? Or is it just a dinner?”
Desmond took hold of her shoulders, turned her to him and fingered her chin. “It most definitely signifies something about our relationship, Miss Wonderful.”
Cydney’s cheeks bubbled like hot chocolate. “You haven’t called me that in a while.”
“Miss Wonderful.”
Cydney could feel that familiar warmth coming to her midsection, that tingle of desire. She turned away from him, did something useless with her hands, moving things on the counter that didn’t need moving. “We’ve got to watch this movie first.”
“Miss Wonderful,” Desmond whispered, moving directly into her view. Cydney turned away again.
“Ruby’s Bucket of Blood,” she said. “D-didn’t you, um, say you loved Angela Bassett?”
Again he chased her gaze. “Not as much as you, Miss Wonderful.” Desmond licked his lips.
Cydney stopped running. “You’re killing me, Desmond.”
He took the bowl of popcorn and Cydney’s wrist. “Let’s go in the other room…To the couch.”
Saturday.
Nighttime.
Guilt.
Slay tapped on the front door of Knocking Beats Records. He could see a small army of men in the back of the record store gathered around two turntables. Rafael, who owned the store with his brother, Ramon, indicated the place was closed by pointing to the sign. Slay made a gesture with his shoulders, moved closer to the door. Rafael squinted his eyes, smiled and moved to open the locks.
“Damn, dawg, my bad,” Rafael said as he opened the door. “I didn’t see it was you. I’m not wearing my contacts today.”
“I was about to say,” Slay said as he stepped in, “as many dollars I done put in your pocket and you dissing me like that.”
They clasped hands and pressed shoulders in a ghetto hug.
“What’s the word?” Rafael asked.
“Chilling. You?”
Rafael looked around the store with pride. “Trying to get those ends, B.”
Slay nodded. “Right, right.”
“That new Nas Godson joint isn’t in yet,” Rafael said. “I know I said November but it isn’t coming to December. The seventeenth I think.”
Slay shook his head. “I wasn’t coming for Nas, actually.”
Rafael made a playful gesture as if the ground was coming out from under him.
Slay smiled. “You heard of Phyllis Hyman?”
Rafael hunched his eyes, nodded his head. “Yeah, man. She was beautiful, dawg. Underrated but mad talented. Her shit was deep. She did herself on a night she was supposed to perform at the Apollo.”
Slay was taken aback. “Did herself? She killed herself?”
Rafael nodded. “Yeah. Tragic shit, B.”
“You have any of her CDs?”
Rafael smiled. “You’re trying to get some ass tonight or what, B?”
Slay threw a weak jab at Rafael’s shoulder.
Rafael turned and walked toward the CD bins. Slay followed.
“We got Prime of My Life and I Refuse to be Lonely.”
“Give ’em both to me,” Slay said.
Rafael snickered. “You really want the panties, dawg. Play your chick ‘What Ever Happened To Our Love’ off this CD—” he flipped the second CD over “—and ‘Why Not Me’ off of this one. I’m not sure which one of those songs, but I know I busted the hardest nut of my life off one of ’em.”
Slay crinkled his nose. “You had to go and ruin them for me before I even listened. I’m gonna be thinking about your gorilla face when I hear them shits now.”
Rafael laughed. “That’s twenty-five beans, B.”
Slay handed him a fifty and Rafael went to the register to get change. He stopped, tapped his head. The drawer was empty. He pulled the money for change from his pocket. “And yo, Rafael,” Slay said, “can I get a receipt?”
Rafael looked at Slay. “What, you filing taxes now? You buy so many CDs it’s a tax write-off or something?” He smiled, rung up the sale on the cash register and ripped the receipt from the paper roll. “For your accountant,” Rafael said as he handed Slay the receipt. Rafael balled a fist to give Slay dap. Slay balled his fist and they tapped hands.
Rafael walked Slay to the front door so he could lock up behind him. Slay nodded his head at the group in the back surrounding the turntables. “What’s up with that?”
Rafael turned to the group. “Something I do after closing. Teach some of these little knuckleheads how to DJ. Keep ’em off the streets and out of trouble. So much shit out there for them to get sidetracked by, or killed by.”
Slay nodded, gave Rafael dap for a second time, and walked through the door.
Cydney rolled over onto her back and accidentally bumped her head against the leg of the coffee table. “Shoot!”
“You okay?” Desmond asked. He sat up, supporting himself on the floor with his arms. His boxers draped on one shoulder, a used condom hung on his flaccid penis.
“I’m fine,” Cydney said, rubbing her head nonetheless. “Okay, I mean it this time. We’re watching the movie now.”
Desmond rolled off the condom, pinched the open end and tied it in a knot so his life juice wouldn’t leak out. He took the boxers and pulled them on. “Think of that as the previews before the movie. Or pretend
you were in line waiting for soda and popcorn.”
“You owe me another ten minutes then,” Cydney said. “The previews, or standing on line, they never go that fast.”
“What!” Desmond reached for her, started tickling her rib cage. “You think you’re a comedian, huh?”
A gasp left Cydney’s throat as she tried to move away but found herself pinned by the coffee table. “Stop! Please, I’m sorry! Stop! You’re going to make me pee!”
“Good.”
“Please, I’m sorry!” she begged.
Desmond stopped tickling her and touched his mouth to hers. He could feel passion, energy in her kisses that he’d never experienced before in life. In fact, Desmond hadn’t particularly liked kissing until Cydney came along. Now he could kiss the night away. He stopped short, though. “We can’t. We’ve got to watch this movie.”
“In a minute,” Cydney said. She pulled him back to her, found his lips again.
“Welcome to Cush. How many in your party?”
Slay eyed the beautiful black woman greeting him. He remembered her from last time. He scanned the restaurant to see if he spotted Desmond anywhere. He didn’t. He looked to the woman. “Actually, I wanted to know if I could get something to go?”
Karen smiled. “Sure, we can handle takeout. Do you know what you want?”
Slay twirled his hand, looked toward the ceiling. “That dessert thing…with the apples and the pudding, bread crumbs.”
“Apple brown betty?”
Slay pointed at Karen. “That’s it.”
“We can do that, but I hope you aren’t traveling far. It’s best served hot.”
“I’m going to see my girl, Kenya. She doesn’t live too far from here.”
Karen smiled. “Kenya. That’s a beautiful name.”
“She’s a beautiful girl.”
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