Dior’s head was spinning. What is the likelihood of this? she thought. What do I look like presenting business to this man after I lifted up my shirt and asked him to sign my chest in public? He’s going to laugh at me, then tell my boss how I acted a fool. Then he’s going to tell her no thanks and go over to the competition for a campaign proposal that was actually done by a professional. Then my boss is going to fire me on the spot because she can’t have such poor representation of her agency roaming the streets of New York. How do I get out of this?
“Like I said, normally we wouldn’t immediately throw you into the fire so quickly, but this is major, and we’re familiar with your work and we think you can handle it. And between you and me, in the next couple of years we’ll be looking for a new partner. Landing a major account like this in your first week at work will look very impressive.” Barbara folded her hands on her desk. “No pressure, of course.”
As she walked out of her new boss’s office, Dior quickly thought of things she could say to Al Pacino to excuse her raunchy behavior; then she figured the best thing to do would be simply to deny it. It wasn’t her. He must be mistaken. There were so many people there that day he couldn’t possibly remember just one face. That was it. That would be her defense. It wasn’t me, she thought.
“Uhhh!” Dior moaned as she pulled off her knee boots. She had just gotten in from work and her feet were killing her. She couldn’t figure out why, though. She had worn those boots a hundred times in Montreal and this was the third time she had worn them in New York. And the two times before that, she did lots of walking in them—her first day at the airport and her second day walking up and down Fifth Avenue. She wondered if her feet were growing from all the walking she had been doing lately. That was all New Yorkers did, walk.
She sat down on her pile-it and leaned her back against the wall. Suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her behind. It came and went so fast that she dismissed it and just repositioned herself. She started to pick through the mail, coming across her electric bill. As she opened it, the pain in her behind returned. It felt like something had stuck her, and she thought maybe she had gotten a splinter from the floor. She stood up and scanned the bill, directing her eyes straight to the balance and due date. She couldn’t figure out if the amount of the bill said $341 or if the pain in her butt was causing her to hallucinate. She figured she would take care of one problem at a time, and her ass came before the bill.
She put the mail up on the mantel and came out of her mink. Then she began to rub her butt as it was so sore. She started to feel around on her back pockets to see if there was something in them poking her. She felt nothing. Wanting to find out what was sticking her, she sat back down and sure enough the pain returned, this time causing her to jump to her feet as if she had gotten the Holy Ghost. She immediately unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them off. She went into the bathroom and tried looking at her butt in the mirror, but it was too high, and even sitting on the sink she couldn’t turn herself around enough to see her backside. She started to feel around on her bare butt, trying to locate a splinter or a cut or something. But there was nothing but a pimple. And that had been there for days and hadn’t given her any problems before, so she was sure it wasn’t the culprit.
Confused, Dior went back into the living room and picked up her jeans off the floor. She examined them. Then she decided to turn them upside own and shake them, thinking that if it was a splinter or a pin sticking her it had to be in her back pocket. After a few shakes, a tiny gold key fell out of her jeans and onto her hardwood floor.
“Ohhh!” Dior squealed. “This is where you were hiding!”
She picked up the key and kissed it. “I was looking all over for you!”
She crawled over to her Louis Vuitton luggage that had been sitting in her living room since she moved in and turned it on its back. She put the key in the lock and opened it. She then unzipped the suitcase. A rush came over her. You would have thought she was taking the lid off a pot of gold. Her eyes lit up and she was overwhelmed with joy, looking at all her clothes and purses. She felt like she had gone shopping all over again as most of the things were new items that she had bought just before she left Canada.
“Hum,” she huffed, closing the suitcase. Finding the key had almost made her forget the drama of the workday, but not quite. She decided to get online for a little while.
So how was your first day at work? was the one-line message Dior read from Mr. Good Black Man 2008 when she logged on to MySpace. Once again she saw that his online now icon was blinking.
It sucked, she typed back.
Sorry to hear that. What happened?
Dior sighed. Long story.
I guess we’ve all had those kind of days. Hope things get better.
You spend a lot of time on the computer, Dior typed. Must be nice to have all this free time.
I do most of my work on the computer. Believe me, I have very little free time. But what little time I do have I’ve already discovered I like spending with you.
Dior smiled. How can someone as sweet as you still be single?
His response was that he had a fiancée whom he was supposed to marry a year and a half ago, but she ended up cheating on him and so he called off their wedding. After that heartbreak, he wrote, he chose to be single for a while.
I’m so sorry to hear that, Dior typed.
That’s life, came the reply.
Dior and Mr. Good Black Man 2008 went back and forth sending each other messages for the whole of the night. In between ordering food, going to the bathroom, taking phone calls, and even running to the store, they wrote each other. They got to know a lot about one another and realized they had much in common, the funniest and most significant being they both were Al Pacino fans. She impressed him by telling him that she was working on a campaign for their idol’s new restaurant.
The two of them sent LOLs constantly as they both laughed aloud in their homes. They found out that they were both into zodiac signs and their signs were good together. They were in the same age bracket and they both liked jazz even though they were fairly young.
It was after midnight when Dior finally turned off her computer, clicked off her living room light, and retreated to her air mattress. She pulled back the quilt and the sheet and lay down, resting her head on her makeshift pillow. Good black men aren’t hard to find, she thought. Shit, they come with profiles and everything now. I like this.
She closed her eyes and immediately began imagining Mr. Good Black Man 2008 in bed with her, and found herself getting aroused. Damn, she thought, right before drifting herself to sleep. This online thing is nice, but I could use a noncyber man right about now.
“I’m Gordon Jacobs.”
Dior looked up from her desk and the presentation she was trying to prepare to see a short light-skinned man with freckles and spectacles standing in front of her, with one hand on his hip and the other holding a manila folder. It was Friday, and her presentation to Barbara and the other company bigwigs was scheduled for Monday, so she was mildly irritated by the interruption.
“Hi, I’m Dior. Dior Emerson.”
“Uh-huh, believe me, I know who you are,” the man said in an effeminate voice. “How’s it going? You going to nail that Al Pacino campaign?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Girl, please,” he said, waving his hand. “I work for Human Resources. We hear everything down there. So, you going to nail that account or what?”
Dior smiled. “I’m going to do my best.”
“Well, just so that damn Candace doesn’t get it. I can’t stand that witch.”
“Candace Waller?”
“Uh-huh. She thinks she’s hot shit, and word around the office is she sees you as the main competition for the account, so you must be the one that’s really hot shit because she sure the hell ain’t.”
Dior paused, not sure what to say. Why would this person she’d never met before be telling her all of this?
That evening Dior excitedly let the air out of her air mattress. She folded it up and put it in her hall closet. She swept and mopped all her floors and wiped down the woodwork, mantel and window seals. She was good and ready by the time the deliverymen came with her furniture.
She opened the door and before her stood a chocolate god. He was at least six feet tall, 220 pounds of nothing but muscle. His skin was so smooth it looked like silk. His bald head glistened against the sunrays. He had the whitest teeth and sexiest smile. He was not to be taken lightly. Mr. Good Black Man 2008 might be nice, but the man standing in front of her was real. Everything about him yelled fuck me. Dior was turned on instantly. Her womanhood started to thump in her pants and her breasts felt like they were waking up from a long nap. She couldn’t control the feelings she was getting just looking at the guy, so there was no telling what she would do once he started moving her furniture in.
“Hello, Mrs. Emerson?” He broke the silence.
“Ms.,” Dior clarified. “I’m not married.”
“Oh, okay,” he said with a smile. “But you are the person we’re supposed to be delivering this furniture to, right?”
“Oh yes, of course,” Dior said, gazing into his deep dark eyes.
“Okay, well, I’ll just have you sign this paper and my guys will start bringing your stuff in,” he said, holding a clipboard out in front of Dior.
Dior signed her name as fast as she could so that she could get another look at him before he went back inside his truck. He took the clipboard back and ripped off the back portion of the paper. He handed it to Dior and walked away.
Dior was in a trance watching his every move. She particularly concentrated on his butt cheeks and his back. She felt herself getting so moist that she was concerned she might have an orgasm. She tried to shun the sexual feelings she was experiencing, but they were too overpowering. She stepped outside without a coat on, hoping the cold air would straighten her out, and all that did was make her nipples harder. She couldn’t believe what she was feeling for a perfect stranger. But she liked it.
She had turned to go back into her apartment when she noticed a voluptuous young woman heading up the stairs to the brownstone’s front door.
“Hi,” Dior called out. “You must be my new neighbor. You just moved in a couple of days ago, right? I saw the moving men bring in your furniture.”
The woman stopped and slowly walked back down the stairs. “Hi,” she said in a sweet southern accent. “Yes, I have the first-floor apartment. My name’s Tamara.”
“I’m Dior.”
The two women eyed each other warily. “Well, I gotta go. I’ve got of lot of work to do,” Tamara said finally. “It was nice meeting you.” She headed back up the stairs.
“All right, Ms. Emerson, do you know where you want everything to go?” Dior’s fantasy asked. She looked at him and wondered if he had noticed the curve of those shapely hips trotting up the steps, but his attention seemed devoted entirely on Dior. Good, she thought, as they went back into the apartment.
“This is the bed frame,” one guy said.
“That goes in here,” Dior said, leading them into her bedroom.
The guys laid the boxes out on the floor and went back to the truck for more. Dior just stood around watching as the guys took several trips to the truck and back to her apartment. Every so often, the chocolate god would bring something from the truck inside, but for the most part he was directing the two other guys. Once all the boxes for the bedroom were inside, the two guys got to work putting the bed, nightstands, and dresser together. Meanwhile, Dior’s dream man looked around in the living room.
“This is a nice place. How long have you been living here?” he asked, his deep voice sending shock waves through Dior’s body.
“Thanks. Just a week,” she answered. “Can I get you or your guys anything to drink?”
“No. We’re fine, thanks.”
“Speak for yourself!” one of the other guys yelled from the bedroom.
Dior and the guy who appeared to be the boss chuckled and then Dior asked the worker, “What would you like? I have water and iced tea and a couple sodas.”
“A soda is fine,” he shouted out. “Thank you.”
Dior took a soda out of her refrigerator and walked it into the bedroom to the guy. The bed and nightstands were already together and they were working on the dresser. Dior was surprised to see how fast they had worked and she went back into the living room to tell their boss how impressed she was.
“They’re getting it done so fast,” she said. “I wish I had cash on hand to tip them.”
The boss guy flagged her playfully and said, “Oh, that’s all right. These guys get paid to do this.”
“Yeah, and what do you get paid to do?” the same guy who asked for the soda shouted out. “Stand around and talk to the customers?”
“Exactly. It’s my job to satisfy the customer and your job to satisfy me,” he retaliated. Then he turned to Dior and explained, “That’s my little brother. He’s always talkin’ trash.”
Dior chuckled again and then asked flirtatiously, “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Thirteen,” he said, licking his lips.
Dior blushed as they stared at each other. She figured that she wasn’t doing a good job keeping her feelings for him a secret. He clearly knew that she found him attractive and it was obvious he knew how to handle it. He flirted right back.
“All right, the bedroom is done,” one of the guys said as he entered the living room.
The other guy followed, drinking from the soda can.
“We’re going to get the living room stuff now, okay?” he said to Dior.
“Okay,” she said, rushing into her room to see the end result.
“It looks nice,” she thought aloud, looking around her room. She was happy at her choice in furniture and with the deliverymen’s work ethic.
She went over to the bed and sat down on the pillow-top mattress. She bounced up and down on it, testing the firmness.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” the boss asked as he appeared in the bedroom.
“Yes, it does,” she said with dreamy eyes. Then she toned down her desperation and got up off the bed. She walked into the living room and the boss followed.
“Listen,” the boss began, “what are you doing tomorrow night?”
Dior paused and turned around to face him. “Nothing,” she responded, grinning.
“Well, I’m free, and I would love to show you around. You are new here, right?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am,” Dior said. “You know I would love that. Now, I guess, is a great time for you to tell me your name.”
The boss extended his hand and in gentleman form, he said, “I’m Chris.”
Dior placed her hand in his and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chris. And from now on, just call me Dior.”
“Dior, huh?” he said. “Is that short for high maintenance?” He chuckled.
“It all depends,” Dior said, chuckling along with him.
Dior and Chris exchanged numbers just as the other two guys reentered her home. They had smirks on their faces as they knew what was going on. They quickly unwrapped all the furniture and put it in its place. Then the boss handed them a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket.
“This is a tip from Ms. Emerson,” he said, winking back at Dior.
The two guys took the money and thanked Dior. She smiled at Chris and told them no problem. They gathered their belongings, Dior signed off on the delivery, and the three men left.
“I’ll call you,” Chris said with his lips only.
Dior nodded as she stood at her door watching the three of them get back in their truck. Just as she turned to walk back into her apartment, she heard one of the guys say, “You really satisfy the customers, don’t you?”
; She stood outside, watching the furniture delivery truck drive down the street, then turned to walk back into her apartment when suddenly someone grabbed her by the arm.
“Hi, lovely lady. Remember me?”
If I didn’t remember your face I’d remember those yellow teeth, and that horrid breath, Dior thought. Out loud she said, “Sure, I remember you. Jerome, right?”
“Right. Your knight in shining armor. You gonna give me your number?”
“I thought we agreed that I’d pay you back in two weeks,” Dior said desperately. How the hell could she let her spending habits put her in a situation like this? Of all people, she sure didn’t want to be in Jerome’s debt.
“Yeah, but I decided I’d rather have your number so we can get to know each other better. I know you got a phone by now. If you don’t, just give me your cell number.”
“Look, I’d much prefer to—”
“Jerome, youse one trifling bastard!” Margie called out her window. “Leave that girl alone. Dior, don’t give him nothing. I done paid him that money for you already and he knows it.”
Dior looked from Margie to Jerome. “You did?”
“Yeah. He came around here the other day crying about that was part of the money his mother gave him to go pay the electric bill, and I like his mother and didn’t want her in the dark. Just add the twenty dollars to your rent, baby.”
Dior snatched her arm away from Jerome and glared at him. “It was only fifteen dollars.”
Jerome’s eyes darted from side to side. “Well, you know. Interest.”
“Yeah, I got your interest right here,” Margie shouted as she waved a baseball bat in the window with one hand while flicking the ash from her cigarette out the window with the other. “Now get your trifling ass down the street.”
Diamond Playgirls Page 3