Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This

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Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This Page 3

by Mary B. Morrison


  Kevin had probably flown the red-eye back to Harlem to beg for that old janitorial position he’d had before working for Darius. Lots of shit fell apart last year, all in one day. That same night Kevin left L.A., Ashlee’s father picked her up from the hospital in Los Angeles and flew her back with him to live in Dallas, like he was her knight in shining armor and shit. Darius hadn’t seen nor spoken with Ashlee since that night because Lawrence kept answering her got damn phone. When would Lawrence realize he couldn’t protect his grown-ass daughter from Slugger? No man could. With or without Lawrence’s blessings, Darius would fulfill his desires of divorcing Ciara and marrying Ashlee.

  Desire. Now that was a bitch who had a slither of faith so shallow it could effortlessly slide underneath the belly of a dead snake without touching a thing. Darius had been too drunk to remember to put on a condom and Desire had been too eager to claim her baby was from a twenty-two-year-old multimillionaire. Trickster. That’s why she’d raced back to London, so Darius wouldn’t confront her and make her have an abortion. Desire’s baby probably wasn’t his anyway. A one-night stand and a passion for hardcore sex was all they’d shared in common.

  The way Desire circled the outside of Darius’s asshole with her tongue, then tea-bagged his balls into her mouth before squatting down onto his thick chocolate bar as she wrapped her pussy muscles around his shaft, suctioning the cum from his nuts, made Darius yell her name twice, and that was a first. If he could remember all that shit, why couldn’t he remember to wrap up Slugger?

  Wait a minute. Sitting up in his bed, Darius suddenly recalled he had put on a condom. But it was nowhere in sight the next morning. “That trickster pulled my protection off.” Otherwise how could she possibly be pregnant with his baby?

  The hell with females. Darius decided to chill at his Oakland residence—his home away from his Los Angeles home—for a few more days until after his half brother’s funeral. Darius didn’t mean to sound as though he didn’t give a damn about Darryl Junior, but oo-whee, Darius was relieved like a muthafucka when Kevin clarified that the Darryl who was shot and killed New Year’s Eve wasn’t their father.

  Answering his phone New Year’s Day, Darius had been ready to hang up as soon as he’d recognized Kevin’s voice, then Kevin yelled, “Darryl’s dead!”

  Immediately Darius thought it was Darryl Senior, his father. The dad he’d never known. The dad who’d finally accepted responsibility for being his father. Darius was speechless.

  “Man, you still there?” Kevin had asked.

  Darius recalled whispering, “What happened?”

  “On that corner, mein. Wrong place. Wrong time,” Kevin had said, pronouncing man like he was ordering Chinese food.

  “You mean D.J.? Not dad?”

  “Yes, brother. Our brother. D.J.”

  Inhaling through his nostrils for what seemed to be a full sixty seconds, Darius’s lungs had inflated. Slowly the warm air escaped his mouth. “Where are you?”

  “Don’t worry about me, mein. I gotta run. I’ll see you at the funeral.”

  Darius was relieved because his biological dad, a former NBA All-Star, had become more of a friend than a father, and Darius was so happy to have Darryl Senior acknowledge him as his son.

  Irrespective of age, every man needed his father just as much as his mother, if not more. And hearing his real dad say, “I love you, Son,” allowed Darius to shed tears of forgiveness for Darryl Senior not being a part of his childhood. Now that Darius’s funds were dwindling, and his mom and Wellington were trippin’, Darius desperately needed Darryl’s continued help. Darryl Senior had single-handedly gotten Darius the full basketball scholarship to UCLA with the promise of Darius entering the NBA draft within a year or two.

  The lubricant had dried to a crust but Darius’s dick was still swollen. He hadn’t had sex in over a week. That was ridiculous.

  “Let me call Fancy. I know we just met a few days ago but I need to bust this second nut before my balls erupt. All I really need is a warm, pulsating pussy. And since I’m in Oakland, based on proximity, Fancy happens to be option number one.”

  Lowering his bed, Darius retrieved Fancy’s business card, which only contained her first name, e-mail address, and phone number, from his nightstand.

  Fancy answered on the first ring. “Hello.”

  “Hey, Ladycat. What’s up?”

  “Who’s this?” Fancy replied.

  Yeah, right. Women. Like she didn’t have caller ID. “Darius. You wanna hang for a minute?”

  Fancy snapped, “I don’t just hang. You need a destination. Call me back in five.”

  “Whateva nigga you talkin’ to on the other line can wait. You’ve got a real man now.”

  “Apparently not, because a real man would respect my choice to call him back. Hold on.”

  “Yeah, she’s no fool,” Darius mumbled, waiting for Fancy to click back over.

  “Hey, I apologize. I’ve had a pretty hectic day. I was just finishing up scheduling an interview for a job, and earlier I was surfing the employment section.”

  “Okay. That’s cool, I guess,” Darius said, pretending to be interested. “So when do you start work?”

  “Who knows? You know how bad this job market is. I would’ve started at this property management company today if they’d offered a managerial position. Hey, maybe you can give me a job with your company. I’ve got great skills.”

  “Well, let me invite you over for a private screening. Who knows? Maybe I’ll cast you in one of my films.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not that easy. I don’t do bedside interviews. Besides, I already have plans. In fact, I need to start getting ready for my date, but if you’d like you can take me out this Saturday night and we can talk. Call me tomorrow. ’Bye, Darius.”

  “Talk?” Darius shook his head. “’Bye, Ladycat.”

  “By the way, I like that nickname. I’ll keep it. Good-bye.”

  Ladycat was just like all the rest of the women except Darius knew Fancy wasn’t independent. But she was a fool if she thought Darius would pay her bills and give her money like Byron. Kimberly Stokes was the only pussy Darius ever had paid or would pay for. Women. As he thought of tricksters, still holding the cordless in his hand, Darius’s mom’s name popped up on the caller ID.

  Reluctantly, Darius answered. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”

  “Depressed,” Darius lied. “Can’t believe my brother is actually dead. But,” Darius sniffled, “I’ll be okay. Eventually. I guess.”

  “Oh, honey, I know it’s so sad. When are you coming back to L.A.? Your father and I need to sit and talk with you about finding a job. And you still need to sign off on this check.”

  Forcing tears, Darius cried, “I just said I was depressed. I can’t think about anything right now. I need time to myself.”

  “Okay, honey. Don’t cry. But Wellington is threatening to—

  Darius cried louder.

  “Never mind. It can wait. I’ll deal with Wellington. Just let me know when you can make it back to L.A. Sometime this week or at least before the end of January would be good.”

  Sniffling, Darius replied, “Sure, Mom. Whateva you want.”

  “Okay, sweetheart. I know you’re sad but you really didn’t know Darryl that well.”

  “What?!” Darius yelled. “I don’t believe you! I’m suffering and as usual you’re being selfish.”

  “You’ll be all right. I’ve got to go. I love you, sweetie. Call me tomorrow.”

  “You sure don’t act like you love me. ’Bye.” Darius laid the phone beside his thigh. The person his mom truly loved was her husband, and anything Wellington said went, even if it was about her only child.

  “Fuck ’em!” Darius didn’t need his mom. Or Wellington. Looking up in the mirror, Darius’s dick stood alone, lonely with no playmates, pointing toward the ceiling. Darius had to release his frustration so he picked up the cordless and dialed option number two, Kimberly Stokes
.

  Darius felt his bed move again. This time the imprint had vanished. Ma Dear was gone. Hopefully his grandmother hadn’t given up on him. Dead or alive, Ma Dear was still the only woman he could trust.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Men just don’t fuckin’ get it.”

  Cursing wasn’t attractive, but Byron’s constant nagging provoked Fancy. Holding the cordless phone two feet away from her ear, staring into the receiver, Fancy slid her patio door open barely enough to turn sideways and step outside onto her balcony. Overlooking Lake Merritt, the crisp winter morning air complemented the sun rays helping to soothe the migraine headache Byron had created. Why did he have to make simple things complicated?

  Fancy focused on the seagulls, ducks, and geese peacefully drifting on the man-made sanctuary, a haven for migrating and native birds. In the distance, a breathtaking backdrop of haze settled over the Oakland Hills. Inhaling the fresh air, Fancy reluctantly placed the phone up to her ear, knowing she hadn’t missed a thing she hadn’t heard before.

  “You know I love you,” Byron professed, pleading, “Please give me another chance to—”

  Balancing her body with one hand, Fancy jumped, sat on the brass rail, and then interrupted Byron. “To what? Choke the life out of me? Leave me stranded on the top of a mountain in the middle of the night? What, Byron, what?” Fancy refused to allow Byron to forget how he’d mistreated her. “I’ve seen a side of you that’s totally unpredictable. And the worst part is you won’t even admit what you did was wrong.” Across the street, joggers and walkers, some young, a few old, exercised along the paved trail.

  Last year, if Desmond hadn’t snatched Fancy by the waist, she would’ve committed suicide by throwing her body over the rail she now sat on, seventeen stories above the cemented sidewalk below. Briefly Fancy thought about the day she was raped and the day she’d aborted her baby. Solely fascinated with her outer beauty, men were so asinine and egotistical they didn’t care about her feelings.

  Byron replied, “What about you? If you hadn’t called the cops and had me arrested for taking back my own car, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Besides, I was generous enough to give you back the Benz. That’s because I care about you, baby. You’re too attractive to stand on a corner waiting for a bus. Plus, I’m the one who made sure my accountant resent your paychecks to the correct address. Don’t I get some credit for trying to do the right things?”

  No. Fancy had been in love and for the first time she’d tried to do the right thing by being loyal to one man. What a joke. Why hadn’t Fancy taken more of Byron’s wealthy clients’ contact information when she worked for him? Why couldn’t one man satisfy all of her needs? Easing off the rail, Fancy walked inside then closed the sliding glass door.

  “As far as my checks are concerned, you should’ve compensated me interest for paying me almost a year late. And the Benz is still in your name so do you care enough about me to take it back again? Huh? What’s next?”

  “Baby, please. Don’t—” Byron insisted.

  Priding herself on not being the same fool twice, Fancy interrupted again, “Give me one reason why I should take you back. And make it a damn good one.”

  “Um, you know, baby. Because no man can ever sex you the way I do. That, and the fact that”—Byron paused—“you love me.”

  Love? Right. Whateva. Fancy looked at the huge circular clock hanging in her kitchen above the stove she’d never used. The small hand was on the nine and the big hand moved directly onto the eight, reminding Fancy how long Byron’s dick was. Before she got caught up thinking about Byron’s gorgeous, gigantic, melt-in-your-mouth circumcised dick that fit so snug inside her pussy, Fancy quickly said, “Byron, I gotta go before I’m late. Call me tonight.” Shit, talking to Byron at night when her pussy was its wettest wasn’t a wise idea, especially since Fancy hadn’t had sex in over a week.

  “Gotta go where?” Byron questioned.

  Click.

  Byron called right back. Throwing the phone onto her bed, Fancy quickly put on her pink leather boots, picked up her Coach bag, and tossed her white mink coat over her forearm, hurrying to her car. Driving forty-five in a thirty mile per hour zone along Harrison Street, Fancy shook her head thinking about her conversations, yesterday with Darius and a few minutes ago with Byron.

  Why did men feel as though their desires were the only ones that mattered? Darius needed a reality check on his ego and Byron, well, Byron simply needed to move on and find another woman who could love him. Exiting University Avenue off of Interstate 80, with five minutes remaining, Fancy continued exceeding the speed limit until she reached her destination.

  “Oh, great, she’s moving her car.” Beep-beep. Fancy fanned her hand, signaling, then mouthed, “Move. Come on, lady.” All that unnecessary adjustment to her mirrors was wasting Fancy’s time.

  After parking her car and grabbing her belongings, Fancy remotely locked her car and stood on the sidewalk in front of a homeless woman seated on a bench, then proceeded to tie an Albertson’s bag over the flashing meter.

  “Merry Christmas.” The homeless woman greeted Fancy with a quizzical smile, rocking a loaf of French bread like an infant.

  There was no time to respond to a crazy lady who didn’t realize Christmas had passed almost two weeks ago. Disregarding the woman, Fancy raced across the street and dashed into Mandy’s office.

  “Happy New Year, Fancy,” the receptionist said. “You can go in. Mandy’s waiting for you.”

  Opening Mandy’s door, Fancy replied, “Thanks, and merry—I mean, happy New Year to you, too.”

  Routinely, Fancy placed her coat on a hanger then hung it on the cedar rack adjacent to Mandy’s door. On the other gold hook, she secured her purse, and then sat on the cold blue leather sofa.

  “Happy New Year, Fancy. You’re looking marvelous, as usual,” Mandy commented, sifting through Fancy’s file.

  “Yeah, thanks.” A contrived smile decorated Fancy’s face. “I hope this New Year brings me lots of happiness.”

  Immediately, Mandy inquired, “What are your resolutions for this year? Prioritize them for me, Fancy.”

  When in the hell was Mandy going to develop a new list of questions? The first session of every year was rehearsed. Each session for the past five years had started the same. Not this time. Fancy’s chaotic life warranted comprehension, not structure.

  Hunching her shoulders, Fancy emphatically replied, “None. I have no resolutions this year. I have a hard enough time living each day. I don’t need to add self-imposed expectations to my growing list of disappointments. Especially those I know I won’t keep anyway.” Like the promise Fancy had made last year to call Caroline once a week. “Can we discuss something else?”

  “Okay.” Setting the legal-sized pad on her desk, Mandy intensely stared at Fancy, then asked, “Who do you love?”

  “Huuuhhh.” Exhaling through her mouth, Fancy sat on the edge of the couch matching Mandy’s intensity. Fancy wondered if her time spent with Mandy was therapeutic or habit, but what did love have to do with Fancy’s issues? Mandy should’ve queried the men in Fancy’s life for that response.

  Long ago, Fancy concluded that love was an illusion and people in love were disillusioned. Fancy had observed her mother, her friends, and people at her job. That was before she’d quit working for Harry and Associates. One day they loved one another to death, and the next day they wished their lover were dead or, at a minimum, no longer a part of their lives.

  Like Fancy’s ex-lover and ex-boss, Harry, who’d raped her in his office after she refused to fuck him. The scar on Harry’s forehead where Fancy bashed his face with the first blunt object she’d placed her hand on would make Harry think twice before raping another woman. If Fancy could’ve killed that old dirty bastard without going to jail, she’d have no remorse. The same way Fancy harbored no regrets for sending Harry’s wife a bleeding heart that read, “R.I.P. Henrietta Washington.”

  Men. Married men always tried
to protect their precious households while using other women on the side. Single men, the rich ones that Fancy wanted, were the same as the married ones, dating multiple women. Fancy hadn’t caught Byron with anyone else, but she knew she wasn’t his only one. God should’ve given women dicks and men pussies. Naw, humans would become extinct because women would rule the world, fuck other women, and say, “The hell with thoughtless-ass men.” Wasn’t that the way the secret male bisexual community operated against women?

  Mandy leaned back against her mustard-colored chair. Calm. Reserved. Patiently waiting for an answer.

  Fancy despised Mandy. Why? Fancy wasn’t sure. Maybe subconsciously Fancy admired Mandy and hated herself. Fancy’s eyes bulged as the sadness in her corneas swept her inside lids, from corner to corner, regretting she’d kept the damn appointment and doubting she’d ever find a man she loved.

  “Huuuhhh.” Opening her eyes, Fancy concealed her envy while imagining what issues Mandy hid underneath her short tapered auburn hair; her ass wasn’t perfect. Maybe that was the reason Fancy felt inferior. Mandy seemed flawless. But that was probably a façade. Just because Mandy held a Ph.D. in psychology didn’t make her a qualified judge of Fancy’s character. One of these days Fancy would have her own business like Mandy. But the remaining half hour of their meeting wasn’t about Mandy so Fancy shifted her focus and thought about Mandy’s question for a moment.

  Both six-shelved redwood bookcases behind Mandy’s desk were filled with psych books and African-American literature. Aimlessly, Fancy’s eyes roamed pausing on an intriguing title, A Woman’s Worth by Tracy Price-Thompson.

 

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