Careful What You Click For

by Mary B. Morrison

Defending his rights to smash whomever he wanted, Chancelor responded, “Why do you think women go to church? To find a man like me. I’m helping them out.”

  Credit card theft, unauthorized bank and CashApp transfers, jewelry heisting, auto title pawning, failure to repay personal loans, marrying without prenuptials—the list of things women were forgiving and doing to get a man in Atlanta kept growing. If Chancelor continued chasing beautiful women who were hustlers, he was bound to get robbed. For real.

  Jordan Jackson, of the Jackson, Johnson, and Jones law firm, represented countless intelligent ladies that were scam artists and those that were victims of con guys. She was admiring the original paintings hanging on the wall adjacent to the entry, and Corey Barksdale’s colorful abstracts stood out among the rest in the bar area. She knew what type of man she didn’t want and the must-have pre-qualifications she demanded before dating anyone exclusively.

  Jordan articulated, “I need a wealthy, highly educated man with great character, and a sense of humor. The kind that prefers lobster and fish over beef and chicken. Cork over a twist-off cap. Flying to a destination for vacation over cruising with port pit stops. The beach over a cabin in the woods. A man that would stand up for justice and not ignore the struggle of his people.”

  The mural off of the downtown connector—Interstate I-75/85—of U.S. Representative John Lewis mirrored her type of guy, inside and out. She hadn’t come close to finding that man.

  “Here I am. Next round on me,” Kingston said, entering the bar. He was wearing a black short-sleeved, button-up shirt, denims, and gray-black-and-white snakeskin hard-sole shoes. He sat in his usual seat, spread his thighs.

  Victoria stared at Kingston’s dick imprint. Kingston really was working with a salami. Not a wiener like Chancelor’s.

  “See something you like?” Chancelor mumbled across the table at Victoria.

  “Women are always in trap mode trying to find a husband. Men don’t look for love. Love looks for us,” Kingston said, sliding his chair forward. Winking at Victoria, he added, “That’s why I stay single.”

  Kingston is fine and fuckable, Jordan thought as she shook her head. He is too attractive. And if he slings good dick . . . He’s trouble with a capital “T.”

  The blackest man she’d ever met had the whitest teeth. Tall. Athletic. Ripped abs. Tight, round ass. And he appeared to have a big dick! Kingston Royale was perfection personified.

  A whiff of masculine cologne greeted Jordan every time he was near. But with his having two young kids by the same woman, crossing the line with Kingston, knowing the attachments he had, Jordan was not risking losing the friendship of a celebrity.

  “Excuse me, Kingston. Can I get a picture with you?” a gorgeously voluptuous woman asked.

  “Not now, baby. Maybe later,” Kingston replied, then said to the group, “Monet dropped our first baby on me when I was a senior in high school. She knew what she was doing. I knew, too. But I didn’t want to be a ghost to my kids, like some of my teammates’ dads were with them. My folks are Bible-toting parents. That’s why finding a church family was at the top of my list. Monet’s dad wasn’t around. When she got pregnant with our second child, I felt obligated to do right by her,” Kingston commented.

  “What? How do you define ‘obligation’?” Jordan questioned. “What’s the right thing when you still haven’t married her? How do you consider that—”

  Kingston interrupted as he slapped his chest, saying, “I take care of mine. Isn’t that what you black women want? A provider. Not a ring. Or a husband.”

  And there you have it, Jordan thought. Another entitled black man. Bulging biceps, super-succulent lips (that she knew would feel amazing on her clit), and he was intellectual . . . and wealthy. “Hmm.” Without ever seeing Kingston naked, she could almost feel the tip of what she visualized as his ginormous head poking the opening of her vagina. But his cocky personality aligned with the professionals she’d dated. They all wanted two things: pampering and pussy. That was easy. It was the heartbreaks Jordan hated.

  Chancelor spoke then. “Men look for love, too, but we don’t get it. And when we do, we end up with a fucking user, like Tracy!”

  Levi yelled from behind the bar, “Bring it down, bro!”

  “That’s a lie. I’ve loved Brother Copeland for forty-four years,” Victoria commented. Sweat beaded on her face, arms, shoulders, and neck at the same time.

  “Damn, I’m glad I’m not a woman,” Kingston said. Reaching across the table, he handed Victoria the white square paper napkin that was in front of her.

  Levi placed two clean goblets on the table, then opened Jordan’s bottle of wine. He eye-measured six ounces for both. Sat one in front of Jordan. The other by Victoria. “You need to get your sweat glands fixed. There’s a surgical procedure for that. I’ll be right back with more napkins.”

  Holding the stem of her glass, Jordan stared at Victoria. Swirling the wine, she contemplated telling Miss Know-every-damn-thing-in-the-name-of-Jesus-but-fornicated-and-committed-adultery-on-The- regular. “Wait. Levi, bring a glass of ice, please,” Jordan said.

  “I’ll have my usual cognac,” Kingston mentioned.

  Levi smiled at Kingston. “Anything for you, boss. I bet you still got it. You should join my Pro-Am team.” Before Kingston replied, Levi asked Chancelor, “Ready for another, my brother?”

  With his eyes fixed on Victoria, Chancelor nodded.

  “Whew. I’m okay, y’all. Just another private summer,” Victoria explained. “I’ve been trying not to do hormone replacement therapy, but I may need to. Ten years of this, with no foreseeable ending. I can’t.”

  Levi returned with the glass of ice. Placed it near Jordan. Set the napkins in front of Victoria. Looking at Chancelor, then Kingston, Levi said, “I got y’all cocktails coming up. Anyone need anything else?”

  Everyone shook their heads.

  “Perfect.” Levi walked away.

  “Give me your arm,” Jordan told Victoria.

  She placed the inside of Victoria’s wrist against the condensation on the cold glass.

  “Oh, my gosh. That feels great.” Victoria sighed in relief. She frowned at Jordan, Kingston, then Chancelor. “It stopped. Oh, my Lord. Thank You, Jesus.”

  “Give credit where it’s due,” Jordan said.

  Victoria countered, “I did.”

  Should’ve kept letting her sweat it out. “I’m a lawyer. I research things,” Jordan confidently mentioned to the group, then told Victoria, “Start adding a pinch of matcha green tea powder to sixteen ounces of room-temperature or hot water. Use a bamboo whisk to mix it up or shake it up in a bottle. Drink it first thing every morning. Your hot flashes should decrease. Maybe stop altogether. And although you don’t need to, you might lose weight.”

  Chancelor laughed. “You sound like a commercial advertisement.”

  Men. What did they know about menopause? Studies had shown matcha green tea powder could help prevent cancer, protect the heart, liver, and kidneys, was a great antioxidant, and could improve brain function. Jordan wasn’t waiting for premenopause to invade her body. At forty, she’d already started a daily routine. Plus, Jordan realized her grandmother and great-grandmother were her most valued resources for natural health remedies.

  Victoria took the glass from Jordan. Set it in front of her, then said, “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? You know I’ve been dealing with hot flashes since I’ve known you.”

  Jordan smiled. “I was waiting for God to take care of it for you. We all know that you tell Him what you want.”

  Kingston laughed.

  Chancelor nodded. “Right. Right.”

  Jordan scanned the faces of everyone at the table. She focused on Victoria. “You need to ask God for some young dick. Nothing ages a woman faster than an old impotent man.”

  Victoria countered, “How do you know Willy is impotent?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Chancelor

  “Nothing angers a man more tha
n a serpent with her hands in his pockets twenty-four/seven,” Chancelor lamented.

  Appearing relaxed, Victoria quietly sipped her vino.

  No one outside of his mother gave him anything. Kelly Leonard was his rock. His mom put him in private school. Had his college scholarship fully funded. She taught him how to treat women respectfully.

  Tracy Benjamin wasn’t the first Atlantan to get over on him, but she’d be the last.

  Kingston laughed out loud. “I should introduce you to Monet Baptiste. First I had two hands on my millions. Now I have six. I’m glad I have one baby mother and I’m happy I got fixed. Get used to taking care of females, bruh. That shit ain’t gon’ change long as you want pussy.”

  Chancelor wet his lips with brandy, held the snifter in front of his chest, propped his elbow on the table. There was no solace in Kingston’s words. Tracy had taken Chancelor for four figures in the first week of their one-month relationship. Chancelor was CEO of his marketing-and-advertising firm. The two weren’t the same. Had to teach his clients that. Paying a woman’s bills and giving her money wasn’t a problem. It was the tricks he hated.

  “Excuse me. I’m leaving. Is now a good time, Mr. Royale?” the gorgeously voluptuous woman asked.

  Kingston hesitated. Glancing around the bar, he said, “Just lean in and get it. If I stand up, others are going to want a pic, too.”

  “Thanks,” the woman said. She snapped a selfie, then exited through the door.

  Shaking his head, Chancelor confessed to his friends for the first time, “Y’all don’t understand. I wanted to marry Tracy.”

  “After one week?” Kingston laughed.

  “Month. It was a month. A woman that fine gotta be put on lockdown quick.” Chancelor was serious. “I did everything I could to help her ass. When her mother was killed in a car accident—”

  The rim of Jordan’s goblet missed her bottom lip. Quickly she pulled the glass away, avoiding staining her uniform.

  “Watch yourself,” Chancelor told Jordan, then continued, “I CashApped her fifteen hundred dollars to go to the funeral in Texas. Another thousand for her to buy a nice tombstone. Then I sent five hundred dollars to pay for a bleeding heart. And—”

  “And . . . stop. I can’t,” Jordan said, holding her stomach while crying tears with laughter.

  Victoria squealed, uncontrollably gasping in between as though she was hyperventilating.

  “What the fuck is so funny? That’s the problem with you females. Y’all disrespectful to a man when he’s opening up his heart. Then you want to know why we don’t open up.” Chancelor’s next swallow of liquor was a gulp.

  Jordan held her waist as she raised her hand. “It’s funny because Tracy’s mother—”

  Victoria squeaked, then added, “Dies every month.”

  “That’s how she pays her mortgage, car note, and credit cards,” Jordan said.

  What the fuck? Chancelor thought. “So Brother Melvin is on first?” he asked.

  Victoria and Jordan nodded in unison.

  “Don’t be angry. Consider it restitution.” Jordan chuckled.

  Isn’t shit humorous! Chancelor didn’t want to become the man that used women, but he understood why some guys turned opportunist. “I’m forty-two and I’m not getting any younger. I want a wife and kids. Kingston, you’re a d-o-double-g. How do you recommend I handle these bitches?”

  Kingston stretched his neck sideways. “Fuck ’em where you find ’em. Leave ’em where you fuck ’em. That’s the ballers’ mantra. Your problem is, you’re trying too hard. Hos ain’t loyal. That’s why I—”

  Levi interrupted. “Everybody good?”

  Everybody at the table ignored Levi, stared at Kingston.

  That was definitely the wrong answer. “I can’t get no wife that way, man.” Chancelor believed in treating women the way he’d expect men to treat his mother. He was never part of a team, nor was he ever a standout athlete. He didn’t even have employees. Contractors only. In order for him to screw over a chick, he’d first have to disrespect his mom.

  “If you’re looking for marriage you have to set one lady aside. One that you really like,” Jordan explained. “Make her your friend. Your best friend.”

  Victoria added, “That you can be totally vulnerable, open, and honest with. Don’t fuck her right away. Just be her friend.”

  “And don’t mislead her. If you wouldn’t do something to Victoria or myself, don’t do it to her,” Jordan said.

  Chancelor laughed, rubbed his brows, then looked to Kingston, hoping he had something solid to share. The ladies were trippin’.

  Kingston advised Chancelor, “Most importantly, fuck whomever you want, but never let the reserve bitch know you’re getting your nuts drained elsewhere.”

  “That’s just it. I’m not a dog like you. Levi needs to pass his golden bone to you.” Chancelor held his snifter high in the direction of Levi. “Bring that bone over here and hand it to our man Kingston!”

  “I have an idea,” Jordan interjected. “Have any of you been on a dating site?”

  Kingston choked on his cognac, cleared his throat, then responded, “Ballers have groupies. We don’t need apps to get laid. I could’ve fucked that chick who asked for a photo with me.”

  What kind of inconsiderate answer is that? “No” would’ve sufficed, Chancelor thought. Who raised him?

  “Whatever, Kingston. Let’s all agree to do online dating. I have a friend who met his wife on a dating site,” Jordan commented.

  Jordan could try it, but she’d never have luck, let alone find love online. She was too picky. Chancelor reflected on her long list of requirements.

  “Casting a net online is one step away from mail-order dick!” Victoria exclaimed. “That’s how trifling-ass Levi met, then moved in on Queen. The woman we have yet to meet. He’s got her on house arrest while these women in the bar emptying their purses, thinking he’s a filmmaker who’s going to make them famous. He gets more pussy than he serves cocktails.”

  Kingston cleared his throat again, but didn’t add to Victoria’s comment.

  “All mixologists are whores,” Jordan said. “Let’s just try online dating and see how it works out for us. This might be what we all need. Let’s start by revealing our body count. Mine is twelve. Half of that was while I was in law school.”

  Liar, Chancelor thought. Women never tell their real number. He was not revealing his body count to those three. Nor did he want to see their profile on ChristianFornicators. The fact that he’d been on a dating site for years was his little secret.

  Setting a fresh drink in front of Kingston and Chancelor, Levi said, “Jordan, you’re sitting in my bar talking about me. I keep my Queen first. Post that on your social.” He dug in his pocket, set the golden bone in front of Kingston.

  Kingston picked it up, shook his head, then handed the bone back to Levi. “I’m good.”

  Jordan defended herself. “How about you post a picture of Queen on your page and tag us in it. I imagine Queen is happy being first in your lineup of whores—”

  “Don’t go there, Jordan,” Levi insisted. “I know everybody’s personals.” Giving Kingston a quick glance, Levi emphasized, “Everybody’s. Jordan, your bar body count is closer to—”

  “I’ll draft the rules for how we’re going to move forward,” Jordan said, rolling her eyes from Levi to the group.

  Kingston told Levi, “Next round on me.”

  “It’s already taken care of,” Levi said, walking away as he stuffed the bone in his pocket.

  “God knows my heart. I’ma pray about this online dating,” Victoria told the group. “I don’t like putting myself out there.”

  Jordan eagerly replied, “C’mon. I don’t want to do this by myself. I’ll do the research, compile a list of sites, create a compatibility spreadsheet for each of you, draft the rules, and I’ll run background checks on our dates before we go out with them.”

  Kingston stated, “I’m good with everything, and I
don’t need background checks. I can handle mine in person.”

  Damn, she is doing everything except an AncestryDNA test. Chancelor decided to go along with Jordan to find himself another dating app. He needed a new fuck pool.

  “Count me in,” Chancelor said. “I’m ready for something different.”

  Victoria replied, “In the name of Jesus, leave me out. I already have to answer to God for my sins with William Copeland. But you’ve got my blessings, Jordan. Let the church say, ‘Amen.’ ”

  CHAPTER 8

  Monet

  “Thanks, Mother, for helping me. I really need this girls’ day out.” Monet’s silky, wavy high ponytail flowed down her back, stopping above her perfect Brazilian butt lift, which was included in her push gift of a mommy makeover. “Excuse me, Mom, it’s Bianca calling.”

  “Hey, Bianca. I’m on my way,” Monet confirmed, then quickly ended their call.

  Monet stood in the living room on a—blend of light and dark blue, purple, and pink hues—pure silk Persian area rug. All white Italian leather sofas and several high-back chairs were centered between two seventy-inch television screens that hung on opposite walls.

  The real sports bar—pool table, two-player arcade basketball game, movie theater, wall projector, stripper stage, pole, full kitchen—was secured downstairs in Kingston’s man cave, where the girls were forbidden to go and which he’d seldom used.

  Why in the hell did women have a damn “she shack”? Monet called her hideaway “Monet’s Diva’s Den,” but like Kingston with his hideaway, she seldom used it. Perhaps it was time to host another overnight lingerie pleasure party and let her daughters stay at their grandma’s house.

  “You look beautiful,” her mother complimented. “But—”

  “It’s only a spa day, Mother.” Monet relocated to the living room’s full-length mirror; “boss lady,” “rich bitch,” and “baller’s wife” best defined Monet’s attire.

  A $1,200 designer sleeveless red fitted jumpsuit, $1,800 nude platform six-inch heels, a $20,000 wristwatch, $20,000 diamond hoop earrings, $150,000 wedding set, and a limited-edition designer bag valued at over $14,000 decorated her from head to toe. The nonnegotiable bonus was her tubal ligation after birthing Nairobi.