Careful What You Click For

by Mary B. Morrison

  Retracing his footsteps, Chancelor grabbed the bars again. “Why you used me? Why you lied about your mother?” His voice escalated. Holding on to the fence, he leaned back. His face absorbed the early-morning sunshine as he yelled toward the clear blue sky. “Why are you a fucking whore?!”

  Tracy shifted her weight to the opposite hip, propped her hand on the other side, and stared him up and down.

  Damn, she fine. Why she gotta act like this? he thought.

  He looked around, went to his car, got his cell. Tracy’s nearest neighbor was at least one hundred yards away. Chancelor opened his social app. Started a live video. Pointed the camera at Tracy.

  “Let’s see how you act now. You, live ho!” he said, keeping the phone pointed at her.

  Calmly Tracy replied, “Call me a ‘ho,’ loud as you want. That’s what you think I am? I’m not going to stand here and call your mama or any other woman a ‘whore.’ I am a queen.”

  A gardener off in the background surrounded by purple crocuses, yellow daffodils, and white tulips appeared in the corner of the video. Dude stared up at Chancelor, then at Tracy. What he needed to do was put his fucking shirt on. Who toils soil half-ass naked before noon? It wasn’t even hot yet.

  Comments started scrolling on Chancelor’s live:

  Damn, he fine!

  I need my lawn manicured.

  How much for the gardener?

  Chancelor shifted the camera to screen dude out.

  “Tracy,” Shirtless called out. “Are you okay?”

  “ ‘Tracy. Are you okay,’ ” Chancelor mimicked. “Who the fuck you looking at, man? You hittin’ that community pussy, too?” Chancelor added “too,” but, honestly, he’d never seen Tracy without her being fully dressed.

  She waved at dude. “I got this bitch ova here. Keep working, handsome.”

  Handsome? Chancelor kept the lens focused on Tracy. “I don’t think. I know for a fact that you’re a ho. That’s what you call a woman that fucks for money! Accept it! You are a fucking whore, Tracy Benjamin.”

  There! Now no man would want Tracy and she’d have to beg him to take her back. Moving closer to his cell, Tracy said, “You have never seen me naked. You’re mad because I never fucked you. Guess you’re going to have to find another adjective to describe me. Thanks for the three-thousand-dollar sponsorship. Good-bye, Chance—”

  “Don’t you walk away from me!” he shouted.

  Comments, GIFs, and memes flooded his screen as Tracy slowly swayed her big booty in front of his camera:

  Dam!!!!!!!!!!!! Dat Ass Thou.

  ICYU outta of control, nigga! She need a man like me!

  TRACY . . . I GOT 5K ON THAT AZZ #HOLLAATME.

  I don’t have 5K, but my DIK is on swole.

  Back dat azz all the way up to my salami!

  Fuck dat bitch-ass nigga, u need a real man! Tracy #inboxme I’ll CashApp just to see your fine ass on my phone.

  Squash all the wannabes trying to steal my girl, Chancelor thought. “Come back here! I’ll bulldoze this gate with my car if you don’t. Let me in your house!” Chancelor yelled. “We need to work this out.”

  Fearing he’d ruined all chances of winning Tracy back, Chancelor’s heart thumped in his chest. Just when he was about to end the live video, slowly Tracy turned and began walking toward him.

  “You love me, baby?” she asked, all seductive.

  Chancelor didn’t want to fall in her trap. His eyes filled with tears that clung to his lids. He nodded so no one could hear his answer.

  “Come close.” Tracy placed her lips between the bars. “Kiss me.”

  Chancelor held his phone to the side for all of his haters to see his tongue in Tracy’s mouth.

  She stepped back. Looked into his camera. “You have no idea how many men have fucked me over.” Tracy spoke confidently. “I’ve been raped. Molested. I’ve had my bank accounts, with an s, emptied by a man that I trusted. Y’all watching might not be that type of guy, but you have male friends that abuse women, so if you’re your brothers’ keeper, you’re guilty by association. I don’t feel sorry for you or any of the other men that sponsor me. And if my mother dies every other day, bitch . . . she’s my mother.”

  Chancelor wanted to hate Tracy, but he couldn’t. He’d never thought about her pain and suffering. He ended the live video, then asked, “Is your mother alive?”

  Tracy turned, glanced over her shoulder. “I’m behind on my mortgage. CashApp me four thousand dollars and I’ll invite you over for dessert.”

  “I’ll send it right now. I love you, Tracy.” Chancelor watched her begin to walk away. She climbed one step at a time, then stood on her porch.

  “I love you, too, Chancelor,” Tracy said, then shut her front door.

  CHAPTER 13

  Kingston

  Entering the code on the keypad, Kingston stepped aside to let Theodore in the house. Theodore suddenly looked up from the keypad before crossing the threshold.

  “I need to handle some business. Keep busy until I’m done,” Kingston stated.

  Theodore said, “No problem. I see the yard from here. I’ll be out back on the deck, sipping on a little something. When you’re done, join me.”

  His purple fitted skinny pants had half-inch black cuffs at the ankles. The black button-up shirt had purple sleeves that were tapered above Theodore’s biceps. A brown designer belt matched his shoes.

  Kingston headed into the master bedroom, locked the door, sat on the side of the spa tub, then called Mama-T. Soon as she answered, he asked, “Is this a good time?”

  “Why do you need a different Airbnb, Kingston?” Mama-T scolded as though he were her child. “You’re taking this ‘get it out of your system’ thing too damn far, son-in-law.”

  What he’d done for too long was lived his life for everyone except himself. And he’d generously kept Mama-T in a lifestyle she acquired off of his success. This was the first time he’d requested a favor of her.

  “Mama-T, I’m not making this up,” Kingston explained. “Monet came shitless close to rolling up on me in an uncompromising position. All she needed was the address and code and I could’ve been caught with . . . I can’t chance my wife discovering my current location. After all, she is your daughter. If you do this solid for me, I’ll be indebted to you for the rest of our lives.”

  If Monet found out he was sexing men, she’d divorce him. “You do understand that I can’t have my wife popping up on me. It’s not about me. It’s to protect her and the girls. My children will be ridiculed at school. Or worse. Ostracized everywhere they go. Your friends will talk about you behind your back. And me? I’d leave the country and never come back.”

  Mama-T was eerily quiet.

  He owed Lilly a solid for showing Monet two properties that Kingston knew his wife wouldn’t approve of. His backup plan was to ask Lilly to get him a place and pay her all cash. But if she learned his truth, that would risk his being exposed or perhaps blackmailed. The truth was, he wasn’t ready to go home to Monet and his kids.

  “You’re becoming paranoid. Monet didn’t pop up on you, Kingston. My daughter took a spa day, a much-needed one, may I add, with her girlfriends. Don’t start making up lies about my child.”

  Mama-T was starting to piss him off, but he needed her to protect his image. Traditionally, Mama-T would side with him or remain neutral. Now she was indirectly calling him a liar.

  Mama-T continued, “She left in the morning, texted me throughout the day, and she was back home by midnight.”

  The fact that Monet was in Atlanta was history. Sending Mama-T the picture Lilly sent him of Monet sitting in a chair with a white wall background wouldn’t prove he was telling the truth. Kingston was tired of trying to make Mama-T believe him.

  “Mama-T. Haven’t I always taken care of you?” he asked.

  “You have,” she answered.

  “And have I ever asked you for anything?” he asked.

  “You never had to,” Trinity said. “Who
do you think raised those girls? And who do you feel deserves credit for bringing your wife out of depression every time she felt like a failed mother and wife?”

  “De—”

  Mama-T interrupted. “Listen to me, Kingston. You ballers think millions can buy everything. No amount of money can cure mental instability, postpartum, loneliness, or prevent suicide. Bianca and I were here for Monet through her hardest times. You don’t even know your wife.”

  Tears fell. Monet had considered committing suicide. Why hadn’t she told him? He knew what he had to do—go home and visit his wife—but he couldn’t do it right away.

  “Just to be safe. I can’t use our account. You know Monet has access. I need you to book me a different Airbnb in Buckhead and don’t tell Monet where I’m staying,” he pleaded. “I’ll make things better on the home front. Soon. I promise, Mama-T.”

  “I’ll do it, but you need to bring your sabbatical to an end in thirty days,” Mama-T said. “Your absence is taking a toll on your wife. I might not be able to talk her off the ledge if there’s a next time.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be home soon,” Kingston lied, then said, “Bye.”

  Third grade. Langston Derby. In the janitor’s closet. That is where his urges began.

  Kingston fell to his knees, cried, and silently prayed. Lord, please make my attraction to men go away. Please. Lord, I’m begging You. Please. He repeated the word “please” at least a hundred times.

  Theodore. Private meetups with strangers on the app VirginsSeekingVirgins and BottomsUp. Basement encounters on Cheshire Bridge Road. The common denominator was men. Some of them were like him. Not gay. So, what made them have sex with him?

  Logging into their Airbnb, Kingston found a house, copied the link, then logged out.

  With all the fine females in Atlanta, being in the company of Victoria-the-Undercover-God-Worshiping-Freak and sexy-ass Jordan each Sunday, his dick only got excited when Levi came to their table.

  He texted Mama-T the link to a three-bedroom spacious home with a gated entrance. As he packed his suitcases, a confirmation from Mama-T with the gate and house codes registered. Kingston loaded up his trunk, then went out back.

  “Let’s go, man,” Kingston said.

  Theodore abandoned his cocktail, followed Kingston outdoors, then sat in the passenger seat. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Decided to stay in the ATL a lil longer, but I had to check out of that location,” Kingston said, driving without an immediate destination.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” he said. “If you didn’t have kids, I’d say never tell Monet shit. And live the rest of your life with me. Let’s go to my shop.”

  Following Theodore’s turn-by-turn directions, Kingston parked in the space reserved for the manager.

  Theodore unlocked the back door. “After you,” he said, relocking the door. “Yo! You here!”

  “Who?” Kingston asked.

  “Who else? My partner,” Theodore said. “I was calling out to see if he was in the back so I could introduce you.”

  Disappearing into a room with a curtain, no door, Theodore called out, “There’s a complimentary bottle of cognac behind the counter, ba . . . I mean Kingston!”

  When Theodore reentered, Kingston was standing by the door. “Nice shop. Man, let’s go.”

  Kingston didn’t want to risk Theodore’s partner walking in on them if they were to have sex. Knowing Theodore, Kingston knew Theodore was definitely going to suck his dick.

  Locking up the shop, they got back in Kingston’s car. Quietly he drove to the new Airbnb.

  “Wanna talk about it?” Theodore asked.

  Kingston remained silent, hoping God would give him a sign to take Theodore home, drop him off, and never communicate with him again.

  Entering the code on the gate keypad, Kingston cruised up the driveway to his new temporary residence. Kingston retrieved his luggage from the trunk. He pressed 467109# to unlock the front door. Theodore walked in first, went upstairs.

  Kingston called out to Theodore, “Come downstairs.”

  “Found this by the bed.” Cabernet in one hand, wine opener in the other, Theodore suggested, “Let’s christen the couch first.”

  Ignoring Theodore, Kingston walked outside. Inhaled the fresh air. The enclosed wraparound porch had a swing and rocking chairs overlooking the private backyard lawn and pool. He sat on the right side of the swing.

  Holding two goblets by the stems, Theodore handed one to Kingston, then filled each with red wine. “We make our own rules,” he said. “Salute. Follow your heart. You’ll find your way.”

  They swayed and sipped until the sunshine traded places with the moonlight.

  Kingston turned to Theodore and whispered, “I want to know what love feels like.”

  Theodore took Kingston’s glass. He went inside, returned with a thick comforter. Spreading it on the porch, he held Kingston’s hand. “Stand up.”

  Undressing Kingston, then himself, Theodore said, “Lie down. Relax. I got you.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Monet

  “Do you miss your daddy?” Monet asked Israel. If she were legally going to become a single mom, she had to understand which parent her girls would tell the judge they wanted to live with. They might choose their father if they thought he’d have all the money.

  Sitting in their home salon, fingering a homemade curl serum into her daughter’s hair, Monet reflected on her eight-hour visit to Atlanta. Never had she felt more abandoned by Kingston. Ending a call early when they were almost seven hundred miles apart mattered, but not as much as their being in the same area. He’d deliberately put her off on Lilly Ortiz. He didn’t make it to either of the showings. And Monet hated both properties.

  “Sometimes. But he’s always gone. Most of my friends are daddy’s girls. I’m a mommy’s girl,” Israel replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Would that remain true if Monet weren’t entitled to half of Kingston’s assets and the girls had to downgrade their standard of living?

  Earlier, Monet had prepared the girls scrambled eggs and cheese croissants, a fresh bowl of strawberries and blueberries, with a glass of almond milk, for breakfast.

  Lilly was nice. It was obvious she’d protected Kingston. But why? Women in Atlanta were known for sleeping with someone’s man and acting as though they didn’t know him that well when in the presence of the wife.

  Tears clouded Monet’s vision. She blinked repeatedly. Smoothing Israel’s thick mane away from her face, she wrapped a cotton-candy-pink band twice around her daughter’s hair to keep it in place. “Tell your sister to come in.”

  Monet removed the drape that covered Israel’s solid pink shirt. A flat solid green ribbon extended from underneath her collar. Forest-green pants with pink stripes were loosely fitted down to her ankles. Pink rhinestones covered her designer tennis shoes.

  She closed the lid on Israel’s products, opened Nairobi’s hair spritz. Her girls’ textures were unique combinations of Kingston’s kinky and her silky. Israel’s was kinkier. Nairobi’s silkier. Nairobi skipped in, wearing a green uniform dress with a flat pink ribbon underneath the collar. Her shoes were identical to her big sister’s.

  “Mommy, may I have a part down the middle with two big pretty braids, one on each side? And can you tie bows on the ends? I want the same color ribbon as Israel,” she said, sitting in the chair.

  Securing a cape over Nairobi’s uniform, Monet asked, “Do you miss your daddy?”

  “I miss Grandma. When is she coming over?” Nairobi asked. “We haven’t seen her since she took us to see Ruth Carter. If I had a cell phone, I—”

  “She’s on vacation,” Monet lied.

  Trinity had distanced herself after Monet confessed to her mother that there was no girlfriends’ day out at the spa and she’d gone to Atlanta. Trinity said she was outraged because she believed Kingston wasn’t telling the truth, and Monet had disobeyed her. Although her mom was vehemently upset with her for ly
ing, Monet had hoped that she’d understand.

  “If I had a phone, I could call her,” Nairobi explained, then glanced over her shoulder at her mom.

  “Turn around, little girl.” Monet took a deep breath. “I’ll call her while you’re at school to find out when she’ll be back.” She hated making up stories, but sometimes not being completely honest with her children was best.

  Maybe Monet was overreacting. Perhaps her mom was right and Kingston did need time alone. But he could’ve respectfully shared his feelings with her over lunch or dinner while she was in Atlanta.

  “Okay, go get your sister. It’s time to go.” Monet said.

  Leaving the salon on the first floor, Monet stood in the doorway of the master bedroom. Black decorative pillows were neatly placed atop the gold satin comforter. As she gazed into the room, her spirit felt empty.

  “Mommy!” Israel called out.

  “Coming!” Monet replied.

  Monet went to her en suite, stared at her reflection. Her natural hair hung behind her shoulders. No ponytail today. She painted her lips red. “I need an eyelash touchup.” She texted Pamela Y. Smith, I need a fill-in lady.

  Feeling melancholy, Monet was getting tired of being the only one fighting to spend time together. Her thin denim jumpsuit clung to every curve of her hourglass figure. Turning sideways, she admired her shapely ass.

  “Let me find out Kingston is sexing another woman. All this fineness,” she said, caressing her body, “will be for someone else.”

  “Mommy!” This time Israel was in her bedroom. “What are you doing? We’re going to be late for school. Three tardies equal one absence. Come on.”

  Whenever she went into a depression, her mother made sure the girls got to school timely. Who could she depend on now? Bianca was her best girlfriend, but she was happily living the single life.

  The second she’d given birth to Israel, Monet’s entire life was spent catering to someone other than herself. A few days’ getaways over the past eleven years, she could count on her fingers and toes.

  Monet followed her daughter to the garage. Israel and Nairobi placed their backpacks in the trunk, then sat in the bucket seats on the row behind Monet.