Desdemona didn’t hide her surprise and looked up at the building to the window where she’d seen Choc’s outline.
“Yes, he’s home.”
“Is this new?” she asked, wondering how her intel of the woman being single had been wrong.
“Just a few months ago. It was all whirlwind,” she said.
Desdemona relaxed. Not wrong. Out of date. That she could accept. “If you’re sure about your decision, then I’ll cancel any upcoming sessions,” she said, not even trying to convince her otherwise.
“I am,” she said, her eyes sad. “It was a little fun before tonight and the money was so good, but I’ll just have to figure something else out to pay for school. And maybe I should have done that in the first place.”
She wasn’t the first—or the last—to come and then go. In fact, Desdemona never wanted any of her courtesans to make it a lifelong career.
Then why are you?
Desdemona pushed aside her inner thought and reached to squeeze Choc’s hand. The woman pressed her prepaid phone into it. “Goodbye . . . Chelsea,” she said, turning to walk away.
The winter winds whipped through her coat without a care, and she shivered from the feel of it seeming to chill her bones, but she still paused in the street to turn and make sure Chelsea had gone inside. The outline never appeared in the window again before she continued and climbed into her crossover.
She took the battery out of the cheap flip phone and tossed both onto her passenger seat before cranking the vehicle and heading toward home. She rode in silence with the occasional blare of a car horn to break up the quiet.
Her thoughts were full, and her doubts of just where her life was headed continued to nag at her. What was the end game?
Live with no regrets.
She eyed her tattoo and smiled at the effect of Loren on her life. It had been five months since he’d become her tutor and just a few weeks since she’d become his teacher. Already his enthusiasm and positive outlook on life had made such an impact on her.
And the sex!
Each time he was getting better and better.
Were they meant for a love match and relationship? Definitely not—age and her secret life were just two factors—but she simply enjoyed him. Still, with her focus on her own happiness, it seemed her eye was off the business and things were slipping through the cracks. That was dangerous for her, her courtesans, and the clients.
She wondered if she would ever get the chance to do what made her happy when the responsibility of her paramours was all in her hands.
Desdemona released a heavy breath and pulled the Maserati to a stop at the side of the building with the entrance to the residences. The coat-clad valet was Johnny-on-the-spot, and she was thankful as she gave him a smile and made her way across the pristine sidewalk and into the building.
She paused at the sight of Loren sitting in one of the club chairs lining the wall. He rose to his feet at the sight of her. “You’re still here?” she asked as she walked up to him.
“I wanted to make sure you got back home safely, but I didn’t want to keep calling you, so I just waited,” he explained, shifting his skull cap from one hand to the other as he looked down at her. “I was worried about you.”
Desdemona’s breath caught and her gasp was audible, seeming to echo in the air of the lobby. Emotions flooded her, and she felt foolish as she looked down at her boots and bit her bottom lip to keep the tears that welled from falling. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked out for her. She was always the one constantly playing chess to protect everyone else . . . and herself.
“You okay?” he asked.
Nope. You just effed me right on up.
But she nodded and blinked rapidly to beat back the telltale tears before looking up at him. “Thank you, Lo,” she said, clenching her fist to keep from reaching up to stroke his chiseled cheek.
“No problem,” Loren said, tugging on his hat and zipping up his coat. “I’ll see you next week.”
Desdemona nodded, turning to watch his classic New York stride as he crossed the foyer to the glass double door.
A fly nerd.
“Lo,” she called to him.
He stopped and turned.
Her heart raced as he looked at her. All of her alarms went off. She ignored them. “It’s late. You want to stay over?” she asked.
His smile spread across his lean and handsome face with the smoothness of butter on a warm biscuit.
Chapter Ten
Thursday, January 31, 2019
Do I have the courage to walk away?
Desdemona’s footsteps against the hardwood floors echoed as she walked around Loren’s apartment and enjoyed her first chance to learn more about him. It was a small but neat studio apartment with a brick wall and tall, brightly lit windows. Books were everywhere. There was a drawing table with sketches in various stages of completion. And she loved that he had a khaki leather sofa that converted to a bed, giving him more room during the day.
“Thoughts,” Loren said from behind her at the stove in his stylish but small kitchenette where he was making them homemade beef stew and corn muffins.
“Honestly?” she asked as she stroked the jacket of the hardcover edition of Fahrenheit 451—the book they’d read together as if in their own little book club. She was still touched by his offer to do so.
“Always,” he encouraged.
“It’s decorated really well. Good job,” she said.
“But . . .”
“It’s really small,” she added with a wince meant to take the bite off her words.
He laughed. “Yeah it is, but it’s all I need. And I’m a doctoral student. And I’m grateful. I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet. Helen Keller,” he added.
“I know,” she said, remembering a time when even three hundred square feet would have been a blessing. “You’re right, Lo. You’re always right.”
“Nah. Far from it. I’m just right about what affects me because I refuse to be unhappy. Life is too short to worry, and most times if you just ask yourself one question, you’ll see things from a different point of view.”
She came to stand beside him at the stove, giving in to the urge to ease her hand under his T-shirt to stroke his back. “And that is?” she asked.
“Or,” he said simply, looking down at her over the rim of his spectacles.
Confusion reigned. “Huh?”
He turned and leaned back against the counter, crossing his bare feet at the ankle. “Let’s say you meet this woman and she is always mad at you. Just mad. You should ask yourself: Or is she not mad at me but having a bad day? Or is she sick and grouchy in general? Or is she going through something and could use a friend? Or—”
“I get it,” she said, holding up a hand.
He laughed and shrugged. “If you walk around not caring about others and making everything about you—like everyone and everything is out to get you—it will turn you into a miserable person.”
“Is that why you are so damn happy all the time?” she asked, tilting her head to the side as she looked up at him. “Or is it just your youth and the world hasn’t effed with you enough to dim the sunshine for you?”
His eyes were suddenly serious. “I’ll always be this way, because everything you do, think, or feel is a choice, and I choose to be happy,” he said. “Do you want me to change?”
Desdemona kicked off the leather booties she wore with a fitted cream cowl-necked dress of matte jersey with a skirt down to the floor. She settled her chin on his chest as she looked up at him. “Never,” she promised him, wishing she had more of his optimism.
Avoiding jail just won’t allow it.
Still, the time she spent with Lo made her life feel lighter, and she found herself craving more and more of it. He was the bright spot in a life once filled with struggle. He simply made her happy to be in his company. His joy was infectious.
When he pressed both of his hands to
her face and bent to kiss her lips, she clutched at his shirt and extended the kiss with several of her own.
He winked at her before turning his attention back to stirring the stew.
She picked up her shoes and set them by the door before reaching in her tote for her phones to make sure she hadn’t missed a call. She was relieved to find she hadn’t. She had five courtesans out at the moment. She wasn’t a doctor, but she was on call.
Desdemona turned to look at Loren again, taking in his burnt orange V-neck shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and bare feet with his hair pulled back into a bushy ponytail. “Who braids your hair?” she asked, suddenly in need of that information.
“One of my homegirls,” Loren said, putting a lid on the pot and wiping his hands on a black kitchen towel before draping it over the sink. “I need to call her. I washed it this morning.”
“Nah,” she said, mimicking his style as she sat on the sofa and pointed to the spot on the floor between her legs. “Sit.”
Loren looked doubtful. “You can braid... with those?” he asked, eying her nails.
“Nothing elaborate like old girl but definitely two cornrows,” she said, lifting the skirt of her dress to drape over her thighs. “Bring a comb, brush, and hair grease if you have it.”
He did, retrieving everything from his bathroom before sitting down on the floor between her open legs. “Hand me the remote?” he asked, taking it from her when she did and turning on the large flat-screen on the wall.
They watched a marathon of Martin as Desdemona took her time and greased his scalp before she brushed his hair until it gleamed. Using the end of a rattail comb, she parted it down the middle and then took her time capturing the mass of hair in two straight cornrows. The ends of them were past his shoulders and automatically curled. “There,” she said, twisting the cap back on the pomade before setting it on the floor beside him.
Loren reached up with his large hands to feel his hair.
“You could just go look in the mirror,” she said.
Loren shook his head, turning around between her legs to get on his knees. “Now what fool would leave from between your thighs?” he asked, before bending to press hot kisses to her thighs.
Desdemona cupped the back of his head and rolled her hips. “Don’t start nothing you scared to finish,” she warned, opening her legs wider.
Loren cut his eyes up at her with his lips still pressed to her leg. “Maybe it’s time I see what the fuss is all about,” he said, his words blowing against her smooth inner thigh and evoking a shiver of anticipation.
“Uh oh,” Desdemona said, playful and flirty, as she wiggled her brows—and then she was amazed that he created a space for her to be that way—playful and flirty.
Loren pressed her knees up and out, causing her lips to spread and expose her bud like it bloomed.
“Do I need to walk you through it?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve been watching more flicks,” he admitted with a wink before licking the tip of his tongue against her flesh.
She cried out, and her legs wanted to snap closed, but his hands kept them held open wide. “Lo,” she gasped, wishing his hair was free so she could pull on it as he pursed his beautiful lips and sucked the quivering bud into his mouth.
And with a steady one-two motion broken up only by gentle licks he brought her to a climax so strong that she tried to back away from his unrelenting pressure, but the couch wouldn’t allow it. And when he finally freed her, hearing her cries that she was near passing out, he kissed her, and she tasted herself on his lips.
“Grade, please?” he asked, his slanted eyes twinkling.
Her breathing was harsh, and her legs still quivered as she eyed him with her hand pressed to her pounding heart. “B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b plus,” she said with effort.
He chuckled. “I’ll get that A next time,” he promised.
She could only muster enough strength for a thumbs up.
* * *
Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching . . .
Desdemona pulled on her bright pink leather gloves before she checked her personal phone as she left the coldness of some random corner in Tribeca to climb into the back of her Lux Black. She was glad the gloves were made for touchscreen as she swiped and answered the call of her number one.
“Hello, there,” she said.
“Whaddup, whaddup, whaddup,” he said.
“Congrats on another win,” she said, having watched the game with Loren at her condo, trying not to be amused by his near worship of the man she knew all too well.
“That’s what we do,” he bragged jokingly.
“Looking to celebrate?” she asked, careful of her words.
“I’m home. My girl got that,” he said. “But I didn’t call about that.”
Her “spidey sense” tingled as she went on alert. “Okay,” she said, hearing her own hesitation.
“Nothing like that,” he said, laughing. “I didn’t know you and V. L. had an issue.”
She still didn’t relax. “And how do you know?”
“V. L. assumed I already knew from you.”
“I didn’t see a need to share our personal issue with anyone. That’s not what I do and that’s why I am who I am for y’all. Right?” she asked.
“He wants back on the list.”
She shook her head, looking out the tinted window at the Manhattan streets that were no less crowded with the light snow that had begun to fall. “No.”
“Dammmmmmmn,” he said. “What happened?”
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He didn’t. He just said you were trippin’.”
Her left eye twitched in annoyance. “Let me just say this as I ride in the back of this Lux Black—and no, I didn’t mean to drop a rap bar,” she teased. “Please let your boy know that it’s best he just walk away from this situation and put it behind him and refrain from bashing me in any way or I will tell you and everybody else just what he did to get booted. Right now, he is still in those graces I told him about, but my patience is as thin as his receding hairline. Cool?”
“Cool. We good?”
“It would take heaven and hell merging for me and you to ever fall out, Number One,” she said. “On some realness. I owe you too much.”
“Nothing owed but friendship,” he said. “And don’t worry about V. L. I got that handled. Thank you for your loyalty, yo.”
“’Til death,” she promised, before ending the call.
“How are you today?” she said to the driver, sliding the phone into her Louis Vuitton tote.
He just eyed her in the rearview mirror and said nothing, like he was pissed.
Or...
Desdemona shook her head at Loren’s influence.
“Excuse me, Paul,” she said to the middle-aged man with flecks of gray in his hair. “Is everything okay?”
He eyed her again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My baby girl is sick, but we got bills and I have to work. So, I’m out here, but I rather be at the hospital. You know?”
“What’s your little girl’s name?” she asked, surprised because she usually hated a talkative driver, but here she was stirring the pot.
“Amiyah,” he said with tears brimming in his eyes.
Tears from a man were a hard thing to see, but not as hard as it was for him to allow them to fall.
“Father God, bless Amiyah with your mercy, your grace, and your healing,” she said, unable to remember the last time she’d prayed and how good it made her feel to do so.
“Amen,” he said, roughly wiping each eye with the back of his hand.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. She was busy thinking Loren would enjoy her story of “Or . . .” when the SUV pulled up outside the extended-stay hotel she was renting for Portia until she was approved for an apartment of her own. Desdemona opened the door and came around the truck to stand at the driver’s door. He lowered the window.
“Go to the hospital and be with your family,” she sai
d, handing him a stack of hundred-dollar bills.
Paul pushed it back to her with a shake of his head. “No, ma’am. I can’t take that. The man in me won’t allow me to take that,” he stressed. “What means more to me is that prayer.”
“But—”
“I have to be able to look myself in the eye every day as a man,” he repeated.
“You’re stubborn, but my father probably would have done the same thing,” Desdemona admitted. “But what if it’s a blessing and not about male and female, but just one good heart giving to another.”
“Thank you but no thank you,” Paul said.
“Okay,” she acquiesced, stepping back from the vehicle. “I’ll be thinking of your daughter.”
“That means everything,” he said, before waving and pulling off.
Stubborn but commendable. She admired him for his conviction.
Desdemona dropped the money back in her tote and looked at the boutique extended-stay hotel where Portia lived. The renovated seven-story townhouse on the Upper West Side housed 120 studio spaces with a community kitchen and laundry. Its brick face was charming with the neighborhood offering a good mix of people, style, culture, and convenience. The tree-lined street never bustled with too much activity. The rate for the very small studio and private bath was inexpensive in comparison to five-star hotels. So far, Portia’s apartment rental applications had been rejected because she had no credit, work experience, and because of her age—even with her emancipation by the courts.
She entered the building and crossed the art deco lobby to the stairs, avoiding the elevator that was small and reminiscent of the house’s first days as a home and not a hotel. She reached the second floor and walked down the tiled hall with its pale-yellow paint to knock on Portia’s door at the end.
Desdemona frowned at the muffled sounds coming through the door and leaned in to listen more closely. She knocked again. Her room was no larger than a walk-in closet and there was no way to miss a knock.
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