Esther closed her eyes. Relax. Take a deep breath. Feel the music. Arnell will be here. Just relax. Doing just that, Esther felt better. Yanni’s music always relaxed her. This is why, when she decided to run her business from her home, she had insisted on soft jazz and soothing classical music. After all, The Honey Well was a classy house, in a classy neighborhood. From her bedroom suite on the parlor floor in the back of the house, Esther could hear clearly the music played on that floor, so she was downright particular about the music and the musician. On the two floors above, she allowed the girls some leeway with the music; as long as it was easy-listening jazz or classical, she wasn’t so picky about the musician. It helped that she couldn’t hear much of anything from the individual rooms above—good solid doors and plush carpeting went a long way in keeping private sounds contained. In about a half hour, there would be more activity in the house, but that activity would be kept respectfully quiet. Even those less-cultured individuals who considered her establishment the oldest profession would have to agree that, at least, it was a classy establishment. Her four girls were attractive, well groomed, well polished, and had at least a high school diploma. Like Arnell, one even had a college degree. None had ever stood on a street corner, and none had ever used drugs. She made sure of that. Each was given a random drug test, and so far, she had to dismiss only three girls in the twelve years she had been in business. The one girl that she would never forget was Chyanne, a born loser. Chyanne was a closet crack user and when she was finally caught, she raised holy hell and threatened to expose Esther’s business. In fact, Chyanne anonymously called the police. The police came. They found nothing. Esther pointed out that there was no law that said that a woman couldn’t have a gentleman caller in her home. And that was what all the men were that called on her girls—gentlemen. Businessmen, one and all, who paid well to be with her girls. And her girls? They were all ladies. Each had at least a two-room suite or a large single room in the mansion and used the mansion address as their legal residence. There was no law against renting. Too bad Chyanne didn’t know that before she made that call. After Big Walt got finished schooling Chyanne on the facts of life—specifically that she might not continue to have a life—she never made another call to the police about the house on Dorchester Road. Word was, Chyanne was walking the streets up in Hunts Point, an area of the Bronx many prostitutes frequented.
Esther closed her door to Yanni. She was definitely going to have a serious talk with Arnell. Woodruff Parker hadn’t gotten there yet, but she wanted Arnell there before he arrived, as it was proper that a man willing to pay well for his pleasure be received by his lady of the evening. Robert had already told her that Woody wanted the best for his money, and the best he would get—Arnell, whether Arnell liked it or not. The truth was, Arnell was the best by default. In her day, there was none other better than Esther herself. She had been and still was the queen when it came to pleasing a man. It was her body, now, that was no longer pleasing to men who paid for tight, shapely, nubile young bodies. That’s why time was running out for Arnell. In a few years, she would age out of the business. She needed to capitalize on her assets now.
In her bedroom, standing in front of her brass cheval mirror, Esther slowly untied her silk robe and let it drop to the floor at her feet. The naked body reflected in her mirror really wasn’t all that hard on the eyes. Of course, it would do Esther’s body good if she exercised more. She pulled in her stomach to make it flatter. She turned from side to side. For a sixty-two-year-old woman, she didn’t look all that bad. The flesh on her thighs could be a little tighter, but they weren’t so loose that they offended anyone’s sense of beauty. The real problem was her breasts. They were no longer “plumpers,” as Tony used to call them. Esther was still a thirty-six D, though it was more skin that filled that D cup than breast tissue. Without her bra, her breasts hung like deflated balloons. No paying man, drunk or sober, wanted to suck on a shriveled up balloon. This is why Esther loved Tony DiAngelo. He loved her body just as much as he did twelve years ago. She had thought about getting breast implants and Tony even offered to pay for the surgery—if that was what she really wanted for herself. Tony said that he didn’t see the need. Arnell, on the other hand, thought it ludicrous that a sixty-two-year-old woman would want to walk around with firm round tits, defying gravity, sitting up to her neck. Arnell claimed that everyone would know they were implants, but, hell, what did Esther care? With her brown skin, everyone obviously knew that she had dyed her short, naturally curly hair blond and no one said anything about that. She saw nothing wrong with a woman up in age having nice tits, a nice ass, and a hellified sex life. As far as she was concerned, there wasn’t much more to think about. Right now, the timing was wrong—there were only a few weeks to summer, and summer was a bad time for any kind of surgery—too hot. Come September, when the weather cooled, she’d get her implants.
Esther cupped each of her breasts and lifted them up to where they used to be—decades ago. Again, she turned from side to side. She wouldn’t look bad at all.
“So what are you going to do about your face?” Arnell stood in Esther’s bedroom door. “Get a facelift?”
Esther quickly covered and held her breasts with one arm while bending modestly and snatching her robe up off the floor. She turned her back to pull her robe on. “What have I told you about barging into my bedroom without knocking?”
“What have I told you about keeping your door locked? I think, secretly, you’re hoping some fine young stud will wander in here and rock your world. What’s wrong, Mother, is Tony not satisfying you?”
Esther tied her robe tightly around her body. “One of these days, Arnell, your smart mouth is going to write a check that your ass can’t cash.”
“No, Mother, it’s not my mouth that’s going to get me in trouble, it’s you. I moved out of here three years ago because I was done with this business. But you won’t let me stay gone. You keep manipulating me back into your decadent world. You promised me—”
“Yeah . . . yeah . . . yeah,” Esther said, flipping her hand at Arnell. “We’ve had this conversation a million times. Why are you late?”
Arnell tossed her pocketbook onto Esther’s bed. “You know something, Mother? It warms my heart to know how much you really care about me.”
“Don’t start with me, Arnell,” Esther said, her voice low. She modestly turned her back to Arnell as she pulled on a clean pair of black lace panties. “I asked you to do me one little favor and you’re making a federal case out of it. By the way, that wrap dress looks quite nice on you. Is it new?”
Arnell couldn’t believe it. “Is that what you call it? One little favor? Mother, I’ve been doing these little favors for you since I was sixteen. Back then I trusted you, I didn’t know any better.”
“So now you’re thirty-three and, supposedly, you know better. Don’t you still trust your mother, sweetie?”
“Stop fucking with me, Esther. I am not a child anymore.”
“Watch your mouth, sweetie, I am still your mother.”
Amazed, Arnell paused. “I find it hard to believe that you actually know that. If only it meant something to you.”
Esther exhaled her annoyance. “Oh, damn. I see you’re in one of your ‘put upon’ moods again. Okay, Arnell, my back is strong. Place all the blame, for all the wrong ever done to you in life, on my back.”
Arnell felt like screaming. “Here’s a news flash for you, Mother. You turned me out. You pimped me. You—”
“No, I never pimped you. I couldn’t possibly, I am not a man. Therefore, I am not a pimp.”
“Humph! Let’s call you what you are, Mother—a pimp. You are a pimp, you just wear lipstick and heels. You turned your own child into a prostitute.”
“No, not prostitute, dear. I prefer to say that you are a lady of charm. You know, like a geisha girl or even the Mayflower Madam . . . oh, that’s me.” Pleased with herself, Esther smiled.
“You’re sick,” Arnell said.
“In case you forgot, the Mayflower Madam was put out of business. She was arrested, you know.”
“Her luck ran out; mine won’t.”
“You better hope that it doesn’t, but you’re not getting the point. You’ve made me ashamed of who I am.”
“That’s funny, Arnell, you don’t seem to be ashamed of all that money you got socked away. You’re not ashamed of that expensive house you bought out in Garden City with the money you made on your back, or of that college degree you paid for with that same money. Still, I’m the bad guy in all this, right?”
“Damn right you are. Like I said, you just don’t get it. You’re my mother. You schooled me in becoming a prostitute. Mothers don’t do that. I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for messing me up like that. And you know what goads me even more? You have the audacity to keep trying to make me continue to do this against my will. I don’t know why, but it amazes me that you could care less about how I feel about it as long as you get paid. Well, here’s another news flash for you, Mother. After tonight, this is it. Don’t call me anymore. I am out of the family business, and this time, I mean it.”
A trifling little smile curled Esther’s full lips as she sauntered over to her overstuffed chair and slowly lowered herself. All the while holding Arnell’s gaze, she took her time crossing her legs as she took a cigarette from her gold cigarette case.
Arnell felt the muscles tighten in her stomach. The only time Esther smoked was when she was trying to come up with some manipulative strategy or plotting some sort of revenge. The hard, cold twinkle in Esther’s eyes was so familiar. It was a condescending that’s what you think look that Esther gave Arnell every time she was about to force her to do what she wanted.
A blue flame leaped to life when Esther flicked her gold cigarette lighter. She lit her cigarette and closed the lighter with a snap. With her gaze still fixed on Arnell, Esther took a long slow drag and held her breath long enough to savor the nicotine that gave her a rush. She blew the smoke out through a soft whisper of her lips that turned into a taunting little kiss to Arnell.
“The hell with you.” Arnell grabbed her pocketbook off the bed and headed for the door.
“I wonder if James is home at this hour?” Esther asked, loudly, with a sharp edge to her voice. “Or better still, where do you think his father, the Right Reverend James W. Stanton is?”
Arrested where she stood, Arnell glared at an invisible spot on the door. “I hate you.”
“Is that a nice thing to say to your mother?” Esther flicked her cigarette ash into the ashtray.
Arnell growled her frustration.
“Sweetie, I don’t like it when we fight.”
“Then stop using me. You swore you’d leave me alone.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. You take care of Mr. Parker for me, I’ll buy you that car you’ve been thinking about. My treat.”
The only treat Arnell wanted was for Esther to drop dead, but with her luck, she knew that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. She wondered, if she killed her own mother, what would her sentence be?
“Arnell, sweetie, do we have a deal?”
Buzzzz!
Esther immediately ground out her cigarette. “That’s him. I have to get dressed. Arnell, I’ve already instructed Fawn to take Mr. Parker up to your old suite. I’m depending on you, sweetie. Don’t let me down.” Esther disappeared into her large walk-in closet. “Give them a minute to get upstairs.”
Arnell angrily clenched her jaw. She forbade herself to cry. This just had to be the last time. She opened the door to the romantic mood-setting tones of Kenny G’s heart-soaring alto saxophone. This was not the music she wanted to hear. Not tonight.
Four
The burden of Arnell’s anger and frustration rendered her legs heavy and her chest tight as she made her way slowly up the stairs to the third floor. What she expected when she entered her old suite, she didn’t know. What she saw gave her a sense of relief. Woodruff Parker, standing at the mini bar in the living room, impeccably dressed in Armani, was a small man. He wasn’t even taller than Arnell’s own five-foot, five-inch frame, and if he weighed more than one hundred and forty pounds, he was fat. All in all, Woodruff Parker’s name was bigger than he was. Although she knew better, she hoped that his sexual appetite was equal in stature. Then she would be home free.
“Mr. Parker, I’m Nell,” Arnell said, slipping into her role. “I’ll be your lady of charm this evening. May I fix you a drink?”
“Sure thing.” He moved back a pace from the bar. “I’m a brandy man.”
Arnell went to the bar and picked up, what she expected to be, the decanter of expensive brandy. Knowing Esther, she would have already found out what Mr. Parker’s drink was. “Mr. Parker, say when,” Arnell said, slowly pouring the brandy.
“I’m a friendly man,” Mr. Parker said, pressing his body into Arnell from behind and slipping his arms around her waist. “You can call me Woody.”
Arnell wanted to push Woody off her, but forced a strained smile instead. She reminded herself, When with a client, as long as the client doesn’t hit you, let him have his way. Arnell offered the brandy to Woody.
He didn’t take it. He tightened his hold on Arnell’s waist with one hand, felt her breast with the other, all while nuzzling her neck. He began pressing himself harder into her behind, grinding himself against her, pushing her into the edge of the wooden mini bar.
Arnell pushed back against Woody to keep from falling over the bar. There was no doubt he was ready to do what he had come there for. Her skin began to crawl as fear crept up her spine.
“Mmm, you’re so soft,” Woody said huskily. He began kissing Arnell’s bare shoulders and rubbing himself lewdly against her. “You smell good enough to eat.”
Arnell was repulsed. It had been six months since she had been with a client. And before that, it had been four months. She wasn’t ready. In fact, she was beginning to think that she wasn’t going to be able to go through with it. As it was, each time she slept with a client, she couldn’t be with James for days afterward.
“You certainly are an eager man, Woody,” she said, holding the brandy up for him to see. “Why don’t we take a minute to get to know each other.”
Woody stopped kissing Arnell, but that’s all he stopped. He continued to grind her even as he took the brandy.
Arnell tried to pull out of Woody’s hold on her, but he held onto her with one arm still around her waist. It was quite apparent that although he was a small man, there was no doubt that he was a strong one. Arnell could feel the crushing hardness of the muscle in his arm against the side of her body. Woody was hurting her and his unrelenting hold on her was unnerving her.
She had to get control of the situation. “Woody, would you like to sit?”
Woody downed the brandy in one gulp. He put the snifter down on the bar with a thud. “Baby, I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to sit.” He again fully encircled Arnell’s waist and with his body still pressed into her, he turned her away from the bar and walked her, step for step, over to the back of the sofa that sat in the center of the room.
What Woody had in mind wasn’t Arnell’s game. She tried harder to pull away. “Mr. Parker, please. We have a lovely bedroom with beautiful satin sheets that I know you will enjoy. And perhaps a nice massage before—”
“Baby, this is just fine for me.” Woody pinned Arnell to the sofa with his upper body while he pulled back enough to unzip his trousers and free himself with one hand.
Arnell tried to turn around to face him. He held her firm. “Mr. Parker, you don’t have to do it like this.” With one hand Arnell braced herself against the back of the sofa to keep from falling over. With the other, she tried to pry Woody’s arm from around her waist.
Her heart was racing. “Mr. Parker, please. Just wait a minute.”
Woody wouldn’t wait. He yanked the back of Arnell’s dress up, throwing the skirt of the dress over her head.
Gasping, Arnell quickly
snatched the dress off her head. She felt Woody’s pipe-hard penis thrust between her buttocks, jabbing her, hurting her. Squeezing her buttocks tight, she tried to keep him from entering her from behind.
“Wait!” she shrieked. “Please. I have condoms. Please let me get you a condom.”
Woody ignored her. He began feeling Arnell’s butt for her panties. She was wearing a G-string. He caught hold of the string at Arnell’s hip and ripped it from her body, stinging her skin.
Fear filled Arnell. She tried to pull away from Woody’s assault but couldn’t, the sofa was stopping her. With both hands and her body, she began trying to push the sofa. The thick carpet wouldn’t give to let the heavy sofa easily slide. But it did move—a few inches. It moved enough for Woody to have the space to thrust his free hand down Arnell’s front and grip her pubis. Tensing up even more, Arnell’s thigh muscles were burning from squeezing them so tightly.
“That’s right, baby, don’t make it easy for me,” Woody said, slobbering on Arnell’s neck. He began to roughly burrow his hand between her thighs. To Arnell it felt as if his hand was made out of jagged rock instead of flesh and bones. Her thighs couldn’t take the searing assault. In her silent struggle, Arnell’s thighs weakened, but they wouldn’t completely relent as Woody brutally rammed two fingers up into her vagina and began to roughly finger her.
“No! Not like this.” Arnell reared back with her head, butting Woody in the face. He made not a sound. It was like he didn’t even feel it. Arnell tried to push back with her body, but Woody only pushed harder with his upper and lower body while squeezing Arnell harder with his one muscular arm around her waist. It felt like his penis was stabbing her. She had to let up on pushing back into him.
The Honey Well Page 3