Smooth Operator

by Risqué

  She wondered why she’d sat here this long, entertaining something that she knew was bullshit. Not only was Lyfe her boss but he was her married boss. She’d been through enough bullshit with married men, but then … honestly, him being married really didn’t slice her. No, what fucked with her was the fact that she was comfortable around him, and though she was sitting on the other side of the SUV from him, she really wanted to slide next to him and sit with her head on his chest, or in his lap …

  And she wanted to tell him her wildest dreams and her fucked-up memories. She wanted to explain to him that she one day wanted to love again but that she was scared as hell, because the one time she let herself go there, he was shot dead. And she wanted to share with him that the prostitute pacing the corner up ahead wasn’t just a fiending crackhead, but was her sister.

  She felt protected sitting here with him and she’d never expected to feel anything like this ever again, which is exactly why she was going to get her heart, her horniness, and her common sense in check and get the fuck out of here, go inside, get Zion, put him in bed, and perform for a client or two. She needed to get back to her life and sitting here feeling giddy with some random motherfucker wasn’t cuttin’ it.

  “What’s the silence about?” Lyfe interjected into her thoughts.

  “It’s just …” Arri voice trailed off and her words became dead in her mouth before they could reach the air.

  Lyfe gently turned Arri’s face toward him and said, “True story, no game, and no politics. I’m enjoying being myself around you, and not having to hear about what we made last quarter. I promise you I haven’t laughed and shit like this in a minute. But if you feel funny, or awkward, or maybe you have a man peeking out the window, it’s cool and I’ll see you in the morning, no harm, no foul.”

  After a moment of deciding to toss caution to the wind, Arri said, “I hope you like to dance.”

  Sounds of live singing and steel-pan playing eased onto the street as Arri and Lyfe parked in front of Dextra, a small club on Flatbush Avenue, surrounded by twenty-four-hour West Indian restaurants and apartment buildings. Though Dextra sat in the heart of the hood, people from all walks of life loved the atmosphere and frequented the club like it was a tourist spot.

  Dextra was nothing fancy; it was a simple storefront with a hand-painted Trinidadian flag on the front door. A banana tree sat by the entrance and people poured shots of rum punch onto it for good luck. The walls were covered in electric-teal paint and decorated with only two pictures: one of a bowl of fruit and the other, a large map of Trinidad. The map provided the backdrop of Dextra’s makeshift stage, where the world-renowned Wild Head, a reggae and soca band, performed every night. Small card tables and folding chairs littered the room, and most people were either drinking, eating, or working the dance floor.

  “Let me know,” Arri said sarcastically, “if this is too much for you. If so we can leave and five-star dine at Mr. Chow’s.”

  Lyfe smiled, “Too much for me? Whatta gurl like you know ’bout dis?” He put on a fake and extremely unbelievable West Indian accent.

  Arri chuckled, and released an authentic Trinidadian accent. “But what de bumbeclot dis yankee boy call heself doin’?” She sucked her teeth long and hard. “Leave de Trini to me and you just be ye self.”

  “And who’s that?” he looked into her eyes.

  “A rude boy.”

  “You like rude boys?”

  “A little too much.” She relaxed her Trinidadian accent and returned to her natural flowing American one.

  Before Lyfe could comment the bartender asked what they were drinking. Lyfe looked at the bartender and said, “Give the lady—”

  “A Shandy,” Arri said.

  “And I’ll have a Guinness.”

  The bartender handed them their drinks and as Lyfe slid backward onto the bar stool, Arri eased between Lyfe’s legs and he placed his left arm around her waist. “Ah”—he smiled as the stroll lights hanging above their head illuminated the shape of her ass—“an Island girl. No wonder.”

  “No wonder what?” Arri said as Lyfe took a swig from his beer.

  “No wonder you’re so beautiful.”

  “Plenty of all-American girls are beautiful too.”

  “I never said they weren’t. And stop that,” he said seriously.

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop tossing back my compliments,” he said, as he completed his hold on her waist, placing his right arm on the other side of her hip.

  Arri became silent and Lyfe said, “And stop that too. Think tomorrow at the morning meeting, not tonight.”

  “You’re right.” Arri placed her Shandy on the counter and grabbed Lyfe by the hand. “Let’s dance.”

  Arri and Lyfe moved to the center of the dance floor and started to groove. They melted into each other as Arri fit her ass perfectly against Lyfe’s shaft as she wined, making it all too easy for him to imagine her screaming while he tossed it up doggy-style.

  Lyfe moved to the West Indian beat, but he was no match for Arri’s movement—and he didn’t really want to be. He wanted to watch her throw her voluptuous hips with a gracefulness he’d never seen.

  He knew she could feel his hard dick pressed against her slit because the harder he became the deeper she thrusted into him.

  Arri pushed everything from her mind that told her she was having too good of a time. Hell, she hadn’t even called home and checked on Zion. Although she knew he was safe, that wasn’t the point. She didn’t need to be here, but then again she did. She turned around and faced Lyfe, slid her arms around his neck, and daringly, she kissed him—a soul-stirring kiss, the kind that made them feel like, even if only for the moment, they were the only two in the room.

  “Damn,” Lyfe said as his hands roamed freely over Arri’s ass, “I don’t think”—he sucked her bottom lip—“that we need to be doing this.”

  “Why not?” Arri said, continuing to kiss him.

  “Because I’m married,” Lyfe broke their kiss, “and I didn’t come to New York to fuck around on my wife.”

  Arri swallowed the embarrassment creeping into her throat. “I didn’t ask you to fuck around on your wife.” She could feel her heart hardening while her mind screamed, This is exactly the bullshit you didn’t want to deal with! Nevertheless, things were better this way, because Arri knew that the longer their tongues intertwined, the more likely she was to get addicted to the taste of him, the look of him, and the feel of him. “I have to go.” Arri stepped out of his embrace and turned to walk away.

  As if they were making a dance move, as quickly as she turned away was as quickly as he twirled her back toward his chest. He massaged his temples with one hand and held her around the waist with the other; “Wait, just wait.”

  “You want me to wait for you now?” Arri said with sarcastic disbelief.

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Listen,”—Arri patted Lyfe on the chest—“it’s been real.” She backed out of his embrace again and moved quickly and to the side so that he wouldn’t be able to pull her back.

  “Arri,” he called through gritted teeth, careful not to cause a scene, yet she kept going, disappearing into the heavy raindrops.

  Watching the door swing behind her, Lyfe pounded his fist against the bar and briskly walked out. “Arri,” he called out to her, spotting her halfway up the block. “Arri.” When she didn’t stop or respond he slid into his Escalade and crept along the side of her. “Arri,” he called out again, as the heavy rain seeped in through the open window and drenched his passenger seat, “get in the car. It’s raining, it’s dark. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. I just wanna make sure you get home safe.”

  Silence. She ignored him and as he continued behind her she walked the three short blocks to her apartment building. Once she reached the stoop, she turned around, looked into his face, and then quickly turned back toward the door and walked in.

  She heard Lyfe pull off as she wal
ked upstairs to Khris’s apartment. She rapped on the door and a half-asleep Khris opened it, wiping her eyes. “Gurl, where the hell you been?” She looked at Arri suspiciously. “You know Zion and Tyree fell asleep playing Wii. Just come and get him in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry I was so long.”

  “Why do you sound like you just ran up on a niggah with a li’l dick?” She sniffed her and said, “You been fuckin?”

  “I wish,” Arri dragged, avoiding eye contact with her friend. “Listen, I’ll come first thing in the morning to get him. Good night.” She walked to her apartment and closed the door behind her.

  New York

  “Good morning, everyone,” Lyfe said with a slight edge to his voice, doing his best not to let on that he was still aggravated from the night before. He looked around the conference room and fought like hell not to stare at Arri, who sat before him holding a legal pad and a pen.

  Lyfe owed her an apology, that he knew, but now wasn’t the right moment to offer it to her. Besides, he’d already crossed the line of fucking up business with pleasure, and in order to redraw the line, he would have to wait until after five to correct his actions—at least that’s what he’d planned, but it was clear that his mind had a different agenda, because the mere sight of her made a flashback of last night creep into his thoughts.

  Lyfe could feel his dick getting hard as he remembered how she felt in his arms, and nothing was worse for him than standing before a room full of people and having to cautiously shift his dick so that the mountain rising within wouldn’t be noticed. He stood closely behind his black, oversize leather wing chair, slid his hands into his pockets, slyly moved his dick, and continued on with his meeting. “As we discussed last night we will be pulling files and financial reports over the next couple weeks for an internal audit—”

  “Oh, hell no, you won’t,” caused everyone to turn toward the double mahogany doors, which had flown open and revealed Payton standing there in a blue sable fur coat that draped to the floor and four-inch stilettos that made her the same height as Lyfe. Her presence filled the doorway as she stormed in with one hand on her hip and the other slamming her signature Hermès clutch onto the conference table. She stood opposite Lyfe as she looked him directly in the eyes, and said, “Everybody, get the fuck out!”

  Each of their employees were stunned and sat in complete silence, forcing Payton to slam her hands onto the table and demand at the top of her lungs, “Now!”

  Everyone darted to their feet and quickly left, the last person closing the door behind them.

  Lyfe folded his arms across his chest and stroked his box beard twice. This had to be a nightmare, so he blinked, yet Payton was still standing there.

  “Have you lost your fuckin’ mind!” Payton stood up straight and peered at Lyfe. “Pulling some shit like this without my permission! When I told your fuckin’ ass to leave it alone—”

  “You … better … lower your motherfuckin’ voice,” Lyfe said through gritted teeth, the veins in his neck and along the side of his head exploding.

  “You up in here flexing and shit”—Payton pointed her hand in Lyfe’s face—“showing your ass like you’re the goddamn CEO out this bitch, oh hell no!” She waved her hand dismissively and continued, “Get your shit. Your flight has been arranged and a car will be here to take you to the airport in the next hour. Robertson McDaniels is coming out here to take over and you’re coming the fuck home!”

  “What Robertson McDaniels is gon’ get,” Lyfe said confidently, “is his motherfuckin’ lung collapsed if he comes the fuck up in here. I wish the niggah would.” He shook his head. “You are really out of order.”

  “This is my company!” Payton pounded her fist on the table with every point she made, causing the stacks of paper to topple over. “And this is my goddamn money! What the fuck is on your mind? I swear you are ungrateful as hell. I gave you this motherfuckin’ job and you’re doing everything other than what you suppose to be doing! If it wasn’t for me you would be adding to the recidivism rate or busting out a goddamn Crip walk and locking down one of Crenshaw’s raggedy-ass corners! You acting like you walked up in here with some motherfuckin’ qualifications. I gave you a chance, niggah, and this is how you repay me?”

  “Hold it—”

  “No, you hold it!” She pounded between each word for emphasis. “I tell you what and you better begin to understand this—you’re my goddamn man and you do what the fuck I tell you to! And I didn’t tell you to do no shit like this, motherfucker. I’m the queen bitch.” She yelled into his face and specks of spit whipped from her mouth like a wet wind. “And I don’t know who’s been gassing your goddamn head up or what the fuck you been running around here telling these people and shit, but this ain’t your goddamn spot, Mr. Compton. It’s mine!”

  “I’ma ask you one more mother … fuckin’ … time,” Lyfe said, backing Payton into the corner of the room, gripping her by the collar, and lifting her off her feet, “to lower your motherfuckin’ voice. Because I ain’t afraid to catch a case; and I will toss yo’ ass out this fuckin’ window before I let you come up in here embarrassing me! I ain’t that niggah! Motherfuckers have dropped for less than this. Now you tryna be murked?” His eyebrows arched into the shape of Vs. “You wanna be raked down the motherfuckin’ street? Sprayed? You got a death wish, is that it? ’Cause if you think,” he spat with his eyes squinted and his lips unshakably stiff, “that I won’t land your ass out there on that concrete, then say one … more … mother … fuckin’ thing.”

  Payton moved her lips and before anything could come out of her mouth, Lyfe whipped her around toward the window so hard and fast that the thick glass vibrated and waves of fear caused tears to fall from Payton’s eyes.

  Lyfe pressed the side of her face into the glass and her eyes frightfully scanned the street below, where the people resembled action figures and the cars looked to be toys.

  “You see that shit,” Lyfe forced Payton’s head to nod, “you see it? You want me to splatter your ass all over it?”

  In the midst of Lyfe’s grip Payton struggled to shake her head no.

  “Then don’t you ever in your life come up in here, or anywhere else, speaking to me like you snortin’ insanity. ’Cause I will whup your fuckin’ ass to a pulp. This is the last time I’ma tell you—that fuckin’ wit’ me ain’t an option. And I’m not your fuckin’ man, I’m your goddamn husband and you will fall your ass back, do you understand? And you better not say a word more than yes.”

  “Yes,” Payton tearfully whispered.

  “Now what you gon’ do is get your sick ass back on the plane, go back to L.A., and stay the fuck out my face!” He roughly walked her to the door and as he opened it people scattered and scrambled to their seats, some of them falling and tripping over one another.

  “Jesus!” Mare-Hellen yelled. “Y’all ’bout to stomp all over me! I’m tryna get out the way too!”

  “Would you shut up,” Khris said, “I wanna see if he gon’ Big Red her ass out the goddamn window!”

  Lyfe strolled over to Arri, his body radiating cool, calm, and collected. He looked her directly in the eyes and his smooth baritone voice said, “Arri, reschedule the meeting for Monday morning.” He turned toward Payton and shot her a chilling ice grill. Afterward, he walked into his office and slammed the door behind him, leaving his wife center stage.

  Payton pulled her shoulders back, draped her blue sable perfectly onto her shoulders, and checked her makeup in her compact mirror. Seeing that it revealed very little evidence of her almost being thrown out of a window, she tucked her clutch beneath her right arm and stood steady in her stilettos. Now she could address the motherfuckers that she felt staring and smirking at her; after all, she was still the top bitch. “I will fire every motherfuckin’ body up in here,” she held her left arm in the air, pointing her index finger toward the ceiling and looking wildly from her right to her left, “if you don’t stop minding my goddamn business! You don’t ge
t paid to stand the fuck around!” She snapped her fingers as she headed toward the glass doors, which were etched with the company’s name. “Get back to work!” she threw behind her as she entered the hall and stepped onto the elevator, disappearing behind the closing doors.

  New York

  Payton stepped over the cracks in the concrete and sauntered toward the black Lincoln Town Car, where the driver stood waiting for her with the door open. The heaviness at the bottom of her stomach let her know she’d entered the Wild Wild West, where anything fuckin’ went. In twenty minutes flat Payton had gone from wanting Lyfe to stop being so ghetto—or machismo, or whatever the fuck this Compton niggah called it—to no longer giving a damn. It was clear that he couldn’t stop beating his chest long enough to see that they were on the verge of having everything. So fuck it and fuck him. Fuck loving this motherfucker and fuck saving his ass. Both guns were drawn, and as far as Payton was concerned, let the casualties fall where they may.

  She eased into the backseat and the driver closed the door behind her. She pressed a button to send up the soundproof partition and then turned to Quinton, who’d been waiting in the car. “I should spit in your fuckin’ face!” ripped from her mouth.

  “You should what?” Quinton said, taken aback and squinting his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said, filled with disgusted surprise as the driver knocked lightly on the thick glass separating them. Payton lowered the partition an inch and snapped, “What is it?”

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  “The airport,” Payton said sternly and sent the partition up again. She turned back to Quinton, yet before she could rip back into him her phone rang. She looked at the caller ID, saw it was her mother, and sent her straight to voice mail. When she called back again Payton turned off the phone.

  She looked at Quinton, who was steadily blinking his eyes. “I thought we were going to stay out here until Robertson came,” he said. “Why are we on our way to the airport? Wait a minute, what happened?”