Smooth Operator

by Risqué

  Shit.

  This was the pits. She’d already seen two clients for the night, but that was about business—and right now she wanted pleasure. Besides, it wasn’t enough to play with herself; she needed a strong back, defined chest, massive hands, and a hard pipe to do it, and Lyfe had just the equipment.

  No matter how Arri tried to shake it, he turned her on every time she laid eyes on him. She knew that if Lyfe stayed in New York much longer she would need to look for another job. And it wasn’t about her dire need to have her breasts in his mouth and her hips across his dick; that she could handle and put in perspective. But she hated the wondering about what had happened in his life, the places he’d been, who took care of him, and what made him upset or nervous when he fingered his beard, what his favorite things were to eat, who cooked for him, who ran his bathwater … After today she knew it damn sure wasn’t his wife, so who was it?

  Here I go again with this shit.

  Arri reached for a Black & Mild cigar on her nightstand and lit it. After a few tokes she released soft clouds of smoke into the wet indigo sky.

  She closed her eyes and hoped that she would be able to sleep, but the stifling heat had her suffering from insomnia. And it didn’t help any that she was home alone. Khris and her son had taken Zion with them to New Jersey to spend the weekend with her mother, leaving Arri with no one to talk to, besides herself. And truthfully, talking to herself was rocking her nerves, because all herself preached about was needing to be touched, caressed, and fucked.

  Twenty minutes into her rain bath, her eyes scanned the room and spotted a picture behind the leg of her highboy. Arri rose from the window and picked up the picture. Her lips gently pushed into a smile. It was a picture of her, Darlene, and Samara, all hugging and smiling, dressed for Easter in matching MGM jumpsuits. Arri cracked up laughing as tears snuck into her eyes. She returned to the windowsill and as splashes of rain speckled onto the Polaroid, the color started to run and Arri blew against it, hoping to dry the water quickly. She turned the picture away from the window and started laughing again.

  “Arri and Samara,” Arri could hear Darlene’s voice ring in her memory, “we is so fly.” They huddled before the bathroom mirror together, all squeezing their faces in. “You two look just like ya mama”—Darlene grinned—“which means y’all gon’ have problems with niggahs. So let me tell you, don’t let none of ’em use you.” She scanned the reflection of her daughter’s eyes. “I know y’all ain’t grown yet, but you got a pussy, and as long as you got a pussy, men don’t see no age. So, I’ma just lay shit out to you: niggahs ain’t shit. Get you a man. A man who loves you, who wants to be around you, and not just from the first to the fifth of the month. And get you a man who goes to work at nine-fuckin’-o’clock. A man who, when he makes love to you it’s slow and careful, not in an alleyway with broken glass beneath your feet, but in your bed. And if a man wants you he will come and get you. Don’t you dare chase his ass …”

  Arri’s face was wet with tears, this was crazy shit, and as horny as she was she didn’t need any memories messing up her dick desire. She wiped her face and could feel sleep pushing on her eyelids, so she rose from the windowsill, mashed the cigar in the ashtray, and as she lay down on the bed, she heard a hard pounding on her apartment door. Instantly she was pissed. “Goddamn.” She sucked her teeth. She was not in the mood for unexpected visitors or motherfuckers knocking on the wrong door tonight. “You know what,” she said as her negligee stuck like papier-mâché to her skin. “We gon’ end this shit tonight. Do not come here if you didn’t call and if you have the wrong apartment start looking at the damn numbers before you knock! Now, why are you here!” She snatched the door open.

  Arri’s eyes filled with surprise and instinctively she took a step back. “What the—?” She arched her eyebrows in disbelief. “Are you serious?” She looked Lyfe up and down twice. “What are you doing here?” She stood blocking the entrance.

  “You want me to leave?” he asked her, looking deep into her eyes.

  Arri couldn’t answer because she knew if she opened her mouth a lie was sure to slip out and there was no way in hell she wanted to turn him away. Instead her heart played the xylophone beneath her breast, her eyes slowly undressed him, and she repeated herself, “What are you doing here?” She crossed her hands over her breasts, remembering that she was damn near naked.

  “Let me ask you again, do you want me to leave?” He looked her over, his eyes stopping at her crossed arms for a moment and then returning to her face.

  She paused and looked him up and down again, more shock absorbed into her body. “This is a lot of nerve.”

  “It is,” he agreed.

  “Suppose my man was here?”

  “Is he?”

  “No,” she said too quickly, hoping like hell she didn’t make it obvious that she really didn’t have a man.

  Lyfe gave her a crooked grin, “Fuck ’im, then.”

  Whatever it was—arrogance, cockiness, or the coolest fuckin’ swagger that she’d ever seen that oozed from this fine-ass man standing at her door with quiet insistence and persistence that she was going to step aside and let him in—it made Arri’s pussy pump repeatedly and her nipples were so hard that they ached. “So,” she said, collecting herself, “are you going to tell me why you’re here or should I assume that you stalk all of your secretaries?”

  “You’re more than a secretary,” Lyfe said seriously. “Besides, I don’t stalk my secretaries, most of ’em are old, white, overtanned, and too damn skinny. Drink vegetable smoothies all day, L.A. shit.”

  Arri fought with all she could not to laugh. “Umm-hmm.”

  “Besides, I came here to talk,” he said. “You seem to be a good listener.”

  “Run that past me again.” She arched her eyebrows. “You wanna talk? About what? Didn’t you just tell me, last night, you didn’t come to New York to fuck around on your wife? And now tonight you wanna talk?” She squinted.

  “Yeah, I said that.” He paused and reached for Arri’s hand, locking his fingers between hers. “And I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings or embarrassed you when I said that. But try and understand that I had to back up for a minute. Shit was going way too fast.”

  “And you don’t think you being at my door is pushing shit over the edge?” She let his hand go and crossed her arms over her breasts again.

  “Isn’t that where you want it to go?” He ran his index finger from the center of her lips down her neck. “Over the edge?”

  Silence.

  “Listen,” Lyfe continued, “if you want me to bounce, then I’m out—and like I said before, no foul and no harm. But honestly, I came tonight because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I couldn’t shake my desire to wanna look into your beautiful face, pretty girl, and chill with you. I’m not saying you should let me in, but I’m asking you to. Because tonight—if no other night—I need you, and I don’t give a damn about what looks good, what’s right, and what’s politically correct. I’m here because I wanna be here. Now,” he paused, “do you want me here?”—he placed his index finger against her lips—“and tell me in one word.”

  “Yes.” Arri knew she’d said it too hastily and too anxiously. She was not supposed to give in. But then again, what could be the harm? He wasn’t her man, and the way her pussy tingled she convinced herself that he was here to serve only one purpose.

  Arri took him by the hand and walked him into her apartment. As she turned to close the door, he pulled her to his chest and whispered against her lips, “I was at Dextra’s and I hope you like curry chicken.”

  Arri couldn’t resist his lips pressed against hers, so she slid her tongue into his mouth and kissed him. Moments later it clicked. “What?” she broke their kiss, “What did you say?”

  His lips lingered against hers for a moment longer. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like to eat.” He turned toward the hallway and lifted a plastic bag with Thank You written on the front and filled with Wes
t Indian cuisine.

  “Eat?” Arri swallowed and the weight of her hard nipples felt like rocks. “You came over here to eat?” she asked, surprised.

  “And to talk.” He gave her devilish grin. “Why, did you have something else in mind?”

  Arri looked around her living room. She swallowed hard, her pussy was so wet he could swim in it, and here he wanted to dine? She had a good mind to ask him to leave. “Sure,”—she reached for her robe that lay across the couch—“let’s eat.”

  “You don’t have to put that on,” Lyfe insisted as he pointed to Arri’s robe.

  “See, you playin’.” Arri laughed, sliding her robe on and tying it tightly around her waist. She led him to the kitchen and as Arri placed the food on the table some of the gravy splashed on her chest and dribbled down her cleavage. “Oh … wow.” She looked at Lyfe and smirked. “Can you reach for a paper towel?”

  “Sure.” He handed it to her.

  “My hands are full,” she thrusted her bosom toward his face, “can you get it for me?”

  “See,” he gently wiped the gravy from her bursting cleavage, “now you playin’.”

  Arri set the table with plates, food, and glasses of merlot.

  They started to eat and Lyfe said, “The next time I come over—”

  “Oh, you coming over again?”

  Lyfe smiled, “And you gon’ let me in too. Now listen, the next time I want you to cook for me.”

  “Hold it, you’re inviting yourself over and I have to cook for you?” Arri took a bite of her chicken.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The nerve.” She reached her fork into his plate for a taste of his stewed beef.

  “What?”

  Arri laughed. “You can’t be cute and cocky.”

  “Would you have me any other way?”

  “I didn’t know I had you.”

  Before Lyfe could say anything his cell phone rang. He knew by the ring tone that it was Payton.

  “You need to get that?”

  “Nah,” he said, sending Payton’s call to voice mail. He looked back to Arri, who was eating more of his food. “And why are you all in my food?”

  “Why,” she stuck her index finger into the gravy on her plate and placed it to his lips. “You want me to give you something of mine to eat?”

  “Don’t ask me trick questions.” He licked the gravy from her finger; his heated tongue sent chills through her hand.

  While they ate they found themselves talking about everything under the sun, sharing funny memories and purposely leaving out the humorless ones. “Where does your sister live now?” Lyfe asked.

  Arri walked over to the kitchen window and pointed between the black iron bars. “See that corner over there, that’s her living room.” She then pointed to the alleyway and continued, “And over there is where she sleeps.”

  “Damn … it’s like that?” Lyfe said, flabbergasted.

  Arri looked at Lyfe as if he had lost his mind. “She gets high and she damn sure can’t live here. Hell, she used to sneak my mom’s weed and shit and smoke it.”

  “Damn … so why did you stay here?”

  “After all the bullshit, I guess this is home.”

  “I see,” he nodded.

  Arri didn’t like where this was going. All this talk about her sister and her past was blowing the high she had from Lyfe’s enchanting aura.…

  She got up to clear the table, and then headed into the living room and turned on the TV. She called to Lyfe, “Are you coming?”

  Lyfe stared at her; he knew she’d purposely changed the subject so he rolled with it. “Sure.”

  When he reached the living room Lyfe pointed to the TV. “Oh, hell yeah, Star Trek is on.”

  “Boy,” she laughed, as they lay together on the couch, neither one of them thinking twice about the position they naturally assumed. Arri pushed her back to Lyfe’s chest, “What you know about Darth Vader and Spock?”

  Lyfe chuckled as he wrapped Arri in his arms. “First off, Darth Vader is from Star Wars, Willis, and Spock was a li’l Mexican named Gomez on Star Trek.”

  Arri fell out laughing, his delicious cologne made love to her nose, “Yo’ ass is silly. Now, you may have me on the Darth Vader, but Spock’s last name Gomez? Please, he was a Jenkins.”

  “Pretty girl, you watch too many movies. Don’t listen to Eddie Murphy, listen to me. Spock was Mexican and when immigration came looking for him he ran to space.”

  Arri laughed so hard she cried. “Please be quiet.”

  “Let me ask you a question.” Lyfe stroked her hair. “You ever think about running away and never coming back?”

  Arri turned in his arms to face him. “No,” she said seriously. “If I ran away, then I’d be just like Darlene and Samara.”

  “Who was Darlene?”

  “My mother, who left me and my sister here to fend for ourselves.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “What?” Lyfe said, stunned. “Who did you live with? Who took care of you?”

  “What do you mean? I took care of me. Don’t worry, I was a good girl,” she said sarcastically. “I went to school every day.”

  Lyfe sighed. “Damn … I wish I could have known you then, protected you.”

  “Don’t,” Arri said, as a memory of Ian once saying the same thing crept into her mind. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  “How do you know what I can’t keep.”

  “Because I’ve heard that before.”

  “Not from me.”

  “Let’s just chill,” she said, “because by morning I’m sure you’ll no longer be mad with your wife and you’ll be out of here.”

  “I’m here because I want to be here.”

  “Then let’s chill, please.” She kissed him on the lips.

  “You have a bad habit of running away from shit that you really need to deal with. But I’ma let you get that.” He responded to her kisses. “Especially since I know you can’t resist me.”

  “What?” Arri smirked.

  “Who could resist me; after all, I’m fine as hell.” He nibbled against her neck.

  “You are really on your own sack right now.”

  “I’m just stating a fact. And you know it; look at me and tell me I’m not fine.”

  Arri drank in every ounce of him and just when she was about to tell him he was average-looking—nothing to write home about—the truth took over her mouth, and she said, “You’re fine as hell … but you don’t look better than me.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he joked, “you know you all up on me, girl.”

  “Oh, please, Mr. Yuppie Stalker, you broke your ass up in here, so don’t get carried away.” She waved her finger.

  Lyfe kissed her earlobe and smacked her on the ass. “You wanted me to stalk you. And let me check you on this real quick: I am far from being yuppie or whatever other titles you keep tossing in my face.”

  “Oh please.”

  “Please, what? I’m serious.”

  “So you from the hood in California and somehow floated to the top. I get it, so spare me the ‘I’m still down’ shit. It’s wearing thin.” Arri knew what she’d said might’ve come off a little harsh—this was her boss after all—but after all this talk about Darlene, Samara, and thoughts of Ian, she wasn’t in the best control of her emotions. The pain of being abandoned by everyone she’d loved was a festering wound deep down in her chest, so she continued.

  “So while you were off living the high life with your trophy wife, do you know what I’ve been doing? I’ve learned that at the end of the day, no matter how hard I try, cry, or aim to please, nobody owes me a motherfuckin’ thing. Period. Okay? So please stop pretending, because we both know that you being hood or knowing what struggling is doesn’t go beyond the city you once lived in and you remembering how to speak slang.”

  Lyfe swallowed the digs she’d just carved into his chest. He cleared his throat and said,
“Hear me on this, all of this fat ass,” he smacked her ass, “got me a li’l open, but I ain’t on it to the point of pretending. I came from nothing. Absolutely nothing. I don’t even know if the house we lived in as kids was ours or an abandoned, city-condemned shack that my mother stumbled upon and had us all squat in.”

  “Lyfe—”

  “I’m talking,” he said sternly. “Now let me put you on to something you don’t need to forget; I’m a grown-ass man and I don’t have to impress you with bullshit, I know who I am and if you have a problem with it, then fuck it.”

  Arri sighed; it was not supposed to go south like this and she knew she needed to be cool and enjoy the warmth of lying in his arms. Especially since this was the tightest, yet the gentlest, she’d been held in years. His arms fit completely around her and she loved the way her head felt against his chest—beautifully protected, like she didn’t have to worry about falling, or failing, or fucking up, because finally she’d found the man that her mother spoke to her about that Easter—one of the few days she’d ever seen Darlene sober—the very man her mother told her would come looking for her. She’d found him, ball and chained and someone else carrying his last name … but she’d found him.

  And she knew by lying in his defined arms that she needed to just let the chips fall where they may. And she had to hurry and live this experience, before the fear of falling in love again snuck in and shut her emotions down, before that moment came when she would tell her heart to kiss her ass, and that being in the arms of this man—this married man, her married boss—was a bunch of dumb, ridiculous, and predictable shit.

  “I’m sorry,” spilled from her lips.

  “Accepted,” he said, kissing her on her forehead. “Now listen”—he pointed to the TV and restored the lighter tone of their conversation—“see the black chick on Star Trek?”

  Arri turned back toward the TV. “Yeah,” she said as a smile oozed through her voice. “What about her?”

  “You know Spock was hittin’ her off.”