Smooth Operator

by Risqué

  He looked in his rearview mirror and Keenan flashed the car’s headlights. Lyfe hopped out of his car and walked to the trunk, where he had a duffel bag filled with twenty million in cash.

  Lyfe looked Keenan over, as he approached the car. He wanted nothing more than to whup his fuckin’ ass. Hands-down.

  “See what washing money can do for you.” Keenan smiled, while Galvin stood back and watched.

  “Look,” Lyfe snapped, “I ain’t washed shit. So let’s just get that straight.” He handed him the duffel bag and said, “It’s all there.”

  Keenan unzipped the bag and smiled at Lyfe. “Trust if it’s not all here, we certaintly know where to find you. Nice doing business with you.”

  “Anderson Global,” Galvin smiled, “the world’s best-kept secret.”

  Once Lyfe was certain they were gone, he drove to the small airport on the outskirts of the city to meet Arri.

  She stood outside of the hangar, waiting for him, with a sleepy Zion holding on to her leg. Lyfe walked over to her and kissed her on the lips. “One more stop and then this is over.”

  California

  Nina Simone’s “Summertime” spun into the California night and played wickedly as a backdrop for Payton’s thoughts as she raced up the winding coastal roads of Los Angeles. Everything had gone wrong. Everything. It was all fucked—had all blown up—and nothing was as it should’ve been. She’d made three deadly mistakes since she’d been in California and became Payton: trusting a longtime lover a little too long, mistrusting his ass a little too late, and marrying for love. All of which she would soon resolve.

  She didn’t deserve this—to be in this type of pain—not when she’d been born the puppeteer. She had the world dancing on her strings and suddenly and without warning the strings were wrapped around her neck. Nevertheless, the choke hold would begin to end today, because there was no way in hell she would be etched into the stone of history lynched like this.

  The cigarette she smoked dangled between her fingers, and the ashes blew into the wind as she whipped around a sharp curve, doing her best to outrun the haunting thoughts stampeding through her mind. She could still hear the echo of Lyfe’s words.

  She should’ve listened to her mother, who told her when Carlton died to steal the profits and bail, that she didn’t know shit about investment banking, that it wasn’t her domain, or her training. She was raised to work with the deadly power of her pussy, not run a corporation. She was supposed to be the one who upheld the family dynasty.

  After Carlton died, her life was planned. She was lined up to move on to the next wealthy motherfucker—even her next name had been chosen: Chelsea Davis. The new identifications were together, the passports created, and the plastic surgery appointment for a face-lift and a breast augmentation had already been scheduled.

  But what did she do instead?

  She stayed.

  Fell in love.

  Married Lyfe.

  Became high off a new supply of power and prestige, when she should’ve stuck to her generational business; rich black widows, who got in and got out inauspiciously. Instead she became a power fiend who savored the flavor of being in charge.

  She didn’t sign up to make real financial decisions for clients; she didn’t give a fuck about them. That’s why she had a board of directors and top-notch employees. They’d been running the motherfucker; even when Carlton was starting to succumb to heart trouble—courtesy of slowly fed poison—the staff steered the ship, which is why she trusted Quinton. He was a devoted, respectful, and longtime trusted employee who she never dreamed of ever having to fire. And along with bonuses she gave him pussy as a reward for being such a good boy.

  Dianna must’ve seen all of this coming, which is why she held her hand out for money, because the heat of sticking around this motherfucker was worthy of at least a few hundred grand a month.

  Payton flicked the cigarette she smoked from her silver bullet convertible Ferrari over the edge of the open road. She positioned her Moschino bug-eyed goggles on her face just right, tossed the ends of her Chanel scarf behind her shoulders, gripped the steering wheel with both hands as tight as she could, and pressed the gas to the floor until all she could see was lightning whips of road and rock.

  Her brakes screeched and her car jerked once she reached Quinton’s driveway. It was a good thing that he lived on a secluded hill, where there were no neighbors for at least three miles; otherwise she was sure that someone would hear her heart racing in her chest.

  Seeing only Quinton’s car in the driveway, she knew that Dominique hadn’t run her dumb ass back home … at least not yet. Payton hung her purse over her shoulder, grabbed her black studded flogger from the front seat, and exited the car. She peeked at her reflection in the glass and ran her hands along the sides of her black patent-leather trench coat. Her six-inch pencil heels made her ass sit up as she popped her glistening lips together, sauntered toward the front door, and pressed the bell. For a moment she smiled; despite the betrayal, she had to admit that for once—outside of how well she thought Quinton worked within the company … oh, and how good of a stroke he landed against her G-spot—she was impressed with the weight of Quinton’s balls. He’d actually had the nerve to steal from her, and moreover, he actually thought that he would get away with it … and live.

  Payton chuckled a bit, and before she knew it she was belting out hardy resonances of laughter. The nerve of this white-collar, Yale-educated, preppy motherfucker; and here er’body, including her mama, swore that her Compton thug would rob her ass blind.

  Payton heard Quinton approach the door. She leaned against the door frame, and once Quinton filled the doorway she looked him over in his jeans, Ralph Lauren suit jacket, and Polo shirt. It was obvious he was on his way out, at least until she rang his bell.

  “Going somewhere?” Payton gave him a crooked grin as she untied the belt of her trench coat, revealing her in a cupless, glow-in-the-dark latex suit, with a slit that ran from her wet and warm pussy lips to her luscious ass. The same suit she’d worn when she’d first took Quinton’s fucked-up advice of what to do about Lyfe. As a matter of fact, Quinton had been the one to pick out the suit and insist that she wear it to get the ball rolling.

  And she did … and yet here is where it ended.

  Payton enjoyed the feeling of déjà vu. She was certain that this would place Quinton in the very position he wanted Lyfe in: on his back. She flicked the end of her flogger into her right hand.

  Quinton licked his lips and smiled. “Damn.” He inadvertently grabbed his crotch and squeezed it. “I didn’t expect to see you, baby, especially wearing our special suit.” He grabbed her right nipple.

  “Were you getting ready to leave?” She pointed over her shoulder. “I realize that I came without calling.”

  Quinton hesitated. “Hell no, I don’t want you to leave. I’ma single man now and you can stay as long as you want to.” He kissed her on the lips and grabbed her nipple again.

  Payton purred just a little as her pussy creamed. The thought of getting her rocks off and playing God to this bastard all at the same time drove her wild. “Have you already gone to New York and taken care of Lyfe?” he questioned, helping her to remove her coat as she walked into his foyer.

  “I took care of him.” She nodded as she looked around and saw three suitcases lined near the front door. “What’s with the luggage? Were you planning to go somewhere without me?” She chuckled. “You wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye, would you, Quinton?”

  “No, baby.” He nibbled her neck and then took her by the hand, leading her to the bedroom. “I wouldn’t never do no shit like that. Those are things Dominique left behind. Besides, aren’t we supposed to run away together?”

  Payton didn’t respond; instead she followed Quinton and as he led the way she did her best to hide that she was disgusted with the French county décor. It was too cozy, too comfortable, and too goddamn kid-friendly.

  Typical. She shoo
k her head, thinking of Dominique.

  Nothing here said sexy, mystique, arousing. Instead it said: leftovers, soccer meets, hair rollers, and there was no way in hell that Quinton ever got his dick sucked in this motherfucker.

  Payton stepped into Quinton’s and Dominique’s Victorian-style bedroom, with rose wallpaper, matching rose bed linens, and a white wrought-iron headboard. Her eyes skipped around the room and landed on the family portraits on the walls.

  For a moment Payton wondered what it would be like to live like this. To have babies without inducting them into her family business. But as quickly as the thought came was as fast as she dismissed it as bullshit. She wasn’t someone’s mama, her birth name was Deneen Tony, and then she became known as Erica Smite, and then Nora Danes, and Payton Anderson, now known as Payton Carrington … and Payton Carrington was far from naïve and knew that this motherfucker had to be made to sing the devil a lullaby. She placed her shoulder bag on the nightstand, and as Quinton licked between her ass, she squinted her eyes and enjoyed the chills he sent through her body.

  “I’ma miss you,” Quinton moaned as he tossed her salad.

  “Not as much as I’ma miss you,” she said, thrusting her ass into his face.

  A few moments later Quinton lay down on the bed and Payton climbed on top of him. He slid both of her nipples into his mouth and said, “I don’t know what I love most—you, or your nipples in my mouth.”

  Payton attempted to laugh and mush her breasts in his face the way he liked, but she wasn’t in the mood to put her all into it, so instead she reached for her shoulder bag and pulled out a set of handcuffs, shackles, and the red leather noose. She swung them before Quinton’s eyes. A smile ran across his lips and he said, “Look at you, freaky as fuckin’ hell.” He bit her breasts.

  Payton turned around in a sixty-nine position and slid down Quinton’s chest. He began to suck her clit, as she eased his dick between her expanding cheeks. She licked the bulging veins and thick ridges; the music from her lips made an alto smacking beat while she slurped him as if she were granting his last wish.

  After sucking him off for a few moments she shackled his feet. Then she eased back around and cuffed his hands.

  Payton kissed Quinton from the palm of his right hand to his chest, where she sucked his nipples and then moved back down to his dick and graced him with more neck. She could tell by his moaning and panting that he was almost where she needed him to be: comfortably weak so that she could tell him, without hesitation, that this would be the last fuckin’ day on earth he’d see.

  Instead of having him cum in her mouth Payton eased her creamy trenches onto Quinton’s cock and she began to ride him. She flexed her inner walls, causing sugar to pour from within.

  “Payton!” he moaned. “Oh my God, baby, put it around my neck now. Now, baby!”

  “Certainly,” she said evenly, slapping the noose on him and pulling it tight, but not too tight where he couldn’t talk; after all, she did have some things she wanted him to take to his grave.

  Quinton’s chest heaved up and down as he bit into his bottom lip. Payton yanked the noose and he started to gag. “Now tell me,” she said, “why the fuck would you launder money from my company?” She yanked his neck.

  Quinton blinked repeatedly. “What?” he struggled to speak.

  Payton wrapped the end of the noose around her fist tightly and yanked it as if she were rounding up cattle. She could see blood preparing to burst in his face. “I asked you a question. What the fuck made you steal my money? I mean, were you losing your fuckin’ mind? Did you think I would never find out?” she spat. “Speak, motherfucker.”

  He couldn’t speak but the look of his bulging eyes clearly said that he was scared. Buckets of sweat washed over his body.

  “I asked you a question,” she said to him, and slightly loosened her grip.

  “Payton, baby … listen …” He paused. “I’ll admit, okay, okay, that I put some accounts in Lyfe’s name to help, you know, with the setup.”

  “I didn’t need you to do that, I had that covered. But what I didn’t have covered were the accounts in your name.” She yanked his neck again.

  He cried, “I swear to God I’ll tell you where the money is.”

  “Oh please, I’ve already taken my money back. Do you think I would come here to kill you and not have my money first? Now, what I don’t know is why the fuck you would steal from me. Tell me what possessed you to think that would work out for you. You need to learn,” she yanked his neck, “who the fuck you’re dealing with!”

  “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “But please don’t kill me. I ain’t mean that shit. I’m so stupid.”

  “Umm-hmm.”

  “And I swear to God I’ll never do it again.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  “But I have kids, Payton. Two boys.”

  “I wouldn’t give a shit, they’ll kiss you at the casket.”

  “Payton—”

  “You should’ve never tried to play me. You thought I was stupid, that you could simply run all over me and take every fuckin’ thing I owned. Oh hell, no, honey. Not the way it works and not the way it’s gon’ work. I’m the judge, the jury, and my noose here is the justice department.” She yanked it tightly around his neck and watched him gag to death.

  Once Quinton’s neck hung low and his eyes stood frozen, Payton placed her two fingers on his neck and checked his pulse. Nothing.

  She thought of removing her trusted devices but then figured, fuck it. She decided to leave Dominique—who she was certain would be bringing her desperate ass back any day now—some souvenirs to keep.

  Payton slid her trench coat on and stepped to the full-length mirror to ensure that she was as beautiful leaving as she’d been coming in. She turned back to Quinton and pressed her cherry Chanel–covered lips to his forehead. “Mother always said, ‘Go hard or go to hell.’?”

  Dominique had driven around the southern coast of California, unsettled and uncomfortable for a week. She’d been from one five-star hotel suite to the next, trying to decide if she wanted to stay in California or attempt to strike out on her own again—take her twins, and move to another part of the earth. South of France, Morocco, Alpine, New Jersey … somewhere—anywhere—far away. She had enough stashed to make it happen and she desperately needed to live away from him, so that she could get to experience what normalcy would be like.

  But then again, if she were to truly leave here and leave Quinton, how would she prove that she was truly the bitch he shouldn’t have fucked over? She looked up the stretch of the freeway and peeped in her rearview mirror at her sleeping sons and thought: What about all the work I’ve put into my marriage? Cooking for this motherfucker, accepting his cheap-ass ways, folding my pride and tucking it in my ass pocket to ask him for money—because he was too cheap to give me a dime.

  A life filled with nothing; but then again, it was filled with something: she had his demands:

  Don’t work—I want you home when I get here. Don’t make too many friends—I want your focus on me. Don’t have the house messy—you’re home all day, you can keep it clean. Don’t have my dinner ready one minute after six—I want it at six. And don’t get pregnant again—we have enough children with the twins.

  And yeah, her soul constantly craved, and complained, and ached, but none of that meant that she should walk out on her marriage and give her husband away to the next bitch. Not when she’d borne two of his children at the same goddamn time. Not when she’d disregarded her goals, given up her individuality to become a part of him—getting in wherever she could fit in, faking the funk at public appearances, acting as if they had the perfect marriage, when the only vow still standing was “till death do us part” (and even that was moments away from the inferno).

  And definitely not when she had that shitty-ass prenuptial agreement.

  Fuck that.

  Dominique pressed the accelerator to the floor of her Mercedes minivan and headed up the fr
eeway toward Hollywood Hills.

  In thirty minutes flat she was pulling into her driveway. “Josiah, Malachi,” she looked into her rearview mirror at her sleeping twins, “wake up, sweeties.”

  Josiah stretched and shook his brother’s shoulder. “Where are we, Mommy?” He wiped his eyes.

  “We’re home.” Dominique hopped out of the van and pressed the remote to open the doors.

  “You said we weren’t coming back,” Malachi said.

  “We’ll, we’re back. Mommy has some business to take care of, and besides, I’m sure Daddy misses us.”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  The boys ran to the front door and pushed it open.

  Dominique shook her head. “Your father has a terrible habit of leaving the door unlocked,” she said, more to herself than to them.

  Dominique’s heels clicked against the wood floor as she entered the foyer. She sent the boys to their rooms to change into their pajamas. “I’ll be up there to read you a story in a minute,” she yelled behind them, walking toward the ground-floor master suite. She approached the doorway and could tell by the reeking of perfume that Quinton had had his mistress here—or the bitch was still here, riding his dick at this very moment.

  She shook her head in disbelief that he would be so fuckin’ disrespectful as to have his mistress in her home and in her bed. For a moment she wondered if she needed to grab a knife and slice one of these bitches, but then she remembered the video camera she’d planted in her bedroom and figured she would have to kick ass with her bare hands. She pushed the double doors to their master suite open and immediately Dominique lost her breath. She knew she had to be mistaken, so instinctively she closed her eyes tight and opened them quickly. Nothing about the vision had changed and there lay Quinton—dead: handcuffed and shackled to the bed, a red leather noose pulled tight around his neck, and fresh cum covering his still dick.