He spun, causing his robe to fly up around him before he eased out of it and flung it back. He turned to show off his hard buttocks and square back as he grinded to the music. When he spun back around the light coming through the open door caught his eye and moments later, she stepped out of the darkness of the back of the room and into the dim light around the stage.
Since the night of that bachelorette party, Ms. Prim and Proper Pearls had come to Club Trick for its ladies’ night performances. He recognized her easily. She stood out with her pearls and pumps and country-club attire. She would nervously sit on the edge of her seat and watch his performance like a hawk. Whenever he approached her for a private dance she would timidly reach out to slide a fifty-dollar bill inside the rim of his thong as he gyrated his dick before her.
He smiled at her as he cockily walked forward and stroked the length of his dick inside his sleeve. She crossed her legs in the jean trousers she wore with a navy and red sheer polka-dot blouse.
She always came just in time for his solo performance and never stayed any later. In her everyday life he could tell she lived within the confines of rules and regulations with a great sense of right versus wrong. She was giving in to a temptation—a dirty secret—and it thrilled her. He thrilled her. She was there just for him and he knew it. He liked it.
The next day Pleasure parked his Corvette outside the quaint small house Quinn rented in Chappaqua, a city just ten miles from his apartment in Tarrytown. He spotted her Honda Accord in the driveway as he climbed from the deep bucket seat. He smiled a bit when he remembered her joking about getting in and out of the low-slung sports car. She was right.
He stepped up on the curb and walked the brick path leading to her front door. It opened before he could even knock and Quinn stood in the doorway with her face free of her usual makeup and dressed in a tank top and wide-legged sweatpants.
“So you remember where I live?” she asked, stepping back to let him enter.
Pleasure didn’t miss that her eyes were puffy and slightly red. That made him frown in confusion, but he cleared his throat before turning to face her as she shut the door. “I thought we needed to talk,” he said, pushing his hands into the pockets of his lightweight linen sports coat.
“About what?” she asked, moving to fold herself onto the suede sectional before her cold fireplace.
Pleasure removed his jacket and draped it over the back of the couch, leaving his white V-neck shirt exposed as he pulled up the linen slacks before sitting down on the sofa across from her. “I’m not saying my side hustle is something for me to get up in church and testify about, but it is my life and my decision,” he stressed, crossing his fingers in the air between his knees.
Quinn sat cross-legged and rested her forearms atop her knees. “Look . . . I apologize for going in your phone. That was wrong—I was wrong.”
“True,” Pleasure interjected and then held up his hands when she gave him an irate stare.
“I just think you’re so much better than that, Graham,” she said as she lifted her shoulder-length curls from her neck.
“You know me, Quinn, but there’s a lot you don’t know,” he admitted. “This world does not owe me any more pussy. I’m young. I’m having fun. I’m good. Trust me. Sex and money are not the two worst things I’ve loved in my life.”
“Don’t you want more?” she asked.
Oh shit. Pleasure sat back a bit as he saw a light in Quinn’s brown eyes that made things so much clearer to him. “Um, no, I don’t. Having to be accountable to someone else is more than I’m willing to deal with right now. I still have urges to get high. When I hit a mental wall, especially when I’m angry, I have to catch myself from thinking, ‘Man, hell with it. Let me go get fucked up and forget all this bullshit,’ ” he said, hoping he clearly conveyed why a girlfriend was the very last thing he wanted or needed.
Quinn leaned back and propped her elbow on the back of the chair as she eyed him. She opened and closed her mouth a dozen times, showing she was struggling to say something.
No, Quinn. Don’t.
“Look, are we good?” he asked, rising to his feet and picking up his jacket.
She nodded. “We’re good,” she said, rising to walk him to the door.
Pleasure felt if he could just reach the door and made it to the other side than Quinn would not dare ask him—
“So you’ve never thought of us together.”
Pleasure closed his eyes and dropped his head so low to his chest that his chin almost rested on the top of a bicep. They’d just officially slid into the cliché zone. Shit. Damn. Why, Quinn, why?
“Graham,” she said again.
He turned as he slid his jacket on and looked down at her. “No,” he admitted, shaking his head regretfully. “I never did because I wouldn’t want to lose you as a friend.”
She was in love with him. He’d let his needs for a nonsexual outlet lead to him overlooking the affection she had for him. Feelings he didn’t share.
Quinn crossed her arms over her chest. “Thinking about it and acting toward it is two different things. So you never looked at me in that way?” she asked, her big brown eyes disbelieving.
It was his turn to open and close his mouth as he struggled for words.
“Not once?” she asked with attitude as she arched a brow.
“Quinn—”
“So you blind or just dumb?” she asked, waving her hand up and down the length of her body. “Because all of this was hard-earned. Trust and believe that.”
“Quinn—”
She held up her hands. “No, I’m cool. I’m good. I’m chill. I’m straight,” she said with a smile too big to be authentic.
“You sure?” Pleasure asked, his voice filled with the disbelief he felt.
She nodded.
He reached out and lightly caressed her cheek. “I’ll call you later,” he said.
She nodded again.
He opened the front door.
“What’s your rate?” she asked in a rush.
Pleasure heard her but he left the house like he didn’t. He pulled the door closed but she was on the other side fighting to open it. He released it and moments later he could hear her stumbling backward and crashing into something.
Pleasure stood on the porch deciding whether to go check on her or not. Damn. Just as he turned, the door opened and Quinn stepped out onto the porch to stand beside him.
“So the strangers are okay,” she said, her voice weepy. “Just not me, right?”
Everything between them became different.
Pleasure felt guilt and irritation nipping at him. “I’m sorry, Quinn,” he said honestly. “But this is too much for me.”
He turned and walked down the path to the sidewalk.
“Graham,” she called behind him.
“I’ll call you,” he called over his shoulder.
“Graham.”
“I’ll call you,” he repeated the lie.
He climbed in his car and cranked the car speeding off before she could reach the curb.
Interlude
Present Day
He was ashamed of the way he’d treated Quinn all those years ago. Back then he considered it holding on to his sobriety when he eventually stopped answering her calls and then moved to a larger apartment complex without giving her the new address. Today, he knew he had just taken the easy way out and his actions had hurt her. He could only assure himself that removing himself from the picture had left her open to fall for someone else.
But had his rejection of her love—and in time, her friendship—warranted such drastic actions?
“Don’t do this, Quinn,” he said, his eyes locked on where she was flipping through the photo album his mother gave him for Christmas. She didn’t flinch or look up.
“Yet another nice try, Pleasure,” she said, before flipping a page.
A nice try was right. He didn’t seriously consider his captor to be Quinn but he wasn’t willing to at least make su
re. He let his head fall back as he looked at his pristine white tray ceiling. He opened his mouth and took a deep breath before he roared so loudly in frustration that his throat hurt when he was done. He allowed his body to go slack in the chair as his chest heaved from the exertion.
WHAP!
He jerked his head up to see the large family album on the floor. She eyed him as she kicked it viciously, sending it sliding across the floor like a tornado on a treacherous path.
He was sick of her shit. He was beyond sick of all the bullshit.
“What do I have to do to get the fuck out of here?” he yelled, the veins of his neck protruding.
“Be rolled out in a body bag,” she answered calmly as she reached over the back of the sofa and lifted a small black book bag.
“This is crazy,” he told her.
“Crazy?” she snapped, her eyes wide inside the holes of the mask. “I’m not crazy, you slack-ass slut.”
“You beyond fucking crazy,” he shot back.
“FUCK YOU,” she shouted, striding across the room and swinging the bag to slam it across the side of his face.
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from hollering out even as pain radiated across his face, the back of his head, and his upper shoulder.
“You think I care if y’all say I’m crazy,” she said in a hoarse whisper as she nudged his forehead with her finger. “Huh? Fuck all y’all, Pleasure.”
Y’all? Huh?
He ignored the radiating pain and eyed her as he continued to try to work his wrists to loosen the ties. They hadn’t given an inch.
“You ain’t even begun to see crazy, smart-ass.”
She squatted down to drop the bag on the floor and jerked it open as she continued to mumble rapidly under her breath. She extracted a syringe and removed the cap. “Time to dope you up again, Mr. Hercules, before you get all strong and break those ties,” she said, slowly standing over him.
“What is that?” he asked, hating the thought of the needle and its ingredients.
“Just enough Oxycontin to keep your ass in check.”
Pleasure flashed back to his days strung out on coke. He didn’t want to be forced back into addiction. “Don’t do this.”
“And don’t you waste your breath . . .”
Chapter 13
Assefa
2008
I cannot believe this. I still cannot believe this and I probably will never believe this.
Pleasure clasped his hands behind his back as he stood to the right of the groom in his custom-tailored tuxedo. Kezia had taken the time to connect and twist his dreads backward and then secure the ends with a black leather strap. He looked good. He even felt good.
Still . . .
He looked over at his mother and couldn’t believe that she was so beautiful in her off-white lace-covered gown. She smiled at him from beneath her sheer veil, and he forced himself to smile back at her. He knew she had to have the same doubts and questions that he did. She had to.
But she was grown and she’d made the choice to wed. He could do nothing but respect that. Honor it. Back it up.
She was his mother and he loved her. He would fight for her even though there was a time he’d felt so much anger at her that he used to fight others to keep from lashing out. The feelings of anger had dulled, and he had a better understanding for the cause of that anger, and they were better. Much better.
At twenty-six, he had the best relationship with his mother since before the days of “the divorce,” and now she was getting married again. He just wished he could have come to be at peace with her decision. That he was still working on.
He glanced back at the people crowding the church and did a double take at the sight of Geneva sitting in one of the rear pews. He hadn’t seen her since that night at the train station, and the unexpected sight of her made his pulse race. She looked just a little older, but with a maturity and an awareness of self. His heart tugged and he knew that was a little of the love he would always carry for her.
He forced himself to look forward as her father officiated over the wedding ceremony, but twice more he glanced back at her. Is she married? Still a virgin? Excited to see me?
“What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder,” Reverend Garrett read from his leather-bound Bible. “Well . . . again.”
The wedding attendees laughed lightly.
Pleasure forced a smile, looking on as the minister pronounced them man and wife. “You may kiss the bride,” he said.
He looked on as his father and mother turned to face each other. Tylar raised Cara’s veil and then pressed his hands against her jawline as she tilted her face upward for his kiss, which deepened as he wrapped his arms around her.
His parents had wed again.
After years of warring and fighting and accusing and avoiding, they had somehow rediscovered love a year ago and decided to do it all over again.
If this ain’t the craziest shit—sorry, God.
This used to be the dream of his teenage years, and now as a grown man who had personally seen his father dog more women than any one man should be allowed, he didn’t want him to pull his stunts with his mother... again. He loved them both and he didn’t want to choose sides. The reverend cleared his throat and lightly patted his father’s lower back. As his parents finally pulled apart to the applause of everyone looking on, Pleasure looked down and saw the reverend had extended his hand to him.
He looked down into the man’s eyes and wanted so badly to say, “I’m not the skinny kid you thought wasn’t good enough for your daughter, am I?” But he didn’t.
Pleasure wanted to brush past him. But he didn’t.
He slid his hand into Reverend Garrett’s and tightly squeezed it just having to have that moment of dominance over the man before he turned to follow his parents down the aisle. His eyes immediately went to the spot where Geneva had been sitting, but she wasn’t there any longer.
He felt relief.
The truth was that although he was the one selling his wares to women, in his eyes his father was the true whore. He didn’t want to treat any woman he was in a relationship with the way his father had. Therefore, for now, until he was ready, he slept with attractive women and made money doing so, but all rules were laid out beforehand. All cards were on the table, and there was no chance of anyone being fooled or hurt or cheated.
Sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks, Pleasure looked on as everyone left the church and surrounded his parents to offer hugs, kisses, and well wishes. They waved him over as the photographer worked his way through the crowd to them. Pleasure followed his parents’ lead, not at all missing the appreciative stares of many of the women—young and old. As he moved through the crowd, he towered over the women and many of the men. He was a hard figure to ignore.
Bzzz . . .
He pulled his trick phone from the inner pocket of his tuxedo blazer. It was a cheap throwaway prepaid phone. He didn’t recognize the number and he had no one scheduled for the day.
“Graham,” his mother complained at the sight of him flipping the phone open.
“It’s work,” he lied. “I’ll be right back.”
Walking away before she could insist he didn’t, he moved to an empty section of the parking lot. “Pleasure,” he said, his voice deep.
“Well, hello, Pleasure,” a sultry voice said. “I understand you’re the man to call about some . . . work I need done.”
He chuckled. “I’m definitely the man,” he said confidently.
“Time will tell that,” she countered smoothly.
Graham could tell from her confidence that she was a woman in her thirties or early forties. Turning to look behind him to make sure he was still alone, he pressed his phone close to his ear to ensure she wasn’t picking up too much of his background noise.
Early on he had learned to talk very little when he was with one of his clients. He revealed nothing about himself and asked only enough of them if he felt
they needed to be warmed up a bit before he laid it down. He didn’t care if they were married or not, had kids or not, liked their jobs or not. He put on no façades. They only knew him as Pleasure, and that was enough.
“Who referred you?” he asked, pulling his aviator shades from his pocket to slip on with one hand.
“MiMi . . . and Georgia . . . and Fran,” she said. “You’re quite the talk over martinis.”
His country-club set. Good money. Damn good money.
“Are you available tonight?” she asked.
“Not until very late,” he said.
“That’s fine. It should make me sleep like a baby.”
Pleasure spotted his father walking toward him. “Text me the address,” he said, keeping his voice smooth even as his heart rate sped up a little.
He closed the phone and slid it back into his pocket as he walked to meet his father.
“Everything okay?” Tylar asked, placing his arm around his son’s shoulders.
“Yeah. No biggie,” Pleasure said, as they walked back toward the church steps where the photographer was positioning his mother and her lone bridesmaid—one of her friends from work—for pictures.
Most of the wedding guests had left the church for the reception while he was on the phone.
“So the dog ready to sit on the porch and watch the cars go by instead of chasing them?” Pleasure asked, looking down at the tip of his handmade Italian leather shoes as they walked together.
Tylar tensed a bit. “Well, with all due respect, son, whatever happens between your mother and me, is between your mother and me . . . but yes, this old dog don’t hunt no more.”
Pleasure slid his hands into his pants pockets. “And with all due respect to you, Dad, remember that she’s not just another woman, she’s my mother, and so I feel how I feel.”
Tylar laughed off his son’s subtle threat. “Like you ready for this,” he quipped, turning to playfully air-box.
The Pleasure Trap Page 14