The Pleasure Trap

by Niobia Bryant

  He had been weak then. Just a little boy going to church the way his mother said little boys should. He hadn’t deserved to suffer from whatever perverted sickness or weakness Lionel had inside.

  Pleasure wasn’t at all surprised by the tear he felt race down his cheek and fall into his lap. He was crying for the little boy too afraid to speak and for the awareness that his silence had probably led to other little boys being hurt as well. He clenched his jaw as tightly as he clenched his fist just before he pounded it on his dash.

  For the first time in years, his craving for cocaine was so strong that he knew he would’ve relapsed. He would’ve given up years of being clean to get out of this moment. Out of his head. Out of his pain. Out of his memory.

  “Father God,” he prayed, turning to a foundation he had long since left behind.

  The sound of a horn blaring behind him shook him visibly and he shifted his eyes away from the house and up to the rearview mirror. There was a row of cars behind him, all detoured away from the parade route and just trying to make it to their destination.

  He blocked them.

  Taking in large, deep breaths, he forced himself to accelerate and move out of the past, figuratively and literally.

  Pleasure drove the remaining two blocks to his parents’ home and parked on the driveway behind his father’s motorcycle. The sight of it made him smile, and he needed a reason to feel good. A picture of his mother and father atop the Harley did just the trick.

  You did it. Something fucked up happened to you, but you made it through.

  Right?

  Climbing from the truck, he swallowed over a lump in his throat and hoped he was right.

  “Mr. Lover Lover . . .”

  Sitting back down onto the driver’s seat, Pleasure picked up his trick phone from the console. He was disappointed that the number wasn’t Jaime—Miss Prim and Proper Pearls. She was the only client he was dealing with outside of Smyth. She didn’t know that, and that was fine by him. It helped to maintain that line that so often blurred between them.

  Jaime had not called. Not for an entire six months. And he had noticed. Even as he enjoyed the lifestyle Smyth afforded, finished his first semester of college with a 3.975 GPA, and even enjoyed a trip to Paris over winter break where Smyth purchased him a suite beneath the one she shared with her husband, still he noticed that she never called. There were dozens upon dozens of calls from women who clamored for some of the “Pleasure Principle.”

  But her call never came. And he noticed. And he didn’t like that he noticed.

  Then one night when he was walking into Club Trick, she was sitting there in her car. Waiting for him. He played it cool and cocky, but on the inside he had been happy for her reappearance and even happier when she solicited his services.

  “How much?” she asked.

  “How long?” he countered.

  “The rest of the night . . . if you can,” she said.

  “Five bills. Midnight,” he said, remembering to make the line clear.

  It had been on ever since. She couldn’t get enough of the dick, and truth be told, he couldn’t get enough of her. Somewhere in the midst of that six months that she’d disappeared, she had changed. She was more bold and confident and aware of her sexiness. She was like a butterfly free of the confines of the cocoon.

  He knew she had left her husband and there was some drama about a friend possibly sleeping with him. He didn’t know the details and he didn’t care. All he knew was she had her own place—a town house—and they spent quite a bit of time together. He didn’t even charge her when he initiated the sex play.

  He hadn’t done that since Assefa, and with her that was because he had something to prove. Now he did it because there were times when he just wanted to be with her. He wanted to experience her. Taste her. Fuck her. Make love to her. Be with her.

  And that chemistry that blew his mind that first time in the little back room was still there pulsing between them with a life all its own.

  He reached the bottom step and then turned to head back to the truck with a smile on his face that deepened his dimples. He unlocked the vehicle and reached for the phone to dial her number.

  “Surprise, surprise,” she said. “No one else buying up your time today?”

  “Just had a cancellation,” he lied. “You want this dick or not?”

  “I got wet as soon as I saw your number,” Jaime countered.

  He shook his head. So very different from Miss Prim and Proper Pearls—or at least his preconceived ideas of her.

  “I’ll be there ’round eight,” he calculated.

  “Ah. The dicking hour,” she teased.

  With a chuckle, he ended the call, not bothering to say another word.

  Tossing the phone back onto the console, his iPhone— aka the Smyth phone—vibrated in his pocket at just that moment.

  As he answered the call, his mother stepped out onto the porch and waved him over. “Hey, Smyth,” he said, raising his hand to his mother.

  “I’m at the apartment, where are you?”

  “I spend Sundays with my parents, remember?” he said.

  “Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “Baldwin’s off doing only God knows what, and I was lonely.”

  That was a hint and a half for him to ditch his parents and hightail it back to New York.

  Pleasure was a little over a month from finishing his first year of college. Between his classes, making time for Jaime, still working at the club, and Smyth’s demands, he barely had time to see his parents. He actually looked forward to their Sundays together, and normally Smyth was preoccupied with her husband.

  Still, she paid him very well and he agreed to the terms. He was breaking enough of the rules with his trysts with Jaime.

  “I’ll be there in a couple of hours,” he promised, figuring he could get back enough in time to satisfy her, take a nap, and reboot his energy for Jaime later that night.

  “Good,” she said firmly.

  He left all three cell phones in the truck and securely locked the door before finally climbing the stairs and walking inside to share some time with his family.

  Pleasure entered the upscale building and barely glanced at Smyth’s husband Baldwin as he stood in the hall awaiting the elevator. The man barely spared him a glance as well.

  What did take Pleasure aback was Baldwin stepping on the elevator with him and not using the one to the far right reserved for the penthouse residents. Stepping on, he started to reach to push the button for his floor, but stopped when Baldwin pushed it before him.

  Pleasure shifted in his stance, towering over the man by nearly seven inches, as he wondered just what was unfolding before him.

  “You didn’t select your floor,” Baldwin said, his black hair raked off his face.

  Pleasure looked down at him. “That’s the one,” he said with a lift of his chin toward the door panel.

  He faced forward but he could see in the reflection provided by the metal walls that Baldwin slid his hands into the pockets of his chinos and stared up at Pleasure for a long time.

  Am I gonna have to whup Smyth’s husband’s ass?

  The elevator slid to a stop and Pleasure let the other man step into the hallway first. Not out of fear or deference. He wanted to see just where he was headed. His suspicions were soon confirmed as Baldwin walked up to the door and knocked.

  Here we go.

  Pleasure removed his key from his pocket. “Can I help you?” he said politely, using his most refined voice.

  “You live here?” Baldwin asked, pointing his finger to the door.

  “Excuse me,” Pleasure said, and then patiently waited for the man to step aside before he unlocked the door.

  Baldwin’s blue eyes widened.

  “A friend of my parents is renting the apartment to them so I can stay here while I attend NYU,” Pleasure lied flawlessly. “There’s not a problem, is there?”

  Baldwin cleared his throat and rocked on his heel
s. “No, no. My wife, Smyth, owns this apartment,” he said.

  Pleasure pretended to look surprised. “Oh, all this time I thought Smyth was a dude,” he said.

  Just as he suspected he would, Baldwin looked relieved that the six-foot-nine, handsome Black man before him had never met his wife to distinguish Smyth from Smith.

  Pleasure opened the door a bit but held on to the doorknob securely. He had no clue if Smyth was inside or any of her lingerie still was lying about from one of their prior dalliances. “It was very nice to meet you,” Pleasure said politely. . . dismissively.

  Baldwin took the hint. “Uh, yes, nice to meet you as well . . .”

  “Mikel,” he said, supplying the alias he sometimes used for members of his clientele who insisted on knowing his real name.

  “Yes, nice to meet you, Mikel.”

  Pleasure stood in the doorway, completely aware of his and Smyth’s boldness, as he watched her husband finally take his leave. He remained there until he heard the elevator doors open and then close.

  Turning, he entered the apartment and shook his head at the sight of Smyth lounging on the padded cushion of one of the window ledges looking casually elegant in a crisp French blue shirt and jeans with flat navy patent leather shoes.

  “I just met your husband at the door,” Pleasure said, dropping his key on the table by the door.

  Smyth shrugged. “Perhaps now I will go and knock on the door of his whore and ask her if she plans to have the baby she’s carrying,” she said sadly, before turning to look out the window. “Baldwin really shouldn’t have fucked with me.”

  Pleasure strolled over to stand beside her, raising his hand to stroke her nape.

  “And neither should you.”

  His hand froze midair.

  Smyth looked up at him as she turned to rest her feet on the floor before she crossed her slender legs. “Really?” she asked, sounding bored.

  Pleasure stepped back from her.

  “Where should we begin... Graham?” she asked.

  He felt his stomach clench. He’d never told her his real name. She always gave him his allowance in cash. He’d been very careful to protect that.

  She shook her head woefully as she rose from the bench just enough to remove yet another file to open.

  Pleasure calmly walked across the room and picked up one of the dining room chairs to carry back over to sit down before her. Smyth was no more than one hundred and twenty pounds but the figurative fat lady was singing, and he owed her this final song without interruption.

  “Kicked out of high school for fighting. A GED. Cocaine addiction. Rehab. Stripping at Club Trick . . . in Newark, of all places,” she said sarcastically, glancing over at him briefly.

  He waited.

  “You’ve been selling yourself for years—”

  “That’s how we met,” he inserted smoothly.

  Smyth leaned back and eyed him in reproach.

  His look never wavered.

  “Thank God you’re tested for diseases every three months,” she said, whipping the folder back open.

  “Does it have my blood type and parental DNA tests as well?” he asked in clipped tones, the invasion of his privacy getting to him.

  “Type O. You get it from your father,” she answered without hesitation.

  He furrowed his brow.

  “What was most revealing is Ms. Jaime Pine-Hall.”

  He looked away, shifted in his seat, and then looked back at her. He was surprised at the tears gathering in her eyes. “Smyth—”

  “No, no,” she said, holding up one long finger to shake at him in reprimand.

  “My husband had risked all of this,” she began, waving her hand up and down her length, “and most importantly . . . this.” She pointed vigorously at her heart. “For a woman with no breeding, no class, and no looks—as far as I’m concerned. They will have their little ugly baby and I have to sit here and either play blind or wait for him to leave me. That’s not so hard with his dick and one foot already in the streets.”

  “You can leave him, Smyth.” Pleasure reminded her of another option.

  She laughed bitterly and her face lit with fire. It was the most beautiful and vibrant he had ever seen the woman before him. “Don’t you dare give me advice on my marriage,” she spat, flinging the file over at him.

  A corner of it hit his chest before sliding down his body and landing on the floor. He picked it up. His life story would not join Baldwin’s in the safe if he could prevent it.

  “I thought at the very least you would remain loyal since I paid for it, but I thank you for the costly lesson that I’ve learned. I thank you and I thank Baldwin—my two men—for teaching me that money matters not at all when it comes to you whorish motherfuckers being led by your dicks.”

  Pleasure bit his lip to keep from reminding her that she frequently spread her legs to two men—basically giving him and Baldwin carte blanche to tag team the pussy.

  “My husband didn’t care about what all I brought to the table in our marriage, and you couldn’t care less about everything I offered you for your loyalty.” She swiped away her tears with the sides of her hands. “This is a nasty little circle we all have going on here. The five of us: me, my husband and his whore, and you and yours.”

  Pleasure was surprised at how quickly she struck his ire by calling Jaime out of her name.

  “So that’s where you’ve been spending all of your time this last month,” she said. “Ms. Jaime Pine-Hall and her little town house.”

  She rose from the window seat and walked around the living room, touching items of splendor here and there. “You have a choice to make. All of this”—she waved her arm around the apartment and then up and down the length of her body—“or Ms. Jaime Pine-Hall.”

  The protectiveness he felt about Jaime both surprised and disturbed him. Theirs was not a relationship built on concern and care. And for her to frame the ultimatum of Jaime versus Smyth was ridiculous.

  Or was it?

  He thought about the excitement he felt at just the thought of seeing her later. It all was too much like a relationship of sorts, because his gut said “Jaime” without hesitation.

  Shit.

  That blurred line again. He had to fix it. Make it clear.

  But for the more pressing matter at hand...

  “I think we’ve run our course, Smyth,” he said.

  “Really?” she said, her shock evident.

  “I appreciate everything—”

  “Spare me,” she snapped, striding to the door.

  Pleasure stood up with the file rolled up in his hand.

  “You must really love this Jaime Pine-Hall,” she said, stopping by the table to pick up his keys and remove the one that unlocked the door to the apartment. “You have twenty-four hours to get out.”

  And with that she was gone.

  Interlude

  Present Day

  “So you’re going to kill me because we didn’t work out?” he asked as he eyed her sitting on the floor at his feet, slicing sheets of blank paper with her knife.

  She pointed it at him. “Nice and sharp for you, Pleasure,” she said.

  He flinched instinctively.

  “I might just rape you and enjoy that glorious dick you love spreading around the tri-state area,” she said, leaning against the back of the sofa as she set the knife down on the floor.

  “When does this all end?” he asked, his hands and feet tingling with numbness.

  “You ready to die?” she asked.

  “I’m ready for you to get whatever it is you want out of this and let me get on with my life.”

  She spun the knife like a top and watched it whirl on the polished floor. “Your life with her, Pleasure. I was fine with all your other bullshit . . . until her.”

  He remained quiet.

  “You can’t protect her. When I’m done with you. She’s next,” she said with a simplicity that revealed her diminished mental capacity. “Pow-pow-pow.”


  And for the first time in since his ordeal began, he felt true fear fill him. He would gladly give his life for hers but how could he defend her when he was tied to a chair with a whack job as his guard?

  “I have sat back for almost a year. Watched and waited for this chance, and now it’s here,” she said, rising to her feet to sit on his lap and roughly grab his chin.

  She uncurled her tongue and he jerked his head back to avoid her kissing him. Her brown eyes lit with fiery anger. “You promised me that we would be together, Pleasure,” she said. “You liar.”

  “I never promised anyone forever,” he said truthfully.

  WHAP.

  Yet another slap that stung.

  “You’re going to wish you never fucked with me,” she whispered harshly.

  I already do.

  “You and that bitch can talk about me in hell,” she said, mushing his face before rising from his lap.

  He knew exactly of whom she spoke.

  Chapter 19

  Jaime

  2013

  Jet lag is a bitch.

  Pleasure slid his aviator shades back into place on his face as soon as the Tahoe pulled to a stop outside his Jersey City apartment. He opened his door and stepped out onto the sidewalk before his driver could even come around to open it for him. As he did wait for the driver to retrieve his leather garment bag on wheels, he smoothed the pockets of the blue linen blazer he wore with a crisp plaid shirt and dark-wash denims. He checked the time on his Piaget watch and brushed his dreads back off his shoulders.

  Thirty never looked so good.

  “Here you go, sir,” the driver said, sitting the luggage on the sidewalk.

  Pleasure reached for his billfold and pulled a twenty-dollar bill to hand the man. “Have a good day, sir,” he said politely, then turned to walk across the wide sidewalk before the upscale high-rise apartment building overlooking the Hudson riverfront.

  He smiled at the white-gloved doorman as he entered the lobby with its Italian granite and wood finishes. It was a long way from the apartment he’d shared with his father in New York.