He's Just A Friend

by Mary B. Morrison

  “Waa. Waa.” She heard crying in the background.

  Oh, hell no! Fancy jumped up from her vanity stool and began pacing the floor. What baby? How old was this wailing kid that sounded like a lamb? Byron was a father, too! Maybe Mrs. Lee was baby-sitting. Or the bitch had Byron’s baby, trying to trap him so he wouldn’t divorce her ass.

  “Hello. Are you there?” Mrs. Lee questioned.

  “Of course I’ll hold.” Fancy smiled to brighten up her voice, then said, “After all, we are a family oriented newspaper group.” Fancy hit the mute button and screamed, “Hurry the fuck up!” then pressed the same button again.

  When she reached the patio door, Fancy turned around. This time she was too angry to cry. When she reached the bedroom door she turned back around. Too pissed off to sweat. She turned back around again. Too upset to stop moving. She turned again.

  “Thanks for waiting. Here’s our information.”

  Racing to the stool, Fancy grabbed her pen. Her naked shoulder pressed the phone to her ear while she listened carefully. She drew a bold letter X across the front of one of her business cards, then wrote Mrs. Lee’s information on the back.

  Byron could be replaced, perhaps by her boss, Harry, but definitely not by her friend Desmond. Finding a man of Byron’s caliber, great looks, and dick stature would be virtually impossible. Byron’s six-foot four-inch, two-hundred-thirty-pound frame appeared to have zero-percent body fat. His dark brown skin was smooth. Each time Byron came to her apartment he drove a Benz, a BMW, a Cadillac, or he was escorted by a driver. Whenever he opened his wallet, all Fancy saw were Benjamins and platinum credit cards.

  Begrudging Mrs. Lee, Fancy said, “Thanks for your subscription.” Fancy gazed at the address so long that her vision blurred. Byron’s address in Oakland Hills—the house he’d given her keys to, the house where they had spent many nights and almost every weekend together, the house she’d partially decorated—was different from the one she’d written down. Mrs. Lee lived in one of the most prestigious areas in Northern California. Cupertino.

  “Excuse me, but isn’t a supervisor supposed to call me back to—”

  Fancy’s inner voice yelled inside her head, Fuck you! right before she hung up the phone. If Fancy had had an ounce of religion, between Byron and Mrs. Lee, she would have truly lost it instead of losing her mind. Fancy ruled out killing Mrs. Lee because of the baby. The Nanny Diaries would read completely different if Fancy Taylor had to care for another woman’s kid. Fancy loved Byron too much to just let him go. But another woman was living under her future roof, married to her future husband. One way or another that bitch had to go!

  CHAPTER 2

  Fancy sat on the edge of her bed staring out her patio window at two Canadian geese flying over Lake Merritt. Her friends thought she was strange because she used her sunken living room as her bedroom. Fancy seldom cared about what other people thought. Both bedrooms combined were smaller than her living room and each bedroom had a morbid view of the Scottish Rite Temple’s asphalt parking lot.

  Mounted next to Fancy’s bed was a silver pole wrapped in red velvet. Fancy had danced on that pole countless times. Sometimes for her male friends. At other times she practiced new moves or simply entertained herself. Fancy taught herself to dance and move like women in the music videos on BET’s 106th and Park because rich men—the only kind she’d date—became bored a lot faster than the men who lived paycheck to paycheck.

  Ruffling her down-feather comforter, Fancy scurried across her king-size bed in search of her ringing phone. One more ring and her voice mail would turn on. SaVoy’s name registered on the display so Fancy quickly answered, “Hey, girl! What’s up?”

  “Just called to see what you’re doing tonight.” SaVoy always sounded happy. Fancy could picture her best friend’s bright smile.

  “Going out. To a gala at the Ritz. With Desmond.”

  “You really need to quit using Desmond. One of these days he’s going to get tired of you playing with his emotions and God only knows what will happen. He’s so nice to you, Fancy. And he’s perfect marrying material—for somebody else—so you should quit before you ruin him. Besides,” SaVoy pleaded, “you’ve partied with the pagans three hundred and sixty-four days this year. Surely you can give one day to the Lord. Forget the gala. Come go with me to church tonight and praise God.”

  Since Fancy didn’t go to church any other time of year, New Year’s Eve was definitely not the time to start. And as far as Desmond was concerned, the way Fancy saw it, she couldn’t use anyone who didn’t want to be used.

  “Girlfriend, you know I love you but this is New Year’s Eve. And from now on, remember this. You’ve only got one life to live. So stop wasting yours trying to live mine. Gotta go. Bye. Call me tomorrow. After three. Oh, yeah. Say a prayer for me.”

  “I always do. By—”

  Fancy hung up the phone and rubbed her growling stomach. There was still enough time to order delivery service on-line from ezdineinn.com so Fancy raced up seven steps—into the should-have-been bedroom that was her office—over to her laptop and charged one dozen oysters on the half shell from Spenger’s to her boss’s American Express card.

  Fancy didn’t cook or sew but her apartment was immaculate. Making her way to the adjacent bedroom that she’d converted into a closet, Fancy stood inside a space that resembled a miniature Saks store. Roll-away racks filled with expensive clothing were scattered about the room.

  Name brand shoes were stacked high on shelves. Fancy removed the frequently used stepladder from behind the door, and scanned the photos stapled to the front of each shoe box. “Ah, there you are. Come to Mama,” she said, choosing her designer stilettos with the rhinestone-covered heels.

  More shoes—jogging, hiking, aerobic, cross-country—and her Roller Blades, lined the floor, neatly flush against the baseboard, sorted by color. The two thousand dollars for her rent was paid. This month. Her hair weave and nails were freshly done, and her car was tuned up. Fancy’s men paid for everything, including the new pearl-white headboard and footboard, lingerie dresser, armoire, pillow-top mattress set, and the new vanity that had been delivered on Christmas Eve.

  Entering her master bathroom, smoke swirls hovered above a tub filled with hot water and her favorite black cherry bath salts. A homemade body scrub—one-half pound brown sugar stirred into milk and honey body wash—sat in a crystal bowl atop the white porcelain tub. “Ahhh,” Fancy exhaled as she nestled her head above the inflatable pillow and closed her eyes.

  “Starting tonight, I, Fancy Taylor, proclaim next year as my year for finding the right man. I am going to get married and I am going to have a baby.”

  Twenty minutes later, Fancy drew herself from the comfort of her bath and toweled off. Carefully she styled her hair, smoothing each layer of every track, then tossed the soft jet-black tresses behind her neck. The layered edges dangled below her shoulder blades. Sparkles shimmered in the silky platinum of a deep V-cut halter gown that delicately clung to the shapely curves of her breasts, hips, and thighs. Fancy turned around, admired herself in the full-length mirror, and smiled. “Now that’s a fabulous ass if I must say so myself.” Adding the finishing touch, she brushed on her M.A.C. Chai lip gloss.

  The cordless phone rang again. This time exactly at ten. The programmed number from the building’s call box registered so Fancy buzzed Desmond in and grabbed her full-length white mink.

  “Hey, you look great!” Desmond said, stepping inside.

  Fancy closed her eyes and enjoyed Desmond’s warm embrace. Careful not to snag her diamond earrings on her coat, she tilted her head and whispered in his ear, “Thanks, baby.” She meant thanks for being her friend. And thanks for taking her out again this New Year’s Eve.

  “You look extra handsome tonight, baby. I’mma hafta claw those desperate divas off my man.” Fancy placed her fingertips on Desmond’s forehead. Slowly she traced over his temples, along his jawbone, down his neck, and tugged his tuxedo lapel. Fancy s
miled, because in order to take her out, Desmond had canceled plans with his so-called girlfriend Carlita.

  Fancy hated being alone on New Year’s Eve and harbored no remorse that Carlita wasn’t the one going out with Desmond. Fancy also hated blue. Blue jeans. Blue sherbet. Blue nail polish. Contacts. Robin eggs. Bubble-gum. She especially disliked dating blue-collar workers, which was the main reason why Desmond could never be more than just a friend.

  “What’s your boy Tyronne up to tonight?” Fancy asked, focusing on the beautiful holiday lights outlining the buildings along San Francisco’s skyline. Tyronne was another man with big dreams and no money. As long as the cola company kept producing beverages, Tyronne would continue delivering sodas. Fancy’s stomach growled, disrupting her thoughts. Damn, the oysters. Oh, well, she’d put them in the refrigerator so she could eat them for breakfast. It was probably best she hadn’t eaten them because she definitely would’ve ended her platonic relationship with Desmond and fucked him real good after the gala if she had.

  “You know Tyronne. Probably the life of the party at somebody’s house,” Desmond said, holding Fancy’s hand tighter while driving with his other hand on top of the steering wheel.

  In a special way, Fancy admired Desmond. He was tall and good-looking. Desmond’s innocent brown eyes shone under his long curly lashes. Whenever his thin mustache stretched across his face, Fancy saw the dimple in his right cheek. The seat belt was tailored to his flat stomach. Desmond was one of five men Fancy kept on her carry-over list for next year. She couldn’t imagine life without Desmond yet she couldn’t envision being his wife. Was money and prestige really that important? More significant than a man’s character? Or his willingness to love?

  Breaking the silence, Desmond asked, “What’re SaVoy and Tanya doing tonight?”

  “SaVoy, church. Tanya—she’s going out with some guy she just met named William.” Fancy smiled at Desmond and reverted back to her thoughts.

  The men who were fortunate to be on her regular dating schedule were now Fancy’s sponsors. Adam sponsored her rent, Tony sponsored her Top Notch hair weaves, manicures, and pedicures, and Steven sponsored her wardrobe. That’s how Fancy balanced her budget. She determined what needed to be paid, and then calculated which guy was wealthy and worthy enough to pay her bills. If she didn’t insist that her men take care of her, they certainly wouldn’t volunteer. And if they did volunteer, Fancy knew they’d assume a movie and a meal every once in a while was fair exchange for tasting her pussy.

  Fancy also had disposable sponsors. Those were the ones she’d date only once knowing she’d never have sex with them, but she could usually persuade them to pay a bill or two before she blocked their numbers on her home phone. Taking care of herself had become such a full-time job, Fancy seriously considered quitting her nine-to-five. She was willing to trade in all of her sponsors but not until after she was married.

  Easing her hand from Desmond’s constant massage, Fancy asked, “Made any resolutions yet?”

  “Yeah.” Desmond nodded as he exited the freeway at Embarcadero. “To go to law school. A brotha don’t mind gettin’ his hands dirty working on cars, but that’s not my destiny. Johnnie Cochran, watch out! Desmond Brown, Esquire, is coming to your town!”

  Every town was Johnnie’s town. It might help if Desmond at least took the LSAT and submitted a few applications. “That’s nice,” Fancy said, trying not to encourage his illusion. “At least you have a resolution. I haven’t thought much about mine yet.”

  Desmond drove up to the hotel entrance and valet parked. Fancy’s neck whipped side-to-side as she scanned the men getting out of the nearby limousines. Several prospects stood out. Especially the tall, stunning clean-shaven gentleman. The top button of his wingtip shirt was unfastened. A black bow tie dangled about his neck. That was a good sign. A nonconformist with class, and judging from his Rolex watch, lots of cash.

  “Isn’t this wonderful!” Fancy sang, strolling inside the grand ballroom.

  “Yeah, this is cool,” Desmond replied, bobbing his head while accepting two half-full champagne flutes. He handed one to Fancy and chugged a gulp from his.

  Fancy slapped his hand. “Don’t drink it all at once.”

  “Are you kidding? As much money as I spent on these tickets I might take a bottle home.”

  “Let’s check out the silent auction,” Fancy said, maneuvering to get closer to the guy she’d seen outside and to see how much he had bid for the golfer’s package.

  “Desmond, look at all these arrangements.” Fancy pointed at each display. Football. Travel packages to different countries. Basketball. “Oh, my gosh! Can you believe this golfer’s package is donated by Tiger Woods?” Gliding her finger underneath the last bid, Fancy looked at Desmond and thought, Twenty-seven thousand dollars! No way. He must need to get a last minute tax write-off.

  “Damn! I don’t care how much money I make, I’d never throw it away like that. Some company, probably Nike, donated all this stuff in Tiger’s name. Yeah, that’s how the rich get richer. They don’t pay for jack. That’s exactly how I’mma be, watch. And you gon’ be my lady. I’mma spoil you, girl. Buying you that six-hundred-dollar gown was nothing.”

  That’s true, Fancy thought as Desmond reminded her for the fourth time. She rolled her eyes, then scanned the room. The man she wanted was standing on the opposite side of the ballroom with someone else.

  “Let’s see what’s over there,” Fancy said, taking the shortcut across the hardwood dance floor.

  The emcee announced, “Ten minutes to countdown! Make sure you’ve got your spirit, spirits, and credit cards.”

  “Ha! That’s a good one,” Fancy said, shaking her ass to wedge a deeper arch into her lower back. The woman hanging on to her future man was cute, but up close Fancy assessed the woman was clearly no competition.

  Sounding like Lou Rawls, the emcee said, “Five minutes to countdown.”

  The jazz quartet resumed playing Kenny G’s “Songbird.” Desmond hugged Fancy so she pulled him closer and was grateful she’d worn her high heels because a real man was now facing her. Thick black eyebrows—with scattered hairs connecting his brows—were his only facial hair.

  Fancy’s eyes locked with the stranger’s as she stared over Desmond’s shoulder. Her admirer winked. Fancy batted her eyelids, then seductively smiled at him.

  “One more minute folks!” The emcee interrupted the music once more.

  The handsome man blew Fancy a kiss over his date’s shoulder. Fancy’s heart had throbbed when he’d gotten out of the stretch limo, but now her heart pounded. She gently puckered her lips as Desmond held her tighter. The stranger massaged the nakedness of his date’s back—the same way Desmond was caressing hers. This man gazed into Fancy’s eyes as if they were making love to one another. Fancy’s body quivered. Desmond pressed his lips against her ear and inhaled.

  “It’s time to ring in the new year! Ten! Nine!” the emcee shouted along with the crowd. While the emcee counted, lovers locked into one another’s arms, quietly swaying while the single people yelled along with the emcee.

  “I can’t believe I’m holding you in my arms again this year,” Desmond whispered in Fancy’s ear. “You know we were meant to be together.”

  “Six! Five!”

  The stranger smiled again. This time he licked his lips as though he could taste her. Fancy’s thong became moist and hot. Her breathing became heavier, so she looked away.

  The crowd yelled, “Three!”

  Got damn, his ass was fine. Fancy’s eyeballs eased into the corner sockets. He was still staring. Then he mouthed, “I want you.”

  “One!”

  Fancy shouted, “Happy New Year!” and tooted her horn well after everyone else, including Desmond. The paper flap rolled in her new man’s direction, motioning her thoughts, Come to me, Daddy. The energy stirring between them formed a lump in her throat. Fancy couldn’t ask Desmond to get her a drink because she was just handed flute number five.
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  Fancy quickly said, “I’ll be right back.” Swaying her hips, she gracefully waltzed through the crowd, set her glass on a table by the door, and then exited into the brightly lit lobby. “Whew!” Fancy exhaled loudly. As soon as her hand pressed flat against the ladies’ room door, she heard someone say, “Excuse me.”

  Please, oh, please let it be him. Her heart raced for a man she didn’t know at all. She turned gracefully on her tiptoes like she’d learned in ballet class years ago.

  “Do you have a moment?” he asked, fondling his dangling bow tie.

  Fancy smiled and replied, “For you? Yes, I do.” And she meant that because her January dating calendar was overbooked, with three standbys awaiting confirmation.

  “Wow,” he gasped, then shook his head. “You are amazingly beautiful. I’m Byron Van Lee.” He extended his hand. Gently he held Fancy’s hand but didn’t shake it.

  “Hi. I’m Fancy. Fancy Taylor.” Fancy wanted to touch him so she said, “Would you like for me to fasten your bow tie?” Holding his tie, she rested the back of her hands on his chest. Byron’s muscles were pleasingly solid.

  “This is my conversation piece and trademark. Never fails,” he said. Raising her hands to his lips, he kissed them.

  Desmond walked up to Fancy. His eyes bucked, then his forehead buckled. Desmond stared at Byron, then at Fancy.

  Pointing at Byron, Desmond questioned, “Who’s this?” Desmond’s chest protruded as he continued staring at Byron. Fancy eased her back toward Desmond. Desmond stood directly behind Fancy and firmly secured his hands on her hips.

  Byron extended his hand to Desmond and said, “My name is Van. And you are?”

  Fancy stepped aside, looked at Byron, and smiled.

  Desmond grabbed Fancy’s biceps and firmly said, “Let’s go.”

  Fancy kept smiling. Byron smiled at her, then walked away. Fancy really wanted to curse Desmond out for acting so damn childish. When she turned toward the ballroom, instead of letting go of her arm, Desmond tightened his grip.