~6~
Glancing up just as he reached once again for his beer, Spencer saw that the honey in the hot-pink dress was still giving him the eye. He took a long, slow swallow, savoring the sharp taste of the German lager, and maintaining eye contact.
She had long, jet-black hair that was pin-straight and sleek, and probably not her own. She wore lipstick that matched her dress. With her were three other women, celebrating something, getting round after round of drinks, shrieking and laughing.
“You better g’on get that while you can,” Greg said from the seat next to him. “I think they’re only at the bar waiting for a table.”
“Much as I would love to,” Spencer returned, “not sure I’m up for the bullshit that’ll come after.”
“I hear that,” Greg said clinking his mug against Spencer’s. “Speaking of bullshit. Whatever happened with chick you told me about a few weeks back? The one with the situation.”
“Took care of itself,” Spencer said. “So we gon’ eat or what?”
“Yeah. Waitin’ on this slow ass bartender to bring us the full menu. So, wait. It took care of itself, or y’all took care of it?” Greg asked, stuffing his mouth with a handful of beer nuts.
“It was a false alarm,” Spencer said, wishing his friend would change the subject.
Greg let out a low whistle. “You dodged a bullet then.”
“Yup.” He said it because it was what was expected of him more than because it was what he felt.
There was no doubt he’d been pissed when he first saw the pregnancy test and realized that Ryann might be pregnant. And he was even more pissed when it became clear that she might never have told him. But after sleeping on it, he moved very quickly to resignation. If she was pregnant, and if it was his, he would roll with it. After all, he was thirty-six years old and had no plans, immediate or otherwise to form a nuclear family unit.
So, if he had a kid with a woman who was financially-independent, someone with whom he could responsibly and amicably co-parent, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.
‘Amicable’ wasn’t the word that most readily came to mind when he thought about Ryann Walker and the vibe she put off. She was one of those women who walked into a room with her dukes up, figuratively speaking. Her expression always bordered on combative, and it took very little for her tone of voice to cross that line as well.
When Greg recruited her for their board of directors along with three other people, Spencer knew right away she would be an asset. While the other board members were the standard community activist types, who had social-consciousness in spades, Ryann was the only pure pragmatist. And the only one who knew squat about raising money.
The first time Spencer was introduced to her about three years ago, she had come striding into the rec room at the Coalition of One Hundred in a skintight, yet still tasteful red skirt, and a light-cream blouse that looked as light as gossamer. On her feet were leopard-print pumps, three inches high. Spencer’s tongue had almost fallen out onto the table.
‘Mr. Hall,’ she said as she extended a hand. And her tone was that of someone who had heard his name, and a few stories to go along with it.
He remembered being a little embarrassed because he could imagine what the stories had been; and because she had run her gaze over him from head to toe, her eyebrows lifting a little. She was by no means a conservative dresser, but that assessing look made him feel downright common.
And since then, he made it part of his mission in life to fuck her, and wipe that self-satisfied smirk off those succulent lips of hers. Now that he had, it was equally irritating, and puzzling how much she still weighed on his mind. And much more puzzling still that even though he’d “dodged a bullet” to quote Greg, he didn’t entirely feel that way.
“Look … they about to leave to get seated,” Greg said, nudging him.
Spencer looked up again and saw that the woman in the pink dress was lingering a little, falling back behind her friends, and fidgeting with her purse and sunglasses.
Why not? It was Friday and he had no plans except to go home and watch ESPN.
Shoving back from the bar, he headed toward her and made his final approach just as she was about to walk away. She paused and waited, a little smile playing about her lips. Up close, her makeup looked a little thick, but she was still pretty, and her hair looked real. She was young. He would guess about twenty-three.
“Good evening,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Spencer.”
“Mariana,” she said smoothly. She had a very slight accent, and rolled her ‘r’s’ in a way that was quirky and melodious, and made Spencer think about her tongue.
As they were shaking hands, Spencer noticed that her friends were waiting, watching, talking among themselves while the hostess stood with menus in hand, prepared to lead them to their table.
“Mariana,” he repeated. He did that to commit the name to memory, but using a tone that made her think he was caressing it, appreciating it. “It’s a little hectic in here tonight, and I see you’re with friends.” He nodded in the direction of the gaggle of women waiting. “But you look like a woman I’d like to get to know, so rather than keep you from your dinner, I’d like to give you my number. After you and your girlfriends are done, I’d love to take you to one of my favorite spots in the city.”
“Sounds interesting,” Mariana said coyly. “If you give me your number I’ll think it over.”
She produced her cell phone and Spencer dialed his number, let it ring a couple of times, and then handed it back to her. Their fingers brushed and Spencer felt it, the tiny spark of attraction that gave him a better than even chance of having Mariana naked and screaming his name by midnight.
“Enjoy your meal,” he said, then watched her walk away.
She did so slowly, and with a little swish that let him know that she knew he was watching.
When he made it back to his seat next to Greg, his friend was grinning. “Wish I had your skills, bruh.”
“You don’t need no skills. You’re married. That means you don’t have to work for ass no more.”
Greg laughed. “That’s what you think. But thank God I ain’t gotta do it out here in these streets. ‘Cause I never had your game.”
“The absence of game is my game,” Spencer said, sighing. “I just talk to them like human beings, that’s all. No game.”
“Yeah, okay,” Greg said, disbelieving.
“I thought you were taking me to one of your favorite spots in the city,” Mariana said as they pulled up in front of Spencer’s townhouse.
“It is. My spot.” He cut off the engine and turned to look at her. “But if you’re not comfortable with that, we can go someplace else. There’s a new lounge on U Street that you might like.”
Mariana bit into her lower lip as if considering. “Are you safe?” she asked. But it was obvious she had already made up her mind.
“Very,” Spencer said. “I might bite a couple times. Pinch once or twice … but otherwise, I’m harmless.”
“I like bites and pinches,” Mariana said, her dark eyes holding his. “Hell, even a couple smacks. If done in the right place.”
Spencer grinned. “Well then you’re perfectly safe with me.”
When he led her into the foyer, she immediately shed her shoes. She was short, maybe five-three, and looked curvier without the added height. He liked women with a little meat on them, enjoyed the jiggle of a round ass, and the feel of lush, fleshy hips in his hands. Mariana was small, but voluptuous. He felt more confident that the time they spent together would be worth his while.
“Can I look around?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
“Sure.” He shrugged. “I’ll get us something to drink. What you into?”
“White wine if you have it,” she said, already ascending the stairs up to the living area.
The townhouse had three levels. The entryway, living room and kitchen were on the second level, the ‘basement’ was actually the grou
nd-level where Spencer’s home gym was, and upstairs, where Mariana was headed were the three bedrooms, one of which Spencer had converted into his home office, and the second where he had infrequent visits from his mother or other family.
“White wine sounds doable,” he said as he headed into the kitchen, but Mariana was already upstairs.
The sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket got his attention as he took two wineglasses from the cabinet, and a bottle from the fridge. Reaching for it, he stared at the screen for a few moments.
Ryann.
He hadn’t heard from her in almost a month. Not since that night at her house. Not even after he’d called her, probably about a dozen times. Spencer contemplated picking up. He contemplated for so long, the call went to voicemail.
“Shit,” he muttered.
To call her back would be a sign of weakness. But what the hell did he care? There was nothing between him and Ryann, so if she called him, there was probably something else she wanted to talk about. Something important, and unrelated to whatever the hell it was that happened between them. Or that was what he told himself.
He thought only for a nanosecond about the woman upstairs, before he hit the button to call Ryann back, and waited.
“Spencer,” she said immediately. She sounded tense.
“You got me,” he said.
“I … so it’s been a little while since we talked …”
He raised an eyebrow.
“And I wondered if … The movie, ‘Trappin’’? It’s still showing in a couple places, and so I wondered whether you might still want to see it with me.”
What?
Slowly, it came back to him. She was working with the filmmaker. But it was weeks ago that she said she’d met with him. She had to have found him a charity by now. And was she really, just now getting around to seeing his film?
“If that’s not something you’re interested in doing, I’d understand,” she said, speaking quickly over the silence.
“Why now?” he asked, baldly.
“I know I’ve been off the grid for a minute, but I just had some stuff I needed to take care of. And I have an idea I want to share with you. I think seeing the movie together would help with that.”
“Spencer!”
From another part of the house, he heard Mariana calling to him. He caught himself before he put the phone on ‘mute’ and instead left the line open. After all, he was a grown-ass man. That he might have female company on a Friday evening should not come as a surprise to anyone; least of all Ryann.
“Oh. I hear … are you busy?” Ryann asked. “Why don’t I just call you another time?”
“Call me in the morning,” Spencer said. “We can find a matinee and go check that out.”
“Only if you want …”
“I want,” Spencer said.
“Okay. So … good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning then.”
“Spencer. I hoped you wouldn’t mind. But I found something more comfortable to put on.”
Standing at the kitchen doorway, wearing only one of his dress-shirts was Mariana. She was posed, one hand on the doorjamb, one knee slightly bent. It was so obvious, so cliché, Spencer almost laughed. But she was sexy as hell, too.
So, he didn’t laugh.
“Let me let you go,” Ryann said on the other end of the line. Her voice was marginally harder now. “It’s obvious you’ve got … things to do.”
“Yeah, but tomorrow we’ll talk about this, find a place where we can …”
“Yes. Okay. Thanks. Bye.” Ryann hung up.
Spencer was torn between calling her back and heading over to unwrap his present. He set aside his phone and poured the wine.
“Of course I don’t mind,” he said, turning his full attention to Mariana again. “Why don’t we take these drinks upstairs?”
She smiled and turned to lead the way.
He would have to drive her home.
That was the problem with these hook-ups. He would have to take her home, and usually, that was when the bullshit happened. But Mariana was quietly compliant when he gently nudged her shoulder, and inquired, rather than suggested, whether she wanted to go home.
Stretching like a cat, she moaned and looked at him through kohl-smudged eyes.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“After one.”
“You don’t mind taking me?” she asked turning over fully onto her back.
“I brought you here, didn’t I? Of course I’ll take you.”
“Thank you.” She kissed him on his shoulder and slid out of the bed, heading for his en suite. “Just gimme a few minutes.”
Spencer exhaled, relieved that it hadn’t turned into a negotiation, or an amateur psychology session about his fear of intimacy being manifested in his unwillingness to let her spend the night. He had encountered all kinds, but it generally boiled down to the same thing—women, as a rule, did not want to be left alone after sex. They just didn’t.
They didn’t all want to cuddle, and not all of them were looking to screw their way into a long-term relationship. But none of them really wanted to be alone in the immediate aftermath of intercourse.
Ryann had been no different, but unlike most other women, she seemed to be heartbreakingly aware that men did want to be alone after sex. As a general rule.
Even when you were a little bit into a woman, most men after they nutted, wanted nothing more than sleep, and peace and quiet. Ryann tried to kick him out the evening of her birthday, and at the time, Spencer thought it might be because she didn’t want to face what she thought was his desire to be gone. But that wasn’t the killing part. The killing part was that somewhere along the line, some man, or some men had probably trained her to expect their absence, trained her not to expect them to stay.
Spencer didn’t doubt her when she said she wasn’t looking for anything other than sex. He just mourned the fact that she didn’t even know that there could be a middle-ground. There were more than two choices—full-fledged relationship or ‘wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.’ She could have a man in her life who was a lover. Who treated her the way she deserved to be treated both in bed and out, who she laughed and talked and spent time with, but from whom she knew not to expect one thing—progression. The expectation of progression—that things had to be “leading to something” was what had messed up more than a few perfectly good liaisons Spencer had in the past.
Reaching for a pair of jeans slung over a chair, Spencer pulled them on and grabbed a t-shirt from his dresser drawer. He would shower when he got back, but right now, the mission was to get Mariana safely home. He heard running water in the bathroom, and moments later she emerged, having put her pink dress back on, and washed her face.
Without makeup, it looked like a blank canvas. If she hadn’t washed it all off so he could see her true features, it was conceivable that he could have one day spotted her out on the street somewhere, and not associated her with the pink-lipped woman he met in a restaurant and taken home for the night.
“All set?” he asked.
“All set,” she said brightly. She pulled her hair over her shoulder and twisted it.
It was real, after all. Spencer found out when he grabbed a handful of it, wrapped it around his hand and pounded into Mariana from behind. She called him ‘papi’ so Spencer figured she was Latina.
While he drove, Mariana fiddled with his car stereo, changing radio stations, and singing along to some of the songs. Though he tried to think of something, he literally could not think of a single thing to say. By the time they arrived at her place—a nondescript older row house in the southeast quadrant of the city—Spencer was almost embarrassed by his silence. You didn’t do to a woman the things he had done to her and not even make pleasant conversation with her afterwards. But his mind was elsewhere, and he couldn’t help it.
“I’ll wait until you get in,” he said, when she gathered her purse and slipped on her high heels. She had gotten into his car barefoot, carry
ing them in one hand when they exited his townhouse.
“Thank you,” she said. “And thank you for tonight.”
“Nah,” he said, definitely embarrassed now. “Thank you. For your company.”
Mariana smiled and shook her head. “No, I mean it. Sometimes all it takes is a nice-looking man across the bar noticing you, and you feel good about yourself again,” she said. “Those women I was with? They’re my best friends since high school. Two of them are married, and the third just got engaged. That’s why we were out.”
Spencer didn’t know what to say.
“I’m the only one who’s not with somebody,” Mariana said shrugging.
“Hey, you’re a beautiful girl. You should …”
She held up a hand. “I know, I know. ‘It’ll soon be my time.’ ‘I’ll meet somebody.’ I’ve heard all those things, believe me. But sometimes, it just … having someone like you pay attention? And choose me? It makes things better. Tonight, I needed that.”
Spencer watched her walk up to her front door, take out the key and let herself inside.
‘Someone like you,’ she said.
It sounded like a compliment. It was a compliment. But she didn’t know anything about him. And probably never would.
He was to her, what she was to him—an attractive interlude, breaking up the quiet monotony of a life lived alone.
~7~
“What did you think?”
Ryann shielded her eyes against the brightness of the sun as they exited the movie theater. Reaching inside her pocketbook, she pulled out a pair of sunglasses, sliding them on.
Spencer wished she hadn’t. Her sunglasses were large and made it not only impossible for him to see her eyes, but to discern her emotions.
“It was good,” he said, though it was an understatement.
‘Trappin’’ had been more than good. It was like watching a documentary of the lives of young men out on the streets doing what they used to call, back in his day, ‘slingin’’. The label had changed, but the game was depressingly the same. Fast money, fickle women and an express pass to prison, or an early grave.
The Lover Page 6