In These Streets

by Shelly Ellis

  “I said . . . I said, you do too, Lissa. You deserve a man who . . . who will appreciate you and love you for exactly who you are,” he began. “And I know for a fact, that’s not Derrick.”

  “What . . . what are you talking about, Jay?”

  “Look, part of the reason why you guys argue so damn much, why you break up and make up over and over and over again, is because you don’t match! You can’t see it, but I can! He’s an idealist. You’re sensible. He’s emotional. You’re rational. You’re always gonna butt heads. He doesn’t get you—but . . . but I do. I always have. I love you for who you are!”

  “You love me?” Her mouth fell open. She barked out a laugh. “Jay, I don’t know if it’s the alcohol from earlier talkin’ or—”

  “It’s not the alcohol. I’m not drunk. I love you, Lissa! I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, since I was twelve years old. I couldn’t tell you back then because . . . well, because you started dating Derrick first. I never really got a chance . . . we never really got a chance. But now that Bridget and I aren’t together anymore, and you and Derrick are . . . well, now that you are going through your own thing, maybe you can finally, finally see me as something more than just a friend. Maybe you can see me for the man that I am.”

  She slowly shook her head, looking utterly mystified.

  “I could make you happy, Lissa. I know I could. Just . . . just give it a chance.”

  He waited for her to say something—to say anything, but instead, she stared down at their clasped hands, opening and closing her mouth silently like she was at a loss for words. So he took another chance. He leaned forward and kissed her.

  She breathed in audibly when their lips met. He felt heady and overwhelmed by her smell, by her softness, by the new sensation of Melissa’s full, luscious lips against his mouth. He let go of her hands, wrapped his arms around her, and tried to draw her closer, to taste more of her, but she began to tense against him. She squirmed. She shoved hard against his chest.

  “Stop, Jay! Goddamnit, I said stop!” she yelled against his mouth.

  He let her go and she jumped back from him. She roughly wiped her lips with the back of her hand and shot to her feet.

  “What are you doing?” she shouted. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Now he was the one at a loss for words. He stared up at her blankly.

  “I trusted you! I didn’t come here for this shit! Is that why you invited me up to you place? Because you thought I would . . . you thought we were gonna . . .”

  She didn’t finish. Instead, she shook her head in revulsion and ran out of his living room, almost tripping on the Afghan rug as she fled.

  “Wait!” he yelled, rising clumsily from the sofa. “Wait, Lissa!”

  “Dee said you weren’t a real friend. That you didn’t have his back or Ricky’s,” she muttered as she pulled open the door to his coat closet and tugged out her wool coat, sending metal hangers flying and clattering to the hardwood floor. “He said you weren’t worth the time and effort—and I told him he was wrong! I made him feel like shit! I defended you, Jay!”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he said, grabbing her arm. “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, jerking her arm out of his grasp, making him hold up his hands and take a step back. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ touch me again! Do you hear me?”

  He watched helplessly as she put on her coat. “Lissa, I just wanted to . . . I-I was just trying to tell you—”

  “You were just trying to make me cheat on my fiancé, to get me to be a low-down, shady fuck like you! You’re not Dee’s friend. You never were, were you? You’re not my friend either, Jay, because a real friend wouldn’t do some shit like this!” She yanked open his front door. “Don’t ever fuckin’ call me again.”

  She then strode into the hallway and slammed the door shut behind her.

  When she did, something in him crumbled. He staggered back and bumped into the closet door, feeling a mix of devastation and humiliation.

  Chapter 29

  Derrick

  “Ricky is getting a little crazy tonite,” Derrick typed as he sat at Morgan’s kitchen island sipping red wine while she made him a home-cooked meal of yams, collard greens, and fried chicken.

  “The Southern girl special,” she’d boasted.

  It was the third meal she had cooked him that week. As it turned out, he preferred her home cooking to the restaurant meals they used to enjoy. He preferred her place to the restaurants too, the feminine intimacy of her studio apartment that was filled with furniture she’d crafted herself and was decorated in vibrant splashes of color.

  I’m gonna be home a little late. Don’t wait up.

  He pressed send.

  The last sentence hadn’t been necessary. He knew Melissa wouldn’t wait up for him. But he had to send her at least a few texts. Melissa thought he was out at Ray’s with Ricky; he had to keep up the farce.

  Derrick tucked his cell into his pocket before Morgan could see the message on the screen. She paused from her cooking to lean over the counter and give him a kiss that was as sweet and fiery as her honey and cayenne biscuits he’d been nibbling on for the past fifteen minutes.

  “Who were you texting?” Morgan asked when she pulled away.

  “Nobody. Just checking scores from a couple of games tonight.”

  She didn’t question him further. Instead, she started humming, turned back around, and returned her attention to the chicken frying on the stove.

  Frankly, Derrick was getting tired of the lies. Mr. Theo was right: he couldn’t have it both ways. Not anymore. It wasn’t right to lie to Melissa or Morgan. He had to be honest with them both—and with himself. He just wasn’t sure when the right time to do that was.

  After dinner, they settled on her sofa, and it didn’t take long for things to get steamy again. Now, when they were alone together, it always did. He didn’t know if it was the pent up desire they had tried to hold back during all those meals and seemingly playful conversations, but each caress, lick, and nibble only left him wanting more. They hadn’t had sex yet, but they damn sure had come close a few times in the past couple weeks. Tonight was no different. It took almost Herculean strength to pull Morgan’s hand away when she straddled him and dragged down his pants zipper, shoving her hand inside his boxer briefs.

  “What? What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “It . . . it doesn’t feel right,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Why?” She leaned forward and nipped his ear. “It feels damn good to me. I bet we can make it feel even better,” she said, wrapping her hand around his dick again.

  “Come on, Morgan!” He tugged her hand out of his pants once more. “You know I’m still living with Melissa. We’re still engaged.”

  Her face changed when he said that. The sultry look in her green eyes instantly evaporated. “So I guess you still haven’t talked to her yet?”

  “I’ve been waiting for the right time . . . the right moment.”

  She loudly grumbled before falling back onto her sofa, closing her eyes, and dropping her face into her hands. “There is no right time or right moment, Derrick! I thought we talked about this. You just have to suck it up and do it.”

  “I know that,” he’d answered tightly.

  “Then what the hell are you waiting for?” she exclaimed, dropping her hands. “Do you still want to try to make it work with her? Because if you do, just tell me! If you don’t wanna be here with me, I’m not gonna—”

  “I do,” he said, reaching out to her, rubbing her neck, “I want to be here with you. I know Melissa and I are well past working things out. I know what I’ve gotta do, and you’re right . . . it’s finally time to do it. I can’t put it off any longer. I’ll do it—tomorrow. I’ll tell her in the morning that we need to talk.”

  “You promise?” She looked doubtful.

  “I promise. I swear,” he said, cupping her face.

  At that, Morgan lea
ned forward to kiss him again, to wrap her arms around him and press her body against his. It was if she was reminding him what waited for him on the other side if he finally manned up and told Melissa the truth. He had to tell her it was time to put each other out of their mutual misery.

  * * *

  Derrick eased open his apartment door, surprised to see one of the table lamps burning bright in his living room. It was a little after midnight. He’d thought Melissa would be fast asleep by now. He quietly shut the door behind him, locking it before dropping his keys onto the wooden console near the door.

  He licked his lips as he shrugged out of his coat, still tasting Morgan and her biscuits. He wondered if the smell of her perfume still lingered on his clothes. He hung his coat on the coatrack near their door.

  “Lissa? You up?” he called out.

  “Yeah, I’m . . . I’m in here.”

  He hadn’t planned to talk to her about their relationship tonight, but they were both awake. Now was probably as good a time as any.

  Derrick took a deep breath and pushed back his shoulders, bracing himself for what he was about to do, practicing the words in his head.

  I love you. I always will love you, baby, but we can’t do this anymore, he thought.

  When he reached the end of the hall and rounded the corner, he stopped in his tracks.

  Melissa was sitting on the couch with her head bowed. Brownie was in her lap and a wad of Kleenex was in her hand. When he walked into the room, she looked up and he could see that she had been crying. She blew her nose and sniffed.

  Seeing the state that she was in, Derrick’s stomach dropped. His legs felt weak.

  “She found out about Morgan!” a panicked voice in his head yelled. “Mr. Theo warned you. He told you to be careful and you didn’t listen. Now do you see what happens?”

  Melissa had somehow discovered that he’d been cheating on her for weeks. All those nights that he claimed to be hanging out with Ricky or with “the boys” . . . that he claimed to be working late at the Institute, he’d really been going out or loving up on Morgan. Melissa had finally found out the truth.

  Not like this. Shit, don’t let it go down like this, he pleaded.

  She opened her mouth and he prepared himself for the screaming, for her accusations and condemnation, but instead she said, “I am so sorry, baby.”

  He watched, stupefied, as she slowly stood from the couch, making Brownie hop onto their rug. She then crossed the living room with arms outstretched. Melissa crashed into him, making him take a few steps back. She threw her arms around him and held him tight.

  “I’m so sorry for being so goddamn stupid!” she cried before dropping her head onto his shoulder.

  Derrick didn’t know how to respond. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected for her to say or to do.

  “I’ve been so wrong.” She hiccupped. “I’ve been so fucked up to you, and I . . . I feel awful about it. I love you more than anything, Dee. More than anything, baby!”

  He gradually wrapped his arms around her, too stunned to do more than that. She leaned back her head and gazed into his eyes.

  “Work at the Institute if you want. I won’t pressure to change jobs anymore.”

  “What? But I thought you didn’t—”

  “Not anymore,” she said before he could finish. “It’s what you believe in. I know now that you keep trying to get me to talk to my dad because . . . because you want me to be happy. I get it now. Just be the man that you are, Dee, because who you are is so amazing. I love you so much,” she said, blinking through her tears. “I’m so sorry I forgot that!”

  Derrick stared down at his fiancée and was overwhelmed with relief—and guilt. She finally got it. She finally understood why he couldn’t leave his job and why he had tried so hard to reunite her with her father. She was apologizing and professing her love to him—meanwhile, he had just returned from another woman’s apartment. He had been kissing and caressing Morgan less than an hour ago, promising that he was ready to leave Melissa, that he was ready to finally move on. And he had been ready to move on—until this very moment. His old misgivings disappeared. He finally had his baby back.

  “Do you forgive me, Dee?” Melissa asked, gnawing her bottom lip, staring at the tear stains she’d left on his shirt. “Can we start all over again?”

  He nodded without hesitation. “Of course, baby.”

  She stood on the balls of her feet and kissed him.

  * * *

  An hour later, when they lay in bed under the covers, wrapped in each other’s arms, Derrick heard his cell phone buzz on his night table.

  He removed his arm from around Melissa and rolled onto his back. He picked up his phone and saw a message on the screen from Morgan.

  Was thinking about U and missing U. Let me know how it goes tomorrow.

  She then signed off the message with a heart emoji.

  “What is it?” Melissa murmured dreamily, turning to face him.

  Derrick quickly deleted the message and shook his head. He lowered his phone back to his night table. “Nothing, baby. Just some stupid shit from Ricky.” He kissed her cheek. “Sorry I woke you up.”

  She chuckled. “Ricky needs Jesus. Night, baby,” she muttered before smacking her lips and turning back onto her side. She closed her eyes.

  “Night,” he whispered. He wrapped his arm around her and closed his eyes too, but he knew he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep.

  His guilt would have to be his companion until the sun came up.

  Chapter 30

  Ricky

  Ricky gazed listlessly at the stage, watching as two of Club Majesty’s dancers twirled around the main stage’s stripper poles then simultaneously dropped into splits. Some of the men on the floor began to holler. A few even tossed bills into the air to show their appreciation for the performance. But Ricky watched the scene with a bland detachment.

  He felt numb.

  He’d been this way since he’d last seen Simone at Dolla Dolla’s house. She hadn’t called him or texted him since that night, and Ricky had just enough pride left not to reach out to her—but it was a struggle. He had to fight the impulse to pick up the phone, dial her number, and cuss her out, to tell her that he’d only wanted to protect her, and that she should thank him rather than give him the cold shoulder. But he knew it was pointless. They’d just have to go their separate ways. She was a bull-headed cop who claimed he was nothing more than a criminal that didn’t like getting his hands dirty. Maybe it was best to just forget her.

  He watched as one of the dancers—Ronnie, a small-town girl from Tennessee who had only started stripping a year ago—rose from her split and started to twerk on the side of the stage. A man wearing a Chicago Bulls jersey tossed more dollar bills at her and shouted something unintelligible before bursting into laughter.

  Ricky saw Ronnie’s face change; her seductive smile disappeared. She shifted to the opposite side of the stage, like she wanted to get as far away from that joker as possible. The man suddenly lunged forward, grabbing her ankle. Ronnie shouted out and gave a kick, sending the man careening back. But he quickly regained his footing and lunged for the stage again.

  “Shit,” Ricky muttered, finishing the last of his drink and shoving himself to his feet, ready to intervene. But two of the bouncers beat him to it. They came at a near run from the dark corners of the club to Ronnie’s rescue.

  Ricky watched as the man struggled in the bouncers’ arms, shouting and cursing as they dragged him off the floor. Ronnie and the other dancer had stopped their routine. Both women looked badly shaken, like they weren’t sure what to do next.

  Ricky walked toward the mezzanine stairs. He was headed to the DJ booth to tell the DJ to cue the next set so the girls could exit the stage, when his cell began to vibrate in his pants pocket. He ignored it and motioned to get the DJ’s attention. The young man quickly removed the headphones from his ears.

  “What’s up, Ricky?” he asked.

  �
�Cut the set! Bring on Lisa and Carla now!” Ricky shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth so he could be heard over the music.

  The DJ quickly nodded then reached for his mike. “Thank you, ladies. And now we’re about to get a sample of some hot-hot-hot chocolate, fellas! Get ready! Brace yourselves for the heat, or you gonna get burned.”

  Ricky turned back to the stage just as Ronnie and the other dancer made their way behind the velvet curtains and the opening lyrics to a Drake song began to play. He started to head back toward his table on the mezzanine when his phone vibrated again, like he was getting another phone call.

  “Who the hell is calling me?” he muttered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his cell in irritation. When he stared down at the screen and saw the number, his eyes widened. He quickly pressed the green button to answer.

  “Simone?” he shouted over the heavy bass of the speakers only a few feet behind him.

  “Ricky?”

  She yelled something else though he couldn’t hear her over the music.

  “What? What did you say?” he shoved a finger into the opposite ear.

  He hadn’t expected her call. He hadn’t expected to hear from her ever again. Just the sound of her voice sent his heart racing. It made him feel almost high.

  “I said, where are you, Ricky? Are you at Club Majesty? Are you at the restaurant?”

  “Yeah, I’m at Club Majesty. Why? Do you want to meet me here?” he asked, hoping that the excitement that he felt wasn’t transparent in his voice.

  “No! No, I need you to get out of there. Leave now! Okay?”

  His sense of euphoria began to wane and was quickly replaced by confusion.

  “What the hell are you talking about? Why do I need to leave?”

  “Just go! Go out one of the back doors, if you can. I don’t know if they’ll be waiting there, but it’s worth a try. They might not be. Please, Ricky! Leave now!”