Full Figured 2

by Alexis Nicole

  “Yeah, you did, beautiful. You nailed it.”

  I was still holding on to Jaylen when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and then cried as I fell into my father’s arms.

  Smoke & Mirrors

  A Novella

  By Trista Russell

  “Is there anything else I can do for you two?” the loudmouthed bartender asked for the third time since bringing the bill.

  “No, thank you.” I smiled at him. “I’m done.” I looked at the check and wondered how long Jason was planning to let it sit there; he was acting as if we brought it with us. “Are you having another drink?” I hinted at him.

  “Nah, I’m good, I’m ready.” He slurped the last milliliter of Hennessy through a straw and promptly informed me, “We can cut out of here whenever you pay.”

  “Excuse me?” I pretended that the music streaming in was too loud. “What did you say?” I leaned toward him.

  He spoke louder. “I said just pay and we can go.” He looked around like something was stinking. “Cause I don’t like the music in here anyway.”

  “Wow,” I said in shock. I would have paid a hundred dollars for a picture of my face at that very moment. “So, are we splitting the tab in half?” I asked for double confirmation.

  “Nah.” He shrugged his shoulders, and then said in a voice like I should have known, “I’m broke.”

  Wait . . . rewind! What? After two months of him straddling the line of professional flirtation and sexual harassment, I agree to go out with him, and he tells me that he has no money? “Are you kidding?” I asked.

  “Nah, I won’t have money until Friday.” He patted his pocket. “You got me, right?”

  Got you? “But you asked me out, Jason.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I told you that I wanted to kick it with you, away from Blare and work stuff.”

  “Right,” I agreed, “you say that every day.”

  “Right, but today, you said yes,” he said, and then clarified, “and then you suggested that we have drinks this evening.”

  “And you said okay . . .” I shook my head and put my hands up. “Just forget it.” I grabbed my purse, snatched my wallet, and pulled my debit card out so fast that the numbers might have come off.

  “Garcelle, I told you that I didn’t have any money.” He lowered his voice so that the people in the lounge wouldn’t know that he had insufficient funds. “Remember when I said that I just wanted to sit and talk to you, and get to know you? You were the one who said, ‘let’ s do it over cocktails, and I clearly said, ‘only if you got me.”

  “Well, I thought you meant ‘got you’ as in giving you a ride.” I was trying not to overreact. “It’s not a problem, Jason, but, so you know, the next three times are on you.”

  “No doubt,” he said, but quickly amended his answer. “But I will tell you that after child support takes its cut, things get a little tight.” He smiled. “But if I have it, I got you.”

  Blah! Blah! Freakin’ blah. I had heard it all before. “We don’ have to hang out if it’s too much for you.” I had to bite my bottom lip so I wouldn’t rip him a new one for ballin’ out of control on my tab with not one, not two, but three drinks of Hennessy on the rocks.

  Jason was twenty-seven years old, extremely handsome, charming, flirtatious, and funny. We worked for Blare Corporation, so I pretty much knew how much he was making, but I didn’t expect to buy my own drinks and definitely not his. He was quite a character and the big flirt in the office. In a bout I lost to stupidity, I threw caution to the wind and here we were. It was Friday and I was tired of being lonely, so here I was with a man seven years my junior. Although he closely resembled Ray J, he was an ex-gangbanger with no funds, no ride, a disconnected cell phone, a kid, and God knows what else.

  We left the bar and parked a half block away from his bus stop. He continuously apologized for not having money. He felt the need to explain his child support situation, rent, and how his car was repossessed. I felt bad for him, but didn’t pity him. I couldn’t. My dad used to recite this quote all the time: “For a man to achieve all that is demanded of him, he must regard himself as greater than he is.” Jason was a man, and just needed to step up his manly duties and make it work.

  It wasn’t long before the conversation slithered its way into how he thought my glossy lips were begging to be sucked on. When he moved in close to me, I thought about pulling back, but visions of the seventy-six dollars flashed in my head, and I figured I’d better get something out of the deal. I leaned in toward him, and, when our lips touched, I found that he matched my rhythm, suction, tease, and nibble perfectly. He didn’t feel new, and it was like he remembered me. We kissed like high school sweethearts at a ten-year reunion. The passion that spewed from us could only be holstered by him uttering the words, “Damn, I’m hard.”

  This is where the record screeched to a halt resembling the sound of a frightened cat. “What?” I couldn’t believe that he didn’t keep that to himself. “You’re hard?”

  “I’m throbbing, so we better stop.” He shifted uncomfortably in the passenger’s seat, and pulled away from me. “Damn.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t be kissing you anyway.” I wiped my lips. “This whole working together thing is a recipe for drama. I don’t want to stir up any bad blood with you.”

  “There is a lot of blood, but none of it is bad.” He looked in the direction of his zipper and struggled to gather his thoughts. “You wanna see it?”

  Men send dick pictures via text message like they’re handing out Halloween candy, so at this point, nothing surprised me. “Sure, if you feel that you have to show it.”

  “Let me get him for you.” He stuck his hand in his pants, shuffled things around a bit, and then unleashed a beast that did catch me by surprise. Jason wasn’t tall, maybe five eleven, and skinny with no real muscles, so seeing him pull out a very thick, can’t-really-close-my-fingers-around-it, ten-inch dick was completely amazing to me. I spent the next ten minutes biting my lip and talking myself out of touching it as he stroked it and moaned. “Oh, shit, there’s my bus.” He quickly packed his dick back into his pants, kissed me on the cheek, and sprinted from my car to the bus stop, screaming out, “See you tomorrow!” as he ran.

  On my way south on Lake Shore Drive, I thought of the situation at the bar and laughed aloud. This off-the-wall mess only happens to me, Garcelle Monroe. I always joked about writing a book about the things that happened to me. “How could you hound someone for a date and then not have the money to take them out?” I giggled. I couldn’t even call Stacy to tell her about this, but I knew she would ask me why I didn’t just leave that ass sitting there. Thank God my mother taught me right. When a man asks you out, always have enough money with you to pay for what you ordered, just in case, but she said nothing about covering his cost too.

  “Oh, this is one for the record books.” I laughed all the way home. Well, at least until I was two blocks from my Hyde Park apartment. I started questioning Jason’s real motive. Did he assume that I, a woman carrying a few extra pounds, needed to be graced with a sighting of his dick because I couldn’t get one? And was his intention to have me buy his drinks all along? “If his broke ass had a connected phone, I would be making his ears bleed right now, because why was he asking me out all this time knowing he had no money?”

  On Monday morning, I did what I needed to do around the building early, so that by the time Jason arrived at noon, I would be buried with work in my office with the door closed. I didn’t want to see him or be forced to say hello; I just wanted to forget that the night ever happened. I snuck out for lunch, and went to pick up my dry cleaning, when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the store’s front window. “Wow!” I had forgotten to hold my stomach in. “Oh, God,” I gasped. My figure had gone to hell.

  I was five foot seven and used to be 160 pounds just three years ago. I had hot dates several times a week, was admired all day long, was fallen in love wi
th countless times, was engaged twice . . . Any man I desired I could have licking my snowy four-inch Chicago boot heel in less than a week, but that was three years ago. Now, at 220 pounds, things just weren’t what they used to be. Don’t get me wrong, I could still have a man any day of the week; but it just wasn’t the same.

  A woman with meat on her bones isn’t on every man’s todo list, and I can respect that, because a big guy was never on mine. However, men automatically assumed that I was married or had kids. I would have liked men to take one look at me and say, “I’d fuck the shit out of her.” Not, “I bet she can cook her ass off.” I want, men to fantasize about sweating my perm out, instead of assuming that doing it in the missionary position was all that I was capable of. With the slightest of eye contact, I want, men to know that I could ride that dick as though I was raised on a ranch in Texas.

  Living in Chicago, home of deep-dish pizza, Polish sausages, and Harold’s Chicken didn’t help my situation, but the real problem was my sister’s sudden death. A stray bullet struck Danielle when she left a hair-braiding salon one summer night three years ago. She was my best friend, partner in crime, voice of reason . . . She was irreplaceable to me. But because my parents and other siblings were so overwhelmed with grief, I had to be the pillar of strength for our family. It was my shoulder that everyone cried on, so I couldn’t cry with them. I cried alone, and found solace in food bite by bite. Now, here I was, the heaviest I had been in my entire life, and I didn’t really know how to feel. Don’t get me wrong, I loved myself and there were days where my shit didn’t stick. My personality was attractive, my sense of humor was always on point, and my intelligence was above average. But I felt like I was not packaged in the right box now. My family and friends were pressing me to create a Facebook account, but the last thing I wanted was for anyone who knew me from my dime piece days to see pictures of me at my current weight.

  As soon as I got back from lunch, Carol, who didn’t need to put another piece of food in her mouth for at least six months, walked over and announced, “Girl, they have Harold’s Chicken in the lunchroom, so you better go grab some.”

  “Nah, I think I’ll pass on that one,” I said, looking at Carol’s shape and fighting the urge to tell her that she didn’t need it either. When I looked at her, I secretly wondered if I was that big and just didn’t realize it. Or if I wasn’t, I would shamefully pray that God would take away my taste buds if I was ever on the path to being that large. “I can’t eat that fried stuff so much anymore,” I said, thinking back to the store window.

  “It’s free chicken, Garcelle!” she said, not used to me turning down food or free anything. “Get in there before those interns do, she joked. “You know their li’l broke asses eat like termites.”

  I laughed. “Girl, I think I need to start dieting.”

  “Baby, bye!” She rolled her eyes. “As long as you have a pretty face and a nice personality, you are all good,” Carol said. She was married with three kids, so maybe she was right. She had to be about 350 pounds, but she always seemed very confident and never down on herself; I admired that about her. “Girl, please, there’s nothing wrong with you.” She looked me up and down. “My husband better hope I never make it down to your size, ’cause what?” She whispered, “I’m fucking everything in sight.”

  “Oh . . .” I was astonished. “Carol, you’re a mess.”

  “Just keeping it real.” She smiled. “G, girl, I think the Lord put this weight on me to keep me from being a complete slut.”

  “What?” I laughed. “Girl, be quiet and get on this diet with me. We can do it together.”

  “What diet?” she huffed, and acted less than enthused.

  “This diet will get you fine and keep you faithful,” I played with her.

  “Maybe I don’t want to be faithful,” she said, and then rushed me. “C’mon, tell me about the diet.”

  “Well, the major part of it is no meat, pop, bread, and other things for about two weeks, and–”

  “Wait! No meat?” she interrupted. “Did you say no meat?”

  “Yes,” I replied guardedly.

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head from side to side, and her neck fat waved like a flag on a windy day. “No can do. I will die without meat.”

  “You won’t die. I laughed at her. “It’s only for two weeks.”

  “Nah.” She waved the flag again.

  “Okay.” I tried to reason with her. “How about for a week then?”

  “For a week?” Carol thought for a moment. “No meat? I don’t think I can do that, Garcelle.”

  “Well, how about no fried food for two weeks then?” I negotiated.

  I could tell by the look on her face she wasn’t going to do it. “But, you know–”

  “Never mind, Carol.” I gave up. I knew she would find a way out of anything that didn’t lead her straight to the door of a Harold’s Chicken Shack.

  My office line rang and I sat down to answer it. “This is Garcelle.” Carol and I waved good-bye.

  “Good afternoon, Garcelle!” The voice on the other line spoke and I nearly passed out right then and there.

  “Good afternoon, Cortez,” I replied.

  With a smile in his tone, he asked, “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going well,” I responded. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” he growled. “How’s the weather in Chicago?”

  “It’s January, so let’s just say that your Jacksonville weather is sure to be better.” I sighed. “It’s seventeen here.”

  “Ouch!” He laughed. “I tried to overnight some sun to you, but the box was too big; FedEx wouldn’t ship it.”

  “Is that right?” I blushed, and giddily poked a pen into the letter “A” on my keyboard repeatedly for no good reason. “Well, all I need is a chunk big enough to shine over my condo, not the entire state.”

  “Okay,” Cortez said. “I’ll get that out to you before the end of business today.”

  Cortez Franklin was an executive who worked from our home office in Jacksonville, Florida. Since being promoted into my new position four months ago, he and I had to talk at least once a week, and I relished each conversation. His seductive baritone voice could make any woman start stepping out of her panties at hello. He was also polite, friendly, and professional, but, every once in a while, his wording would be a tad suggestive.

  For the next ten minutes, as we discussed business matters, I quickly wrote down things he needed me to do. At what I thought was the end of the conversation, I asked, “So, when did you want me to e-mail these numbers to you by?”

  “Um . . .” He thought about it. “I need the sales information no later than noon tomorrow, and everything else just send to me as you get it, no rush.”

  “Okay.” I gave my computer mouse a shake to get back to work. “I’ll try to get the sales analogy to you before I leave today.”

  “See, Garcelle?” he chuckled. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

  “They do?” I asked jokingly.

  “You do great work, so I know that you’re getting paid over there,” he said. “When I come to Chicago, you’ll have to show me that lavish mansion you live in.”

  “Ha!” I laughed. “Sure, but give me enough time to have the maids do a thorough cleaning.”

  “Is four days enough time?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” I went on painting the bogus picture. “Yes, that will give me enough time to have the silver polished and pool cleaned, too. Even though it’s too cold to take a dip, I need to have the leaves removed,” I said in my best Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous voice.

  “Not a problem,” he said, and then asked, “So, are you free this Friday night?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I am.” I smiled.

  Cortez asked, “How about dinner?”

  I continued jokingly, “Sure, have your people call my people, they’ll send a car for you.”

  “Oh, no,” he chuckled. “No, I’m being serious
now.”

  “What do you mean?” I dropped the pen.

  I held my breath as he answered, “My friend Mark in Chicago is getting married on Saturday, so I’m flying in on Friday morning and leaving on Sunday.”

  “Oh, so you want to meet the staff while you’re here?” I asked.

  “The staff?” He clarified, “No, just you. I was hoping to finally meet you in person while I was there.” He paused. “If that’s okay.”

  “Um.” I was flabbergasted, and took at least five seconds to get it together. “Sure.”

  “Wait, Garcelle!” He paused. “You don’t sound too sure. There’s no pressure here. I mean, I don’t even know your situation, so if I’m out of line for asking, please let me know.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I was tickled hot pink as I continued. “You just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

  “Sorry about that,” Cortez said. “Since we talk and e-mail so much, I feel like I know you, so it would be a pleasure to put a face to the name.”

  I agreed, “Same here.”

  There was an awkward silence before he said, “I won’t be in the office on Thursday, and I don’t know if I’ll have time to call again before Friday, so may I have another number to reach you when I’m there?”

  “Sure”

  “Sure.”

  We exchanged phone numbers, said our good-byes, and as the receiver touched its cradle, I was already on Google, typing 3 days to lose weight. A million links appeared about a diet called the Three Day Diet. A person should lose ten pounds in three days, but there was no concrete evidence or information on whether it truly worked.

  While I was online, I visited the Blare Corporation Web site again. I had stolen a few glances of a picture of Cortez on the company’s Web site before, but now I had to do it again. He was the color of a freshly polished oak floor, and was incredibly handsome with a white boy nose and thin, yet suckable, Tyson Beckford lips. He was tall, built, and had titillating light brown eyes that I couldn’t even look at on the screen without feeling some kind of way.