Boy, bye!
She blocked the number, then laid her phone face-down on her desk.
He could kiss her ass—left check, right cheek, and inside her whole asshole. He didn’t own her, or her pussy—or any other part of her body. Didn’t he know what she held between her thighs had only been on loan to him?
Mmph. Apparently not! Okay, so maybe she should have handled the situation a little better, been more diplomatic. Bruising a man’s ego was never a good thing. This she knew. But would he be crazy enough to try to harm her?
She refused to believe he would. After all, he’d never shown her he had too much to lose. A career. There’s no way he’d do anything crazy to ruin that. Would he?
No, no, no—of course not.
Then why the hell were her nerves suddenly rattled?
“Baby? You there?”
Arabia blinked. “Huh? What did you say?”
Wellson chuckled. “Did I lose you, baby? I was saying everything you need is already here, right with me.”
She frowned; clearly she’d missed the entire conversation. “What’s already where?” she asked. She shook her head, trying to drive out the nagging thoughts that slowly began to swirl around in her mind. Eric had threatened her.
“Clothes, baby. Me. You. Here in Chicago.”
She swallowed. Pushed back the crazy idea that he’d ever go there. He was just being childish, letting emotions overrule him, speaking out of anger. Yeah, that was it.
She was not about to let him work her nerves. No, no. Absolutely not.
“Oh, okay,” she agreed, deciding a quick getaway was exactly what the hell she needed. “Sounds good.”
“Perfect, baby . . .”
“I’ll make your life a living hell!” Arabia could practically hear him spewing those same texted words at her, slinging them like battery acid.
She shuddered.
“And when you get here,” Wellson prattled on, “we can stop in Cartier to pick you out something special”—now that put a smile on her face—“then grab a bite to eat at Cité, before heading back to the hotel for a night of lovemaking. I’ll have you back on the first flight in the morning, in time for work, baby.”
Snap—just like that. She perked up. Did he say Cartier?
Arabia licked her lips at the idea of being draped in exquisite jewels. And the thought of wrapping her lips around a succulent dish of butter-poached lobster didn’t sound half-bad, either. In fact, it made her mouth water. She enjoyed dining at Cité, with its spectacular 360-degree views from the seventieth floor, perched atop Lake Point Tower. Hmm. It’d been a while since she’d been to the Windy City. Dinner, drinks, a little light shopping along Michigan Avenue . . . and, maybe, some hard dick?
How could she resist?
She couldn’t.
Suddenly, Eric’s silly tantrum no longer mattered. She wasn’t about to let him ruin her day, night, or the rest of her week. No, no. It was over. And he simply needed to get over it.
“So what do you say, baby?” Wellson asked, jarring her from her thoughts.
Arabia shook her head, still trying to push past the nagging feelings, the words he’d texted: Don’t make me do something crazy still milling around in her mind.
She glanced at the time in the upper right-hand corner of her PC. 10:23 a.m. She didn’t have anything on her calendar for today, and so far, the morning had been quiet. Hmm. She could slip out of the building in the next half hour or so, quickly head home to pack a light bag—or not, then have a car service deliver her to the airport.
“Book it,” she said, easing up from her desk. “The sooner the better.”
“That’s my baby. I have a one o’clock flight already on hold for you,” Wellson said smartly.
She forced a smile. “Mmm. Presumptuous, aren’t we?”
Wellson chuckled. “No, baby. Hopeful. See you when you get here.”
“Okay. See you soon,” she said before the call ended.
Reaching for her cell, Arabia sat on the edge of her desk and reread Eric’s text messages. She wasn’t about to let him get inside her head with this nonsense. Opening the bottom drawer to her desk, she pulled out her purse, then locked her desk.
Another text.
Another unknown number.
All the blood drained from her face as she opened the message.
IM SERIOUS ARABIA IF I CAN’T HAVE U NO1 WILL!
Nineteen
Since relocating to Philadelphia, Cruze had purchased so much residential and commercial property that it was like he was winning big-time at a game of Monopoly. He’d probably be a black Donald Trump with his own private jet and shit if he’d invested in real estate a long time ago. He shook his head thinking about all the years he’d risked his life and liberty moving kilos for Moody. He could blame his recklessness on not having a father in his life or a decent male role model, but ultimately, he had to take responsibility for having lived on the edge for so long. With the kind of money he made hustling, he could have gone legit a long time ago, but it wasn’t until he was forced out of the game and was compelled to clean up dirty money that he finally learned to make the kind of moves that led to a secure future.
“This space was formerly a bowling alley, but if you knock out the walls with the lanes, it could be transformed into pretty much any kind of business,” said Becky, beaming at Cruze with her fake saleswoman smile.
“Nah, I’m not knocking out shit. When I buy commercial property, I don’t fuck around with remodeling; I sell everything as is,” Cruze replied bluntly, sauntering through the vast space and wondering how quickly he’d be able to unload it.
Becky, whose real name escaped Cruze (but he was sure it was probably Amy, Gretchen, or Molly . . . or some shit like that), turned a rosy shade of pink after Cruze spoke his mind. And the leggy, brown-eyed blonde hadn’t turned colors because the off-color language he’d used offended her. She was blushing because she was turned on. He could tell by the way she kept fussing with her hair. He could see the lust in her glassy eyes. He smelled it seeping from her pores. Felt it swirling all around the air between them.
But he wasn’t feeling her. Not like that. It wasn’t that he was prejudiced against white chicks. She could probably get it if she had plumper lips and a fatter ass. Unfortunately for Becky, Cruze couldn’t stand the feeling of paper-thin lips stretched around his dick, giving him the unpleasant sensation of enduring a bunch of paper cuts. He might as well slide his dick over sandpaper than be subjected to that shit.
Another strike against her was that flat-as-a-pancake ass of hers. When he was fucking, he liked to hold onto a meaty plump ass that jiggled when he smacked it. Snow bunnies like Becky, with their hard, fake tits tended to have sharp protruding bones and long, skinny legs. There couldn’t be anything pleasurable about fucking a mannequin, so Cruze ignored all the signals she sent his way.
“I’ma sleep on this and I’ll give you an answer tomorrow,” he said, heading for the door, without so much as a glance her way. He’d seen and heard enough.
Becky rushed behind him. “What if I knock ten thousand off the asking price?”
“Make it twenty and we have a deal,” Cruze replied without breaking his stride.
“Uh, I’m not sure if the seller is willing to—”
Cruze came to a halt, turned around and scowled at Becky. “How long has this place been empty?”
“A little over a year, I think.”
Cruze snorted. He wasn’t that new to the game. He’d already done his homework and knew the space had been unoccupied for almost three years. “Well, tell the seller to enjoy holding on to this vacant building for another three to four years.”
Busted, Becky’s face turned a deeper shade of red. “I’ll contact the seller with your offer,” she said, averting her gaze.
“Yeah, you do that.” With
that he was out the door.
Outside, Cruze disarmed his Jaguar, a new toy that he’d only driven a few times. He gave Becky a head nod before climbing inside his sleek ride, leaving her flustered and wet. That bitch could suck a dick if she thought she’d ever be able to game him up off his paper.
Needing to open the engine up, he headed for I-95 and drove his Jag as hard as he’d driven his dick into the silky tight clutch of that mystery bitch’s pussy that night in Club Seduction. Why couldn’t he get her out of his mind? It was maddening the way he couldn’t stop reliving that night. Couldn’t stop seeing the exotic features of her gorgeous face or smelling all the notes of her expensive fragrance.
Frustrated and angry with himself for being haunted by the memory of a slut-ho who fucked random dudes in a public place, he accelerated to eighty-five and then quickly shot to a hundred.
Fuck, yeah! Cruze felt an adrenaline rush that gave him the sensation of being invincible and powerful as hell. Driving fast took some of the edge off, but as soon as he began to slow down, he lost his natural high and once again began to brood, wishing he could dip his dick into that bomb-ass pussy, just one more time.
• • •
Not wanting to seem like he was flaunting his extravagances in the faces of the low-income people he was trying to help, Cruze had intended to take the Jag back to his house in the suburbs and switch it out for his SUV. But Bret had asked him if he could speak to the parents of his team about the summer basketball camp in the Poconos and about the importance of keeping their grades up in order to be eligible for a scholarship.
He pulled into the small lot of HYPE and deliberately took up two parking spots. Fuck if he wanted his whip scratched or dented by somebody’s banged-up hooptie. Fuck that.
As he armed the Jag, he noticed a G-Wagon parked in a space next to Bret’s Lexus sedan. Cruze wondered who the whip belonged to. Needing to be cautious at all times, he walked to the back of the SUV to check out the plate. When he saw Pennsylvania tags, he felt relieved. In his mind, he had conjured up the idea that the New York thugs had sent a henchman in a suit and a nice ride to take care of him.
Lingering at the back of the G-Wagon, he noted that the whip was a rental. The visitor was probably someone associated with the NBA with deep pockets who had flown in to make a contribution in person.
Inside the center, Cruze wanted to meet with Bret and go over the spiel he’d prepared for the parents, but he wasn’t surprised to find Bret’s office door was closed. No doubt, he was meeting with the driver of the G-Wagon, who was most likely a big donor.
As he made his way to his own office, Cruze smiled, wondering what his old crew would think about his new position in life. Having a respectable office and keeping somewhat regular business hours was hard for him to believe. His old crew wouldn’t think him capable of becoming a contributing member of society. In Cruze’s mind, he could hear his longtime buddy, Sameer with that crazy laugh of his, jokingly accusing him of using the center and the kiddie basketball team as a cover-up for some kind of a scam.
Unfortunately, he’d never get to hear Sameer’s silly laughter again.
Jolted back to the night of the murders, Cruze saw the sickening image of his old friend’s bullet-ridden body laid out in a zigzag positon in Moody’s foyer.
Rest in peace, Sameer.
Cruze wished he could smoke a blunt, but couldn’t conduct HYPE business or coach the boys with red, squinty eyes and while moving in slow motion.
Thinking about Sameer led Cruze to that dark place in his mind where the memory of his son resided. Suddenly agitated, he hated that he had to address the parents while in such a fragile emotional state.
He had an hour to pull himself together, and he struggled to fill his mind with pleasant thoughts. Sadly, all he saw was images of Darth Vader and other Star Wars characters that embellished the comforter that was on Chancellor’s bed that night.
Unable to shake the gloom that engulfed him, Cruze’s shoulders slumped and he dropped his head in his hands. Oh, Chance. My boy, my boy. I should have known you were mine, and I should have been there to protect you. I’m so sorry, son.
At the sound of a soft knock on the door, Cruze abruptly straightened up and cleared his throat. “Come in,” he said in a clear, even tone that gave no hint of the anguish that consumed him.
Expecting Bret, he couldn’t have been more surprised when the door opened and Tanji sashayed into his office. This time, her hair was lavender and she was rocking hooker boots, a short denim jacket, and a pair of tights that showed off some serious camel toe. The imprint of her vulva instantly took Cruze’s mind off his troubles, and had his mouth watering like crazy.
“Hey, Mr. Fontaine, I’m here for the meeting.” There was musicality in Tanji’s voice, and her words had a soft, lilting quality, like she was singing a sensual melody.
Cruze checked his watch. “Uh, the meeting doesn’t start for another hour.”
“I know, but I wanted to get here early and have a private meeting.” The way the word private rolled off her tongue and slipped from her glossed lips held heat, promise, and possibility. And for a fleeting moment, Cruze envisioned his dick sliding in and out of her mouth, sinking into the depths of her throat.
He swallowed. Nigga, you bugging, he scolded himself. You know you can’t fuck with this bird-ass bitch. “I don’t think that’s—”
Tanji tossed her weave hair over her shoulder. “Don’t think, boo,” she said sassily, licking her lips. “Just do . . .”
Cruz frowned, then shook his head. “Nah. I don’t think you’re hearing me. This isn’t—”
“Why you keep avoiding me, Mr. Fontaine?” she questioned, cutting him off before he could reject her sexual advances.
Cruze raised a brow and stared at her thirsty-ass, trying to keep his dick in check. He sighed. “Listen, Tanji. It’s not that I’m avoiding you, but under the circumstances, your behavior is inappropriate,” he said, backing up and despising how much he sounded like a straight sucker. If he wasn’t at the center, he’d bend this smutty broad over his desk and fuck that pussy until the skin peeled off.
But she had him in a vulnerable positon, and as she grew closer, he found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the thick pussy print that was staring him in the face. A hot-in-the-ass bitch like Tanji probably stayed having a sloppy, wet pussy. A pussy that didn’t possess a perfumed scent. Nah, Tanji had that ’hood pussy, which tended to be slightly rank with a strong pungency that defied soap and water.
And a man would be lying his ass off if he denied that a pussy that had a little stank on it, felt extra good. And just by looking at her, he knew this ’hood bitch had some good and stank pussy!
On the videos she’d sent him, Cruze had already seen how much dick she could take up the ass, but he had yet to see that fat pussy put in some work. He wondered if she had a snap trap like the mystery bitch.
Mmph! Merely thinking about the mystery broad had his dick lengthening and thickening, and Tanji’s gleaming eyes didn’t miss the subtle movement in the front of Cruze’s pants.
Encouraged by what she assumed was an invitation, Tanji slithered over to him. “Stop frontin’ like you don’t want this pussy, Mr. Fontaine,” she murmured.
Being a handsome dude and having been a heavy-hitter in the game, it wasn’t unusual for innumerable women to come on to him. But never in his life had any woman referred to him as “Mr. Fontaine” while begging for dick . . . and the shit sounded erotic as fuck.
Mentally disabled by the rush of blood that surged through his loins, Cruze could hardly process what was happening as Tanji suddenly dropped to her knees. “After I suck the hell out of this dick, I bet you’ll stop being so stingy with it, Mr. Fontaine.” Her hand went up over the growing bulge in his pants. “Mmm, yes. I knew you had a big dick,” she said huskily, looking up through a veil of double-pack lashes.
She bit over the fabric. Nibbled where the head of his cock pressed and stretched in his pants.
Fuck it. I can’t fight this. Out of his mind with lust, Cruze didn’t answer, just groaned and unzipped his slacks to drag the heavy length of his dick out.
He knew what he was about to do was wrong. Still, he latched on to the idea of having his dick inside something wet. Hell. What could a quick dick suck hurt? He could bust in her mouth, and ease the brewing sexual tension that had been building up in his balls all morning. Then send her on her way with the taste of his nut stained on her tongue.
Tanji felt her pussy getting wet. Finally. It was about to happen. She was about to make Cruze her new boo. She licked her lips in heated anticipation waiting for her feeding. She wanted him. Wanted to taste him. Drink him in. Swallow him whole. Yeah, bitches, Mr. Fontaine’s fine-ass is about to be all mine!
Before Cruze could get his dick out and into Tanji’s already drooling mouth, there was the horrific, metallic sound of the knob turning, followed by two sharp raps on the door.
“Hey, Cruze. You got a sec? I want you to meet . . .”
Before he could yank Tanji up off her knees and zip his pants, the door opened followed by a woman’s gasp.
“Oh shit,” Cruze and Bret said simultaneously as Tanji sprang to her feet, and the woman—with the sultry eyes and luscious lips—standing beside Bret looked on with amazement.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Twenty
Ooh, scandalous . . .
Arabia’s breath hitched in her throat, and her knees almost went weak at the sight of him—the man who’d taken up space in her fantasies over the last two weeks—standing there with his zipper down and some ex-stripper-looking ’hood bitch down on her knees as she was being quickly ushered out of the room by the elbow. But not before she glanced over her shoulder and let her gaze travel down to where his erection pressed against his pants, of course.
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