Sexual Healing

by Allison Hobbs

  “No, no. It was just a silly misunderstanding,” she quickly asserted. But Arabia didn’t miss the quick lift of the doorman’s one eyebrow as if to say yeah—right.

  Arabia shot him an icy look—a warning to mind his goddamn manners, as she pulled out her key card and inserted it. The doors to the elevator slid shut in his face, and Arabia fell back against the paneled wall, shaking.

  • • •

  “Can you believe that shit?” Arabia hissed, pacing the carpeted living room floor as she spoke to her sister, Maya, over the phone. “That crazy bastard showed up here, then had the nerve to put his hands on me.”

  Maya gasped. “Girl, I can’t. You mean to tell me he hit you?”

  She huffed. “No, Maya. He grabbed me.”

  “That’s still bad. What did you do after he grabbed you?”

  Arabia grunted. “Mmph. What you think I did? I maced him up real good, then watched as security tossed his crazy ass out of the building.” She took a deep breath. “I still can’t believe he showed up here and embarrassed me like that. The goddam nerve of him! And now I have this nasty-ass bruise on my arm, thanks to him.”

  “Ohmygod, girl. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Did you call the police?”

  Arabia’s eyes flew open. “Hell no. And have my neighbors gawking at me, and whispering shit behind my back about me? I don’t think so.”

  “But what if he comes back again, and tries to hurt you, Arabia?” Maya asked, alarm ringing in her voice. “You should at least file a report against him.”

  Arabia sighed. “I guess. But I don’t think he’d be crazy enough to show his face here again. Not after what happened. Eric might be acting crazy right now, but he isn’t stupid.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Maya said, not sounding the least bit convinced. God she hoped Arabia was right about this Eric guy, but he sounded like he had a few screws loose.

  Arabia shuddered. “Maya, you should have seen the look in his eye. If looks could kill, I know I’d be dead right on the spot. And why is his leaving his wife my fault? I didn’t ask him to. I tried to encourage him to stay with her ass. What the hell do I want with a cheating man?”

  Maya sighed, shaking her head. She loved Arabia, but she felt her younger sister was reckless when it came to men—married men, that was. And she feared something like this—or worse, would eventually happen. She wondered if Arabia even remembered the drama she’d experienced her junior year at Spelman. Marcus, if Maya remembered correctly, was his name. He was almost nine years older than Arabia, and very married. But when Arabia tried to break it off with him—after only four months, he became obsessed with her to the point that he’d stalked her, showing up at campus and camping out outside the gates of the condominium she shared with one other girl.

  Arabia had to file an order of protection. But that hadn’t stopped him from walking up on campus one spring afternoon, and snatching her by the back of her hair and beating her in front of her peers. She ended up being rushed to the hospital with a mild concussion, a broken eye socket, and three cracked ribs.

  He’d tried to beat her half-to-death.

  Luckily, a group of fraternity brothers intervened and held him down until the police arrived. He’d been charged with aggravated assault and violation of a protection order, then, eventually, sentenced to four years in prison. If Maya wasn’t mistaken, that order of protection was still in place. Still, she had hoped, along with her two other sisters, that that dreadful experience would have been Arabia’s wakeup call, but obviously not.

  “Look, Arabia,” Maya said evenly. “You’ve had a good run with these married men. Maybe it’s time for you to leave them alone. Besides, extravagant trips and jewelry, what are you really getting out of it? You can’t possibly be happy with—”

  “I am happy,” Arabia snapped, cutting her sister off. She didn’t need this shit right now. She hadn’t called her to be chastised. She needed a moment of compassion from Maya; for her to simply let her vent; not get all goddamn Mother Teresa on her. “I have a fabulous career. I own my own home. I have money in the bank. And I live my life on my own terms. What more could I possibly want?”

  “Arabia, no one is discounting the fact that you’ve done well for yourself, and I am proud of you. We all are. But, at the end of the day, all of your success means nothing when you have no one to share it with.”

  Arabia blinked. “What do you mean, I have no one to share it with? I have you, and two other sisters when you get on my nerves.”

  Maya chuckled, shaking her head. “Of course you have me, girl—even when I get on your nerves. But that’s not what I’m talking about. And you know it. I mean you have no one special in your life to share those things with. Don’t you want love?”

  Love?

  Oh God, that word sounded so damn dirty.

  She wasn’t about to let that filthy thing get ahold of her heart, infecting her with its toxic lies and mystical promises of a happily-ever-after—that she knew didn’t exist. No, no, love was not about to have her somewhere wringing her hands at night stressing over a man, or twisting her edges out worrying about what some man was or wasn’t doing when she wasn’t around. She learned a long time ago that a hard dick had no conscience, so she’d be damned if she’d spend her energy worrying over whose sheets it was staining up. No. She wasn’t about to babysit no damn dick, monitoring it. No, no, no. She wasn’t built for that type of life. Them silly bitches chasing behind a cheating man could have that craziness.

  Arabia was fine with her life exactly the way it was.

  As far as she was concerned, love was pain. And she was allergic to both.

  “No, thank you,” she simply replied. “The only thing I will ever love is the idea of being stress free.”

  Maya huffed. “Whatever. I’m not saying jump out and fall in love with the first man who waves hello. All I’m saying is, be open to the idea.”

  Arabia cringed. The only thing she was opened to was . . .

  “Goddamn, Arabia. I’m feeling the shit outta you . . .”

  Arabia’s pulse quickened. His name momentarily escaped her. It was at the tip of her tongue, dammit. But everything else about him was stamped into her memory. Heat splintered through her pussy, and she felt herself growing wet. Oh God, what was happening to her?

  She could feel the way her body had opened to the length of him, clutching the width of him, welcoming his thrusts.

  Ooh, she was such a naughty bitch, fucking him in that bathroom stall like that. The sordid act had been deliciously dirty. He’d fucked her wickedly. The memory alone sent her teetering practically on the brink of an orgasm.

  God, what was his name again?

  Her breath hitched.

  Cruze.

  Yes, yes. Cruze Fontaine. Mmm—God, yes.

  “You need to stop playin’ with me, Arabia, and let me dig in this shit on a regular basis.”

  She shook her head.

  Had he meant that? No, of course not. Men were notorious for saying shit they didn’t mean in the heat of the moment. So there was absolutely no way that self-serving bastard—with his fine, chocolaty self—meant . . .

  “If you’d stop putting up walls,” Maya continued, snatching her from her reverie, “you might be pleasantly surprised at how good it can feel to be in a relationship with a man of your own.”

  Arabia blinked.

  Hmm. A man of her own? That concept was foreign to her. A man of her own hadn’t ever figured into Arabia’s life plan, or her goals. She’d been too preoccupied with her career and fucking other women’s men to entertain thoughts of a relationship—particularly a monogamous one with anyone.

  “No thank you,” Arabia said. “I have no time for that.”

  Maya frowned on the other end of the phone. “Well, then make time. I’m sure there are a ton of good-looking, single men out ther
e who would love to date you, Arabia. In fact, now that I’m thinking of it, I have someone I know would be a perfect match for you. And he’s—”

  “Um, hold up, boo. Let me stop you right there,” Arabia warned. “I am not some lonely charity case who needs you to play matchmaker for her.”

  “No one said you were. All I’m saying is, maybe it’s time you broadened your horizons some. And I have just the man to help you do that. He’s a corporate attorney, making six-figures. He’s single. No kids. Owns several homes. And . . .”

  “Does he have a big dick?” Arabia heard herself asking. But settled for, “What’s wrong with him? Why is he still single if he’s such a good catch? What, is he a paraplegic?”

  Maya laughed. “Girl, no. That man is fine. And I do mean fine, in every sense of the word, with all of his limbs.”

  Arabia grunted. “Mmph. He sounds too good to be true if you ask me.”

  “Girl, stop. And you don’t think you’re deserving of something good? You could be a great catch too if you weren’t so damn obsessed with married men.”

  Arabia finally stopped pacing, and crawled up on her chaise lounge. “I beg your pardon? I’m not obsessed with them. I simply find them convenient.”

  Maya chortled. “Ha! Girl. Lies. You find them as an excuse to not allow yourself the chance at real love. Tell me, Arabia. What are you really afraid of?”

  Arabia blinked at the question, stunned.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. Myself.

  “Bullshit, Arabia,” Maya blurted. “I know why you do it. And so do you. So say it.”

  Arabia sighed. God she hated her sister for being the only one to pull her secrets out of her with such ease. “Okay, Maya. Damn. Maybe I’m scared that if I opened myself up to someone and fell for them, that I’d fall apart and wouldn’t know how to pick myself up, or put myself back together again. Maybe I don’t know how to let myself be vulnerable.”

  She nearly choked on those words. She hated to admit it. Hated putting it out there like that. But it was her truth.

  Arabia was afraid of love.

  Twenty-Four

  The drive to New Jersey before the sun had come up was oddly comforting. At four-fifteen in the morning, there were hardly any motorists on the road and Cruze felt like he owned the highway. The dark sky was beginning to streak with reddish-yellow colors, and it was eerily beautiful.

  Like Arabia.

  She was weird as fuck with her freaky self, but so eerily beautiful with that luscious mouth that seldom smiled, and her dark-brown eyes that were filled with mystery. When Cruze had looked deeply into those illuminous orbs of hers, he’d felt like he was sinking into an ocean of pain and despair. In her eyes, he’d seen his own tortured spirit revealed. He sensed that like him, Arabia was engaged in an inner war and was terrified of showing even a hint of vulnerability.

  He didn’t know her story, but was certain that she had one. Everyone did. As far as he could tell, no one made it through this life without experiencing their fair share of unbearable grief. Cruze swallowed, thinking about the loss of his mother. She’d been so young. So brave, trying to raise him on her own. She’d never told him who his father was and had always dodged the question by saying it didn’t matter as long as he had her.

  But it turned out that he didn’t have her. He ended up trying to make it in the world, all alone. As twisted as it was, he now realized that he’d been looking for something that resembled a mother’s love in Ramona. What a laugh. Ramona had exploited his naiveté and had abused the pure love he had for her in the cruelest way. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him that he was damaged goods.

  And so was Arabia. He could feel it. Maybe that was why he was so attracted to her. Couldn’t get her off his mind. He thought back to their bathroom encounter and his dick thumped and enlivened, but it instantly went limp when he recalled grabbing her thong and sniffing it like some kind of sick-o. What the fuck was that shit about? He had surprised himself with that blatant show of perversion. It made him cringe to even imagine what Arabia must have thought of him.

  With her repeated warped behavior, she had a lot of nerve thinking that Cruze had issues. Sniffing a thong was mild compared to the way she liked to get down. Grabbing the first nigga with a swinging dick and serving him up juicy pussy in the midst of a huge crowd was straight bananas. Although bathroom sex was freaky, too, at least it was somewhat private. The way Arabia had lured him into the freak zone at Club Seduction was proof that she had a loose screw or two.

  But he had to admit that he liked her kind of crazy.

  He had fucked more bitches than he could ever count, and in every position of the Kama Sutra, yet he couldn’t stop thinking about Arabia’s tight pussy and the way she’d spread her legs for him with her high-heeled shoe planted on the toilet seat. Both times they’d smashed had been the most erotic adventures of his life. If he’d had the foresight to pick her thong off the floor and stick it in his pocket, he’d be sniffing that hot pussy fragrance right now while he was driving.

  With a sigh of regret, he exited the interstate highway and followed the GPS directions to the dock.

  Dressed in bummy sweats, hoodie, and dogged boots, Cruze joined two middle-aged white dudes and one Asian who were prepping for a long day of fishing, tinkering with tackle boxes and busily setting up their rods. He glanced at the hats they wore, taking notice of the colors: tan, brown, and a dingy off-white.

  Cruze held a duffle bag in one hand and the other hand was stuffed in his pocket as he discreetly tried to determine if one of their caps was possibly a dull yellow.

  The guy he’d contacted over the phone had said he could be identified by his yellow cap, but none of the fishermen’s hats were any shade of yellow.

  The men returned Cruze’s curious glance with cold, unwelcoming looks. Carrying no fishing equipment, Cruze stood out. It must have been unnerving to have a tall black guy hanging around on the dock in the pitch-black darkness. They probably thought he was planning to rob them.

  Cruze let out a snort of disgust. Their old, broke asses didn’t have shit he wanted. To put their minds at ease, he took down his hood and moved several yards away from them, meandering in the direction of the darkened bait shop.

  He looked around impatiently. Where the hell was the guy in the yellow cap? Trying to occupy his time, Cruze pulled out his phone and was pleased to see a message from his real estate broker, informing him that one of his properties had sold. Flipping houses was so much easier than flipping kilos, but a part of him missed the danger.

  He studied the screen on the phone, reading the details of the sale. After he returned the phone to his pocket, he resumed craning his neck, checking out a new group of retirees that moseyed onto the pier. No yellow hats. He was beginning to grow antsy and wished there was a number he could call to find out when the dude was planning on getting there, but the guy used burner phones that he changed regularly.

  Cruze checked the time. Thirty minutes had elapsed since his arrival. That was a lot of time considering the nature of the business he was there to conduct.

  Maybe he was on the wrong pier.

  The lights inside the darkened bait shop suddenly flickered on and all the fishermen began moving toward the dinky little shack like it was Mecca. Cruze slowly maneuvered toward the shop, as well, but not because he wanted to buy bait. Through the window, he could see that the guy behind the counter had on a bright yellow hat.

  Up close, Cruze could tell by dude’s complexion and features that he was Italian. But he’d been expecting a much younger guy.

  Nah, this dude couldn’t have been the dude Cruze had spoken with—not with those bent shoulders, worn, leathery face, full set of clicking false teeth, and a wide gratuitous smile that he bestowed upon each customer.

  Cruze’s guy would have to have a steady hand and be quick on his feet. Cruze had expected to meet
up with a terrifyingly malicious contract killer, not some smiley-faced senior citizen who made a living selling worms and fish guts and shit. He should have known better than to take someone seriously who advertised on Craigslist. Disgusted, he whirled around, prepared to drive back to Philly.

  “Is anyone looking for snake bait?” asked the gravelly-voiced man behind the counter.

  Recognizing the voice, Cruze stopped in his tracks and glanced over his shoulder. The customers standing in line shook their heads. None were looking for snake bait. The old guy settled his gaze on Cruze and Cruze detected a glint in his eyes.

  If you want to kill a snake, you chop it off at the head, the killer had said over the phone when Cruze confided the dilemma he was in with an unforgiving drug gang. He’d learned that the top dog, Big Crockett, had been recently locked up, but would most likely get out in thirty days or less. Cruze was prepared to pay someone to go after the second-in-command and the rest of the organization while Big Crockett was incarcerated. He wanted the whole crew dead so he could stop looking over his shoulder and start living his life to the fullest. He’d take care of Big Crockett personally when he was back out on the streets, disoriented and hastily trying to reorganize.

  Over the phone, the hit man had suggested that Cruze take down Crockett first, and he’d seemed confident that he could accomplish it while Crockett was behind bars. He’d demanded a hefty fee for his services, and Cruze was willing to pay it—to someone who could get the job done. Judging by the old man’s slow movements, it seemed like his arthritis was killing him. With his gnarled, crooked fingers, he could barely bag up the worms without winching. There was no way such a feeble person could orchestrate a prison killing of a high-profile drug kingpin. The guy’s glory days were long over.

  After the customers thinned out, the man in the yellow hat asked, “Did you bring the money?”