Even in the pause, it takes for him to reply, I don't glance up to see what phase the two are in on the floor.
Fatboy: joking?
Me: Nevermind then.
Fatboy: hold up. Wait a sec
Me: It's too fuckin late to be saying something if I was joking, dip shit.
Fatboy: YESS!! THIS IS GONNA BE HUGE
Me: Don't yell.
Fatboy: sorry. Forgot you hate that shit.
He must have also forgotten I hate when people text in all lower case, too. Use what you learned in school, people.
Fatboy: no take bks. i got this text. thanks man. The paperwork will be in your email.
The warm feeling I'm experiencing has nothing to do with the good deed I just signed up for. It's actually the warmth of excitement. If only I had another kind of warmth… the moist, tight, gushy stuff to coat my cock and wet my nuts.
"Thanks for the company. Shows over."
I follow up on my statement by switching off the electric fireplace.
"W, um, that was just act one," whispers the tattooed chick.
I let her crawl a few inches across the wooden floor towards me before I break shit down.
"I ain't buying what you are giving," I whisper back.
She freezes to glance over her shoulder to the loudmouth. I roll my eyes. Swinging my legs to the side of the bed, I prepare to get up.
"I haven't cum yet," pouts the rude woman.
"Well, sit on her fuckin face till you do. Get out," I snarl.
Shit, women think that they are the only ones that have to put their foot down when it comes to advancements. Nowadays, hoes are as bold as fuck.
"What, are you gay?" spits the loud chick.
"Shut up. Let's go," mumbles the tatted one while she tugs on her friend's arm. "You'll never have a chance if you-"
"Fuck Johnny Thicke," spits the other woman, putting extra stress on my name.
I shrug my shoulders. That salt in her wounds must be burning. To put the last nail in the coffin, I stand to reveal my lower half. Licking my lips, I grip my sleeping unit to pump it. Both women stumble during their retreat. Eyes wide, they take in the sight of my pipe that's not even fully hard. The size is still enough to make them either thank God it's not destroying their guts or out of lust to take a ride. I chuckle at their reaction.
Whatever. I'm finally alone. To make sure it stays that way, I press a button to engage the automatic locks on the door to my suite. No drama, tonight. Unlike other nights, my mind isn't plagued with beats, lyrics, or tour dates. Actually, I can feel the first peaceful sleep I've had in a long time coming on. The Tia effect is some shit, huh?
**
Morning
"What the fuck?"
Turning in time to catch the odd look on Chana's face, I don't wonder the reason behind it. Her head darts from side to side. She's probably wondering if she's walked into the Twilight Zone to see me up.
"Is the house cleaned?" I ask, ignoring her antics.
"Um, yeah. You're dressed."
Not a question. She's just stating the obvious.
"Yes, right after I brushed my teeth and wiped my ass after a shit," I laugh.
My happiness so early is making her wary.
"I need the name of the girl you fucked last night. I want to send her a token of appreciation."
I raise my hand, palm facing her. "No need for gifts, but if you want to tell my hand, thank you, be my guest," I tease.
Chana roams me from head to toe.
"Shit! What you took, Johnny? Hand the shit over now!" she fumes.
Hand out, she eats up the ground to glare at me.
"I swear I'm clean, Chana. I'm high on life…nothing else," I promise, slowly.
Leaning over into her searching eyes, I open my eyes wide to allow her to examine my blue-green orbs.
"Holy Father," she says in disbelief while stepping back. "I'm sorry. You're just so, so…put together," she explains.
"Well, good morning to you, too, sis," I smile.
"Going to tell me why?"
"In a few, but right now, we need to get moving."
"Right," she remarks with a clap.
I watch her from the corner of my eye when I hook my finger in the sports coat she must have overlooked hanging on the back of a chair. She works her mouth, trying to decide if she should ask. My seemingly lack of attention to her causes her to drop it. Instead, she goes into our routine.
"You have a 9 am with the property manager at the estate in Greenwich Village. Are you still putting it on the market?"
"I might hold it till the new year."
"Okay, well you have an hour to decide. After that, you have back to back with a few promoters that want you on their fall festival line up. Then, a photo shot for GQ."
"What time is the shoot?" I question as I make a move to leave the rooms.
Chana, standing at 5'8" has no problem keeping up with my 6'2", wide strides. She double-checks her tablet before answering.
"12:15."
"Alright, while I'm showing off my resting bitch face, I need you to take a meeting for me," I inform her.
"Meeting? What kind of meeting?"
"Is Rafael still lingering?" I question, not replying.
"I, I don't think so," she stutters.
"Go, make sure," I instruct while gliding down the stairs. "If he's still here, kick him out. He has a goddamn house. I'm tired of hosting his parties and playing wingman. He needs to step up his player’s game. Tell Hammer to change the codes at the gate, the locks on the doors, and no he can't be let on the property."
Chana's hand bites into my arm to pull me to a stop.
Tilting her head, she stares at me.
"What the fuck is going on…really?"
Patting the side of her face, I take a deep breath. "Shit happens, minds change…now, hurry up," I command with a shove to send her on the way.
She walks away, still looking in my direction. Then rights herself to quicken her steps down the hallway.
That's right, …run along.
Leaning against the wall, I finally do what I've been counting the hours and seconds till this moment in time. I bite my lips and swipe up on my cell. It comes alive to open the IG app. Since I've planned out my words, my fingers fly across the keyboard.
Me: Good morning. I believe this is Tia Symone's account. You should have been given the heads up that I would be contacting you to contract your designing services. I can't elaborate at this moment why I am seeking a designer. What I am free to say is that this is a life-changing opportunity for you and your business. I have to secure an experienced interior designer, asap, so forgive me if I'm coming off rude. I can't do face to face, but my manager can break away to meet with you between noon and 1 pm today. Let me know if you are available within that time frame? Yosef spoke highly of you. If there is a way to open the door for a friend of a friend, I would prefer it. Till Later.
Shocked, huh? I write songs for A-listers. I create raps that’s not for the playground, but the college lecture halls. Upstairs are volumes of dictionaries I've committed to memory and my library is full of first edition classics. What I'm saying is not to take my tattooed self at face value. There are layers, chapters to my book. Oh, I can talk the street shit. I'll never be rid of those habits, but I've graduated from it. I wanted more, so I worked for it. No need to hustle to make it out only to still linger in the life that you fought so hard to rise above.
In my garage, you'll find two cars. I'm not holding down a car lot. The limo I ride in is from a car service business I invested in. That's why I have the same driver. The private jet is a rental through a friend that rents it out to make money off of the plane. I'm not wasting my money on that bullshit. You won't see me iced out, but that don't mean I don't own it. I have two hidden safes full of gold coins, cut diamonds, and other gems. My property portfolio will have you snatching your edges. To finish out my investments, are paintings, investments in weed farms, startups, and blocks of buildings. Y
eah, I listened to Jay-Z's, The Story of OJ. The dude was spitting wisdom that so many haven't grabbed hold to, yet.
"We're going to be late."
Chana's declaration snaps my eyes off my cell. I calm myself over the fact that Tia hasn't responded, yet. Opening the door, I step to the side for Chana to exit first. The back door to a black Bentley is standing open for her. She thanks Richey as she slides in. Heading to the opposite, back door, I nod my head towards Richey before I get in.
It takes everything within me not to turn into a crushing bitch at the vibrations of my cell. My heartbeat is in my ears. I fight to keep my face free of feelings as I read.
CreativeSpaces: Good Morning. Yes, I was informed that you might reach out to me for your designing needs. A secret project? I'm very interested to hear more. Although your time frame is putting me in a bit of a bind, my nosiness to know what you're seeking has encouraged me to make myself available to your manager. I will be expecting your manager no later than 12:05. After that time, I will have to decline the project. Office details are in my bio.
Best regards.
I re-read the message. My silence in the car causes tension to enter the space. From flattery to serving me my ass with a sweet smile, and correct punctuation is what I pick up between the lines. My hand tightens involuntarily on my cell.
"Are you alright, sir?"
My gaze moves to connect with Richey’s in the rearview mirror. I swallow down the stream of curses I want to spew. No doubt how I’m grinding my teeth, and the flexing of my jaw indicates my level of piss. How the fuck this woman is going to come at me like this after my nice message?
"Hey," says Chana with an elbow to my arm.
"Yeah, I'm fine…peachy," I grunt. I loosen my grip on the phone. "That meeting, you need to be on time." Stiff jaw, the sentence comes out in a growl.
Chana slowly clicks on her tablet. "Okay, details; who, what, you know."
"It's a designer for the Greenwich house."
Upset, Chana tosses the tablet on the floor of the car. "I'm sick of asking. I ain't gonna beg, so what the fuck is up," she yells.
Close to my heart, my little sis is the reason why I do the shit I do. She's the only one that can get away with talking to me in such a way, but even she knows the time and place to show her ass.
"Why you got to get crazy?" I tease to lighten the mood. "Listen, I got tired of Fatb-"
"Don't call him that," she remarks. "The man's lost over 60 pounds."
"Sorry, um, Ruban…I got tired of him hitting me up, so I said I'd do his celebrity contest."
"Really?"
The word is spoken in unison between Chana and Richey. They need to watch it. Speaking in time like that is a dead giveaway.
"Yes. Don't look at me like that. It is for a good cause, after all," I snip.
"Uhuh…and what is that cause?"
I shift in the leather seat. Fuck! What is the cause? I didn't think that far ahead. Autism? Nah, I'm sure that one is already taken. Shit!
"Well, that's for you to decide. I want something that will give back to an impoverished community…like after school program, school tech, or maybe to fix up some houses."
Chana stares at me for a few seconds. I can fake it with others, but not her. The little smirk tugging on the corner of her lips tells me she isn't buying it.
"Should I interview possible designers. I can call who did our house," she offers.
"No, that wouldn't be fair. Anyway, I think it's for up and coming to get some spotlight. The meeting is with somebody that Yosef knows."
She nods her head. Picking up the tablet, "What's the name?"
"I don't have all of that." The lie passes smoothly over my gums. "The place is called, Creative Designs," pausing I dig a Sticky Note from my pocket. "This is the address. The owner knows you are coming. Do not tell the designer who I am. I don't want stuff leaking."
"Leaking?"
"Yes, leaking…people talk. I want to have the chance of finding a good designer without the big name ones knocking at my door." Damn, I'm good at this lying shit.
"Alright," she remarks while reading the note. "This is good, Johnny. I've been trying to get you to show a little bit of yourself to the public," she smiles.
I smile back. What I want to show isn't for the public. It's for Tia…and Tia alone.
CHAPTER TWO
CHANA
“Johnny is full of shit.”
Richey cuts his eyes in my direction.
“Oh, come on…you don’t believe all that bull, do you?”
Richey, always the cautious one doesn’t reply. It didn’t matter that he ran the streets with Johnny back in the day, or the fact that he and his Ma looked after me whenever my Mother brought a new guy home to stay. He still didn’t cross the line of boss and employee. He treated Johnny like the man that signed his checks and kept his opinions to himself. I guess that’s a good thing, until times like this when I want someone to bitch with.
“He’s helping out a friend.”
I roll my eyes so hard I almost stumble on the sidewalk. Don’t get me wrong. My brother would give you his shirt off his back. He’s good like that, but he’s also the kind that’s watching, even when you think he isn’t. It only takes him seeing you backstabbing, cheating, or doing something wrong for him to write you off. He’ll work with you, yeah. He just won’t be down with you. People see him as a product of the streets. The tattoos inking him from neck to ankle gave people the wrong thoughts about him. He’s the bad boy, the trailer park white trash that grew up in the projects with the ‘make you cum’ voice.
That’s why I’ve been after him for so long to let the World glimpse the man who believes in blessing in secret to be rewarded in the light. He might let talk and shit roll off his shoulders, but not me. I take names. I save dates and times. I plot and wait to pay each fucker back.
“Oh,” I shout when I remember something. “And he’s putting a stop to Rafael coming around.” I pause to watch Richey’s reaction. “See, Whatcha say to that?” I ask as I wave my hand wildly.
This piece of info makes Richey slow his steps in thought. I can see he wants to weigh in but sticks to his guns.
“You’re going to be late,” he finally speaks.
Placing a hand on my lower back, he rushes me down the sidewalk, through the double doors, and onto the elevator. I bite my lip in frustration. He’s right; I know. I just don’t want to hear it. It would only take him bitching out my brother one time, and I’m going to be all up in his ass. It wouldn’t matter that I asked, or that I instigated it. I can talk shit, but you better not about my family.
The chime of the elevator alerts me; It’s time to get out of my head. If Johnny is serious about doing this designing thing, I need to ensure he isn’t put to shame. I’ll tell you this; If the waiting room of Creative Designs is a sign of talent, this designer has it in spades. I take my time examining the area. The space is small, but shit if the person didn’t use it to make a powerful first impression. Making use of the old, dark wood paneling on the walls, the person created a rich room that boasts undertones of an Old English home while adding accents of African art and appeal. It brought to mind those shows where the people showcased their family paintings of those dead and gone while showing off the things they brought back from their Kenya vacation. Even though the room felt high class and expensive to appeal to that level of client, the room was still welcoming and warm with comfortable seating. Soothing jazz streamed into the room from hidden speakers. The high, brimstone windows shined a bright light in to soften up the appearance of the area.
“Are these curtains?” I question in awe as I walk over to examine the fabric myself.
“No, well they are now, but they were actually old tapestries found at an estate sale,” answers the receptionist. “They aren’t worth anything if you’re worried about that.”
“Of course,” I mumble. “It’s an excellent use of repurposing,” I praise. “It ties the room together ver
y well, too,” I add.
“I have to agree. Many people are enthralled with the African folklore sown into the fabric.”
“I bet,” I whisper. “I have a meeting with the owner on behalf of my employer,” I say, coming to my wits.
I take a spin around the reception room while the employee goes back behind the desk to place a call.
“That’s a man.”
Richey’s hissed statement has my jaw dropping. As nonchalant as I can, I steal a look.
“No,” I remark.
“The hands,” he says with a slight jerk of his head. “Good work, but the hands tell it.”
“It won’t be long now. Can I offer you something? Water? Hot tea?”
I’m too busy trying to see through the beauty of caramel-colored wom… er… person that there’s a delay in my response. I open my mouth to reply only to be knocked off my ass.
“Hello, I’m Tia Symone.”
I normally give a stiff handshake, but the surprise causes my hand to go limp.
“Y, yes, nice to meet you,” I chuckle, weakly. “I’m Chana.”
“This way, please,” instructs Tia while she waves us towards a hallway. She glances at her watch. “I had to fit you in, so please forgive me. Oh, were you offered refreshments?”
“We were,” chimes in Richey, saving my ass in hopes of giving me a moment to recover. “Tea for her, water for me, please,” he beams at the person that for sure is one helluva pretty trans.
“Wonderful, this way, then. Thank you, Ryann,” Tia tosses over her shoulder. “Second door to your left.”
“Another perfect room,” I gush while taking a seat.
“Well, thank you. When you’re a designer, every bit of space is an open canvas to create.”
Her smile flashes perfect pearly whites. Now, in the past, I’ll admit there have been women and girls that produced a bit of heat within me whenever I saw them or were around them. This, this woman here is creating a bright flame that I can’t seem to look away from. I mean fuckin’ perfect in every goddamn way. She has to have had work. Of course, I’m saying that to ease my longing to switch places with her. I would so bodysnatch her shell to gladly live out my remaining days. Tia has the kind of dark, chocolate skin that glows and appears to be brushed onto flesh. Large almond-shaped eyes with long lashes. I don’t know if they are fake because they are so natural looking. Full lips are colored, but not bright to bring attention to something that is so perfectly shaped; you can’t help but follow them when she speaks. High cheekbones, long, regal neck, then comes a curvaceous body that just won’t quit, with long, Thicke legs to finish it off. I send up a prayer in hopes that at least her feet are ugly.
I'll Be Good to You Page 2