“Hello!” I added, giving Tara and Judy a soul-sista high-five.
Not that Judy had to tell me. I knew Troy was a rising star. He was one of the top video directors in the industry and soon he would be a paid high seven-figga-jigga!
And here comes my man now . . .
Troy was walking through the door headed straight for our table.
“Hey Troy,” Tara said, scooting over to make room as he bent over to kiss me.
“Whassup Tara? Whassup up Judy?” Troy politely greeted.
“Hey T!” Judy greeted, giving her famous air smooches. “By the way, that new Busta video is the bomb!”
“That’s ’cause my man is the bomb!” I said, sexily putting my arm around him.
My cell rang. I cringed. “I’m sorry, I thought I turned it off.” I fumbled for the phone.
“Robert didn’t give you those instructions. You’d better answer the phone,” Troy said flatly through gritted teeth while removing his jacket. His suspicions that Robert kept me on a short leash for personal reasons were becoming harder and harder for me to convince him otherwise.
I excused myself, finding a quiet spot to take the call. Robert wanted me to come in an hour early tomorrow to go over some research before our staff meeting. When I hung up and returned to the table, Troy had finished my cocktail and seemed more relaxed.
“Can you ladies handle some shots?” Troy challenged the table, calling out to the bartender to bring over his best tequila.
“Whatever. How about, can you handle a shot?” I smarted off, kissing him on the lips as he pulled me close.
“Next time you better let your boss know you’re off the clock, before I tell him. Man to man. I don’t like how he tries to have all this power and control over you.”
“You need to just worry about having control over your own woman,” I playfully jabbed, stroking his face, kissing him again.
“Keep it up, and I will throw some of this control on you.” Troy smiled, becoming aroused as I pressed my body against his.
“Do you guys need a room?” Tara teased as we all broke into laughter.
I lost track of time. About five shots later we had abandoned my girls, and we were in our own little world on the dance floor. A funky hip-hop track was bumping as Troy danced behind me. He began rubbing my thighs. I suddenly remembered I’d gone pantiless. Big deal. “Girlfriend” liked to be free every now and then too, especially in the summertime when I wore certain clingy fabrics.
In the clumsiness of tequila shots and Cosmos, I tried to stop Troy’s hand, but it was too late. His hand slipped under my dress. As he began to massage me, I felt myself having an orgasm on the dance floor. I excused myself and rushed into the ladies’ room.
I had that drunken pounding-heart feeling. Had anyone seen my lewd act?
“Oh we saw it all!” Tara barreled into the bathroom.
“Everything! You two are wild!” Judy screeched. “We just came to tell you we’re out. Not that you would notice.”
We giggled, giving each other good-bye hugs and air smooches. When they were gone, I stared in the mirror for a moment. Look out Lil’ Kim! I thought, hysterical with laughter.
I flung the bathroom door open and exited with my head held high. I scooped Troy by the arm, and we walked out of the bar and right into Randy Lanier.
“Whassup T? Lindsay?” Randy was so suave it made my stomach turn. He had that pretty, prep-boy look I was talking about. It was our first time seeing him since Troy and I started dating and you could feel the tension. My high was instantly blown.
“Whassup Randy!” Troy gave him a pound.
“Randy,” I said, avoiding eye contact.
“Don’t leave. Stay. Let’s have some drinks. I know you like drinks, Lindsay!”
Randy wanted to make it clear we had history. “No, I’ll pass.” I ignored Randy and seductively pulled Troy close. “But you stay, honey.”
“You sure?” Troy asked.
“Absolutely, have fun.” I kissed him good-bye, wishing my girls were still here. I flipped my hair and strutted off Naomi Campbell style. I had to make sure my exit was memorable.
Chapter 8
Killer Dress
My wedding planning is in complete shambles!
Granny and my mother can’t afford to fly down here every weekend to help me pick out my dress. It’s bad enough I compromised with the entire family by having the ceremony in Buffalo. But I will not, I repeat not buy my wedding dress in Buffalo! Not when I live in the greatest fashion city in the world, second only to Milan.
Not to be misleading, Michael and I are far from rich. But this is my first and hopefully last time being a bride. I plan to have my nuptials in all the major publications back home and Jet magazine, and I plan on representing Buffalo well.
My dreams of becoming a famous writer haven’t come to fruition just yet, but relocating to the city and getting married is considered success in the eyes of Buffalonians. So on that note, I must look the part. Never mind the fact that I’ve been driving poor Kyle insane with my indecisive dress antics.
“What about this one? I like the way the train detaches.” Kyle held up what could have easily been gown number two thousand. Lord knows I’ve lost track.
“Yeah, it’s nice but I don’t know if I want my dress to be detachable!” I said, shuffling through Macy’s bridal book. Kyle shot me a look and hung the dress back up, then continued to riffle though the endless racks of white.
“I have two words for you, high maintenance, and all I know is you better cut it out!” Kyle warned, but I knew better. Kyle was too happy to help me look for a dress. It took everything in him not to run into the dressing room and try one on himself.
“It’s my wedding, so I’ll complain if I want to,” I said, playfully sticking my tongue out.
“I’m serious. This is our third store of the day. I mean, give me a break. I understand you want to look fabulous, but you know I know you. All of a sudden you want to turn into Miss Dainty. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I saw you in a dress. Trying to get all Miss America on me. Who do you think you are?” Kyle carried on. Although he wasn’t really looking for an answer, something stirred inside me. I was Charlie Thornton. I was a self-made beauty, and in the process of transformation from girl to woman I’ve become, shockingly, just what Kyle said, high maintenance. What’s wrong with that? It’s not the typical definition of “high maintenance”: the mandatory weekly manicure, pedicure, and wax-me type. No, I’m the girl with slightly rough edges. Ashy hands, if I’m too busy for tedious moisturizing. Hairy legs in the summertime, if I don’t feel like shaving. And maybe even chipped fingernail polish if I don’t have time to make it to the nail shop.
That’s who I am, but when I need to show it off, believe me, I know how! And for the first time in a long time, I feel good about myself.
Placing my hands on my hips I decided to let Kyle and the whole world know. “Well, mister, I’ll tell you who I am. I’m one of the hottest new copywriters at my job. I have a man who wants to give me his last name, and although I’m thirty-two, I can still pull a twenty-year-old from all shades of the color spectrum. I’m all that and a bag of chips! That’s who I am! So if I’m a little high maintenance, so be it. I have two words for you: killer dress!” I threw up my hands, making a grand exit.
“Oh no, Miss Thing didn’t read me!” Kyle said, laughing as he ran to catch up with me.
I got home and the house was a mess, but thankfully silent. Michael had decided to treat the kids to Six Flags. They’d be at the amusement park till dusk. I had been complaining about my writer’s block to Michael. So this morning, on my side of the bed, he left me a Giant Hershey’s Kiss and a greeting card that read: I love you a lot, and I hope some time alone will help lift your writer’s block. The poem is lame maybe, because you’re the writer of this family.
I’m so lucky to be marrying a man who truly believes in me and my dreams. The card reminded me of when I first
laid eyes on Michael. I was shopping in the NYU campus gift shop. I was taking a creative writing class to brush up on my skills, and Michael was completing his carpenter’s license. He was looking for a birthday card for his mother and asked for my help. I suggested he get a blank card and write from his heart. When I told him I was a writer, Michael suggested I help him with the card in exchange for dinner. We’ve been inseparable ever since.
This morning was a disappointment as far as the dress hunt was concerned, but I had all afternoon to take another shot and work on my script.
I ran to my desk and decided to go back to an old ritual that my professor from NYU had passed on to me. I turned on the computer and printer. Professor Shepherd’s method was to sit down with a printed copy of the script. This would allow the words to breathe and come to life, sparking a natural wave of what to write next. While the script was printing I could quickly tidy up the apartment, freshen up, and slip into some comfortable writing gear.
My favorite Diptyque candle was burning, and my sounds of nature CD played softly throughout the apartment, and I was on my third glass of Riesling. I was happily in the zone, sitting in the middle of the apartment surrounded by the pages from my screenplay that covered most of the floor. Suddenly, it came to me. I got it! I jumped up and sat down into my chair. Act 5, scene 1 . . . My fingers could barely keep up with the speed of my thoughts but I was on a roll.
Suddenly, the front door flew open, and terror invaded the room. MJ ran right over my papers, and I made a mad dive to protect what was left. “Damn it MJ, watch out!” And right out of a scene from The Matrix, out of the corner of my eye, in slow motion, Tiffany was running in and tripped on the cord to the computer. My heart stopped. I looked up, and the computer screen went black. “No!” I screamed as I tried to rescue the file, but it was too late, Act 5 was all gone.
Tiffany was on the ground holding her scraped knee and crying. Michael quickly picked her up, assessed the damage, and then walked over to me and kissed me on the forehead.
“I’m sorry babe, I love you,” Michael said. “Listen, Little Man,” he said to MJ, “you have to watch where you’re going, okay?” MJ looked up at his dad and then at me, smiled faintly and said “Sorry.” “Come on, MJ, help me get your sister ready for bed,” Michael said while picking up the remaining papers from the floor. He turned back to me and whispered. “Right after I put them to bed, we’ll tootsie roll all night, I promise.”
Instantly my body warmed over. “All night?” I asked wantonly.
“All night,” Michael said, discreetly sticking his tongue out at me, causing us both to laugh.
Chapter 9
Hot in Here
White sand, blue water, and a suite at La Sammana, St.-Martin’s finest. Just what I needed for a weekend getaway. If Troy wasn’t careful he was going to win my heart. He wasn’t officially calling me his girlfriend, but we were doing all the things committed couples do and more. I’m loving everything about this man, especially his spontaneity.
When he called and asked me to join him in St.-Martin for his last day of shooting, I jumped on the last flight out of JFK. Alix Alexander’s talent deal was closed, and Robert had given me the go-ahead to put the pilot script into development. Sam Finney, who’d won a Golden Globe for the box-office hit High Octane, was the writer. It was Friday, I had the weekend to let loose, and wouldn’t have to miss a day of work.
Troy arranged for a car to pick me up from the airport. The limo entered the French side of St.-Martin, and calm washed over me as I took in the beauty of the island. When the car pulled up to the set, I heard Troy call out “Action!” I navigated my way through the cameras, lights, and electric cables, finding a spot with an empty chair to quietly observe.
I didn’t want him to see me yet. I wanted to surprise him. I was so happy, watching him behind the camera monitor. I started daydreaming about the two of us being the next power couple on the cover of Ebony or our wedding being featured in In Style. For the first time a man was into my goals, aspirations, and dreams just as much as I was into his.
“And cut!” Troy directed the crew and extras.
As Troy was setting up for his last shot, I decided to call my sisters, Faith and Angie. They keep me grounded and live for my adventures. In exchange I get slice of domestic life. My three-way system worked like a charm when it came to putting my sister hotline in effect.
“Hey, Faith, it’s me Lindsay. How do you feel? What’s the latest from the doctor?” I said with an anxious tone.
“I’m feeling pretty good, just a little tired. They want me to start on steroids.”
“Do you need anything?” I asked.
“I’ll let you know. I want my doctor to check everything out first. But enough of that. What’s up? You sound like you’ve got some juicy news. I can hear it in your voice.”
“I do! But hold on, I’ve gotta get Angie,” I said, excitedly clicking over to call my other sister. She picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Angie. It’s me and Faith.” I was talking a mile a minute trying to get all the details out before the cameras started rolling again.
“I see you finally got some time for us little people,” Angie snapped.
“Tell her, Angie.” Faith just had to throw in her two cents. The older she got the more she acted like Mama.
“Spare me of all this bickering. Y’all, I’m in St.-Martin getting a fabulous tan. Troy flew me down for the weekend!” I shouted, almost forgetting I was on set. “I think I’m fallin’ in love. He’s the one, y’all!” I proclaimed.
“That’s a wrap!” Troy announced. The crew gave a round of applause.
“I gotta go. Troy just finished shooting.”
“Lindsay, take it slow and be careful!” Faith warned. “Call us when you get back. We love you!”
“And use a condom!” Angie added.
I closed my phone as Troy swooped in behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“L, you ever been on a yacht?”
“L” was the pet name he started to call me. I liked that much better than Lin Lin.
His production company was having a white linen yacht party.
“I didn’t bring anything to wear!” I said, panicked.
“So, let’s go shopping.”
Next thing I knew, Troy was walking me into Versace.
“L, check this out. This is hot. Try it on and put those shoes on too!”
The sales lady handed me a flowing backless slipdress, and I let the satin glide over my body, the bias cut clinging to my petite but shapely hips, accentuating the roundness of my behind. The low-cut neckline gave my C-cup all the justice it needed. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, parading around the store.
“You like it?” Troy asked.
“I love it!”
“Then it’s yours.”
“We also have it in pink and black,” the sales lady added.
“She’ll take all of them and the shoes too!” Troy shouted. My eyes widened.
“We also just got in some beautiful accessories. I think this one would really bring out the neckline,” she said, handing me an ornate rhinestone choker.
“Just add it to the rest! Hook her up!” Troy said, dropping five grand as if it were nothing. Troy pulled me close and kissed me deep.
The Caribbean night breeze gently filtered through the seventy-foot luxury yacht The Island Queen. The setting was glamorously decorated with white sheers. Large throw pillows and mattresses were spread out on the upper deck and draped in white linen as well. Troy and I snacked on shrimp, caviar, and lobster, while a calypso band softly swooned.
With the waves crashing all around, we found our own secluded corner of the boat. He sensually ran his fingertips over my eyelids, down my cheekbone, my neck, across my breasts. I felt my nipples hardening.
“You know what?” Troy said lightly, nibbling on my ear.
“What?” I said, smiling as Troy licked inside my ear, sending tiny goose bumps throughout my body. My b
reasts stood at full attention.
“Your breasts are my favorite,” he said, caressing them. “And you know what else?”
“What?” My eyes were closed. My spine tingled.
“I want you, right here.”
“Now?” I opened my eyes and looked around.
“Right now!” Troy gave me a deep long kiss.
It was time to give him all the goods. He had earned it and I was horny. He hiked the bottom of my dress up, slid a condom on, and wasted no time shimmying inside. I gave him all I had. I couldn’t figure out who was outdoing the other. We both came so hard we almost passed out. Sex is so good when you haven’t had it for a while.
Troy gently brushed my dress back down and inconspicuously zipped his linen slacks up. I was swooning. I couldn’t blame my giddiness on alcohol. Not this time. I was sober and thinking as clear as the deep dark sky above me: I am falling. Hard.
We decided to relax on the cushions on the upper deck.
“You don’t seem so stressed now, Lindsay Bradley,” Troy softly said, placing my hand on his chest.
“I feel so much better now that I’m here with you. Work was wearing me out.”
“That’s because that fucking—” Troy’s eyes narrowed.
“Robert just pushes me,” I said, cutting him short. “And I’m cool with it. But I won’t be if he doesn’t put my show into production and then hurry to get it on the air.”
“Look, baby, you deserve the chance to produce that show. You’re smart, resourceful, and one of the most creative people I know. As a matter of fact, I just got the news that I’m up for a huge Nike campaign. I really want to take the whole hip-hop thing to a new level. Got any suggestions?”
“Off the top of my head, you should go for hard-edged acoustic beats and strong visuals. I can see it now, it’s gonna be the bomb!”
“Hold up! I haven’t gotten it yet.”
“But you will.” I rolled over and kissed him.
“And you’ll get your show, too,” Troy said, hugging me.
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