Oh, well. A missed opportunity. Her loss.
Elijah
Whenever I’m in Atlanta, I center on one thing: Kimora’s fine ass. I’m not BSing you. The girl is a freak—just the way I like it. There’s nothing she won’t do to please me in the bedroom. I’m here to tell you, that’s a rare commodity indeed.
Black suburban women are uptight and domineering nowadays. They come to bed with a full list of things they will and won’t do. A hand job is okay, but a blow job is out of the question. Vaginal sex is great, but if you suggest anal, it could get ugly.
If I say something to my girl, Kimora—I mean anything—the girl is down for whatever. That’s perfect for a sex addict like me.
One thing to know about me I want—no, I need—sex like I need air. No BS. Kimora gives me space and allows me to take in all the air I need.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you brothers out there are thinking: I could just get myself a hood rat and be done with it. But you know and I know there’s a world of difference between the two breeds. Kimora is that nice combination of classy on the outside and freaky on the inside.
Perfect.
With circumstances being beyond my control, I’m in Atlanta for the Christmas holiday and that means I plan to unwrap a special little somethin’-somethin’ this Christmas. Right now I’m intrigued by this key party Kimora is throwing. I thought this kind of party went out with all things seventies.
Though, if I know my girl—and I do—this is going to be one hell of a party.
I open the door to my hotel suite wondering what I can do to kill time between now and the party. I want to do something—or someone. I want to play with something—or someone.
The pretty woman working the front desk had checked out my tall athletic frame with intriguing green eyes. She looks like someone who wants a good time. Unfortunately every playa in the world, including me, knows not to pull that infamous Kobe Bryant move.
I could pay through the nose and watch some porno, but that’s only going to frustrate me, and I’m not all that into self-gratification, if you catch my drift. What I do like, however, is making my own movies. Something else Kimora and I have in common. They just don’t make them like Kimora anymore.
So why don’t I be a man and drop to one knee? Let’s just say it’s complicated. And my baby never pushes the issue.
Damn, I really do love that woman. But if I tell her that, it could cause a whole lot of drama I don’t need.
With nothing to do, I walk over to the closet and pull out the digital camera, the tripod and the black suitcase—my Kimora fun box. I smile, already feeling that anxious anticipation for my baby. I snap open the case and remove silk scarves, handcuffs, riding crops…and one very special gold package that can only be opened on Christmas morning.
Kimora loves surprises, and I’m betting that this one is going to send her over the moon.
Chapter 4
Kimora loved getting ready for dates and parties. Preparation was just as much fun as the destination. A long soak in her favorite scented bubble bath with a cucumber mask and a glass of Pinot Grigio was just the beginning. Selecting the right body oil is as important as the right perfume. The objective: to be unforgettable in every way. Seduce a man with all five senses, and he’ll be thinking about you when he’s ninety-eight and using a bedpan.
Kimora loved being a woman, pampering her skin, playing with makeup and experimenting with her hair. Then there was selecting the right lingerie, the best outfit and, of course, the perfect shoes.
There was an art to being beautiful—one her mother taught her to appreciate at a young age. Sure, she could have married by now, but why, when being single was so much damn fun?
It was sort of funny. Even Birdie and Coco thought she secretly longed for marriage—the whole white picket fence, the two-point-five children and the family dog. Hell, Birdie had all of those things and she didn’t look too happy.
From Kimora’s viewpoint, the picket fence looked too much like a jail cell and the children like miniature wardens. But maybe she’d consider the dog.
Sure, Kimora knew her closest friends and even some of her lovers considered her a sex freak, but such labels never interested her. As far as she was concerned, they were created to make people comfortable. As Celie said in The Color Purple, “People don’t like women being too loud or too free.”
Kimora was comfortable in her sexuality—the rest of the world could go to hell. She smiled at her private musings and continued to take her time getting dressed.
Exactly three hours later a masterpiece had been created, and Kimora, as always, patted herself on the back and winked at her reflection. “Go knock them dead, girl.”
Birdie had fixed an early dinner so she and the boys could have their own Christmas party. A little later their father would pick them up and they would spend Christmas with him and his family. It would be their first Christmas apart, and the thought had sent her crying to the bathroom more than once today.
Terrence seemed moodier than usual. One minute he was happy to open Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve and the next, resentful that she wouldn’t be there to open gifts with them at their father’s house in the morning.
After they’d returned from the grocery store, Matthew had finally stopped asking her the same questions and put on a brave and happy face.
It was most likely for her benefit…and she appreciated it.
With the dishes in the sink, the boys raced to the living room, where large and small brightly decorated Christmas gifts awaited them.
Seconds later the house was filled with happy squeals and exuberant laughter as her babies tore into their gifts. She grabbed her camera and proceeded to capture every moment on film. Soon their infectious laughter and wide smiles rubbed off on her and she forgot about her husband-stealing sister, her screw-anything-that-moves husband, her newly obtained criminal record and, lastly, her unsympathetic bitch of a mother. No. This was what life was really about: her children—and, of course, trains, race cars and baseball gloves. The evening sped by in a blur and before she knew it, the doorbell rang.
“Daddy!” Matthew sprang to his feet like a jack-in-the-box and raced toward the door.
“Matthew, baby, wait,” Birdie called after him. It was no use. He’d already opened the door, and Kenneth’s deep baritone boomed into the house.
“There’s my little man!”
Matthew burst into giggles.
Birdie rolled her eyes as she lumbered to her feet. Terrance remained planted before the tree and pretended to be intrigued with his gifts.
Birdie frowned. “Terrence, aren’t you going to say hello to your father?”
He shrugged and continued to play.
“Ah, there’s my other boy,” Kenneth said, strolling into the living room with a wide grin. But when Terrence continued to ignore his father, Kenneth’s gaze sliced to Birdie. “What’s going on?”
She had a suspicion but didn’t think it was the right time to voice it. “Terrence, baby, go say hello to your father,” she instructed gently.
Terrence quietly placed his toy on the floor and shuffled over to his father like a condemned man walking toward the electric chair.
Kenneth folded his arms around his oldest son, but shot Birdie a hard, evil look.
“Okay, boys, grab what toys you want to take over to your father’s and I’ll go get your suitcases from upstairs.” She turned and bolted out of the room. Pretending pleasantries with a man she wanted six feet under was not her strongest suit.
“We need to talk,” Kenneth said, striding up the stairs behind her.
“Not tonight,” she answered, not surprised by him following her.
“I want to apologize—”
“Not tonight.” She rubbed at her pulsing temples as she entered the boys’ room.
“I’ve been calling you all week,” he huffed.
Birdie snatched up the small suitcases she’d packed earlier, swiveled around and rammed one suitcas
e right into Kenneth’s prized jewels.
“Oomph!” Kenneth doubled over.
Birdie’s eyes widened dramatically. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
Kenneth’s eyes narrowed as he squeaked out, “Do you feel better?”
“Actually—” she thought about it “—I do.”
Kenneth pulled himself straight. “I know what I did was wrong,” he began, his voice still strained.
Birdie rolled her eyes and stepped past him.
Her husband gripped her arm and held her. “It was a mistake. I love you. I always have.”
She met and held his gaze. “You sure do have a funny way of showing it.”
“We belong together, Roberta. So let’s stop playing games.” He inched closer to her. “I know you miss me,” he whispered.
Birdie hated the way his warm breath kissed her skin and created such longing in her that one part of her wanted to push him back on the bed and have her way.
“How long has it been?” he asked with his chest now brushing the tips of her breasts. “A little over a year? Do you miss me? Don’t you miss how I make you feel?”
She closed her eyes and willed her knees to stop trembling.
“I can make you feel those things again.” His voice held a note of promise. “Come to the apartment with me and the boys. Let me give you a real Christmas gift. All you have to do is unwrap it.”
An image of her sister surfaced and all temptation disappeared. “I’m not interested in anything you have—gift wrapped or not.” She stepped back and snatched her arm from his grasp.
Before the devil presented her with another apple, she rushed from the room. Downstairs, she helped her boys into their coats, all the while struggling to keep her tears at bay.
Kenneth played the comical role of a doting father and loaded everything into the car.
“Momma, are you sure you can’t come with us?” Matthew asked one last time. “I don’t want you to be by yourself on Christmas Day.”
“Don’t worry about me, baby.” Birdie lowered herself onto one knee. “I’m going to be just fine.” She kissed him. “Just remember to call me in the morning and tell me about the other toys Santa brought you.”
“I will.” Matthew’s smile beamed. “It was awfully nice for Santa to take the other half of our gifts to Daddy’s house.”
Terrence rolled his eyes.
“Then we’ll make sure we send him a thank-you note,” she said.
Matthew nodded, and then his eyes lit up as if a lightbulb had snapped on over his head. “Do you think if we get a third house we would get even more presents?”
Kenneth laughed. “It doesn’t quite work that way, son.”
“Oh.” Their son frowned.
“Kiss your mom goodbye,” Kenneth instructed the boys.
Matthew gave her a quick peck but a long hug. “I promise to call you in the morning, Mom.”
She smiled and then shifted her eyes to Terrence. He still looked hesitant to leave. “You’re going to be a good boy for me?” she asked because it was the only thing she could think of.
He nodded and leaned into her. It wasn’t really a hug—more like he was giving her permission to hug him. And she did. She held him as tight as she could without causing any pain.
“I want you to have a good Christmas, too, Mommy,” he said so softly she almost didn’t hear him.
“I will, baby,” she promised.
When he pulled back, he looked as though he didn’t truly believe her, but he said nothing.
“Tell you what,” Kenneth said. “Why don’t I bring you guys by tomorrow evening around six so you can wish Momma a Merry Christmas?”
“That sounds good,” Birdie said, smiling at her babies. “Do you want to visit me tomorrow?”
Both boys nodded eagerly.
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
Birdie stood and watched her children march out the door, taking a good chunk of her heart with them.
“You know, my previous offer still stands,” Kenneth said, lingering at the door.
“And my answer is still no.”
Kenneth shook his head. “Suit yourself. But if the batteries run low, you know where you can find me.”
With a final roll of her eyes, Birdie slammed the door in his face. She took several breaths to calm her racing heart. But, at the sound of Kenneth’s car pulling out of the driveway, a fresh wave of tears flowed a well-worn path down her face.
The house was cold and quiet—too quiet.
In the living room the floor remained littered with ripped wrapping paper and empty boxes. It felt like the perfect metaphor for her life: ripped and empty.
The phone rang and Birdie nearly jumped out of her skin. For a moment she thought not to answer but then realized it was probably Kenneth telling her that they had forgotten something.
“Hello.”
“Birdie!” Kimora shouted. “What the hell are you still doing home?”
Courtney nearly pulled a muscle trying to pry her artificial tree out of the box. When she finally succeeded, she wondered why in the hell she’d even bothered. The damn thing looked as if it had been run over by a Mack truck—several times—before being crammed into a Dumpster, as opposed to being stored in her attic.
Shaking her head, she walked over to the coffee table and poured herself another glass of wine. Even that was failing her tonight. When the heck was her buzz going to kick in?
She needed something to take her mind off Wyclef Onwu and little Tina Else. So far, she was failing. Her gaze drifted to the case file next to the wine bottle. As she sipped from the glass, she contemplated rereading the material—despite the fact she had most of its contents memorized.
The problem was emotionally detaching herself from her cases. Over the years, she had successfully constructed a steel armor on the outside but was still at a loss on how to wear one on the inside.
Only Birdie and Kimora knew her secret: tough on the outside, soft on the inside.
Mr. Holloway would never believe it—and if she could help it, he’d never have the chance. She glanced at her wine. Maybe this stuff was working. Why on earth was she thinking about Patrick?
Courtney flipped open the folder, and an instant film of tears floated over her vision and blurred the photographs of Tina’s bruised face. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t wrap her brain around the evil that people possessed.
She quickly closed the folder, drained her wineglass and then returned her attention to her fiasco of a Christmas tree.
“What in the hell am I supposed to do with you?”
The phone rang.
She frowned and glanced over at the cordless unit next to the sofa. “Kimora,” she guessed under her breath. Slowly she moved away from the coffee table to approach the phone.
“Ms. Brown?”
Courtney straightened at the sound of her assistant’s voice. “Wendy?”
“Have you been watching the news?”
“Uh…no.” Courtney glanced around the room in search of the television remote control. She found it buried beneath a box of Christmas decorations. “What am I looking for?”
“Channel five,” Wendy said anxiously.
Courtney punched in the channel and then sucked in a surprised breath at the image of Onwu. She turned up the volume and listened to the straight-faced female reporter. “Questions continue to swirl about the death of accused rapist Wyclef Onwu, who was found dead hanging in his jail cell. Police captain Travis Mobbs alluded to his suspicion of foul play…?.”
“He’s dead?” Courtney whispered.
“Can you believe it?” Wendy asked, her surprise still evident in her tone.
Courtney shook her head. Was it wrong to think this was some kind of Christmas miracle? She expelled a slow breath, but her heart continued to hammer.
After a long while, Wendy’s voice filtered through. “Ms. Brown, are you still there?”
“Uh, yeah.” She blinked and tried to clear her h
ead. “It’s over,” she said, clicking off the television.
“At least it saves the taxpayers money for a second trial,” Wendy joked awkwardly.
Courtney nodded. “Thanks for calling and letting me know,” she said. “I appreciate it.”
“I—I thought you’d want to know. Merry Christmas.”
Courtney smiled tightly. “Merry Christmas.” She disconnected the call and slumped onto the sofa. “Dead?”
Slowly but surely, a smile eased its way onto her lips. “Dead.” She snatched up the phone again and this time dialed Patrick Holloway’s home number from memory. This news should make his night. Her smile faded after the line rang four times. On the fifth ring, her call was transferred to voice mail.
“Mr. Holloway,” she began, “I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news or if someone has already contacted you, but there’s been a new development in the Onwu case. When you get a moment, just give me a call at home. I’ll probably still be up.” She heard herself start to ramble but couldn’t stop. “I’m just getting around to putting up my Christmas decorations.” She chuckled. “So, uh, just give me a call.” She forced herself to hang up before she conveyed just how lonely she truly was on Christmas Eve.
“Get a grip,” she counseled herself and jumped back to her feet. She had a tree to decorate.
The phone rang.
“Mr. Holloway?” she asked without looking at the caller ID.
“Coco,” Kimora sang playfully. “You’re late.”
Courtney sighed in disappointment. “Look, Kimmy—”
“I have a special gift for you.”
Courtney drew a deep breath and carefully folded her arms while still holding her empty wineglass. “What sort of gift?”
“You’ll have to come to find out,” Kimora baited.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll have to keep Patrick Holloway all to myself. You know what they say—once you go black, you never go back.”
Chapter 5
“Merry Christmas!” Kimora shouted, showering Joel with glittering confetti as he entered through the doors of Club Sexy. Music thumped and laughter blared out to greet him.
Holiday Fantasy Page 4