Groove

by Geneva Holliday

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Who?”

  “Stop it!” I screamed and slammed the spoon down onto the counter.

  “C’mon, Chevy, let her up,” Noah coaxed and reached for more gnocchi.

  “They’ll be all gone before anyone else can have some,” I teased and slapped his hand away.

  “It’s GE-NEE-VA!”

  “She down there looking all retarded, I know she is.” Chevy bent over and laughed.

  “Grow up,” Noah ordered and moved to the intercom, pressing the in button.

  A few minutes later Geneva knocked at the door.

  “Hey, lady.” Noah greeted Geneva with a hug and a kiss.

  “Hey yourself,” she said and stood back to get a good look at him. “You look different.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yeah.” Geneva walked past him and into the kitchen. “Hey, ladies.”

  “Hey, girl,” I said and blew her a kiss.

  Chevy scrutinized Geneva for a moment and then said, “What the hell is wrong with your hair?”

  “Well, hello to you too,” Geneva said sarcastically and then subconsciously ran her hand over her normal pulled-back do. “Ain’t nothing wrong with my hair. What the hell is wrong with your hair?”

  “I told her she looked like a clown,” I piped.

  Geneva laughed and Chevy flipped us the bird with both hands.

  “Don’t Noah look different?” Geneva posed the question to me.

  “Hmm—yeah, a little. Now that you mention it.”

  “Must be all that protein he’s ingesting!” Chevy shouted and slapped the table a few times.

  “Ms. Drama, please don’t get me started up in here. I was going to try and behave myself today, but you’re gonna make me get on you about that hair and that lipstick,” Noah sang in a falsetto.

  “Are you in love or something?” Geneva pushed.

  “You mean with someone besides himself?” Chevy laughed.

  Noah gave her a hard look. “Now you confusing me with you,” he retorted. He let off two snaps in her face and strutted back toward the bowl of gnocchi. “Must be all that chronic she’s smoking.”

  Geneva and I both turned to Chevy and said, “Pot?”

  “No, the album,” Chevy mocked us. “And anyway, I got it out of Noah’s stash.”

  Now we looked expectantly at Noah, who turned casually toward her and convincingly said, “You’re a liar.”

  Chevy’s jaw dropped. She knew that no matter what she said, we would take Noah’s word over hers any day.

  “So what if I smoke a little pot here and there?”

  “In the middle of the day?” Geneva shook her head pitifully.

  “Sound like a problem,” I added for effect.

  “Rehab may be the next step,” Noah threw in, trying hard to keep a straight face.

  “Whatever.” Chevy snorted and jumped up from the table.

  “What you getting ready to do, whoop my ass?” Noah threw at her with a laugh.

  Chevy cocked her head in thought. “I probably could if I wanted to,” she said and put up her fists like a boxer.

  We all burst out laughing.

  “Oh, you’re all so funny, aren’t you?” Chevy jeered, snatching up the bottle of champagne and refilling her glass.

  “Oooh, poor baby—you can dish it out but you can’t take it, huh?” I teased and lifted my own glass of champagne.

  “Well, maybe not,” she said slyly as she ran her finger along the rim of her glass. “But I would expect to be knocked down by a man if I laid my hands on him. You know all about that, don’t you, Crystal?”

  “What?” I laughed, totally missing the point.

  “Did you tell Geneva that you slapped the shit out of Eric today?”

  “Eric who?” Geneva said, and now all eyes were on me.

  Shit. The one time this bitch decided to listen.

  Eighteen

  Well, I hate to be made fun of. Everybody all up in my business, coming down on me like I was a little kid. Shoot, I’m a grown-ass woman!

  Anyway, it got worse before it got better.

  “My Eric?” Geneva said, pressing her palm into her chest. “My son, Eric?” she said, unbelieving.

  Crystal just stood there with her mouth open and her face as red as a beet.

  “What’d you do, Miss Girl?” Noah asked Crystal, his eyelids flapping anxiously.

  “I—I” was all Crystal could manage.

  “Yes, your Eric,” I said, feeling nothing but mean.

  “Shut up, Chevy,” Noah tossed at me.

  “Well,” Geneva said and took a step toward Crystal. She was seething, and I could see Crystal’s eyes looking around for something to protect herself with. I guess Noah saw it too, because he moved between them and placed his hands on Geneva’s shoulders.

  “Calm down, Mama Bear,” he cooed and tried to push her a few paces backwards. But that Geneva is a big ole girl, and Noah is a petite thing. His little nudge didn’t even budge her.

  Geneva shrugged his hands off her shoulders. “What did you do to Eric?” she barked.

  Crystal still hadn’t found her tongue, so I helped her out. “She smacked the taste out of his mouth, that’s what she did!”

  “Chevy!” Crystal and Noah screamed at me in disbelief.

  “But she did!” I whined.

  With one shove Geneva sent Noah flying into the table, and in no time she was up in Crystal’s face, huffing and puffing and turning all sorts of red. “Is that true, Crystal? You slapped my son?”

  Crystal did something with her mouth but she didn’t cower; in fact, she seemed to stand a bit taller.

  “Yes, I did, Geneva,” she said with an even voice. “He was disrespecting you and I wasn’t having it. I know you didn’t raise him that way, and so I did what I knew you’d do and I slapped the shit out of him.”

  Oh, God, she was using the “it takes a village” bullshit.

  Well all Noah and I could do was brace ourselves for the slap that Geneva would lay across Crystal’s face, taking her head clean off her neck, but it didn’t happen.

  Geneva, who had just a second ago been all puffed up like a fighting cock, was suddenly slowly deflating. The anger in her eyes was evaporating and her face softened.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said.

  “I had every intention to, but Chevy beat me to it,” Crystal said, and now the spotlight was back on me again.

  I just can’t seem to win.

  Summer

  Nineteen

  Kendrick sat very still. He was afraid to move, afraid he would start shaking his leg again or tapping his pencil against the glass-top conference table he was seated at.

  He hadn’t noticed when he was doing all of those things, but everybody else attending the meeting had, and he looked up to find a dozen pairs of eyes staring intently at him.

  “Too much caffeine, Kenny?” his father, Aldridge Greene, admonished.

  “No, sir, please continue,” Kendrick answered swiftly.

  Aldridge Greene sat at the far end of the table, directly across from his son. Their eyes met briefly before Aldridge began again to discuss his plans for the next quarter.

  “As I was saying,” Aldridge continued, “our progress in the South African market is going quite well. Mbeki has proven to be open and willing to allow foreign investment to continue growing under his presidency, and he is being especially kind to Americans.”

  “Even after all they didn’t do for South Africa,” Marcia Banks, a senior auditor, mumbled under her breath. The table broke out in uncomfortable laughter at her observation. It was true: The United States had stood by for years, allowing apartheid to ravage the country and the spirits of the black men and women that lived under that storm. And when things got bad, Uncle Sam cried sanctions. What the hell did sanctions mean to the Afrikaners? Absolutely nothing. Their country was just as economically and environmentally diverse as the United States. They had an underground oil sup
ply that could last for nearly twenty years. The sanctions hurt the United States, hurt the companies that wanted to do business there, and took further advantage of the country’s rich resources.

  Big business said, The hell with this! Uncle Sam, you have to do better than sanctions. You’ve got to put the real pressure on—we’re losing money! So said, so done.

  And in the end, who wins? Uncle Sam. So what else is new?

  Aldridge, like every other corporate giant, wanted to jump in, make money, and jump out before Mandela passed on or stepped down. They all felt the next president wasn’t going to be so kind to Uncle Sam and Mother England. The scars would still be too fresh and the heart too young to forgive and forget. But low and behold, the second president had been just as cooperative.

  “Yes, well, we all know about that,” Aldridge put in, “but that’s in the past, and we are in the midst of a new beginning. And we all know how much we like new beginnings.”

  Everyone sounded in agreement.

  “So if there’s nothing else?” Aldridge looked at all the faces around the table. “Well, then, have a prosperous day,” he said as he pushed himself up from the table.

  That’s what he always said. “Have a prosperous day”—he didn’t care whether an individual in his company had a good or bad day. He just wanted it to be prosperous, and when he said “prosperous” he wasn’t referring to the individuals’ well-being; he was referring to Greene Investments’ corporate and personal bank accounts.

  Aldridge Greene’s towering figure rose over the black glass table and his reflection wavered there beneath Kendrick’s gaze.

  “Kendrick, a moment, please,” Aldridge said as his son turned to walk out of the boardroom.

  Kendrick felt four years old again, sitting across from his father. Where was the cool sophisticated man whom the women loved? Where was the man whom others in the company described as a rainmaker? Where was the man who only last month graced the cover of Fortune? He certainly wasn’t in that room.

  “Kendrick, were we boring you in there today?” Aldridge asked in a cool voice.

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, you seemed very distracted. And I’ve noticed this not only today but a number of times over the past few weeks.” Aldridge lit up a Cuban and inhaled deeply. “Is there something bothering you, something I should know about?”

  “I guess I’m just a little tired,” Kendrick said as he studied the tops of his Italian leather shoes. He was immediately sorry for his answer.

  “Tired? Tired of making money? Tired of being one of the most respected men in Barbados? Next to me, of course. Tell me, son, which exactly are you tired of?”

  “I’m tired of you . . . I’m tired of your stoic bullshit. I’m tired of doing all the work and you getting all the praise. I’m tired of being on call, being bound to the end of your leash!”

  That’s what Kendrick wanted to say, but he knew he wouldn’t.

  “Dad, I guess I’m just a little physically tired, that’s all.”

  “Physically tired?” Aldridge spoke into the lit end of his cigar. “My boy is physically tired. Could it be the bar and club hopping? You cannot stay out all night and then try to run a company during the day. You’re forty-two years old and the vice president of a multimillion-dollar company. For chrissakes, start acting like it.”

  The spies. Oh, Aldridge had people everywhere, watching all of his children, watching to see that they stayed on the straight and narrow. He intended to make sure they avoided anything or anybody who could rupture the reputation he and his father before him had worked so hard to construct.

  Kendrick just nodded his head and stood to leave.

  “Did you ask to be excused?” Aldridge barked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Sir, may I be excused?” Kendrick said, looking his father directly in the eye.

  Aldridge leaned back into his leather wing chair so far that Kendrick thought he would tilt backwards and out through the glass window that made up one side of the room. Or at least he wished he would.

  Aldridge grinned, victorious, and then sent Kendrick off with a flick of his hand.

  Kendrick walked slowly from his father’s office and down the white-walled hall to his own grand office. Kayla, his secretary, was watering the large ficus that stood in the far left corner below a picture of Aldridge.

  “Good morning, Mr. Greene,” she said sweetly. Kayla had been with Kendrick for three years now. Kendrick liked her; she was dependable and extremely proficient. Only twenty-four, she was worlds above her peers and carried herself as if she were ten years older.

  Kendrick greeted her and sat down heavily behind his desk. He stared blankly at the picture of his son on his desk, and then his eyes wandered to Kayla’s taut behind wrapped in a pink silk skirt. She felt him staring and bent over a bit more just so he would know she cared.

  Kendrick knew Kayla would do more than type and take steno for him; he’d often fantasized about her, but he knew he would never allow it to go any further than a simple daydream. Being intimate with an employee could cost the company millions. He was better off finding a Kayla look-alike from one of the high-end escort services they used when their special clients came to town.

  Aldridge, on the other hand, had dipped quite a few times into the company pussy jar. Nothing had come of any of his escapades, but Kendrick knew that at some point everyone’s luck ran out.

  When Kayla left, Kendrick picked up his phone.

  “Cassius and Lee. How may I direct your call?” the perky voice answered.

  “Cassius, please,” Kendrick said in a hushed tone.

  “Who may I say is calling, sir?”

  “Kendrick.”

  “Kendrick? Is there a last name, sir?”

  Kendrick exhaled heavily. He’d told Cassius to tell that dumb bitch receptionist to have him patched through immediately—minus the damn questions.

  “Just Kendrick,” he said between clenched teeth.

  “Yes, sir . . . one moment, please.” There was music and then a clicking sound.

  “Cassius here.”

  “Yeah, Cassius . . . Kendrick here. I—”

  “Kendrick Greene. How are—”

  “Could we please leave last names out, Cassius?” Kendrick was speaking practically in a whisper.

  “You have become extremely paranoid, you know that? We are bug-free here . . . you understand what I’m saying? Now, your lines are a whole different story.”

  “Can never be too careful,” Kendrick said with a nervous laugh. “I need to make a purchase.”

  There was silence.

  “Kendrick, I’m looking at my file here and it seems as though a delivery was made to your office not more than three days ago. Have you depleted your supply already?”

  Kendrick bit his lip nervously.

  “Whose money am I spending?” Kendrick asked.

  “Is it yours? I thought Aldridge was still breathing.” Cassius let out a wicked laugh like only she could. It was a laugh that pierced and humiliated.

  Kendrick banged his hand down on the desk, sending his son’s picture as well as the Berlin Wall stone paperweight flying off and onto the floor.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Cassius. I can take my business elsewhere, you know. Let me remind you that you are not the only supplier in town.”

  “Threats?” Cassius squealed and continued laughing.

  Kendrick hated her. He wondered if she treated all of her clients this way.

  “Okay, Ken. When and how much?” Cassius was serious again and maintaining a business tone.

  “Um, two grand now.”

  “You got it. Cash, credit, or shall we bill you later?” Cassius asked.

  “Cash.” Kendrick said and slammed the phone down. He was beginning to feel better already.

  An hour and a half later Kayla’s voice came through the intercom: “Mr. Greene, a woman named Cassius is here to see you.”

  “Who?” Kendrick asked. He couldn’t believe that
Cassius herself had come.

  “Cassius?” Kayla repeated slowly. “She said she doesn’t have a last name.”

  “Uh, send her in,” Kendrick said.

  He stood up and then sat down. He wanted to be in a comfortable position. He wanted to look like a man in control. He crossed his legs and then uncrossed them again. Finally he just picked up his Waterford pen and tried to look engrossed in the paperwork spread out before him.

  Cassius entered the room like the wind. Her signature scent, Poison, filled the room and commanded as much attention as Cassius herself.

  “Kendrick.” She moved swiftly toward him and extended her hand. Kendrick stood and extended his own hand.

  Cassius was beautiful, a knockout, towering six feet tall with sandy brown hair brushed back in a sharp upturned flip that rested on the base of her neck. She wore an orange linen skirt suit that hugged her perfect figure-eight shape.

  Cassius was biracial. Her father was white man and her mother Ethiopian. She was born and raised in Nigeria and then sent to school in London from the age of twelve. Her café au lait complexion, sexy British accent, and ever-present air of confidence were what drew both men and women to her.

  Kendrick took her hand in his and nearly wounded himself on the two-carat diamond on her ring finger. She pulled him toward her, leaned over the desk, and ran her tongue across his lips. “I know how much you like to be licked,” she said breathlessly.

  Kendrick smiled nervously and all but snatched his hand from hers before stumbling backwards and into his chair.

  He hated what she did to him. He hated that he wanted her almost as much as he wanted what was in the black attaché case she carried.

  The first time Cassius and Kendrick met was at a Lower East Side restaurant. He had been entertaining clients there but found himself unable to take his eyes off the stunning woman who watched him from the bar.

  When he was done with dinner and had sent the clients on their way, he doubled back to the restaurant, took a seat next to her, and struck up a conversation.

  He was flattered to know that she knew right off who he was. She commented on the articles she’d read and “kept” about him. “I’m a big admirer,” she’d said, leaning in and breathing into his cheek. “And I would do anything to be with you. Rich, successful black men turn me on.”