“Oh yes, baby,” I moaned as I opened my legs and planted my feet flat against the floor.
“You know you want big daddy to put that long stroke on you. Ain’t that right, girl?” Kareem said when he saw me part my thighs. “Say you want it, Laila.” Kareem’s breath quickened, and when he let go of the chair with his other arm to push down the thin straps on my tank top and his mouth began to move hungrily down to my erect nipples, I knew I had him right where I wanted him.
I grabbed his thickening manhood with both my hands and squeezed and twisted as hard as I could, just like my self-defense coordinator had shown in the class I took three years ago. I couldn’t believe I remembered what to do. And it had worked! Kareem howled and jerked back hard, landing on his back on the carpeted floor with a loud thud. The people in the room below must have thought it was an earthquake. Kareem cupped his bruised manhood while he rolled around on the floor.
“You fucking bitch . . . ,” he groaned. I pushed strands of hair back off my face that had worked their way loose from my ponytail during our struggle and then got up from my chair, pulled the straps of my tank top back up, and stood over him.
“Silly rabbit, haven’t you ever heard no means no, muthafucka?” I said as I stepped over his body and took pleasure in the image of him writhing in pain. “Excuse me, but I need to get ready for my next meeting. Let yourself out.”
Kareem struggled to catch his breath and leaned on the coffee table to try to get back up onto his feet.
“Oh, and don’t forget to tell my man that I look forward to seeing him at my party Friday night. I miss him,” I said as I smirked at Kareem who was now standing but still holding himself and wincing in the living room.
I then turned and opened the doors leading into the bedroom and locked them securely behind me. While I doubted Kareem would be stupid enough to try me again, I’d rather be safe than sorry. Walking into the spacious marble and glass bathroom to turn on the shower, I began to peel off my clothes and drop them onto the floor as the steam from the shower filled the glass stall.
Clearly, tonight’s events had confirmed that once Marcus and I were married, I’d quickly need to figure out a way to get him to make some changes. Kareem had stepped out of line tonight; he obviously didn’t know how to play his position. He’d played off Marcus’s loyalty and sympathy for too long. And once Marcus knew the truth, even he would agree it was time for an upgrade.
CHAPTER 16
Nia
I was on fire for his touch.
Terrence’s large hands snaked along my aching body, teasing me. I arched up off my couch to meet his hungry lips with mine as we picked up where we had left off. We couldn’t stay away from each other. When he had shown up unannounced, I knew there was no use fighting what was between us.
His warm velvety tongue slipped between my swollen lips, stroking and probing. I wrapped my arms around him and began to rake my nails down his broad muscled back to the waistband of his jeans. He pushed his pelvis into mine, slowly winding his hips into me deeply.
“You taste so good,” he whispered huskily in my ear as his tongue traced the outline of my ear and then flicked lightly at my earlobes. I arched my neck to give him more access. His hands reached down to the waistband of my jeans, and he pulled out my blouse and then began to unbutton it slowly. My full breasts, aching for his electric touch, strained against the pink demi-cut bra. He looked down and unclipped the delicate pearl enclosure in the front and moaned.
“You’re so beautiful, Nia,” he said as his dark head dipped down to encircle one of my puckered cocoa-brown nipples with his mouth. His hot breath followed by his wet mouth drove me crazy. I grabbed at his head and moved his juicy lips over to my other quivering mound. He lovingly licked at my other nipple and bit at it, causing me to moan deeply.
“Oh, is that what you want?” he asked, teasing me with his nibbles back and forth between my breasts.
“Yes,” I said breathlessly. His hungry mouth moved back to my lips.
“Are you sure you want this?” he asked. He looked into my eyes, daring me to say no as one of his hands slipped down between my legs.
All I could do was moan in affirmation as I felt my body respond to his touch, warm wetness creeping into my silk panties.
“Nia. Nia. Nia . . .” I heard the deep voice ringing in my ears, and suddenly someone was knocking on the door.
I opened my eyes to answer and was startled to see MJ seated next to me, knocking on the hair dryer pushed down low over my head.
“Uh, boo, what in the Northwest hell were you dreaming about?” he asked, laughing as he cut off the hot dryer I had fallen asleep under on the top floor of Walter’s Salon and Spa. I sheepishly looked around the popular Upper East Side pampering palace and was relieved to see that the two other women seated under dryers in the little alcove were too engrossed in their iPads and hadn’t heard me over the sound of their own dryers. The rest of the salon was buzzing with the whir of blow-dryers and the chatter of clients gossiping while getting their hair relaxed, braided, colored, blown out, or a new weave sewn by some of the best stylists in the city. Old-school R&B was piped into the loftlike space that had exposed brick walls and bleach-blond wood floors. I looked down at the delicate gold Piaget watch on my wrist and saw I had been asleep for about twenty-five minutes.
“That must have been some dream, honey. Damn, drool and everything. Wipe your mouth.” MJ handed me a tissue.
I wiped at the corners of my mouth and shook my head at him.
“What are you even doing here?” I ducked out from under the dryer and pushed the round metal hood over to the side. Reaching up to undo some of the black wrapping papers stretched around my head, I ran my fingers around the front and back of my head, praying that my hair was finally dry.
“I came to give you your phone, which you left at the office when you ran out for your hair appointment,” MJ said as he handed me my white iPhone. “You’re welcome, diva.”
“Thanks, MJ,” I said, playfully punching his arm. “Did I miss any important calls?” I said as I began to scroll through the messages.
“Terrence has been blowing up your phone like every fifteen minutes if that’s what you’re asking,” MJ said as he crossed his legs and flicked a speck of invisible dust off the black pants he had paired with a striped Comme des Garçons T-shirt and Levi’s black fitted denim jacket.
“Really?” I saw on the phone’s screen that I had indeed missed five calls from Terrence but that he hadn’t left a message. I punched in his number to call him back, but got his voice mail and told him to hit me back.
“Yes, really,” MJ said as he smirked at me. “So what’s up with you guys?” I gathered my navy patent leather Dior handbag and headed over to Walter’s chair. MJ trailed me and continued to talk and type on his BlackBerry.
“All dry?” Walter asked as I slipped into his black leather chair. He ran his fingers through my short black cut and then turned to plug in the flat iron and two curling irons he would need to do my hair.
“Yes, I think we’re done.” Hoping to cut MJ off from pursuing his line of questioning in mixed company, I gave MJ the evil eye, like the one my mother used to give me in church when she would look down from her perch in the choir and see me cutting up in the pews. No luck.
“Good. We know we’ve got to get this hair right so you can fly out to Phoenix tomorrow for All-Star,” Walter said as he sprayed a cloud of sheen spray on my head.
“I know that’s right,” MJ said, leaning up against the wall. “She can’t be hanging out with me, looking busted.”
“Chile, please,” I said, taking my hand from under the cape and flicking it in his direction. “You already know I’m going to be looking better than you. Ain’t that right, Walter?”
Walter just laughed, knowing he didn’t want any part of this discussion.
“Whatever, I’
m sure you’ll do your best. So back to my question. What’s up with you and Terrence?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Don’t play innocent with me. I know ya better than anyone besides maybe your momma. You got that goofy look on your face when I told you he was blowing up your phone.”
“I wasn’t making any face.”
“Yeah, right. Like I said, I know you.”
“You know we’re working on this thing together,” I said, emphasizing the word thing so that he wouldn’t use any names in this salon with all these busybodies.
“Well, I think you’re just as interested in Terrence as you are with figuring out this thing,” MJ said with equal emphasis.
“What we had is over. He’s engaged after all.”
“He may be engaged, but he ain’t married. Remember that scene in the movie Brown Sugar when Queen Latifah and Sanaa Lathan were sitting at the wedding, watching Taye Diggs about to marry Nicole Ari Parker, and Queen was poking Sanaa and telling her to do something and said, ‘She’s about to marry your man’?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, unsure where this little black cinema flashback was going.
“Well, this queen is trying to tell you to do something before someone else marries your man!”
“I can’t even deal with you right now. I need to concentrate on holding my head straight so Walter can hook up my hair.” Just then my phone rang. As I took it out from underneath the nylon cape, MJ leaned in to see who it was.
“Ha!” he said, laughing as I flipped him the bird and then answered Terrence’s call.
“Hey,” I said, trying to talk low so that MJ couldn’t overhear our conversation.
“Hi, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.” Terrence’s deep voice sent a warm feeling down my back.
“I’m at the hair salon, and I left my phone at the office, but MJ just brought it to me.”
“Oh, well look. Where are you? I’ll come pick you up. I’ve tracked down Carlo’s mom in Harlem. Maybe she can give us some clues as to why her son was murdered.”
I gave him the address to the salon and then ended the call.
“Coming to pick you up, huh?” MJ said, nodding at me with a knowing look in his eye.
“Yes, it’s just about that thing we’re working on together.”
“Uh-huh. It’s about that thing, all right. That thing. That thing. That thiiiinnngggg.” MJ’s version of Lauryn Hill’s old hit song trailed off.
I made a mental note to find a new assistant.
Terrence and I headed up the West Side Highway to Harlem in another unmarked police car. He’d clearly taken what was available as the trash-strewn car was less than immaculate. Discarded fast-food bags littered the floor along with gum wrappers and old newspapers. And the bundle of Christmas tree air fresheners tied to the rearview mirror didn’t help mask the car’s odor of sweat and stale cigarettes.
“Thanks for sparing no expense on the ride,” I remarked as I tried the button on the door handle to lower the window for some fresh air. Of course it was broken.
“What are you talking about?” Terrence said, laughing as he hit the dashboard with the palm of his hand. “This is one of New York’s finest undercover vehicles. Do you know how many bad guys I took down in a car just like this back in the day?”
“Maybe it should stay back in the day.” I chuckled, crinkling my nose at him.
“Best thing I could grab on short notice,” he said. “As you can see, a brother was in court today.”
I hadn’t wanted to mention it, but he did look really good today in a dark gray wool suit, navy-blue pinstriped shirt, and midnight-blue silk tie knotted at his neck. He looked just as fine as he had in my dream at the hair salon, but I didn’t dare tell him that, either.
“I forgot to tell you I’m heading to All-Star weekend tomorrow, too,” Terrence said, changing the subject as he loosened his tie and tossed it onto the seat between us.
“Oh, really. Why?” I said, hoping my nonchalant tone hid my sudden excitement at this surprising news.
“Vivica is modeling in some annual National Basketball Wives Association charity luncheon on Saturday afternoon, and they gave her a couple of tickets to all the events, so I thought I’d tag along. I’ve never been to an All-Star game.”
“Me neither,” I said brightly, trying to mask my disappointment that his fiancée would be attending. What else did I expect? Did I think he was going to go to be with me? “So, hey, when are you and Vivica getting married?”
“August fourteen, at the Ritz-Carlton on Grand Cayman.”
“Oh, that will be nice. Grand Cayman is beautiful.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Oh, yeah, my ex-boyfriend Eric and I went there once for vacation.” The lie slipped out before I could even stop myself.
“Cool. Vivica picked the place. You know, my mom was tripping at first ’cause she wanted to have it uptown and watch her baby get married at Abyssinian.”
“Yes, I know Brenda Joyce wasn’t too happy to hear about no Cayman Islands,” I said, laughing at the thought of Ms. Brenda hearing the news.
“She got over it, though, and she’s got a plane ticket and everything, so it should be pretty nice.”
An awkward silence filled the car. It felt weird to be talking about his wedding when we were about to make love in my apartment just a week ago.
“So, hey uh, while I’m out there, I also want to follow up on that dead-Phoenix-dancer case,” Terrence said. I was thankful he changed the subject back to something with which we were both more comfortable.
“Why?” I asked, turning in my seat to look at him as he steered the car along Amsterdam Avenue.
“I don’t know. But I’m wondering if that isn’t somehow connected to everything else we’re looking into. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the Kings started receiving those threatening e-mails and text messages after that cheerleader was found murdered.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. I didn’t tell him that I was working on my own cheerleader leads. I had contacted my ex, Eric, and asked him for a favor. We hadn’t spoken since our breakup last year, so I hadn’t been sure what to expect when I called. Eric was happy to hear from me, and we managed to even shoot the shit amicably for a few minutes before I got to the point of my call. I sent him all the text messages and e-mails Vanessa had received and asked if he and some of his hacker buddies could figure out where the threats were coming from. Luckily, I didn’t have to mention anything about the hundreds of dollars in wasted face cream he’d jacked off into to get him to do me this solid. He said he was happy to do it and would get back to me within forty-eight hours.
Soon we were parked in front of one of the many tall, nondescript brick buildings on 143rd Street. We both climbed out of the car and made our way toward a group of black and Latino teens posted up in front of the building even though it was two o’clock on a school day. I wasn’t sure whether it was because they knew a police car when they saw it or because Terrence, who had grown up in these same streets just a few blocks south, gave them all the universally recognized brotherman head nod and casually said, “What’s up?” but the sea of hoodies, oversize jeans, white T-shirts, and Tims parted easily as we made our way into the building. We stepped into the graffitied hallway of the building’s dimly lit lobby and pushed the button for the elevator. The smell of garbage and urine assaulted our nostrils and made the car I had just been complaining about seem like a lavender-scented oasis in comparison.
“Yo, the elevator’s out, B,” a young man tossed in our direction as he walked out from behind a metal door in the corner of the lobby leading to the stairs. He bounded out the door to meet his crew hanging in front of the building.
“Thanks, my man,” Terrence said as we headed over to the stairs to begin to climb the nine flights t
o Maria Esposito’s apartment. She better be home, I thought as I started up the first flight of stairs, glad I’d worn jeans and flat Prada riding boots today. Terrence followed behind me.
“You all right?” He chuckled as we reached the fourth floor and my pace began to slow. “Do I hear you wheezing up there?”
“I’m fine. You just better worry about you. You got a cushy desk job now in the DA’s office, so I’m sure you’re not as fit as you were when you were out jacking fools on patrol.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m all good. I stays in the gym. I’m just enjoying the view,” he said as I turned to look at him eyeing the back of my snug jeans.
“Keep your eyes on the stairs,” I said as I swung back around, pulling down the tail of my fuchsia blouse and black Dolce & Gabbana blazer over my butt even though I switched my hips a little harder as we rounded the seventh floor.
When we reached Maria’s floor, we headed down a long, dimly lit hallway. We made our way down the cracked tiled floor along a sea of banged-up brown metal doors spaced out on either side of the hallway. The smell of urine and stale reefer clung in the air, and raised voices arguing in Spanish, babies crying, and dogs barking could be heard behind different doors as we passed.
“You always take me to the nicest places,” I cracked as we approached Maria’s apartment at the end of the hallway. Terrence knocked on the door marked #8J. We could hear the sound of a Spanish-language television program playing loudly from behind the door.
“I think you’re going to have to knock harder,” I suggested.
Terrence knocked a bit more forcefully. Suddenly the television volume was lowered, and we could hear a parrot squawking in the background.
“Aaaaawk! Aaaawk! Doorbell! Doorbell!” screamed the parrot.
“Dios mío, I coming. I coming,” a woman’s voice yelled from behind the door. “Shut up, you stupido bird!”
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