“Maybe,” I say.
“I hope so,” he says before turning to walk inside until he disappears from my sight.
I want to drag him back outside and ask him to be my fake boyfriend. He perfectly fits the description I’ve given my mother. It’s almost like I have created the man I wanted, and he walked right up to me and introduced himself. I think about going inside and making a play for it, but Mom is in there. I have told her too much to go inside and start flirting with a random man that looks like the one I told her about.
Damn. The feeling of panic starts again. I run to my car as fast as my heels will take me. Trying to fight back the urge to cry, I crank up my car and pull out of the parking lot into traffic. I don’t have a choice but to come clean to Mom. I only told her I had a man so she could be happy, but her false happiness is making me ill. I hate that I walked myself into this jam.
Chapter Two
Omega
Have You Seen Her?
December 14, 2019
The week of finals is always hell. I’ve been so busy this week that this is the first free moment I’ve had since Keith’s wedding. I hadn’t even planned to attend his reception, since I had papers to grade, but Keith and I go way back. I had to give him my blessings on his special day. Meeting the beautiful woman standing by the doorway made my decision worth it. Tingles run down my spine just thinking about how I turned her sadness into a smile. I still want to do much more for her. I don’t know why, but I scan the club looking for her. I guess a part of me hopes she’s here. The temperature of the crowd is hype. Music is vibing hard, and people are having a great time.
Elite is a new spot on the Atlanta scene; it’s owned by some cat from my hometown. Whenever I get the chance to support someone from Lafayette, Alabama, I’m in there, no questions. After reading the press release earlier today, I knew I had to stop through.
A major plus is none of my students are here tonight. I’m an adjunct professor at Clark University, and I avoid places where my students frequent. At twenty-eight-years-old, I’m the youngest professor on campus, so I make an effort to not blur the professor-student line. The press release said this is a place for the grown and sophisticated. No tennis shoes, t-shirts, or slumming is allowed at Elite, which is precisely my kind of vibe.
As if the DJ has been reading my mind, “Blurred Lines” starts playing. I take a moment to admire the beautifully dressed women up in here tonight. None of them pull me to them like the mystery woman I met last week, but they look good enough to make this night interesting.
I don’t sleep with a lot of women. Despite popular opinion, I teach, come home, and trade stocks most days. Since I got my doctorate, I have been wanting to settle down without settling for less. That’s the catch. While women say men are the ones who want them to settle for less, I’ve been getting the same thing from women. I haven’t come across one prospect who interests me longer than a month. They either are insecure, detached, or self-centered. Rosae, my last girlfriend, was self-centered. She thinks the sun rises and shines on her only. I don’t have a problem with a woman being self-centered, but she has to be willing to open up and be one with me for me to take her serious.
I’m a classic man, so I treat ladies to classic experiences. I take them to the best restaurants; daily excursions of horseback riding, horse-drawn carriage rides, and short adventures are my speed. I do those things with the full armor of chivalry: door opening—she better not touch the handle, chair pulled out, meal covered, walk to the door, or to my bed if we have chemistry. The point is to see how she responds to queen treatment. Not every woman is mentally ready to be treated right, and some downright reject good treatment.
However, the chemistry was on point with the mystery woman I met at Keith’s reception. Her reddened eyes, flushed cheeks, and pouting lips continue to haunt me. The desire to plant a permanent smile on her face drives me crazy. I want to stare into her eyes once again. It’s foreign for me to feel this way about anyone, so to say I don’t understand it, is saying the least.
My vibrating phone brings my attention to the here and now.
Be there in 45. Running a little late, my boy. About to hit the shower, shave and get on the road.
Shower? I shake my head. I rushed here to make sure I was here on time, but my homeboy, Santerían, who called me after work today talking shit about not being late, is about to hit the shower? I look at my watch, and the sparkle from the diamonds surrounding my Cartier watch almost blind me. It was 11:06 p.m. I text back.
Really? We were supposed to meet up at 10.
Stop talking shit. I’m on the way.
Get your ass here in 30, or I’m leaving. I got shit to do.
I toss back the rest of my beer and glance at the dance floor. It’s packed with people rocking, swaying their hips, arms and shoulders to “Classic Man. You can be mean when you look this clean… Classic Man. Oh, yeah. I’m a classic man…”
The song embodies me—a very confident man. People who play small so others can feel big end up playing themselves. Okay, scratch confident. Fuck that. I’m arrogant, and I don’t apologize for it. Everyone in the world should have a little arrogance. If they did, we’d be in a much better place with less senseless crime, murder, kidnapping, and all of the other shit that insecure people do. People stoop to lows and hurt others when they hate themselves. There should be more people loving themselves to a fault. Shit, it’s good for the soul.
I teach each of my students the importance of self-confidence. They come to my class to learn about mechanical engineering, but before they leave, I make sure each one of them knows they are put on this earth to stand out. To me, confidence begins with the way a person carries themselves. “Take pride in the way you look,” is written on a sign on my classroom door in bold letters. At the bottom in smaller letters is, “Then step your game up even more and swag out.” Of course, there’s a picture of me on the poster, wearing one of my signature suits with a scarf and Cartier shades to drill the message home.
I can’t help it. I look good. I dress good. Heck, I even smell good. Right now, I’m standing at the bar, wearing a tan blazer, crisp white button-up shirt, and perfectly creased tan slacks. Shining Prada loafers cover my feet that are sheathed in tan and white argyle socks. A bust-down Cartier watch with custom diamonds cloaks my wrist. With my presentation alone, I’m releasing souls from bondage, bringing over other young brothers to the swag life, one by one. I’m so serious about this life I could cut someone with how sharp I am. Before anyone thinks I brag too much, it should we noted that I was raised to believe in myself. Omega Sr. and Joyce Ann Johnson taught me to live good, dress good, and to be the best. I don’t know any other way to be.
Since I’ll be sitting here waiting for Santerían for at least another hour, I take this time to peruse the crowd, looking for a prospect. I’ve been doing this long enough to know how to spot a clingy chick. I don’t want that right now. I want someone who’s on the level and is only looking for a happy ending to the night. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Hey, is this seat taken?” a sexy brown skin appears behind the chair beside me and asks as if she has been reading my mind.
“No, it’s not.” I tell her. “It’s yours.”
She’s on the thick side, and when she gets up into the chair her ass hangs off the side of it. Oh, she’s nice-nice. I bite down on my bottom lip as I look her ass over. There was no way to tell she was carrying all of that when I saw her from the front. I decide to strike up a conversation as my eyes move to admire her straight hair that touches her shoulders; its auburn tinted streaks blend with her maple syrup-colored skin.
“You come here often?” I ask.
“It’s my second time. I came on the first night they opened, and now I’m back for the official grand opening night. I was out there dancing, but I had to find me a seat because Alise will be coming to the stage at 11:30,” she said, squealing when she mentioned the performer.
“Alise?”
“She’s really performing here tonight?”
“Yeah, the DJ announced it a minute ago.”
“I must have been busy texting my friend who was supposed to meet me here.”
“Oh, you got a girlfriend coming to meet you? I don’t want her to come in here and think we’re together. I don’t have time for no Atlanta beef.”
“Nah, it’s nothing like that. It’s my homeboy that’s meeting me.”
“Homeboy, huh?” She gives me a full once over and rolls her eyes. “You look like you waiting on a homeboy. Damn, all the good ones out here on some other shit.”
“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“I said what I said,” she replies, snapping her fingers and looking toward the stage as if she has blocked me completely out.
Now, I regret letting her big booty ass sit down next to me. I should have told her the seat was taken. Women like her are too damn sexy to be walking around with shallow-minded opinions.
“So, I look like I’m waiting on a homeboy, huh?” I ask, knowing I should let it go, but I can’t let it go that easily.
“Yeah, you do actually.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you do.”
“Well, how about I take you home tonight and show you how I really get down? Once I put this dick in your life, you’ll have no doubt that it takes a strict pussy diet.” I treat ladies with class and dignity. However, when I deal with a bitch, they get dick in their stomach all night and sent home before the sun rises. Most of the time, that’s all they want out of the deal.
“You ain’t gon’ do shit,” she says, smiling a little. “I bet you can’t even handle all of this.” She rubs her hand over her breasts, down her stomach, and then over her hanging-off-the-chair ass.
“Dare me.”
“Alright, I’ll bite. Once Alise finishes performing, I’ll see if you can back that shit up you’re talking,” she says.
“Cool.” I order another drink, realizing I haven’t asked her name. It doesn’t matter. After tonight, I don’t plan to ever see her again.
“So you just not gonna order me a drink,” she pouts when my drink order comes back.
“What do you want?”
“Tequila straight.”
“You heard her,” I say to the bartender who’s been standing there listening. “Give her what she wants.”
For the next two hours, we sit on our barstools listening to the new R & B star, Alise, sing hits from her new album. Everyone is on their feet, singing along, snapping pictures with their cellphone, or holding up a lighter in the air. When Alise is done performing, a big-ass white man who I assume is her husband goes up on stage to whisk her away to the back, but not before looking at her like he’s about to make love to her right there on stage.
“You ready?” I ask Miss Booty who has been sitting next to me for hours, drinking and vibing to the beat.
“When you are…” she replies with a smirk.
One thing I do like about her is that she’s not clingy. She has sat beside me like she was one of the homies. No touching, feeling, or even talking too much. Speaking of homie, I take my phone out of my pocket and check my messages. I have been so tuned into Alise’s mini-concert that I didn’t realize Santerían never made it. I pull up two messages from him.
Gonna have to roll solo tonight. Tangela came through wearing nothing but a coat, man, so you know what it is.
Yo… She knocking on the bathroom door now. I’ll hit you back tomorrow.
Miss Booty slides down off the barstool, and her ass follows. She starts to walk toward the door like she knows I will follow her wherever she goes. I definitely am. Once her ass catches its rhythm, my head sways back and forth watching her walk toward the exit. The natural flow of her voluptuousness pulls me behind her like it has me under a spell. I text Santerían back before we reach the door.
Don’t worry about it.
You good?
I got a little situation myself.
When I look up from my phone, I see Miss Booty walking out of the door, and the mystery woman that has owned my thoughts for the past week walks inside of it. A zing of life shoots through me just at the sight of her. She is so deep in conversation with another woman that she doesn’t notice me. They walk over to the lounge area and look around. I turn on my brown loafers to follow her without giving it one thought. Before I take two steps, I’m jolted back in the other direction by my arm.
“We gon’ do this or what?” Miss Booty asks.
“Do what?” I shoot back as I do my best to keep my eyes on my mystery woman. I don’t want to lose sight of her again.
Miss Booty tilts her head to the side and looks at me as if she knows I’m checking out another woman. For the first time tonight, she’s showing an emotion, and it’s jealousy.
“Something just came up, so I’m not going to be able to make it,” I tell her, and scan the room for the mystery woman, who has walked out of my sight.
“Yeah, just like I thought. Probably your ‘homie’,” she says using air quotes.
I frown as I look into her hazel and orange contacts. “Look, I had a good time hanging with you, but I have something to do,” I say matter-of-factly.
“You’re so full of it,” she says, throwing her middle finger up and strutting toward the door with ass jiggling everywhere.
I shake my head. I have no doubt that I would have had a good ass time with her tonight, but that feeling would have been gone tomorrow. I’m more interested in reconnecting with the woman who has given me a lasting memory from just a short exchange of words.
My eyes drift back to the area where the mystery woman and her friend walked minutes ago. They’re not there any longer. My orbs roam across the room. By the time I look back to the door, I see her leaving out the exit. My mood sours immediately, and I make my way back through the crowd, trying my best to get to the door before she’s out of my sight again.
“Make sure you come back tomorrow night for our Speed-Date night. Who knows, you might get lucky!” I hear the DJ saying on the mic. I walk out into the parking lot and look around for any sign of the mystery woman.
She is gone.
Chapter Three
Astalia
Heart Match
December 15, 2019
2:14 p.m.
“You really stepped in it this time, Stalia. Where are you going to find a whole man by next week?” My cousin, Jayne, sits on my couch, staring at me as if I have completely lost my mind, and maybe I have. She places her glass of wine on the table only to deepen the dumbfounded look on her face. She’s irritating my nerves right now. I have enough stress on me from my mother’s judgments. I don’t need her breathing down my neck too.
“I don’t know, but at this point, I feel like finding an escort service and dishing out half of my savings account to buy a date who fits the description. Mama thinks it’s simple to find a good man. Well, no, it isn’t 1990 anymore. Men these days are taken, transitioning, or just plain out dogs.”
“Girl, tell me about it. I know because I’m still entertaining Ned’s bullshit.” Jayne snaps her lips shut, but it’s too late. She has already put her business out there.
“Ned?” I question her, confused. “I thought you dumped him a long time ago. How is he even still in the picture, and he has a ‘whole’ wife?”
I see the intense pain the moment it hits Jayne’s round and regal face. She’s still in love with Ned, even though she knows he’s a dirty dog—the kind that roams the streets of the city, humping everything he can hump. The way she met him was through Facebook. He sent her a generic, “Hey beautiful, I would love to get to know you better.”
By the time she told me about him, it was too late to stop her from falling for him. She had already slept with him. She showed me his picture, and I was shocked to see that he was the guy who was all in my inbox flirting daily. He sent t
he same kinds of messages to my cousin, Rena. I showed the messages to Jayne, and she just wouldn’t believe her eyes. She wouldn’t let herself believe the man she loved was cheating on her. My cousin was gone way deep down into the sunken place for Ned. I mean, gone-gone off what I assumed was the D.
One day, she drove to Atlanta to have a girls’ day out, and she spilled the beans that not only was he a dog, but he didn’t have any dick either. At that point, I was confused. I didn’t know what to make of her staying with him, knowing he mistreated her and didn’t have a sex game to compensate. At this point, what else could he do for her when she knows he has a wife?
I cringe at the thought. Everyone knows about Ned’s wife because he up and married the woman after six months of being engaged to Jayne. My whole family found out about his wife at the same time—when his wife tagged Ned on social media with their wedding day pictures. So, while my dad was chipping in for a wedding for Ned and Jayne, Ned was out marrying another woman.
Jayne’s thin fingers slide into her straight black hair with blond streaks. She sighs loudly. “Stop looking at me like that, Stalia. I know you’re thinking about my situation, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m good. His wife is still trying to start shit with me, but I’m not dealing with Ned like that anymore. As of three months ago, I am Ned-free,” she announces as if she has hit a major milestone in her life.
“Are you sure about that?” I ask.
“Yes, I have a new ‘little situation’ that I’m not ready to talk about.”
“Oh, really?” I ask, brow raised.
“I enjoy spending time with my ‘little situation,’ and I think he enjoys being with me, but he’s scared of going to the next level, so really I don’t know if it’s real yet. When I find out, you will know,” she assures me.
“You said a mouthful just now, Jayne.”
“I know. But that’s how my life goes: heartbreak, unfulfilled sex to no sex, and battles with a crazy woman who stole my fiancé.”
A Classic Alpha for Christmas Page 2