He Who Is a Friend (Sadik Book 1)

by Love Belvin

  She’d never say what “it” was, but I knew that, too. Once my socks and shoes were on, I grabbed my jacket and took to her in the bed. My lips of respect brushed her forehead.

  While taking in a cooling breath, I lifted my head to the side. “He mention Larry in that equation, Tiff?”

  She visibly stiffened, curling her legs under her ass. Her bottom lip hung and she pulled the sheet over her chest. I waited, but nothing came.

  “Have a good day, Tiff.”

  I stood, paying her a final acknowledgment.

  “You came and celebrated the third anniversary of my latest club and managed to make me feel like shit after.” She bit her bottom lip, squinting her eyes my way. “But I still have cake to help me recover.”

  I snorted a dry chuckle. “Can I send my peoples to you to plan my staff party?”

  Tiff rolled her eyes. “Sure.”

  I wiggled her toes hidden beneath the thin blanket before taking off.

  “The fuckin’ three hundred level seats?” Tasche agonized.

  Randi shrugged. “It’s either that or the four hundred. Look.” She sighed. “At the last damn minute, we better be lucky we can even find tickets. Pixie’s show is gonna be lit like a muthfucka.”

  Tasche’s head dropped toward the countertop.

  “Nicky’s calling you, Bilan!” one of the cooks peered out of the double swinging doors and shouted. “He said he needs the pastry bag or some shit.”

  I nodded my acknowledgment over my shoulder before going back to the conversation.

  “I wonder how much these cost.” I pointed to the seating chart of Madison Square Garden on Randi’s tablet.

  “Shit. Prolly like five hun’ned.” Tasche grunted. “We still paying a buck fiddy for fuckin’ nosebleeds seats.”

  “Look,” Randi cut in, clearly losing her patience. “We gotta order these shits tonight. My girl, Brenda, gonna put them on her card. I’m meeting up with her at the bar before we run over to Energy.”

  “That new club?” I asked, impressed. “You’ve been there before?”

  Randi’s neck jerked back, sounding her hoop earrings as they swung into her cornrows. “That place ain’t new. It’s been open for about two—three years—”

  “What I wanna know is why these tickets going on somebody else’s card?” Tasche’s tight face was set with confusion. “Who the fuck she is, yo?”

  “Why is because she’s coming,” Randi made clear. “She’s my girl, been knowing her for mad years now. Besides, you got a card we can charge these to?” Her eyes shot toward Tasche’s hips to make a point.

  Tasche mumbled, going into her waist bag. “The fuck ever.” She peeled off a few crisp bills, then pushed them over to Randi. “Bitch, I got green: fuck plastic.”

  Randi shook her head. I had my wallet handy and counted out one hundred-sixty dollars and handed it over to Randi. It was strange she didn’t ask me to use my card, but I wouldn’t make it a point of mention. As long as her friend could be trusted, I didn’t care who purchased them. Also, Tasche had no business being on her “no new friends” tip, knowing I’d brought her to Randi to chill with us. However, I understood Tasche didn’t trust Randi. She’d been clear about that since the day they met. She claimed Randi was shallow and couldn’t be trusted. I’d never argued with her, nor did I provide assurance of her beliefs.

  “Shit. Let my ass get outta here and go meet her. Ricky been bitchin’ about me being out late and I know I’mma hear it again.” Randi stood to go.

  “Oh,” I chirped. “Don’t forget I need to borrow your Fendi shirt and black Pigalle Follies.”

  “Damn, bitch. You need panties and a bra, too?”

  My chin collapsed, but my eyes stapled into hers. Randi had often said snappish stuff to me, but she kept it to a minimum in front of others, which made me believe it was light-hearted. This didn’t feel good at all.

  As I was caught up in my feelings about that outburst, I barely recognized when Tasche croaked, “Who the fuck is that sitting over there?”

  “Oh, my…” Randi grumbled under her breath as a waiter tapped me on my shoulder and pointed behind her. It was Maria, holding a mixing bowl, and I knew what that was about. “Fine ass fuckin’ Sadik.”

  I winked and nodded to Maria so she could go back into the kitchen.

  “I’m ‘bout to bounce outta this bitch,” Tasche mumbled, returning my attention ahead. Randi was already off when Tasche gave me a manly dap. She’d dealt these every once in a while. I reciprocated and released her to go. “I’ll hit you later, mama.”

  After taking a deep breath, I headed back to the kitchen to get my mixtures in the pie crusts, then into the oven.

  I closed the door to ten pies baking in the commercial oven. After setting the timer, I went over to one of the refrigerators and stirred a spoon in the bowl of fresh cream cheese frosting I’d made for the carrot and red velvet cakes I needed to finish before I clocked out for the night. When I determined it was almost at the right consistency, I checked the time on my cell. It was after one in the morning and instead of being tired, I was annoyed about not being tired.

  I grabbed the book I’d been reading from my bag on the coat rack.

  “I’ll be out on the floor,” I yelled to Nicky, and anyone on the baking side who could hear me.

  Especially Nicky, who peered up from feeding the pasta machine cannoli dough. He didn’t respond, but his eyes on me meant he acknowledged my announcement. Out on the floor, I rounded the counter, hoping my favorite booth for this time of the night was vacant. Michelle’s was a twenty-three-hour diner, and constantly had a flood of people, but this hour on a Monday night it could be slow, too.

  Thankfully, the last window booth near the counter was available and I slid onto a bench, opening my book. Then I stopped to check the timer on my phone, forgetting that quickly my agenda. Once that was done, I opened the book again, picking up from last night.

  Movement in the corner of my eye had my head shooting up. Dimensional eyes under thick messy brows met mine. A russet, radiant bald head glimmered. The tangerine five o’clock shadow was cut with precision, just as it was the first night I’d laid eyes on him. His striking leather jacket was a shade of gray, and the V-neck sweater underneath was bone. A far cry from the black tux of last week, but it was crystal clear the man exuded elegant style. He carried a small plate topped with sweet potato pie in one hand, and in the other was a mug. Smoothly and uninvited, he slid onto the bench across from me.

  “Love in Warm Hues. So, you’re a romance junkie?”

  Man, was he good looking…devilishly so, and I believed he knew it. A flame of knavery danced in his slightly slanted kaleidoscopic-hued eyes, reacting to what he saw.

  I closed the book, wedging my thumb between the pages and gazing at the cover. There was nothing about it that said romance or chick lit. I didn’t read romance novels.

  Expressionless, I returned, “I hardly indulge in fiction.”

  He used his palm to swipe down his jaw. “So, what about love?”

  His face relaxed into impassive articulation, eyes were communicative and stapled to me. He spooned a piece of pie, then dabbed it on the dollop of whip cream before feeding himself. His teeth. They were big, aligned, and alabaster, which was how I knew they were real.

  My eyes shot down to the book as I reopened it. “That it’s perfectly fine in Black hues.”

  He sat back, unresponsive for seconds long. One arm reached over the back of the booth, and his head angled as though he was considering something.

  “But it’s not of the romance genre?”

  “No.”

  “Who’s the author?”

  I flipped back to the cover.

  “Christina C. Jones,” he murmured. “So, what does she write?”

  “According to her bio in the back, she pens romance.”

  “But this particular book isn’t romance? Have they created a parallel fictional genre and are calling it love?”

&n
bsp; His voice… I didn’t recall it being so velvety alto. His pitch was slightly scratchy, but still thick and commanding.

  “No. This is…” I had to consider that for a moment. “Reference.”

  “Reference?” His tenor was deeper.

  I shrugged. “That’s what it was listed under on Amazon. It’s different.”

  “Is that why you’re reading it?”

  My eyes cut to glance out the window. I wondered why he was talking to me. He was hysterically gorgeous, dressed stylishly, and here at an odd hour during the week.

  “No. I’m reading it for—” I wouldn’t explain. I didn’t know him. “It was recommended.”

  He nodded, eyes still penetrating me. “What’s it about?”

  “How Black love is misrepresented and under-exposed in American culture.”

  His brows lifted as he scooped more pie. “Interesting. Also a mouthful. What’s her argument?”

  I decided to let the author speak for herself and read a passage I’d highlighted earlier on. “We should be all for seeing Black women get their happily ever after, no matter the shade. But if I pull ten pairings from the most popular shows, movies, and TV, and only two of those put a Black man and woman together, that’s a problem. It doesn’t reflect reality, and it pushes a narrative that ‘we’ can’t be happy together.”

  He nodded, chewing. And my stupid eyes stapled to his mouth, entranced.

  “I agree and can take her argument even further. There has been a deficit of Black love and commitment presentation in America.”

  “Really?” My tone was doubtful.

  Did my book really appeal to his senses? I doubted it. Hard.

  “Absolutely.” He pushed his plate aside and lifted his mug that I could now see was filled with coffee. “Yes. And it’s one of the reasons why in the twenty-first century—four centuries after African slaves were brought here—Blacks are still the minority. This is after the Census Bureau announced Hispanics edged past Blacks as residents in this country. Do you know why?”

  A faint smirk warmed his face as he waited.

  “I’m waiting for the correlation.”

  He pulled his mug to his center on the table and casually answered, “It’s because our reproduction as a race here in America has declined.” My brows lifted in question. His head was angled to face the table, but those yellowish eyes rolled up from his mug to me. “Black men and women aren’t making babies at the rate of our forefathers.”

  I was now intrigued. “Please elaborate.”

  “Less than one hundred years ago, your great-great—hell, great—grandparents were reproducing more than I’m willing to bet you desire to.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My great-grandparents down in Warren County, North Carolina bore eighteen children.”

  My face drew up. “That woman was pregnant eighteen times?”

  He took a swig of his coffee, managing a chuckle. God, he was good looking. Deceptively so. I had a strong inclination to believe he was using this opportunity to show me he was not only handsome but informed, too—or at least capable of informed conversation.

  “I honestly don’t know how many times she was impregnated. Women of that time held their mouths on topics concerning their bodies. But I do know she was pregnant at least fourteen times. She had four sets of twins. My point was to the amount of reproduction happening at that time for Black families versus today.”

  “No way I’m having all those babies,” I grated lowly, rolling my eyes.

  He chuckled again, and boy, was it musical. Captivating. “Predictably. So…” He sat up. “…my great-grandmother bore eighteen children, one of her twins was my grandmother, who bore four children. My father stopped at three. And here I am, in front of a gorgeous millennial woman, who swears to…” He was leaving room for me to answer.

  My eyes fluttered and I cleared my throat, uncomfortable by the turn of the conversation. I found myself sitting up, too.

  I was unable to look at him when I answered, “Well, that’ll be a decision I make with the man I decide to take that step with. But it won’t be as many as your great-grandmother.”

  His eyes glimmered with humor. “Not your husband?”

  “Huhn?”

  “You referenced the father of your future offspring as a man and didn’t give him a title,” he reminded me, expression starkly sober.

  My eyes fell again. This time, I was a little embarrassed in front of a stranger.

  “It’s not easy for women…like me to find companionship.” That’s when I decided to look at him again. I had nothing to be ashamed of.

  “Like you?” His eyes brushed down all of what he could see of me from inside a booth.

  Taking in and releasing a heap of air, I breathed, “Yup. Men who look like me, for some strange reason, don’t show much interest. And once you add degreed to my characteristics, well…”

  His dancing feline irises were still light; I could even decipher a perceptible grin in his cheeks. He tossed his chin to my book.

  “Where are you up to now?” The faint grin was gone when he shared, “I’d like to hear more.”

  Instinctively, I opened the book to where my finger was wedged.

  “Historically, there has been a push for the breakup of the Black family. The purposeful separation of families during slavery, mass incarceration, police brutality, hiring bias, the purposeful injection of drugs into our communities, welfare rules that encourage the exclusion of Black men from their homes, and the false narrative of the absent Black father. All of these are consistent and, unfortunately, effective tools of white supremacy, pushing an altered reality that we shouldn’t buy into. Your family can and should look however you want it to, as long as it’s built on love. But there is power and promise and real joy in seeing that, despite hatred’s best attempts, we can overcome those barriers and still find forever with each other.”

  My eyes rolled up to him.

  His brows lifted and he gave a cursory nod. “I have to say again, I agree.”

  “I don’t.”

  He sat back, arm stretching over the back of the booth again. “Why not?”

  “I don’t believe white supremacy in America has as much power as we conspiracists like to promote it does. I don’t believe this mythical body of evil-doers to Black people control our decisions. We do. Black men decide who they want to romanticize, marry, and impregnate. Yeah, maybe there is or was a propaganda to architect the standard of beauty here in the West, but some things are instinctual. When you’re born of a Black woman, you should naturally feel a visceral connection and draw to her. So, when you’re finding yourself attracted to the opposite sex, your first stop should be what you share DNA with.”

  His brows narrowed. “I don’t see a conflict in views there. I agree with you as well.”

  I continued. “So, why then is a woman of my age, education, and lack of baggage, as in kids, left with little to no options when it comes to her male counterparts? Why am I overlooked by a man who looks like me, struggles against white supremacy like me and who, despite being the most targeted and disenfranchised civilian in this great country I still love, honor, and support, prefers other than me?”

  My phone vibrated, alerting me of the end of the baking time for the pies.

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Yes, you can.” I scooted to leave the booth.

  “How do you suppose?”

  I stood over the table, glaring down at him. It didn’t matter how fine he was or how incredibly delicious he was scented, I knew what I knew.

  “Was that not you in here last week buying pie for your...”I glanced down at his bare ring finger again,“...pregnant lover?”

  It was slight, but realization washed over his handsome face and his eyes rolled down to the table before returning to me. I also caught the twitching of his lips.

  I nodded. “Yeah. White supremacy has its remote control over your eyes and dick, too, huhn?”

&
nbsp; “I’d like to explore that accusation,” he pushed, eyes on his coffee cup.

  His arms were bent, flexing his palms into the edge of the table.

  “And I’d like to get back to work.” I took off for the kitchen.

  “Is that a TBA?” His scratchy alto carried across booths.

  As I turned back to him, my face tightened. Why would he assume I’d want more face time with him? “I don’t even know your name.”

  His pupils dazzled again, even from the short distance. Then a smile seizing my breath spread on his face. “Sadik. Sadik Ellis.”

  When that information should have meant he was an open man, eager to want to engage, it instead felt like charm. Charm was always accompanied by manipulation. And his presence… It was heavy. He was alone, but had an aura of authority and power. He was too clean, too confident, too well spoken to be in a Paterson diner at this hour. The hour that now seemed familiar to him.

  My head shook faintly. “I don’t know what you want from me.” I swallowed hard. “But it sure ain’t to discuss Christina C. Jones.”

  His head twisted slightly, and his brows lifted. “To be a friend. I just want to be a friend.”

  That ridiculous claim had me taking off to the kitchen for real.

  ∞4∞

  “I want a Corona and…” Randi’s white lined eyes perused the menu over the counter of the concession stand. “…I guess those chicken fingers. Damn, I’m hungrier than a muthafucka!” she swore beneath her breath.

  “Who that singing?” Tasche inclined her head toward the nearest door of the arena’s auditorium.

  Brenda, Randi’s friend hanging with us tonight, tugged at the hem of her black leather skirt as she click-clacked in her heels toward Tasche.

  “I hear something, but the voice doesn’t sound like hers,” I answered.

  We were in the hall of Madison Square Garden, and just in time for the Pixie concert. Everybody was talking about this show. We’d been stressing over the details of getting seats for tonight and finally, here we were. Randi insisted we got food first. My eyes swept the dozens upon dozens of anxious bodies taking flight to their respective seating doors.