“How do you live with yourself?” Yolanda barked, continuing her rant. “Fucking other women’s boyfriends? A glorified prostitute, that’s what you are. I hope you rot in hell. Better yet, I hope you catch AIDS or some other shit that kills you, you fucking slut!” A pause followed by muffled sobs. “How could he do this to me? I loved that man. I hate you for this! It’s your fucking fault, throwing yourself on my man like a—”
Jayla tuned the voice out, a burst of renewed energy willing her legs to sprint faster. The sweat pooled in the small of her back, the base of her neck, and peppered her forehead like jewels glistening on her caramel skin. The message was not unlike any she’d had before. Just the nature of the business.
Time and experience had dulled the impact of the vicious remarks. How quickly they forgot that they had come to her. How quickly they forgot the numerous secret meetings to go over the infinite details, the constant reassurances of “Yes, I want you to do it. I need to know.” But ignorance was truly bliss, because when the truth was out, they pointed the finger, not at the man, but at her.
The timer signaled the end of her hour, and with a satisfied sigh, she slowed the machine down to a leisurely walk. Shaking her head, she snatched her water bottle from its cup holder. She had to admit, though, part of her heart went out to Tracy. And Yolanda. And hell, all the women, actually. A small part. The other part of her crossed into the adjoining office to erase the evil message.
One thing was for sure. Converting to email only for business communication was complete genius. During the first year of business, she’d thought the personal contact via phone was a great mechanism to build trust and establish relationships with her clients. Then, however, the threats, profanity, and frequent hang-ups had become aggravating and had begun to make her uncomfortable. Jayla just wished she had thought of the email idea sooner, because now some of the women who had her number still liked to call and remind her what a low-down bitch she was. And since changing the number would be detrimental to business, Jayla had to just tolerate their backlash.
The second cell phone she carried for work rang now, and Jayla blew out an exasperated breath. “Exhibit A,” she mumbled. She glanced at the caller ID. It read Kayla Brown’s Carl. She had to put the clients’ names in first, so she could keep their men in order. Sometimes, there were just too damn many investigations going on at once. She really needed a team of people to watch her back, screen her phone calls, and sift through emails, but her line of business required secrecy. Now, a security team would be beneficial, but Jayla did not see the absolute necessity of that . . . not yet.
Jayla took a breath and swiped the phone’s touch screen to answer the call. “Hi, Carl,” she gushed. “I was hoping you’d call me back. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we met last week.”
She heard his strained chuckle between gasps of breath. Probably from the three hundred-plus pounds he carried around. She thanked her lucky stars his wife didn’t need her to full out fuck him for her to be satisfied with his infidelity. Though why he had the nerve to be out trying to get some pussy when he had a wife willing to lay up with his fat ass was beyond Jayla.
“Me too,” he said. “I just can’t get that soft, round booty of yours outa my mind.”
Jayla cringed but forced a flirtatious giggle. “Really?”
“Oh yeah,” he went on. “I’ve been thinking about you all day and night. How you doing?”
Jayla stretched out on the floor, not wanting her sweat-stained body to soil her sofa. “I’m good,” she said. “Just finished working out a little while ago. Now I’m just taking a bath.”
“A bath?”
“Yes,” she cooed, sugarcoating the lie. “I wish you were here.”
“Oh yeah? And what would you do?”
Jayla closed her eyes, struggling to get in the mood. She pictured her cut buddy Chris, his iron body, and his delicious dick stroking all up and through her honey tunnel. “Mmm,” she moaned as her pussy began to throb. She raked her fingernails up her stomach to massage her nipples, envisioning her fingers were Chris’s lips. “I would lick over every inch of your body. From your neck down your stomach . . .” His delighted groans prompted her to continue. “I would then put my face between your thighs and suck that juicy dick of yours. Running the tip between my lips, rolling my tongue up and down while I massaged your balls. I would suck and suck until you came all in my mouth, and I would swallow it up and lick my lips at the delicious flavor.”
She smiled as Carl’s moans roared in her ear so mightily, she could’ve sworn he was there in the room. All the way turned on, thinking about a real man, she ran her fingers down to her pussy. “Your turn,” she whispered, nearly breathless. She felt herself straddling an orgasm. “What would you do to me?”
“I would take each one of your titties in my mouth, roll my tongue over the nipples like you probably like it. Watch you squeeze your eyes shut as you struggle to keep from creaming.”
Jayla’s bit her lip as she continued to pleasure herself to his words. Damn, he was pretty good at this. For the moment, she had completely forgotten what Carl looked like.
“Then,” he went on, “I would lift you up and sit you on my face so you could ride my mouth, and I would flick my tongue over your clit, using my thumb to finger you at the same time.”
Jayla moaned again as she demonstrated his exact words: first, rubbing her finger on her clit before inserting two fingers. She began to grind against her fingers, wishing they were a dick, a tongue, anything. Her breath grew heavy, and she listened to his gentle urges. She quickened her pace.
“Cum for me, babe,” he whispered, and as if on cue, her muscles clenched, and she felt a release so strong, it startled a scream from her parted lips.
She let out a shaky breath and looked down at her yoga pants, now wet with her thick juices. Well, that was unexpected but very much appreciated.
“Damn, girl.”
Jayla pouted as Carl’s laborious breathing brought her back to reality, slicing her post-orgasmic high like a knife.
“You sound so good when you cum,” he said. “Almost as good as you look.”
“Thank you for that, sweetie.” Jayla staggered to her feet. “Let me call you back later. You got me all messy, and I need to clean up.”
“You gone call me back? I want to meet up with you so I can make those things happen.”
“I’m gone call you back,” she lied and hung up.
Fat chance, she thought and giggled at her little joke as she put his number on block. His case was closed.
Her desk phone rang just then, and Jayla decided to ignore it. She needed a shower, anyway.
When she came back downstairs, casually dressed in a tank top and some capris, she crossed straight into her office. She noticed the red light blinking, signaling she had messages, but first things first: she needed to type up her report and call Carl’s wife. She dropped into the high-back executive chair and opened a blank template on her computer. She pulled Carl’s file from her cabinet and fumbled through the paperwork until she found the phone number. She dialed.
“Ms. Brown,” she greeted when Carl’s wife picked up. Putting the call on speaker, she said, “Just letting you know the evaluation is complete, so we need to set up a time to go over everything together.”
“No problem.” Ms. Brown didn’t sound upset or worried at all. In fact, she sounded very nonchalant about the entire situation. “Did he give in?”
“We should discuss this face-to-face,” Jayla insisted. “Let’s set up a time to meet, and I’ll give you all the details.”
Ms. Brown grunted. “That means yes. With his fat, weak ass.”
Jayla chuckled to herself. It always amazed her what drastically different reactions she received from her clients.
They arranged a time to meet to finalize the paperwork and exchange the remaining balance. Jayla hung up and finished typing her report while the details were fresh on her mind.
Done with that, she sat back and pressed the PLAY button on her phone.
Yolanda’s psychotic ass had called another fourteen times. More cussing, more crying, more threats. Jayla massaged the beginnings of a headache at her temples as she deleted each of the fourteen messages one by one. Then she played the last message she’d received.
“Um, hi. I’m . . .” The timid woman paused, as if she was unsure if she should divulge her real name. “Heather. Heather Frederick. I got your number from my friend Melanie and . . .” Another pause. Then a frustrated sigh. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I’m . . . I heard you were good, and my boyfriend . . . he’s . . . I’m sorry. I’m not really sure how this all goes. Can you just please give me a call?”
Jayla jotted down the number on a notepad. She glanced at the clock as she fingered the slip of paper. Yeah, she had time. Jayla punched in the phone number she had scribbled on the notepad, then cradled the phone between her ear and her shoulder.
“Heather Frederick?” she greeted once the woman answered.
“Yes?”
“Denise.” Middle name, and middle name only, for business purposes. “I received your message about an evaluation.”
“A what?”
Jayla glanced at the notes scribbled on the pad in front of her. “Your friend Melanie gave you my number,” she said, clarifying. “For the evaluation.” She waited while the woman seemed to be collecting her thoughts.
“Oh yes. About my . . .”
“When would you like to meet?” Jayla said. No business details over the phone. Only in person.
“I’m sorry. Meet? Can we talk now?”
“Well, there are a lot of details to go over, so it’s best if we can get together for a face-to-face discussion.”
A pause. “Okay. Can we meet today?”
Jayla glanced at the open desk calendar next to her keypad. She had expected to have a nice relaxing afternoon, a small indulgence for the previous week’s demanding schedule.
She had opened her mouth to suggest an alternate time when Heather added, “I know it’s such short notice, but I am actually leaving town tomorrow, and I’ll be gone for a week.”
Jayla sighed. Pleasure would have to wait. This was business.
“That’s no problem,” she conceded. “Are you familiar with Shogun? The Japanese steakhouse near Atlantic Station?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Perfect. How’s one thirty?”
“Um, okay,” Heather stammered.
“Great. Please bring a pen, paper, and a photo ID, and I will see you in a few hours.” Jayla hung up and jotted down the appointment in her calendar. Her shoulders had tensed, for some reason, and she rolled them on a yawn.
The rigorous morning workout was catching up, and the spontaneous orgasm had her body craving a nap. Too bad.
The doorbell ringing had Jayla’s brow furrowing at the unexpected interruption. She dabbed her face with a towel as she stepped into the hallway and pulled the French doors to her office closed behind her, and then she headed to the front door. All suspicion evaporated when she saw the familiar face through the peephole. She pulled the door open and watched her best friend breeze past her.
“I would hug you.” Tara pivoted on the six-inch heels of her Jimmy Choo strap sandals. “But I ain’t trying to wrinkle my new outfit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jayla eyed Tara’s distressed skinny leg jeans and sheer crop top. “Where you headed dressed like that?”
Tara grinned and did a model twirl. “Girl, a cookout with Kevin,” she answered, following Jayla into the kitchen.
“Cookout? In those heels?”
Tara’s grin widened as she playfully lifted her foot onto a barstool to show off the designer shoes. “Oh, these things?” She feigned innocence. “If I have to sit there, bored shitless, at another one of my husband’s corporate events, the least I can do is look good while I’m there.”
“Yeah, and your damn feet are gon’ be crying,” Jayla said with a laugh. She reached into the refrigerator for the bottle of wine.
“And you know what pisses me off?” Tara was still rambling on. “Why we have to be the token black couple when we go somewhere. This shit it getting on my nerves.” Tara talked on about her diminishing tolerance in having to smile and feign interest in Kevin’s uppity coworkers. As she poured wine into two wineglasses and then placed the glasses on the kitchen island, Jayla caught a few more snatches of the conversation before Tara switched topics.
“So . . .” Tara tossed Jayla a grin as they both took a seat on barstools at the island. “Tell me about this guy.”
Jayla frowned. “What guy?”
“Bitch, don’t play me,” Tara replied, pushing. “You remember the other day, when I wanted to stop by. You said you were going out . . .” She paused.
Jayla turned up her nose, vaguely remembering flashes of the disappointing Wednesday night assignment. He had insisted on some movie she didn’t remember, and the sex had been terrible. A forgettable evening. But the girlfriend’s check had cleared, so she’d forgotten the guy even quicker.
“Oh,” Jayla shook her head, dismissing the topic. “Nothing worth talking about.”
“That’s all?” Disappointment had Tara’s lip poking out. “Damn, Jayla. I’m married, so I have to live vicariously through you. But you don’t even have stories worth trying to relive.”
Jayla smirked. Tara had been her best friend since college, but she didn’t even know the sordid details of Jayla’s employment. And it was better that way. As far as she was concerned, Tara and everyone else was better off thinking she was a marketing consultant who had a good amount of sex.
“Girl, I’m sorry.” Jayla laughed at Tara’s dejected expression. “The men nowadays are sorry. You and a select few scooped up the last few good ones we had left.”
“So I guess no getting married and settling down for you no time soon?”
“Not hardly.”
“Well, I can introduce you to some of Kevin’s friends from work.”
Jayla rolled her eyes. “Now, you just went on and on about how uppity they are. Damn. Thanks, Tara.”
“Most of them are,” she agreed, laughing. “But one guy, Derrick, he’s pretty fine. He’s, like, the only other black guy there, so he and Kevin have hit it off good. I think he just got promoted in from the Chicago region.”
“No thanks.”
“You’ll like him,” Tara said. “Let me give him your number.”
“Tara, do you even know if this guy is married? Got kids?”
“That’s for you to find out. At least consider it.”
“I’ll consider it.”
It was an obvious lie and had Tara smacking her teeth. “I’m starting to think your ass is gay, girl,” she teased.
Jayla chuckled. “I’ll consider that too.” She blew her friend a playful kiss, and they shared a laugh.
* * *
Heather was running late.
Jayla stood outside the restaurant, dressed in a professional gray pencil skirt suit, Chanel pumps, and a splash of purple from the silk blouse peeking out from under her blazer. After much effort, she had managed to tame her long hair in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. And the glasses weren’t even prescription, but Jayla liked the added touch. She also liked the briefcase she carried. All in all, a very calculated image to overshadow the nature of her business. Meticulous.
Jayla angled her wrist to eye her watch once more. She looked up just in time to see the young white woman ducking low as she scurried across the brick walkway, tossing anxious looks over her shoulder. Her tight fingers gripped a Gucci purse to her chest like a life vest. Jayla swallowed a grin. The poor thing looked petrified, her already pale skin not helping the fearful image. She looked as if she was attempting to blend in. And failing miserably. From the crisp jeans and satin blouse to each strand of blond hair secured in the ponytail resting on her shoulder.
“Heather,” Jayla called wh
en the woman breezed past.
Heather looked back, and it was clear the professional black woman was not at all what she had expected. After a moment, she turned around and walked over to Jayla.
Jayla dismissed the awkward pause and reached out to shake the woman’s hand. “I’m Denise.”
“Oh, yes,” Heather said, then hesitated. Her eyes darted around before she accepted the hand. “I’m sorry. I . . .”
‘It’s okay,” Jayla assured her with a smile. “I completely understand. Why don’t we go have some lunch and talk?” She turned to lead the way to the Italian restaurant across the street.
“Wait,” Heather said, glancing at the restaurant. “I thought we were going to
Shogun.”
The little white lies were necessary on occasion. Especially with new assignments. Hell, Jayla didn’t know this chick from a can of paint, and some women had ulterior motives. She’d had her share of run-ins with them too. But instead of revealing that, Jayla simply said, “It’s a little too noisy there.”
The two women entered the dimly lit Italian restaurant, and the hostess led them to a private booth in the back and gave them menus.
They stared at the menus for a few minutes.
“Relax, Heather,” Jayla said, her voice hushed, as the waitress walked over to take their order. “You’re drawing unnecessary attention.” She turned her attention to the waitress. “I’ll have a glass of water,” she told her. “And the house salad with balsamic vinaigrette dressing.”
“And for you, ma’am?”
Heather shook her head. “Nothing, thank you.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
The waitress left, and Jayla sighed as she pulled a pen, a notebook, and a tape recorder from her briefcase. The woman was already one step from a nervous breakdown, and Jayla hadn’t even slept with her man yet.
“Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, Heather?” she prompted, clicking on the recorder.
“Um, I’m Heather Frederick. I’m twenty-six. I’ve been with my boyfriend for six years. We have one daughter together . . .” She trailed off, fidgeting with the strap of her purse.
The Appraisal Page 2
