“Ugh, no doctors.” She threw off the throw and stood, pacing the room. My eyes immediately went back to her light, brown sugar thighs, before I realized that I shouldn’t be looking.
“Maybe you want to put on some pants?” I suggested.
Surprisingly, she listened and put on her pants. “Happy now?”
I smiled. “Very much so.”
“Anyway, are you going to help me or not?”
I sat down on the couch, observing the talkative beauty. “I’m still confused. What exactly do you need help with?”
She began pacing again. “Reggie told me to go down to the third level and knock seven times to the window on the left and that his guy would help me get out of this freaking apartment complex! Of course, I came here thinking I would finally get laid, but instead, I’m greeted by a wife with a pistol. I mean, why does this shit always happen to me?”
She pinned me with an inquisitive look, so I felt a need to answer. “I’m not sure.”
“Me neither,” she said with a shrug. “But I guess it’s just my luck that Reggie turned out to be a cheating asshole. How are you friends with someone like him?”
“I’m not,” I told her. “I don’t even know who Reggie is.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean? Why would he volunteer your apartment if you aren’t friends with him?”
“For starters, he told you to knock on the window to the left on the third level, correct?” She nodded her head. “Well, you knocked on the window to the right on the second level. Plus, I haven’t lived here long, so I don’t know many of my neighbors.”
Her hands flew to her mouth. “Are you shitting me? I’m not even at the right apartment?”
“You’re not, but I’ve seen the guy on the third floor in the condo you mentioned and he doesn’t seem like a good guy. My guess is that your boy sends all his conquests to his friend so they can both hit it.”
She gasped in disgust before spewing out a mouthful of curse words. I let her yell to her heart’s content since all of the shit she was telling me was pretty fucked up. After she got that out of her system, she stopped in the middle of the living room and stared at me, as if truly observing me for the first time. “If you’re not Reggie’s friend, who are you?”
I reached out my hand, before introducing myself. “Anthony Michaels, but everyone calls me Tone.”
She accepted my hand, smiling for the first time as she introduced herself as well. “I’m Timeka Simmons, but everyone calls me Meeka.”
Meeka. I liked her nickname. It was soft, yet sassy, and based off what I’d seen, Meeka was just like that. Timeka Simmons. I didn’t know why that name sounded so familiar, but it did.
“Thanks for helping me out and not leaving me on the fire escape. I was horny as hell, but not horny enough to get shot at.”
Say what? Did she really just say that? “Uh, no problem. Glad I could help.”
“You did help,” she confirmed, gathering her belongings. “I’ll get out of your hair and take the stairs like a normal person.” She glanced down at her clothes. “It certainly looks like I got fucked, but I didn’t.”
“Uh. Right. But given the circumstances, isn’t it better that you didn’t do anything with Reggie?”
She shrugged. “True, but alas, I’m going home the same way I left. Fully clothed and cookie untouched.”
I laughed. “You’re very honest, aren’t you?”
“I’m honest about some shit, but not all shit. What about you, Tone? Are you honest? In life, I mean?”
I thought about her question. “In life, as you put it, I try to be as honest as I can. I’m not saying I haven’t lied when necessary, but I try not to.”
She smiled. “That’s good shit. Always hold onto that. I’m sure your girlfriend appreciates your honesty.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I told her with a smirk. She was fishing, but it was cool. “But I’ll hold onto that piece of advice when I enter my next relationship.”
She gathered her coat and purse, before glancing around the apartment. “Nice place you got here.” Her eyes landed on a painting of a young, black ballerina. “Kind of girly for a bachelor pad, don’t you think?”
I shook my head. “Not that I should respond to your obvious judgment, but that belongs to one of my roommates. Her little sister is a ballerina.”
Her eyebrows raised. “Your roommate is a woman?”
“Yeah, but her boyfriend lives here, too.”
“That’s … interesting.”
“Not really. When the three of us moved in together, they weren’t dating. Now, they are.”
“Uh huh.” She walked toward the door, still eyeing the painting, when the door jiggled open as my roommates got home.
“And who might this be?” Kelani asked, wagging her eyebrows.
Meeka’s eyes widened when she landed on my boy Z. Raising her hand, she looked at him and said, “Snitches get stitches.”
I glanced between them both, seriously confused about the situation. “Do y’all know each other?” I asked.
“This is her, Tone.” Z nodded toward Meeka. “This is the Timeka. MeMe, my homegirl. The one I told you about six months ago.”
I frowned, glancing from Meeka to Z, not understanding why he figured I should know who she was. I was about to ask him for clarification, when suddenly, it hit me. And by hit me, I mean the recollection of who she was hit me like a freight train going one-hundred miles per hour.
“It’s you,” I said, unable to hide the annoyance in my voice. After everything she’d done, she had the nerve to look sheepish. “Last time I saw you, you were wearing a ski mask and being put into the back of a police car.”
“I know,” she squealed. “I spent a night in jail because of you.”
“Because of me? You were the one who snuck into my house after following me around all day. Of course I called the cops. You lucky I didn’t kill your ass when I found you in my home.”
“I told you that night, I didn’t break in to steal anything. And I wasn’t following you around all day. I just had to make sure you weren’t crazy.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one breaking and entering, yet, you had to see if I was the crazy one?”
She glanced around. “Well, you said you live here. So why were you at that house? Maybe you were breaking in, too.”
“I’ve only lived here for three months, not that it’s any of your damn business.”
“Okay, okay,” Z said, standing in between us. “Maybe y’all can talk this out tomorrow morning over coffee or something.”
“Hell nah,” I shouted. “I’m good. I’ve had enough crazy in my life to last a lifetime.”
“I’m not crazy,” Meeka yelled. “Just cautious with guys who seem too good to be true.”
I raised my hands in the air. “Finally, something we agree on.”
“And what’s that?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
“That I’m too good for you.”
She frowned. “You take that back.”
“I will not.”
When she stepped toward me, Z intervened again. “Y’all need to quit this shit. Meeka, you fucked up by breaking into Tone’s house. Tone, maybe you could have talked to Meeka before you called the cops. Regardless, y’all are going to be working together now, so this shit needs to be squashed.”
I turned to Z. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Z turned to Kelani for help, but she pretended to be interested in her nail polish. “Tone, man, I never told you, but I know MeMe from work. Figured she was your type and y’all would hit it off.”
I cursed. “Please tell me you did not just meet her at the same company I recently accepted the job for, but another company that you worked at before.”
“Nah, bruh. She works at the network.”
I reluctantly looked her way, wishing like hell I had never opened my window and never seen her sexy thighs in nothing but those damn lace panties.
“I guess I can be professional.” Not that I had a choice. I’d already accepted the job and it was good money.
She took two steps toward me and placed her hands on her hips. “I’m the epitome of professionalism, but I hope you stay out of my way at work.”
“He can’t,” Z said. “He’s taking over for Dougy, as the Director of Photography and Video. You’re one of the writer-producers for the network, so you’ll definitely be seeing a lot of each other.”
She groaned, but it sounded more like a moan. Or maybe I was still thinking about her standing outside in next to nothing, which made me want to moan just thinking about it.
“Whatever,” she spat, before saying a quick good-bye to Z and telling Kelani it was nice to meet her. For me, I didn’t even get so much of a backwards glance.
Z slapped me on the back. “Damn, Tone. It’s been a minute since I’ve seen you piss off a woman that much before. MeMe is crazy, but she’s more of a sunshine and rainbows kinda person. I’ve never seen her that annoyed.”
I snorted. Unfortunately, I’d seen that look one too many times before.
CHAPTER 3
What’s worse than being single when you want to be in a relationship? Other people reminding you that you’re single. #MindYaBusiness
~ Madame Social ~
TWO YEARS LATER …
M EEKA
I WALKED into work with the usual pep in my step … although, to be honest, my pep was fake as fuck because I was annoyed as fuck, since I’d been stood up after waiting for the asshole for two hours. Which meant, I was single as fuck. Again.
And I didn’t mean single, as in, “I haven’t had a boyfriend in a year or two.” I meant single, as in “oh my fucking god I haven’t even had a real boyfriend in so long, I hope everything still works” kind of single. It was hard to believe that me, the queen of dates—since I used to treat that shit like an athletic sport—hadn’t been out on a serious date with a man in … I didn’t even know how long. I’d lost count.
Unfortunately, I didn’t lose track of how long it had been since I’d had a real relationship. Nor, did I forget how long I’d been lusting after a man I could never have, but had to see every freaking day.
If there were a book called A Lifetime of Being Single 101, I have no doubt the first thing on the list would be: Don’t fall for a man who doesn’t want you. Or in my case, don’t fall for a man who had you arrested due to a misunderstanding. Especially if that man looked like Idris Elba and Omari Hardwick had a love child. Ah, bad analogy. Anywho, he was probably the reason I was still single at thirty-three. Daydreaming about what I’ll never have.
“Hey, Meeka.” I turned toward my boss’s assistant. “The bitch has risen today, and hell hath no fury like a woman out for blood.”
Groaning, I threw him a thankful salute for the heads up. I reached my desk in record time since I wanted to avoid everyone for as long as I could. Tabitha, who I not-so-affectionately called Dragon Breath when she wasn’t eavesdropping on my conversations, had already sent me several messages this morning. Which meant she was on the warpath and yours truly was public enemy number one, aka, her usual verbal punching bag.
She couldn’t stand my ass, but quite frankly, I couldn’t stand her either. It was hard to believe she was engaged to a sexy, dark-eyed, dark hair, Jason-Momoa look-alike considering she was probably one of the most least-liked people at my job.
“Meeka!” At the sound of her high-pitched voice, I almost spilled my coffee.
“Yes, Tabitha?”
“You’re late and the team is meeting now. Get in here!”
I glanced at my phone, noting that I was actually five-minutes early since today was my late-start day. Didn’t matter because the only thing Dragon Breath hated more than getting sassed back, was being wrong when she started the sassing in the first place.
I walked into the conference room, making sure I was on the opposite side of Tone. Since Dragon Breath was the Director of Production Operations, we all reported to here. Tone was more of her equal, but she made his ass attend these meetings too.
As much as I couldn’t stand Dragon Breath, she’d climbed the career ladder the right way, going from a childhood actor to holding several crew positions throughout the business to prove that she deserved her position. If she wasn’t such a nasty person, I’d admire her. Sort of.
“The ratings last season were unacceptable,” she bellowed as soon as we were all seated. “As a team, we have got to do better. But I think the most blame should be placed on our writers. The script was piss poor and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
I glanced over at my girl, Cheyanne, as we listened to Dragon Breath blame the writers for the fact that our ratings were pitiful. It never failed that whenever anything went wrong with the network, the writer-producers like Cheyanne and me were usually the folks who got blamed.
For the past four years, I’d been working for The Social Experiment Network, a YouTube channel that had gotten a lot of buzz over the years. It was created by a woman who we called Madame Social because she wanted her identity to remain a mystery. Even though I’d never met her in person, I was fully on board for any woman who could create a network while keeping her identity a secret.
The first three seasons of the show were epic. Once the media got a hold of us, we were deemed the new wave of the future, and myself, along with others, were extremely fortunate to have hopped on board the start-up network before it took off. The show changed every season, and with that, each season had a different name. However, the main goal is always the same—to join one of Madam Social’s experiments and face the truth about yourself, whatever that truth may be. The number of people we’ve had sign up to audition over the years has been humbling, and it didn’t take long for millennials, Gen X’ers, and the baby boomers to all get on board with this new form of reality television.
The network was headquartered in Chicago, but as of late, we’d been getting some bad press. Last season, we’d focused our attention on married couples whose relationships were in jeopardy in a series we called Marriage Sexting. For that segment, each couple chosen had to complete a series of steps and basically work on their relationship in front of the camera.
One of the public’s favorite couples—unbeknownst to me—had been paid to fake their marriage and continue with our show just to get paid. Apparently, during an argument with another writer-producer who was recently fired, they discussed the arrangements that were made by that producer when he didn’t keep up his end of the bargain. Not only did he not slip them the extra few thousand he promised, but he was also sleeping with the wife. The media had a field day when the footage was released, and now, instead of being known to share footage of real people with real problems, we were being dragged through the mud as a fake network.
“Madame Social is joining us now,” said Dragon Breath. “Do me a favor and don’t embarrass me.” She looked dead at me, so of course, I did what I do best. I gave her my innocent I-know-nothing look and went about sipping my caramel macchiato.
Madame Social’s pleasant voice filled the conference phone line. It didn’t matter if she was dealing with a lot or a little, she always sounded upbeat. “Thank you for joining me today, staff. As you’ve heard, we’ve had to let go of a senior employee after the disaster last season and the media is having a field day on our behalf. I asked you all to meet so that we can discuss our next steps, so I wanted to start with a little exercise.”
I perked up in my seat because I loved Madame Socials exercises.
“This isn’t just for the writers in the room, but for everyone. So first, I want each of you to write down an idea for next season and Tabitha will collect them all and read them aloud.”
Hmm. Next season … I began jotting down a variety of words to see if I could come up with something. After a couple minutes, I re-read the words I’d written and put a few together to get my suggestion.
Tabitha snatched the paper out my hand the minute I was
finished, as if several others weren’t still jotting down their answers. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” She went through a few of the suggestions, tossing them to the side after her and Madame Social decided they were decent, but needed some work.
When Dragon Breath got to mine, she rolled her eyes before putting me on blast by saying, “Meeka suggests that for our next season, participants must dig deep within themselves to try something they have never tried, but always wanted to try, in a series called Do You Dare: The Year of No Excuses. How stupid is that idea?”
“Tabitha, that was uncalled for,” Madame Social said. “I happen to think the idea is a great one.” A quick glance around the room proved that others felt the same way.
“This idea is played out,” Tabitha whined. “How about I read the other suggestions and see if there is something better?”
Dragon Breath was trying her best to belittle me, but Madame Social wasn’t having it. “No, I’m very intrigued by this idea. Meeka, could you share a little more about your suggestion.”
“Sure.” I stood from my seat to face everyone in the room and shot Tabitha a triumphant smile. “I guess, I was thinking that after the drama we had last season with the marriage segment and the media thinking we paid all our participants, why not own up to it.”
Tabitha gasped. “We will do no such thing. True, participants get paid for being on our shows, but that’s just like any other reality TV network. We didn’t do anything wrong, and one bad employee shouldn’t hurt the company as a whole.”
“But it did,” I countered. “An employee of SEN did pay a couple participants, and whether we own up to it or not, reality television is an oxymoron. Yeah, some of it is real, but some of it is also fabricated television. So why not kick off the Do You Dare series with not only making participants tackle what’s holding them back, but have the network tackle one of our greatest fears first. Since we’ve been getting the bad publicity, we’ve been on the defensive. Let’s get on the offense by giving a behind the scenes view of our YouTube channel so the media and public in general can see what goes on before we air our episodes.”
Single AF (Social Experiment Book 1) Page 2
