Tuesday night she worked late and so did Warren, so their conversation was quick.
“How was your day?”
“Missed you.”
“You more.”
“Dream about me.”
On Wednesday to pass the time, she took a free African dance class with her neighbor, Tess. That night, she and Warren fell asleep whispering and breathing on the telephone. When Friday finally arrived she couldn’t contain her excitement and dialed Warren first thing.
“Don’t be late. I have a surprise for you.”
“I hope it includes nudity,” he teased.
“You’re such a dirty old man,” she called back.
“With a fine ass woman like you, can you blame me?”
Erica felt her face blushing and promised to see him soon.
After their long week apart, Erica was really looking forward to relaxing courtside at the Nets/Wizards game with him and she planned to look incredible while doing it. Her bi-weekly paycheck dropped on Thursday and after work she had her shoulder-length hair pressed and curled. The nail salon was her next stop. She sat for over an hour getting her eyebrows waxed and nails polished. Finding the right look for the game wasn’t easy either. After scouring the shops along Avenue of the Americas in the West Village, she finally scored a pink Nets baby tee and a pair of skinny jeans that fit like they were sketched on.
At work, she camouflaged her evening look with a two-buttoned blazer and ballerina flats, saving her stiletto boots for game time. All morning she slaved over a press release. For lunch, she sat in the cafeteria forking down a salad, but the afternoon sauntered on like a stubborn heat wave. The office was insanely quiet for a Friday, and after dashing off an email to one of her authors, she decided to call it quits. But then Warren called saying that he was running late.
“I thought you were leaving early?”
“I should’ve been finished by now but the program I’m working on has some sort of bug.”
“Will it take long?”
“No, I just need to see if the problem is on my end or with the developer’s program.”
“I hope there’s no traffic,” she was trying not to pout.
“Once I verify that it’s not my error, I’m on the road.”
“K, meet you out front.”
When Warren dropped the receiver in the cradle he noticed Blanche hovering over him. Their cubicles shared a common wall and she was leaning on it like she wanted to chat.
“Everything all right in paradise?” She picked invisible lint from her French puffed sweater. Her lips were painted fuchsia, her hair pulled to one side.
“Debugging. Should’ve been out of here thirty minutes ago.” He flicked his wrist and pushed back his sweater.
“Quick favor? Could you grab me a few backup disks from the supply room? Whoever stocks them puts them way out of my reach.”
Warren cut his eyes.
“Being petite is such a handicap,” she said, cupping her chin with her palms.
“Fine,” he mumbled, figuring it would be quicker to grab the disks than find someone else to do it.
Blanche waited until Warren turned the corner and slid around to his desk. Reaching into her skirt pocket, she pulled out a disk and inserted it into his computer. Within three seconds the screen froze and she sped back over to her side.
Warren whistled on his walk down the hall.
“Here,” he handed her the box. Time was ticking, and if he moved quickly he could at least get to the game by the start of the second quarter. Rolling back his sweater he tapped the keyboard, but after a few strokes realized the program wasn’t responding.
“What the hell?”
Blanche popped her head up. “Need help?”
“Did you see anyone touch my computer?”
She shook her head.
“The program is non-functional. This is bullshit.”
But there was no time for him to figure it out, he had to call IT. The operator told him that someone would be right up, but that always meant twenty minutes. Warren dropped his head in his hands. Nothing this week had gone according to plan.
“Since you’re going to be around, want to put in for Chinese?” Blanche called from her seat. Warren wished she would just leave him alone. He thought about leaving and dealing with the consequences later but, to his surprise, a young lady from IT arrived.
“Please fix this quickly,” said Warren, offering her his chair.
Chapter Eight
Distant Lover
Blanche forced an egg roll and coke on Warren as he was hustling out the door, but he couldn’t eat anything. His appetite and thoughts were only on making the game. After a few tries, he persuaded Erica to leave his ticket at will-call, promising to meet her inside by halftime. But that didn’t happen either and for the third time that day he served her with bad news.
“Where’re you now?” she shouted, battling the noisy crowd.
“There was an accident on the turnpike. I’m doing like ten miles per hour,” he yelled, aggravated.
“The Wizards are down…” she said and he could hear the roar of “Defense” before the call dropped. Warren tried phoning back but didn’t have a signal and threw his mobile against the dashboard. Frustration became his roadside companion.
WBGO-FM pumped through his hi-tech sound system but even his favorite jazz station failed to mollify him. From exit 5 to where the New Jersey Turnpike split traffic crawled at a mind-dulling pace. Once he passed exit 8A, three truck lanes opened on the left, ending the gridlock. For the remainder of the ride, Warren’s speedometer stayed on 80. But he was still late. When he pulled into the arena’s parking lot, boozed-up fans were pouring into the street waving Nets banners celebrating like it was the championship. Warren stopped an older man wearing a Wizard’s cap to find out the score.
“Damn fool hit a three-point shot at the buzzer,” the man said, unfolding his portable cane. While he complained about the referees, Warren caught sight of Erica and his stomach turned to slush. She was here. His baby. The one he drove two hundred and thirty-two miles to see in traffic, with no water, no stops, just highway, and a feverish yearning to touch her face. Erica was his cure-all and even with thirty-feet between them he felt amazingly well.
On thin heels she glided, swinging her hips and smiling. Warren opened his coat to her.
“Hey, babe,” she mashed her body into his with her cheek brushing his chin. While they rocked and touched hello, Warren’s hands slid down the slope of her ass, which felt like marshmallow, spongy and plush, and he held it with both hands as he pressed into a kiss. Her mouth tasted melony and, like a glass of champagne, it went straight to his head.
“I can’t believe you missed the whole game. It was so damn exciting,” she tilted, and the glow from the street lamp made her brown eyes sparkle. Warren got lost watching her.
“What?” she traced his nose.
“Just missed you,” he said. “Where’s my surprise?”
“Oh, that,” flashing a toothy grin. Erica took two steps back. Keeping eye contact, she slowly unzipped her waist-length jacket.
“Is this X-rated?” He looked around to see if anyone was watching, but everyone who passed was either shouting about the Nets or rushing to their car trying to avoid the inevitable traffic.
“You tell me,” she flirted, spreading her jacket and flashing him. The Nets tee stretched across her curves, and it took Warren a few seconds to realize what she was doing.
“You’re so corny,” he snickered.
“And your team stunk. I was so close I could have been the towel girl.” She pretended to shoot the ball.
“I heard they won at the buzzer.” He took her hand, helping her into the car.
“And it was oh so pretty,” she threw back.
Warren rounded the vehicle and hopped into the driver’s seat. “The Nets got lucky, is all,” he put the car in reverse, merging with the departing traffic. “I can’t believe I missed it.”
Erica reached across the console for his trumpet hand, caressing his calluses. “I’ll make it up to you,” she said, kissing each finger.
Traffic into the city was minimal and they made it to Lafayette Street with ease.
“There’s someone coming out,” Erica pointed and Warren swerved, ducking in front of a yellow cab for the parking space. It was a tight fit, but after cutting the wheel twice he was in.
“Wish you could drive like me?”
“Whatever,” she said, checking her reflection in the mirror. After clipping his mobile to his waist, Warren got out and walked to the nearest parking sign. He had received too many tickets in New York City and needed to confirm the space was legit. Satisfied, he went back for Erica. It was chilly, and they walked the three blocks with their arms wrapped around each other.
The entrance of the Moroccan-style lounge was dim, but when they crossed into the main area the room was draped with white, sheer curtains. Mini stuffed sofas sat in shades of oranges, purples and reds, with round mahogany tables. A glow of candles lit the way as a hostess in a ruffled mini showed them to their cushy corner booth. It was still early by New York standards, so the place was mostly empty. Warren ordered a round of drinks.
“What happened at work?” She flipped through the menu.
“Damn program stalled.”
She gave him a blank look. “And the contract?”
It was just like Erica to lead into the weekend with business, but Warren wasn’t ready to discuss the unpleasant obvious, so he reached for her chin and told her she looked beautiful, over and over until her face flushed.
“Gorgeous.” He leaned in, letting his nose linger over her throat and ear until she stirred in his arms. Bending their bodies towards each other, their foreheads touched and their fingers laced.
The waitress dropped off the drinks and they ordered dinner. Middle Eastern instrumental music had started playing in the background and on the big screen near the bar a belly dancer, dressed in purple and gold, undulated her hips while twirling a veil between her fingers. They watched while sipping.
“I’ve always wanted to learn to belly dance,” Erica shared.
“So take a class. I’ll pay for it.”
She touched his thigh.
The hostess escorted in two other couples and Warren could see a DJ off to the side setting up equipment.
“Is this going to turn into a club?” he asked.
Erica nodded. “I hope so.”
Their food arrived and they shared red snapper and lamb with a tangy yogurt sauce while conversing about their week apart. By the time their dinner plates had been cleared, the Middle Eastern music faded, a few couples had sauntered onto the dance floor, and it became difficult for them to talk over the music. The DJ was spinning and mixing a string of top-twenty songs and even though they played the same tunes on the radio every hour, there was something electrifying about hearing music full-blast through high-definition speakers.
Erica excused herself for the ladies room. When she returned she was wearing a linguini-strapped camisole cinched at the waist.
“What happened to the Nets?”
“Time and place for everything.” She slid against him. Warren had ordered another round of drinks and she tipped her wineglass. A few beats later, she was throwing her hand in the air.
“This is my song,” moving her head to the beat. “Let’s dance.”
“I’m good right here,” Warren sipped. He wasn’t big on dancing, but Erica would move her body to anything.
“Come on, please,” she pleaded.
He shook his head.
“If you won’t, I’ll find someone who will.” She scooted out of the bench and moved past him. Her jeans fit her curves like a wet suit, and Warren grabbed her hand before she got too far.
On the floor she snapped her fingers and popped to the beat while Warren kept up a basic two-step. Then a popular reggae song by one of the Marley brothers came on and the crowd lost its mind. A few lighters flickered in the air while couples danced liked they were at home alone. Gyrating her hips, Erica turned around and backed into Warren’s pelvis. Then he placed his fingers around her throat and gave a light squeeze. She moaned, closing his hand tighter.
Sweaty and aroused, Warren breathed, “It’s time to go, baby.” Clasping onto his belt loop, she followed.
Erica stumbled into her bedroom, pulling a pack of baby wipes from her bedside drawer. Warren was in the bathroom and she quickly freshened-up the key areas. Feeling tipsy, but not quite drunk, she removed her boots and slipped into a pair of ultra high heels that Warren had picked out for her at an adult novelty shop on St. Mark’s Place in the East Village. They were stripper shoes and she only wore them in the house to entice him. The heels were six-inch glass platform with thick red patent straps across the toes, and when Erica spread her feet into them she felt herself transform.
The curls were gone and the roots of her hair had frizzed out on the dance floor. Since she couldn’t comb the hair, she gave it a fluff and wild tug until she looked like a red-headed lioness. Clicking her heels against the wood floors she moved into the living room. The table lamp against the window was turned up just enough to keep the mood. Warren entered from the bathroom drying his hands on a paper towel. His pants were unbuttoned and his arms looked like two strapped guns against his white tank. They had stopped for a six-pack on 125th Street, and she could smell the fragrance of his anticipation as he handed her an uncapped bottle.
“Nice shoes.”
Warren moved to the futon and sat gap-legged like he was preparing for a show. The moon was high. Al Jarreau sang low. Seduction like this could take them all night.
“Take your jeans off.” His voice entered her like a sex pill. But Erica lingered near the brick wall sipping her beer, smiling.
“Excuse me?” she teased. Thirsty chill bumps sprouted along her forearms as the straps of her cami slipped to her elbows. Patience was one of Warren’s strong suits, and he gulped down his beer while waiting for her to serve up his request.
Swaying her hips to Jarreau’s “Ain’t No Sunshine,” Erica could feel warmth bubbling between her legs. Resting her shoulders against the brick wall she let the music move her. With her eyes closed, her hands glided over her breasts and then drifted down to the V of her thighs. The snap of her jeans cracked open as she pulled her ribs in tight while pushing the zipper down. Red lace panties peaked through the open slit of her pants. Warren’s bottle clanked against the table as she used both hands to peeled back her jeans and push the material down to her knees. He watched her as if in a trance. With her jeans around her ankles, she moved her ass slowly to give him the view an ass man like Warren longed for. She sensuously made figure eights in the air.
“Damn baby,” escaped his lips and Erica felt egged on. The beer had revved her past tipsy but she managed to get the jeans off and platforms back on. Erica was a traditional “good girl,” so she knew that Warren enjoyed it when she completely let go and went all the way to the other side.
“Bring that sweet ass here,” he commanded, and again the timber in his voice went through her. Slower than the music Erica dragged her heels across the floor, careful not to wobble away what she hoped was a sexy picture. Then Warren was reaching for her, and she was in his lap. His tongue spread and traveled, causing Erica to drizzle like a neglected scoop of ice cream, and Warren, master of her body, didn’t waste a single drop.
Chapter Nine
Jammed
The sticky sweetness of their fluids permeated the air. The cotton bed sheets were stretched to exhaustion. Styrofoam containers with soggy sprigs of parsley and salty fries littered the floor. Warren had propped three pillows behind his head and was reading a news clip on his laptop. Erica rested at his elbow flipping through a copy of Travel & Leisure magazine. College basketball served as their backdrop. Saturday’s sun had come and gone.
“I think this stock is going to perform,” he turned his computer screen toward
her.
Erica nodded with as much interest as she could muster before rolling onto her belly. “What should we do tonight?”
“I wanted to head down to Smalls so that I could shed. Haven’t played much this week.”
“Good, I need some air.” Finding a clip on the side table she pinned her wild hair. Warren closed his laptop, hung his long legs over the side of the bed and then made his way to the bathroom. The room was lilac with a full frosted glass window facing the tub and looking out over the alley. Once he had the shower running Erica followed him in, carrying two plush towels.
“Thanks, baby,” Warren slapped her on the ass.
“Don’t start nothing,” she pulled back the shower curtain and gestured for him to go first. Warren made room so that she could stand closest to the showerhead. The water was very warm, instantly steaming her skin. Erica soaped the cloth and handed it to him. His lips were on the small of her neck.
“You are so hot,” he breathed. “Damn, my woman is fine,” he rubbed his pelvis against her booty.
“Hmm,” she let her head fall back. Warren moved the sudsy cloth up and down her back and then around to her breasts and midsection.
“You ain’t trying to go to the club tonight,” she backed against him while wetting a second cloth. Lathering it with liquid soap she turned to face Warren and moved the cloth from his ears to his shoulders and then brushed both thighs. When she let her hand rest on his manhood, pleasure flashed across his face.
“We’re going,” he kissed her deeply. “Just stealing an appetizer to hold me over.” He tongued her ear.
“Okay then, trumpet boy. Dip your head,” she removed his hands from her waist and switched places so that he was in front closest to the water.
Love in a Carry-On Bag Page 5
