by Linda Verji
Taking a deep breath and drawing his features into a picture of equanimity, he suggested, “Why don’t you try calling her?”
Shakira shook her head. “She won’t pick it up. Probably in Mexico by now.”
How convenient!
She took a few steps forward, coming close to him until they were almost toe-to-toe. Even in heels, the top of her head barely reached his nose. Looking up at him with an earnest expression, she said, “I’m sorry about Eve.”
Nathan wasn’t fooled. He knew Shakira was putting on an act for his benefit. Putting on his own show of frustration, he raked his fingers through his hair, “I can’t believe she scammed me. She was so nice.”
“That’s Eve. You could be standing right here and she’d still find a way to steal the towel off your waist.” To make her point, her eyes trailed his body to his towel. As if there was some sort of magnetic pull attached to the white terry-clothe, her eyes stayed there.
And she bit her lower lip.
There was just something about that subtle nip of her teeth against her lush lip that immediately sent his blood racing southwards. For a moment he even forgot that she was a scammer and his senses focused on her gaze trained on his waist. As if it had a mind of its own, his cock burgeoned in awareness.
“Um, you should probably put something on.” Her soft words broke the heavy silence as her eyes shifted back up his body to meet his. The desire in them was evident.
In that moment Nathan came up with his plan.
The way to a woman’s heart was through her pussy and he was going to screw every one of Shakira’s secrets out of her. He’d make her fall so deep in love with him that she’d have no qualms spilling Eve’s whereabouts and their plan. Her desire would be her downfall. His eyes skimmed her body lingering over the swell of her breasts and the swell of her thighs. He was going to enjoy manipulating every inch of her body for his revenge.
Nathan smiled as he brought his eyes back up to meet Shakira’s. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
CHAPTER 3
“Was he cute?” London Pistol asked in a hushed voice
“A doll,” Shakira assured her best friend.
“Hmph,” London scoffed, throwing Shakira a doubtful look before staring back up at the ceiling. “After Charlie, I doubt your cute-antennae.”
Like Shakira, London was a rich shade of chocolate milk, but that was where the resemblance ended. While Shakira was tall and slender, at barely five feet, London was a petite ball of fire – literally. Her hair had been shaved at the sides, coaxed into a soft Mohawk and dyed with striking red, purple and white streaks.
“Charlie was cute!” Shakira protested without looking away from the laptop she had propped on her lap. Keying in the pass-code to her bank account, she said, “A dog, but cute. Nathan’s more than cute though.”
London harrumphed disbelievingly again.
“You don’t believe me?” Leaning forward slightly, Shakira reached for her handbag. She rifled inside it before pulling out her phone. She scrolled through her phone to come up with the picture she’d taken of one of the photos of Nathan while he was in her bedroom changing into his clothes. She knew she’d need to do a bit of investigation of her own to make sure that he was Eve’s victim and not just a squatter in her home. She held her phone over London’s face, “Fine, see for yourself.”
“Oh my G-”London started loudly but when Shakira slapped her arm her voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s Nathan Hollis.”
“Yeah, I just told you that.”
“No.” London turned on her side facing Shakira. “Kira, that’s Nathan Hollis.”
“Yes! I know.”
“The Nathan Hollis,” London emphasized. If her eyes widened any further, they’d pop out of her head. “Don’t you recognize him?”
Beyond the fact that he was the man Eve had illegally leased her house to, Shakira didn’t know who the man was. She glanced at the picture again. All she saw was a deliciously sexy man smirking back at her. Even though the photo was a second hand image, it was almost as good as the man himself. She shook her head, “Nope. Don’t recognize him.”
“I can’t believe you don’t know him.”
Rolling her eyes, Shakira said, “Just tell me who he is already.”
“He’s a big-deal choreographer. Almost every hip-hop artist uses him.” London explained excitedly before her expression turned incredulous. “Where did Eve meet him?”
“Beats me!” Shakira shrugged as she refocused on the laptop. A spreadsheet reflecting her account balance covered the expanse of the screen. She breathed a sigh of relief. All her monies were intact and safe from Eve.
“I can’t believe you didn’t take his offer to stay with him!” London exclaimed interrupting her concentration. “You could’ve gotten a little something something from the king of dance.”
“London!” Shakira cut her eyes at her.
“What?” London chuckled. “I’m just saying it ain’t natural for a girl to go so long without getting her lady parts cleaned out. And you could do worse than Nathan Hollis.”
“Nasty,” Shakira reprimanded even though she’d been thinking the same nasty thoughts barely an hour ago.
Of course she couldn’t have stayed at Nathan’s. For one the man had just been conned by her mother. It just didn’t seem like good etiquette to mooch off him. Second she’d only met him today – it was too early to establish he wasn’t some serial killer.
But the way she’d reacted to him was just ridiculous. Her whole body had lit up like the fourth of July. Not that she blamed it – six months was a hell of a long time to go without some good loving and Nathan in all his deliciousness looked like a walking, talking vibrator. If she’d stayed, she’d probably have jumped him by midnight.
Nah! Staying with Nathan Hollis in the same house was definitely not an option. After their discussion, she’d taken a cab and come straight to London’s apartment.
Shifting slightly on the bed, Shakira sighed. “I just can’t believe Eve would do this to me.”
“Can’t you? I can,” said London as she arched one eyebrow. “She’s been doing this all your life. Remember when she sold your Pokey collection so she could go to Vegas. Or when she and Ramon used your number to organize their nasty meetings and his wife thought you were Ramon’s ho. Or when she took you to the park on your sixteenth birthday then left you there so she could-”
“I get it,” Shakira interrupted, blinking rapidly to chase away the tears that sprung to her eyes. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what her mother was and that being her daughter didn’t make her exempt from Eve’s ‘small business deals’ as she liked to call them. However, these last three months it’d seemed like Eve had grown up. This was the longest her mother had stayed in any one place and Shakira had flattered herself that it was because for once Eve wanted to support her as any mother would’ve done. Obviously she was kidding herself.
Once again her mother had shown her true colors
She couldn’t even begin to explain the kind of disappointment and hurt she felt.
Eager to just fix the mess that Eve had left her with and just move on, Shakira clicked on the withdrawal tab, then keyed the amount of money she wanted to transfer as well as the account number.
“What are you doing?” London asked rising slightly off the bed on her elbows mimicking and peering at the screen.
“Sending Nathan fourteen grand.”
London started loudly, “Hell-”
Shakira bumped her friend’s shoulder as she threw her eyes towards the door.
London screwed her lips in irritation but lowered her voice anyway. “Hell, no! You can’t pay him. You’re not the one who scammed him.”
“I’ve got no choice,” Shakira explained. As much as she was angry at Eve, she couldn’t let Nathan report her. Her mother already had a record and this time the judge would probably throw the book at her. Nathan had agreed that if she could come up with twelve grand and reimburse him f
or his moving costs, he’d go quietly.
She clicked on the send button but immediately a message flickered on the screen.
“We’re unable to transfer money from your account at this time,” London read. “Kindly contact your branch.”
“What?” Shakira’s brow furrowed in confusion as she again tried to transfer the money to Nathan’s account. The same message met her.
“Are you sure you have enough money?” London asked.
“Yeah!” Shakira pointed to her balance. Her bank account was well-padded. Being Eve’s sidekick for the better part of her life had inculcated an almost obsessive saving habit in Shakira. She was never going to sleep on the street again. It was the reason she’d chosen to buy a house rather than rent and invested heavily in stocks, bonds and mutual funds with what little money she had.
“Maybe the bank’s closed or something,” London suggested.
Shakira shook her head. “It’s an online transfer I should be able to-”
Her words were cut off by a loud knocking on the door. “Loooondon.”
Both Shakira and London froze. They both looked at the door before exchanging a silent look that said ‘Maybe if we keep quiet she’ll go away’.
No such luck.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Loooondon! Loooondon! Loooondon.” The knocking persisted and so did the squeaky female voice abusing London’s name. “I know you’re in there.”
“What do you want, Farah?”
“We were wooondering,” Farah said, “what time is Shakira leaving?”
“She’s already left.” London didn’t even bat an eyelid.
“But we didn’t see her leaving.”
“She used the window.”
“Oh. That’s good.” There was some shuffling by the door then the sound of fading footsteps as Farah walked away. Shakira and London traded looks because they knew it wasn’t over. Sure enough a minute later heavier footfalls than Farah’s sounded.
The knocking on the door was more like a thump this time. “London.”
“Yes, Amani,” London returned as she turned on her back.
Amani was the head-bitch in their little two bedroom apartment. She ruled with an iron fist – or at least tried to. Pint sized as she was, London was not the type of person you ruled with an iron fist.
“I thought we agreed that you couldn’t have guests until you paid your rent.”
“I don’t have a guest.”
“Open the door.”
“What for?” London asked unaffected by the vitriol in Amani’s voice. Shakira wasn’t. Tense with anxiety, she stared at the door.
“I need to talk to you,” Amani said.
London lifted her fingers above her face, observing the luminous blue polish before she said, “I can hear you just fine from where you are. What do you want?”
“Open the door,” Amani yelled. “I swear if Shakira is still there-”
“Bitch, bye!” London lost her cool. She picked a book from her bedside table and hurled it at the door. It hit the wood with a dull thump muted by her yelling, “Get away from my door.”
“Open the door.” Amani pounded on the door so loudly that the wood shook on its hinges. Was she trying to beat the door down?
The woman was large enough that Shakira was nervous that she might even succeed. She watched the door with trepidation expecting it to land flat on the ground in a couple of seconds.
London, it seemed, had no such worries because she settled back on the bed and picked up Shakira’s phone. Undisturbed by the increased strength of Amani’s pounding on the door and yelling, she scrolled through Shakira’s phone. When she still had a home to her name, Shakira had tried to convince London to come and stay at her house but London had some pride issues that not even crazy roommates could erase.
Eventually the door-massacre petered out. Amani yelled, “London, I’m going to look for your spare key. If I find it…” She left the sentence hanging ominously.
“Whatever!” London yelled back as Amani stomped away from the door angrily.
“What if she finds the key?” Shakira asked once Amani was gone.
“She won’t. I already stole it.”
“Maybe I should go.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” London refused stubbornly. “This is my house too.”
The next morning Shakira and London snuck out of the house before Amani and Farah woke up. It’d been touch and go for a while when Farah had left their shared room to go to the bathroom but a bit of creeping, hiding behind sofas and darting, and the girls had escaped unseen.
“See, it’s working!” London exclaimed as the ATM machine coughed out five one hundred dollar bills.
“Yeah, it’s probably just a problem with electronic transfer,” Shakira agreed as she tucked the money into her handbag. She was too grown to be hiding behind couches and the five hundred would be enough to carry her over the weekend in a motel. “I’ll go to the bank on Monday and make an over-the-counter withdrawal.”
“Where to next?”London asked as she tucked her arm in the crook of Shakira’s arm.
“Don’t you have to go to work?” Shakira asked.
“Don’t worry about it. Miss Wendy will understand.” London waved her hand airily as they exited the enclosed space that held the ATM booth. They were welcomed by the morning bustle.
Cabs and cars plodded along in morning traffic while men and women rushed past bumping into the girls, their expressions determined and steps purposeful. It didn’t matter that it was a Saturday. New York still had things to do. After months of confinement, the flurry of activity was jarring, but Shakira wasn’t complaining. She’d take jarring any day if it came with freedom.
She took a deep gulp of the air before announcing, “Let’s start with Goodwill. I need to get some clothes.”
“I told you I’d lend you mine until we find out where your mother kept yours.”
“Eh! No!”
“Are you dissing my fashion sense?”
What London called fashion sense was ripped, holey or cropped everything. Shakira had searched her closet for anything that was close to her own sedate style and fit, to little avail. Finally she’d settled on an off the shoulder cropped top with the flag of the UK and her own slacks.
At Goodwill, Shakira lucked on a nice pair of dark wash skinny jeans and a green t-shirt. Posing for London with her hands on her hips, Shakira asked, “How do I look?”
London arched an eyebrow. “Like you just shopped at Goodwill.”
“Hater.”
“Cheapskate,” London retorted. Shakira chuckled as she picked her bag from the seat. She wasn’t going to waste money buying new clothes while she knew that somewhere out there she might still have a perfectly good wardrobe. London announced, “Next stop Nappy Palace. We need to get rid of those Big Bertha plaits.”
“Aren’t you afraid Miss Wendy’s going to fire you one of these days?” Shakira asked a few minutes later as they sat in the bus on their way to South Bronx.
“She hasn’t fired me yet.” London shrugged. While they were in the bus, Shakira called Nathan.
“Nathan Hollis,” he answered on the first ring, his deep voice sending a thrill through her. Damn! If his voice could do that to her she didn’t even want to think what his hands would do.
Giving herself a mental shake, Shakira said, “Hi, it’s Shakira. Shakira Dalton.”
“Yes, Shakira.” The way he rolled her name on his tongue made her think of silk sheets, warm chocolate and tangled limbs.
Licking her suddenly dry lips, she stumbled over her words, “I… I know I… I promised to transfer the money to your account by today…” Ignoring London who was silently mimicking her stuttering, she continued, “…Unfortunately I’m having a few problems with my account. However I’ll make sure you get the money by Monday. Is that okay?”
There was a long pause on his end before he said, “Sure.”
“Okay, thanks.”To avoid further
embarrassing herself, she ended the phone call.
“Shakira and Nathan sitting on a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G!”London sang teasingly
“Shut up.” Shakira mushed London’s head. However the ribbing didn’t let out until the bus dropped them at their stop. It was a short walk to Nappy Palace. Shakira furrowed her brow the closer they got to the salon. A pink Honda Fit was parked only a few feet from the entrance.
“Isn’t that Eve’s car?” London asked, noticing it too.
“Dunno,” Shakira answered as she craned her neck to see the plates. There was no mistaking them. That was Eve’s car. Her mother was still in town. Shakira’s heart sped up in a happy tune as her steps hastened.
Maybe Eve wasn’t as bad as she thought and had stayed behind to confront the consequences of her actions – for once.
CHAPTER 4
Even for a Saturday morning, Nappy Palace was booming. The moment they entered the salon, the smell of chemicals, oil and burning hair assaulted Shakira’s nose. However, the scents whirling in the large rectangular space were nothing compared to the noise level. The chattering of the multitude of clients who occupied every swivel seat was punctuated by the sound of running dryers and the latest rhythm and blues tunes playing in the background.
Though the salon was painted in an airy pastel shade of purple and had mirrors lining each wall, it still seemed overcrowded. Even so, Miss Wendy, the proprietor, spotted them immediately.
“Shakira? Is that you?” Her voice thundered over all the clamoring and drew every one’s attention towards the door where Shakira and London stood. Straight away, the commotion level increased as everyone welcomed Shakira. Given the warm welcome it was hard to believe that they’d all been at the courthouse the previous day cheering the loudest when the jury had pronounced Shakira innocent.
Shakira took it in strides. She was used to it – to them. Nappy Palace was the closest thing she’d ever had to a home. Her nana and Miss Wendy had been close friends and most of Shakira’s infancy had been spent toddling around the salon.
When Nana had died when Shakira was eight, Eve had come back for Shakira. Nine years later, tired of ‘touring’ the US with Eve and all her ‘friends’, Shakira had applied for emancipation and had come back home. Miss Wendy had given her a job in the salon washing hair and a place to stay while she finished high school and college.
