by Pike, Leslie
Zan: I can hear it. Before I let you go tell me about your suit? Bikini or one-piece?
I’m giggling like a preteen.
Belinda: One piece. Black. Very modest. Nothing sexy.
Zan: Good. Save the bikini wearing for me.
As my fingers begin typing, I get a follow-up comment.
Zan: Those fucking men at the gym. They’re looking at you whether you’re in a swimsuit or a down parka.
The goon-like grin on my face might frighten the swimmers.
Belinda: The only thing that matters is who I’m looking at.
Zan: Good answer. I’ll call you at our usual time tonight.
He doesn’t wait for my reply, but simply disconnects. Sigh.
I return the cell to my zip up and store it in one of the lockers against the wall. The key goes around my wrist. Soraya is already doing laps, her easy pace making it look effortless. I know better. When I tried to keep up with her a few weeks ago it was a fail. Now I mostly enjoy the cool water and do a lot of floating and aimless paddling.
Walking down the steps into the water shocks a bit. Getting neck deep as soon as possible is the way to go. Today I immerse myself all the way, dipping my head underwater then coming up, hair slicked back. It’s a beautiful day to float and think, and I’ve got so much to think about. I get to it.
A half hour later I see Soraya doing the breaststroke in my direction.
“Hey. How’s Adonis today?”
“Good. It was one in the morning there, but he always calls and says a New York good morning to start my day.”
“The man’s over the moon about you, Belinda. When are you going to make the trip?”
“If it was up to him I’d be there now.”
“What the hell are you waiting for, girl?”
The question floats in my mind. I swim around her while contemplating. For some reason I wanted to put a little time between our beginning and the next step. Just to see if he held on to the powerful first impressions. I did. But instead of saying that, I give a much simpler response.
“I’m going soon. I wanted to finish my piece on his family first.”
“How did it turn out? Are you happy with it?”
I’m unsure how I feel but I know what’s missing.
“It’s good. Just haven’t turned it in yet.”
“I know that tone. What aren’t you telling me?”
I chuckle because it’s amusing to be read so easily by your best friend.
“There was plenty for a three parter, but it’s not Vanity Fair material. I know that for certain. So I’ll probably just put it on my blog.”
The splash from a man jumping in the pool showers both our heads. We move away from the edge of the pool.
“Can you rework it?” Soraya asks.
“I edited it within an inch of my life. Cut out every spare word and unnecessary bit of information. It’s lacking one thing.”
“Do tell.”
“Meat. There’s nothing revelatory in the work. The reader isn’t going to have their aha moment. It’s just a solid story about the royals. But they didn’t tell me anything they don’t want the world to know.”
“Did you really expect that? You had just met Zan.”
“No. Not really. But you know how it is. Sometimes people accidentally reveal information in conversation.”
Soraya scrunches her nose in response. She knows I’m brutally honest with myself. I continue.
“It’s good for the blog. But an inferior story to submit to the magazine. I’m not going to blow my chance on something I already know won’t pass muster.”
“Do you think there’s something else there? Something actually happening they didn’t tell you about?”
“Of course there is. Trouble is, I don’t know what. Thought it was about who will ascend the throne when King Mansa steps down. But they didn’t bite when I asked.”
“Well, you’re going to have another chance when you’re with them in Africa.”
The thought of that delights me. If I’m being truthful it’s the thought of being with Zan. The rest of the world could break off and I’d still be happy in his company.
* * *
It’s getting to be habit. Glorious habit. My bedside table is ready, the lights are set low, I’m in bed. Ten o’clock. Well, actually nine fifty-eight. Usually I’m too excited to be working on my iPad or laptop. Even knowing he’s about to call is enough to occupy my mind.
The cell sounds and my heart jumps.
“Hello?”
“When are you coming to see me?” He says it with a chuckle.
“Soon I hope. I was thinking maybe in a few weeks.” I know that one shocked him.
“Really? Never mind, don’t answer. I’ve been asking you that every day for a month. I’ll take you at your word.”
“I thought I’d stay for a couple of weeks, does that work for you?”
“Only two? Whatever. You do you. Just leave some wiggle room in case you get here and want to stay longer. I’m excited.”
“Me too. I have a wedding to go to later in the month, and I’m in it, so there’s no room for change.”
“Who’s getting married?”
“My brother James. I think I told you about my brothers, right?”
“Yes. He’s the one you said was really a sweet guy.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you have a good day?” he says in low tones.
“This is the best part of my day. How about you?”
“I had trouble concentrating. You interrupted me consistently.”
He can’t see the smile on my face, but he knows. I’m sure of it.
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” I say with false innocence. “It’s three in the afternoon there, but we could pretend to be together in this comfy bed.”
I hear the intake of his breath. Up until now our conversations have been seventy-five percent pure, with a twenty-five percent variation on the theme. Nothing really raw, but unveiled references to our sizzling sex life. But tonight I have other plans.
“Yes! That’s a big yes. Do whatever you’d like. No wait! I think I need to prepare!”
“Do it,” I whisper.
All I hear is the rustle of clothes and the frenzy of pants being removed. The bed frame’s squeak punctuates the moment. I settle against the pillows.
“Okay, baby. I’m there with you. In bed?” he says.
“On top of the bed. It’s warm tonight.”
“Are you naked, Belinda?”
“No. I’m wearing a blush-pink camisole and panties.”
His intake of breath echoes all the way from Africa.
“Are they see-through?”
“A little bit. But mostly you can see the shape and outline of things. My nipples are poking against the soft fabric and my lips are pressing against the seam of the panties. That feels really good.”
“Oh God. My mouth is on them. Right over the material. Feel me?”
Hell yes I feel him. Phantom Zan is better than any other flesh-and-blood man.
“I feel you sucking me. I love the sensation. Here. I’m taking my top off.”
The gossamer top goes flying off the bed.
“Oh, baby. My dick is so hard for you. I’m imagining my tongue licking and tasting your beautiful tits. Hell. You’re a goddess.”
My hand moves to my pussy and I feel the effects of Zan’s words.
“Honey, my panties have a little wet spot on them. Oh!”
His breathing rises with his desire. Mine too. “I want those things off. But before you do, do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“Run your finger up the seam, right between your lips. Do it.”
Following his command, I trace the path between my lips, bottom to top, slowly. Really slowly. God.
“Zan. Oh God. My clit is rising. It’s like a little pebble.”
My legs fall open in a natural response to the sexual ten
sion and mood.
“That’s it, baby. I’m kissing you right there. Softly. Oh yeah. Want to take those panties off? Let me kiss you and smell you. I want you naked.”
I don’t need another request. My panties are gone in a flash, joining the matched set on the floor.
“Come here. I need your cock. I want to look in your eyes and then I want to taste and feel your hot cum in my mouth.”
Uncontrollable sounds come from him now. He’s jacking off and I can almost see it. Puffs of breath push out and work to get me hotter than ever. I know talking isn’t something he’s going to be able to do now, so I take over.
“Ohhhh. Yes, my sweet. You’re so fucking hard. As hard as I remember. My hand is around your shaft and I’ve an uncontrollable urge to put my mouth on the head.”
He goes faster, harder. I can hear the slap slap slap. A guttural moan escapes his lips.
“Ummm. My tongue is circling the head and teasing the most sensitive part of you. Right under the edge there. Oh yes, baby. I have to have all of it. Please. Get on top of me. That’s it. Oh yes. Put it inside. I’m trying to take all of you. But it’s so big.”
His breathing is labored now. He’s close. I bring him home.
“Come, baby. Feel me squeeze you.”
All the way from Mozia to Manhattan the sound of his coming rises. The power of it almost scares me. It sounds like he could be having a medical emergency! But I know it’s just an awesome orgasm that shakes the trees and moves the earth.
Tonight is one of those times I feel the sheer bliss of this life.
Chapter 11
Zan
Looking around these four high walls and the hand painted ceiling reminds me of many memorable days and nights spent in this room. This was my home for twelve years before I moved into my own house on the property. Birthdays, graduations, New Year’s Eves, and too many to count parties were held here. When I joined the family at eleven some new holidays were added. All in the name of compassion. Theirs for me.
I remember the day the queen pulled me aside and told me. In my birth mother’s honor, and to help me assimilate, the queen decided we’d celebrate the holidays that were part of my former life with an American mother. Fourth of July, Halloween, and Thanksgiving became private celebrations for just the five of us.
The fact our seasons in Africa are opposite what the Americans enjoy made it funny. Fireworks in winter, and trick or treating in late spring. They became some of our favorites.
“Your father told me Belinda is coming for a visit,” my mother says.
“She’s going to be here on the seventeenth,” I say.
“You’re going to have her stay on the grounds with you?”
“With your blessings, Mother.”
“Of course. I’m not about to ban the only woman you’ve deemed worthy to introduce your parents to! I was beginning to think it would never happen.”
“Why would I bring someone I’m not serious about into our circus? It would scare a lesser woman away. Belinda is strong-willed.”
“We’ll see. All you know is what you’ve learned in a month. How do you know how strong she is? And don’t forget one thing. She’s a journalist.”
Whenever my mother points a finger she means business. I’ve got one aimed at me now.
“Are you trying to talk me out of this? I’m telling you now, you won’t succeed.”
By the expression on her face, I see she’s enjoying herself.
“I’d never put you or our family in jeopardy. I won’t forget.”
“Good. I’m glad because I want to get to know her. I have no idea what kind of a woman she is or if she’s good enough for the king’s son.”
“You’ll see. She’s better than good enough.”
Watching my mother with her beadwork has always fascinated me. Hands moving so quickly I can barely follow or make out what exactly she’s creating. But the finished results are always worth the efforts.
“What are you making?”
Warm hazel eyes look up at me and soften. “I’m making the funeral bands, son.”
My stomach turns with her words, and my expression hardens.
“What? Is that necessary? Can’t you have someone else do that for you, Mother?”
“No. Absolutely not. It’s my privilege to make your father’s burial clothes. You know someone in the family is required to do it. Who better than me? I have no daughters you know.”
One fat tear courses over her cheekbone down to her chin. It drops on the beads.
“Mother, I’m sorry I asked. Please don’t cry.”
She looks at me through tears. “If not now when, my boy?”
Wrapping my arms around her I kiss the top of her head. “You’re right. It just stung for a minute. It’s hard to believe this is where we’re at.”
The sound of footsteps approaching breaks our embrace. My mother likes to wear her stoic face. Rarely does she show her fears, and what she just showed me was unusual. That’s how painful this is for her.
“What’s for lunch?” Kwai says, entering the room. Tarik is a few steps behind.
“Go into the kitchen and make something for yourself. We already ate. Mimi made some egg salad, it’s in the refrigerator,” my mother says pointedly.
Kwai looks like she just asked him to clean all twelve of the toilets. “What? I’m expected to feed myself?”
He says it with a straight face, but can’t hold it for long. When he bursts into laughter, we do too.
“Not even you can be that much of an asshole,” Tarik says, heading for the kitchen.
* * *
Sitting here with my father is a gift. Technically we’re in the formal garden, but it isn’t as advertised. It’s wild. Informal as hell. Late autumn is a good time to enjoy it when the scent of orchids and freesias mingle. I don’t remember it being so full-bodied or the fall flowers and trees looking better. The colors actually seem brighter.
Oh. My shoulders drop with the realization. Everything is brighter, more intense, because it’s putting on a final show. It’s telling me to remember how beautiful it was for us.
“What’s your favorite flower in the garden?” Father says while passing me a Rooibos iced tea.
This question isn’t unusual given his personality and deep connection with nature. I’m actually surprised he never asked me before.
“Let me think. Maybe the Queen Sugarbush. What about you?”
“I can’t choose. It’s like being asked to pick your favorite child. I could never do that.”
He reaches for my hand and I’m happy to oblige. It still dwarfs mine. I squeeze firmly, not wanting to let go. Now is the moment. I’ve got to tell him how I feel before it’s too late. He holds my gaze, and I see love.
“Papa. I want to thank you.”
“For what, ZaZa?” My childhood nickname strums my heartstrings.
“For saving my life. For giving a lost boy a family.” I shake my head in disbelief. “For loving me.”
He leans back and sighs. “It was your destiny and ours. You’ve been a good son, and Mozia is lucky to have your devotion.”
“It always will, Father.”
Turning his face to me, we lock eyes. “I need to talk to you, man to man,” he says.
“Yes.”
“I must make sure I’ve thought of everything.”
“What is it?”
“My dying is becoming boring. I think the king should be finished with it soon.”
The problem is I’m not sure how to respond. My face wears the weight of his words and tears fill my eyes.
“Father. My heart is breaking,” I whisper because it’s all I can voice.
“I need to know you’re going to be watching over your mother. She’s more delicate than she portrays.”
“Of course. All of us will. She’ll never want for anything. We will protect her.”
“Good. Also, there’s the matter of your brothers.”
“Yes.”
H
e sits up, swings his legs over the side of the chaise and makes sure he’s reaching me.
“This is important, Zan. All three of my sons play important roles in our country. Tarik will take the throne because he’s the face of our country. Our people need to see themselves in their king. They have trust in his intentions.”
I watch his face, his black eyes, and hear the message. “I agree, Father.”
“Kwai’s role is less obvious. I know there’s a worthy prince inside him, but it takes some men more time than others to discover their purpose. I had a dream about him. He wore a purple robe with a Kilimba Thumb Piano embroidered on the collar.”
“Really? What do you think it meant?”
“I can’t say. My mind isn’t as clear as it was, or the dreams have become riddles I haven’t the time to solve. Maybe you will.”
“I’ll think on it, Father.”
A kind smile lifts the corners of his mouth.
“And then there was you. The mind and heart of Mozia.”
It stuns me to hear the compliment.
“Thank you.”
He reaches across and grasps my forearm in his tight grip.
“I mean it. Your business savvy has lifted us all. As a family, as a country and more than that it’s elevated our place in the world. That’s no small thing, son.”
“I’ll make sure to always protect our interests. It’s an honor.”
His grip releases and he leans elbows to knees.
“But even greater than that contribution is this one,” he says, tapping a palm against his heart.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the heart of our country. You are the shepherd watching over the flock. Watching over the weakest among us. The children. And you do it knowing you’ll never be king. You do it because you’ve felt the pain of being a child without hope. And you don’t want any other one to know what that feels like. That’s your real gift, my child.”
My tears come unannounced. They spring from the deepest part of me. He pats the empty space next to him, and when I take it he embraces me in the warmth of a father’s love. Just two men, sitting in a garden crying.
