Moan

by Kenya Wright

  “I do this article and I get thirty days of vacation, higher pay, and a promotion?” I asked.

  “Yes. Report what you see. Get some good responses from him and you’ll be the top paid black woman in any NY magazine.”

  With the scandal, I’d already begun earning more than other journalists, now I’d probably be getting twice as much. It didn’t sound like a bad deal at all. I just had to interview a good-looking guy at a possible elite orgy.

  What could go wrong?

  “Deal,” I said.

  “What are your measurements?”

  “35-26-39.”

  Talcott typed the numbers in and called the waitress over. “Can I get a large glass of milk? Man, those donuts were good.”

  “Yep,” I mumbled as I opened the file again and studied the hottest man I’d ever seen in a photo.

  And then I found all of the news clippings under the pictures. Roman may not have done interviews, but the press still gobbled him up. They reported his every move—all of the models and sex scandals. More than many they called him a misogynist. They labeled him a bad boy with a knack for breaking movie stars’ hearts. Others referred to him as the Vagina Whisperer. One sport’s magazine was actually doing a tally of all the women he’d slept with.

  One hundred and five women? Are you kidding me? That can’t be right. If it is, then ewww. There’s no way I’m touching him.

  I checked out the poet, again, as he began his poem on stage.

  His hazel eyes seemed to glow as he spoke. “There’s no trash can in the hood so we litter. We throw that shit right on the ground, right on the unwashed pavements where nameless guns slain kids, toddlers simply as they rode tricycles from one point to another.”

  “Will you be ready to fly out tomorrow?” Talcott asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah. I just have to take care of a few things, first.”

  The poet raised his hands in the air and his muscles flexed on his arms. He didn’t exude sex like Roman, but he’d be good to take the edge off. Give me enough satisfaction to keep my mind focused on the interview and not on Roman’s dick.

  “Bullets sliced through his head.” The poet stalked to the edge of the stage and gazed at me. “Blood sprayed, as well as other things, membranes and childhood passions. And none of it really matters anyway, not the garbage, nor the dead kid, nor the trash that litters the hoods across this country.”

  A few people snapped their fingers to that line. Talcott and I followed along, but the whole time I kept his gaze, letting my eyes show him my invitation. There was something crazy about eye contact with the right man. It made them stumble. It grabbed their attention because most women turned away. Most females preferred the man to come to them. I liked to grab them with my eyes and slowly draw them in.

  “No one cares.” The poet licked his lips and continued to speak as his gaze slid along my face and down to my toes. “It all just stays on the street for no one to clean up, like the crumpled cigarette packs, I, myself, have thrown on the sand, among shattered glass and stifled dreams.”

  I smiled.

  Yeah, first I’ll take this one home, and then I’ll pack for London.

  CHAPTER 2

  Roman

  Who the hell is this guy?

  On the sidewalk, Emily walked hand-in-hand toward her condo building in Manhattan. Butter and I sat in the café across the street.

  “She’s coming now,” Butter damn near pointed at her.

  “Eh. I got it.” I turned in the other direction, just in case she happened to glance across the street at us. At least this way, it would look like two business men were sitting at a table having lunch or some causal meeting.

  “Don’t worry.” Butter continued to watch her. “She has no reason to look over here.”

  “Reporters are observant and naturally curious. She’s one of the best. I wouldn’t test it.”

  Butter nodded and turned away too.

  And due to that, I risked a glance. This was the first time I got a chance to see her in real life. And damn she looked good. With each stride, those curls blew in the breeze. Her skin appeared more rich and brown than the television could ever show. Her shape would have made an hour-glass insecure.

  “She’s better than the photos.” I stirred in my seat as my cock grew.

  “Yes, she is, my friend. Do you think you’ll be able to keep your hands off of her?”

  “Where my hands go are no concern of yours.”

  “Fucking her is not part of the plan.”

  “But it wouldn’t hurt the plan either.” With those hips and thighs, I could grab on to them and pump for days. My cock loved that idea and with each inch of lengthening, it throbbed at the tip.

  It had been a long time since I’d gotten an erection from only looking at a woman. But then my cock and Emily had a history together. She had played a major role in my spank bank years ago, when I was at rock bottom, couch surfing, and the only thing to brighten my day, was her face on a television screen.

  “Roman.” Butter’s voice shifted to a serious look. “You got me into this mess. Don’t start thinking with your dick on this one. If you’re not going to focus, then I’m out of here.”

  “I got you into this mess?” I dragged my attention away from Emily’s lush frame and targeted Butter with a glare. “You’re the one that introduced me to the devil.”

  “That’s fair.”

  “And getting rid of the devil will save us both.”

  Butter frowned, but said nothing else.

  I had met him in Dubai. He had been my side guy since entering the sex party market. He knew seven different languages and could do most complicated math in his head and on the spot. Half Iranian and black, he was slick like butter, always sliding in and out of trouble. Always knowing who to meet and who to stay away from. He had a thing for solving problems and coming up with plans.

  Which was why he sat next to me, as we watched Emily. Butter had come up with a plot to save my ass and hopefully many more people. Now, all we needed was Emily.

  I lifted my sunglasses a little. “Who’s the guy that she’s walking with?”

  Butter shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen him before.”

  In another minute, she would be out of my view. The guy made her giggle again.

  “She looks like she’s seen him before,” I said.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ve been following her for the past six months. He’s new.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “You’re just being nervous.”

  I returned to Emily and Mr. Tall Guy. The man had long dreadlocks that hung down to his waist. He towered over her, leaning down when he wanted to whisper in her ear. And he whispered a lot as she giggled. Something about that annoyed me. Maybe it was because he looked to be trying too hard to impress her, and she didn’t seem that taken away.

  Annoyance laced my voice. “You said she didn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “She doesn’t. But I did say she had some guy friends. Every now and then she brings a man home. He stays awhile and then he’s gone.”

  “Do they spend the night?”

  “Never.”

  It couldn’t be a one-night stand. In my history, women usually wanted the guy to stay. But what if she was sleeping with these guys once in a while, why wouldn’t she let them stay? Was it for safety reasons or was she just a different type of women?

  “How am I going to romance her, if she’s into someone else,” I said.

  “You don’t have to romance her. You just have to get her to agree to the plan.”

  I grinned. “My persuasive skills are rooted in my romancing.”

  Ignoring my comment, Butter took a sip of his water. “Her editor called Miriam and said that she agreed to do the interview.”

  “Did they send the measurements?”

  “Yeah, they sent them.” Butter stared at the same spot I was studying, that beautiful bottom too. “She has some nice measurements as you can tell.”r />
  “Oh, I can tell.” I gazed back at her.

  And she’s wasting those curves on this guy, too.

  “So this man is probably a friend or someone she’s banging?” I asked.

  “This has nothing to do with the plan.” Butter took a sip of water. “Focus on the plan.”

  Emily and the guy passed the doorman and disappeared into the building. I wished we had cameras in her condo, but it would have been too risky. I knew my partners were already monitoring her. Once I told them that she would be interviewing me, they had tapped her cellphone and installed cameras in her condo and car. I would have to be careful, when I asked her for help. I had to play everything just right.

  Emily had begun as a gritty reporter, so she would appreciate the baubles and shine. At least, I hoped she would. I had learned through business that one had to spoil the person they hoped to work with. And I needed Emily’s help, badly. She was the only one I could trust to do what was right.

  The first time I saw Emily, she’d been invited on a political talk show, five years ago. I had been sleeping on my uncle’s couch. C-SPAN served as his entertainment. He watched it for twenty-four hours, never turning the damn television off or giving me a break. Because I had to bunk in his living room, I kept my complaints to myself, plugged my ears with depressing music, put a pillow over my face, and wallowed in my homelessness whenever possible.

  But a few times, I opened my eyes and stared at the screen. Music filling my ears with sad melodies. Her face was sculpted in dreams and ambition. I always had a talent for picking winners before they got the medals. From the first look, I knew she would be big shit one day. And here five years later, she had surpassed my guesses and continued to rise.

  I can’t get her killed. She’ll be fine. She can do this fast, before they come after her.

  I never would have guessed that I would one day need her.

  The first time as a millionaire, I had been arrogant and cocky, fucking everything with big tits, strolling past beggars and mocking them for not being as smart as me. I had been the garbage that people expected among the rich. Misogynistic. Capitalistic. Bully and pig.

  And then I got a wake-up call, when all the money and power disappeared. I had it all in one year, and lost it all in the next. When the money left, the women did too. Not one stood by my side, and who could blame them? I never really treated them, or anyone else, with respect.

  But had I really been happy, anyway? Had I really deserved the wealth? Hadn’t I become a better person through the crash to the ground?

  Failure dragged a person’s soul down to the ground. But I had needed it. I was nothing, before failure. I had no gratitude, no respect for others, and no sense of passion. But those dark days still hurt. Although failure carved greatness out of me, each slice was unbearable to endure.

  However, failure also bred opportunity. I didn’t get it at the time. I just wallowed in my sadness, searching the streets for forgotten change to buy some cancer sticks and cheap wine. I had even begged on a few corners, just to have something to give to my uncle.

  Life was crazy like that. One day, I owned two yachts and a mansion. The next, I stood in the food stamp line, filling out paperwork next to the other underrepresented people of America. I didn’t realize it then, but the whole path was necessary. I had met some cool people in those days—single mothers that inspired me more from surviving with many kids on their own, illiterate high school drop outs that still believed in the American dream, legless veterans that had served their country, but had no ability to feed and clothe their kids.

  Failure taught me more than my ivy league education ever could have. And the entire time that I learned, I watched Emily’s interviews. I stayed up on her articles, because they directly related to me. She had made a point of campaigning for the poor and underrepresented. She roared about it anytime she had a microphone in front of her.

  She had been my uncle’s favorite journalist. Anytime she did an interview or had a feature on any channel, he would make a big hoagie roast beef sandwich stuffed with potato chips and watch it over and over.

  “That black girl has some spunk.” He munched the mayo-lathered bread and meat. “Man, if I was younger, I’d go after her.”

  I had been wearing the same pajamas for three days. As I watched Emily with him, I debated whether I should get up and maybe wash. “I doubt you’re her type, Unc. I’m sure she’s into the revolutionary guy.”

  “Naw. I bet she doesn’t know what she wants.”

  Yawning, I asked, “What makes you say that?”

  “Look at how she chews on the end of that pen.” He stuffed his mouth with more meat and bread. “She hasn’t been laid in years.”

  I never made it to the shower. I just sat there watching Emily and taking in that lovely face. That was the first night I had a dream about fucking Emily. Not making love. I was talking about pounding and pumping.

  And for the rest of the year, that became my thing. I’d jump up, take a shower, and rub my cock right under a hot stream of water. I would let the water spray on the tip, wrapping it in warmth, and imagine Emily’s mouth, sucking. It was such a weird thing --this odd obsession I had with her. Because of my increase in shower masturbation, I was clean more, and for some reason that made me feel better. Next thing I knew, I would be staring in the bathroom mirror and imagining her seeing that view—my gaze on her, my hand tight around my cock, my other hand squeezing my nipple as I licked my lips. A few times, I noted my stomach and the disarray of my body. The next week, I was working out and showering every day. That made me feel even better.

  I watched Emily and began to study that lovely frame—those full breasts, big enough to fill my hands. The curve of her bottom, the flat stomach that gave her a perfect silhouette.

  And then a thought came to me. If I ever had the money to do it, I would go after her. I would pay her, if necessary. I became insane with the idea, wondering what I could do to get my cock between those smart little lips. I thought about sex, sex, and sex, all day long.

  That’s when all the creative business ideas hit me. If sex could get me off the couch, in a shower, and running daily, could sex make me money, too? Could I dedicate my life to that lovely activity?

  Yes.

  I slowly rebuilt myself and still, I followed Emily’s rise to the top. I had predicted correctly. She had become known for asking the relentless questions, even giving up her freedom to get to the truth of any situation. Back in the day, my uncle and I could only catch her on C-SPAN or NPR. Now, she was all over the place and had even made Trend magazine her home.

  Would she help me, if it meant possibly giving up all her success? Back in the day, she fought for the underrepresented. Would she still do it? Or has she gotten too comfortable at the top?

  Butter knocked me out of my thoughts. “Are you sure you want to go up against the Devil?”

  “Yes and I can do it with her.”

  “Do you think she’ll agree?” Butter asked.

  “I hope so. I’ll do whatever it takes to convince her.”

  “I’m sure you’re too eager to start convincing her.”

  “I’ll be good.”

  Butter tossed me a skeptical look. “Are you sure?”

  I am, but my cock’s not.

  CHAPTER 3

  Emi

  My dreadlocked-stranger told me his name was Malcolm. Close up, he had amazing lips, but his conversation left a lot to be desired. I had told him that he could walk me to my place and that maybe when I returned from London, we could meet again.

  When my poet and I arrived home, a huge vase filled with roses sat at my door. And they weren’t just any roses. These were something I had never seen before. They had bloomed into huge peach-colored cups. A whirlwind of petals lay inside. They were soft and delicate and when I slid my fingertips against them, they felt more like cream than silk. There was no way the person who bought these flowers had gone to a regular shop. They must have been imported fro
m somewhere in Europe and high-end.

  Who sent these?

  Even the vase appeared like art. Made of white tinted glass, it had been shaped into a swan. The feathers made up the volume and length as they held the flowers. The swan’s neck twisted into a curve and its beak was painted gold.

  These are amazing.

  Malcolm stirred on my side as I stroked the flowers some more. “You have lots of admirers?”

  “No.”

  A card was stuck at the center. I opened it and read the message:

  Dear Emily,

  I’m excited that we’ll finally meet. The gown is not ready. I’ve had the designer make some last minute changes. It will be in your suite, once you arrive in London.

  Please get some rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day.

  Sincerely,

  Roman.

  I reread the card several times. There was something about the wording that made my stomach tie into double knots. And there was another feeling, too-- tingling sensation skittered across my skin. The note and roses made me giddy.

  We’ll finally meet? Last minute changes to the gown? Is it really that serious?

  Another card lay next to the roses. When I opened it, shock hit me. This time it wasn’t a message. Something else was written on the back. Roman had scribbled a famous poem by Emily Bronte, called Love and Friendship.

  Love is like the wild rose-briar,

  Friendship like the holly-tree

  The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms

  But which will bloom most constantly?

  The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,

  Its summer blossoms scent the air;

  Yet wait till winter comes again

  And who will call the wild-briar fair?

  Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now

  And deck thee with the holly's sheen,

  That when December blights thy brow

  He may still leave thy garland green.

  Stunned, I turned the card over, hoping he’d left some sort of explanation. I was a fan of Emily Bronte, like any good romantic, book worm. Because we both had the same first name, I might have adored her a bit more than most. But why had he chosen this poem? It seemed so odd to give a journalist something like that.