Smoke and Mirrors

by Tiana Laveen

  No, she was in his same league; that couldn’t be taken away from her. Just because she looked like a black Jackie O’ didn’t mean she behaved like a first lady. She knew the game in and out, and though she had a tattered past, she persevered. He found that highly appealing, erotic…strong women got his motor started. Her glossy lips made it harder for him to resist and her nice, peach shaped ass and upright tits, devoid of a damn bra, sealed the deal with a kiss. He wanted to find out more about her, sit down and chat, run his lips along the side of her neck and see if she was willing to give a guy like him a damn chance to win her affections.

  This isn’t over Paris, not by a long shot, baby. I want to taste your candy, see what you’re made of…Mmmmmm….

  *

  Chapter Three

  THIS CAN’T BE happening.

  There he stood, bold as shit. This time, with a black suit paired with a white shirt and mint green tie, looking like some damn newscaster. Paris seethed. Justin Timberlake and Snoop Dogg’s, ‘Signs’ played in the background, a soundtrack from a passing car moving leisurely down the street playing the oldie but goodie. One of her main girls, Tasha, stood in the doorway looking the bastard up and down as if she wanted to lick him clean to the goddamn bone. The woman’s eyes bucked, taking in the GQ wannabe. The fucked up part was, he did look like a damn model, but she refused to give him any accolades. He didn’t deserve anything but a door slammed in his fucking face.

  “What brings you here, Smoke?” she asked, annoyed.

  That was the thing about Smoke, he didn’t make many public appearances, and when he did, it seemed to be a huge event. She’d heard the rumors and followed his entire timeline, especially after their run-in. She dug up his dirt with a shovel, and hated to admit it, but she was duly impressed. When the man first stepped foot in the game, he was being tried left and right. Fresh meat was on the street, and everyone in competition needed to sniff out the new man. Of course, that had happened many years ago, and now he was seasoned like prime rib presented on a silver platter. Paris elbowed Tasha out the way and took a stance, blocking the entrance in case he got any ideas.

  “Good afternoon, Paris. It’s a fine day, so I wondered if you’d like to take a stroll?”

  He sounded like a Southern gentleman out of 1952. It gave her a bit of a chuckle, but she kept her face tight, refusing to let him see she found him a tiny bit charming; besides, she was still pissed about their first interaction.

  “No, I wouldn’t like to take a stroll with you and I thought you said we were done talking?” She pointed to herself then back at him. “I wish you had made good on that.”

  “I changed my mind.” He grinned at her and took a bow, as if he’d removed a top hat and colorful flower petals were tumbling forth from it onto the ground, leaving a trail of fragrance along the street.

  This mothafucka right here!

  “I hope that I’m entitled. I think we got off to a bad start. I’d like to begin afresh.”

  She looked at Tasha then back at the man. Tasha shrugged, offering absolutely no help at all as she stood there drinking it all in, but not offering a life preserver in the form of a much needed interference. Paris grimaced, sucked her teeth and continued to glare at him, mulling over her next move.

  “I apologize for the other day,” he offered, with no hint of insincerity.

  Regardless, she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw the tall son of a bitch.

  “Tell the girls I’ll be back in a minute,” she hollered as she slipped her cellphone in the pocket of her cream and red striped capris. Tasha nodded and closed the door behind her.

  They walked down her steps, between two large terracotta flower pots, and onto the sidewalk. As they stood side by side, she stole a glance at his big hand swaying next to her own. They moved at the same pace, the same rate. It almost looked as if their pinky fingers were daring to touch, intertwine. She got back on track and looked straight ahead, holding herself up, keeping cool…but why did he have to smell so damn good? And dress so well? No alligator shoes or gold teeth, no slick words coated in strange, overly used street vernacular. He spoke clearly and succinctly. So…fucking…smooth.

  “So, first let me say thank you for joining me.” He looked down at her, making her feel an inch tall. Paris stood 5’7, but could look considerably taller in a mean pair of heels. She also had curves, but she was small in weight. Despite her petite build, she wasn’t the type of woman many men wished to brawl with, and that made her proud. She packed a pistol and from her history, everyone should have known she wasn’t afraid to scrap, fight, claw a fucker’s face to bloody bits, or pull that damn trigger. She’d even had to brandish it a time or two, prepared for the consequences. Life was not easy, and self-defense was status quo. Oddly enough, she had been called ultra feminine, dare she say, alluring, but her ability to adjust and recreate herself with the changing times, proved to be her unsurpassed strength. As she stared into the man’s captivating eyes, she knew completely and truly, many things may have been issues for him, but height, bravado and a sense of self weren’t any of them.

  “You’re welcome…” she finally muttered rather late in the game, attempting an amicable approach.

  “I want to ask you what problems you have with me? Let’s start there if you don’t mind,” he stated diplomatically.

  “Smoke, I don’t have a problem with you, or at least, I didn’t until you tried to intimidate me. Please don’t let my clothing fool you. I’m from the streets and if you take me there, we can get down ’nd dirty. I’m not one of your whores. That shit doesn’t work on me.” She stopped walking and turned towards him, wishing to make her points clear as day. “Word on the street is that you have some sort of magical touch as it pertains to choosing the right women to approach, to build your family, as you call it.

  “You watch them, then make your move. It’s gotten to the point that you no longer have to introduce yourself. These women know who you are and are trying to get with you. Few are accepted. I respect that, Smoke, and you should have dug deep before you came at me like you were fourteen karat gold crazy. If you’d watched me for even three minutes, you would have known your approach was completely incorrect. Let me school you on some shit right quick.” She was going to take this bastard down. Game recognize game!

  “Please do…” He looked her up and down, lust in his strange, exotic eyes.

  “I’m the wrong one to try to play with. I’m twenty-nine years old. I’ll be thirty in two months.”

  “Happy early birthday.”

  “Thank you. I’ve been hoing since I was thirteen. I’ve had my own house running since I was twenty-two. You and I are two of the youngest in the game. We already don’t get the respect we deserve. Me, because I’m a woman and deemed too young to be a Madam and you, because you’re white… Of course, you aren’t the first white pimp any of us have ever seen. We just rarely see you motherfuckers, and the fact that you aren’t doing what these other guys are doing, but still in the game, is astounding!”

  Smoke looked down at the ground and emitted a light laugh, nodding his head in agreement.

  “Can I tell you something?” He looked back up at her, his eyes hooded more than usual, making her pussy clench up over and over, spasms galore, like a Venus fly trap left in a room full of buzzing mosquitoes.

  “What?”

  “You are one of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen, and I mean that sincerely. Your eyes really captivate me. They’re your best feature. They’re large and slanted, like a pussycat…so sexy. Matter of fact,”—his face split into a crooked grin as his voice dropped impossibly lower—“that is what I will call you from now on. Pussycat…at least in my dreams.”

  She twisted her lips and turned away. He’d delivered a bucketful of compliments like some slick vacuum salesperson, and she’d been suckered into letting him spill the sugary words all over her damn carpet and offer a demonstration.

  “You need to stop.”

  �
��What? You don’t think I’m serious?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. You run game for a living, and I am not inviting myself to participate in Chutes and Ladders with you so you can climb your way up and inside my domain. Roll your dice somewhere else. Now…” She began to walk again. “You said previously, you wanted our ladies to simply respect the boundaries. I have no issue with that.”

  “Good, then why all that bull before?” he asked, raising his brow.

  “Because you didn’t approach me right, like I said!” She stopped walking, almost stomped her foot in anger. “You came at me with some sly shit, acting like you were trying to score, get me under the excuse of trying to wine and dine me. You treated me like one of these bobble headed bitches versus your equal. If I were a man, you would have never handled it that way, Smoke, and you know it. I resent that.”

  “But I can’t treat you like a man, Paris. If you were a man, I wouldn’t have been daydreaming all morning and afternoon about fucking you…”

  They looked at each other for a long while, and the entire time, her pussy drew inward like a turtle in a shell as more contractions clamped between her damn legs, almost making her buck at the knees.

  “Look, Paris, how do you know I wasn’t attempting to do both?” The smile disappeared from his face and his forehead slightly bunched. “Did you contemplate the fact that I may have been interested in you, as well as wishing to discuss business?”

  “I don’t shit where I eat.”

  “Of course you do…”

  She turned and looked at him for a long time. She wanted to ask him what the hell he meant by that, but instead, he took care of it for her after a brief pause, which included him staring down into her cleavage like some panting wolf in desperate need of prey.

  “You see, people like you and I are forced to shit where we eat. We have to make our ladies believe what we’re telling them and sometimes, we actually do give a shit about them. It isn’t love; if we did something foolish like that, we’d risk everything we worked for being turned to shit, and worse yet, being the ho, instead of the pimp. Now, what I do outside of my vocation is a whole ’nother matter.” He placed his hand across his heart. “When I asked to take you out, I meant it. For you, I’m prepared. I know more than you think I know. You make me wanna do some shit… some shit I’ve never done before.” He paused and slicked his tongue over his lower lip as his eyes glimmered like a damn reptile’s. His gaze darted back to her cleavage, nasty thoughts written all over his face.

  “Listen, Smoke, I don’t know what type of tricks you’re pulling, but if they aren’t the kind that drive by, call or book an appointment online, then I’m not interested in hearing about ’em.”

  I have to put a stop to this! Shut this shit down.

  “You’re so mean, baby,” He grinned, seemingly mocking her. “You need to jump on board and have the S.P.E, goddamn it.” His smirk returned, this time sending her nerves into a jumping tailspin. She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  “What’ the S.P.E., Smoke?” She was almost afraid to ask, but her curiosity had gotten the best of her.

  “The Smoke Patterson Experience, Madam.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or take a white glove and smack the pompous fucker in the face with all of her might.

  “You need to get the hell out of my face.” She huffed, looking past him and all around as if he were some vagrant asking for a dime or two.

  “You obviously don’t know who I am, Paris.” The man wouldn’t give it a rest. “Because if you did, you’d understand that I—”

  “People know your story, so please stop trying to bullshit me! You aren’t the only one doing big things around here.” She waved her hand in his face. “I have a college degree, did you know that?” She glared at him as she placed her hand on her hip, proud of herself and feeling slightly superior. “Despite what has happened to me and what I’ve been through, I know how to make money. My past hoing paid for my education. More importantly, I know how to keep money and in the process, empower my girls.”

  “As do I.” He never broke his cool…

  “You knew nothing about this! I was born into it. Don’t insult my intelligence. My mother was a prostitute and my father a pimp. That’s all I knew my entire life, Smoke. This is nothing new to me. I wasn’t raised in Ohio, okay? My father didn’t become a pimp later in life, like yours. My father had been a pimp since the age of sixteen! He was notorious, revered!” She threw up her hands in frustration. “This is who I am, this is what’s going down. You were just a naïve kid, you knew nothing about this and haven’t been in the life as long as me. There is no damn comparison.”

  “But I’m not a kid anymore, Paris…” He moved in closer to her, so damn close, she could smell his light aftershave. It reminded her of the beach first thing in the damn morning.

  Damn this man!

  “Does this look like a child’s face to you?”

  He pointed to himself, his long, thick finger directed towards his prominent cheekbone as he glared at her lips, leaning down a bit. Did the bastard intend to kiss her?

  “Does this look like a child’s clothing, Paris?” He pulled at his tie, running the material through his fingers as if it were fine silk… Upon second glance, it probably was.

  “Do I sound like a fuckin’ child to you, Paris?” His voice seemed to echo as he asked the question so very close to her ear.

  She shivered when the throaty words went down like heated embers to her very soul.

  “Does my dick imprint in my pants look like a child’s, baby?” He grimaced as he took a step back, giving her full view while he slicked his hand over his bulging crotch.

  His pants are loose, and I can still see it! Goddamn!

  “You like that?” He flicked his tongue in nasty ways. “…And I’m not even hard right now. If you stroked it, cured your curiosity, you’d know this isn’t child’s play. I want to make you moan …”

  She swallowed. Hard.

  “I just want a little of your time, Pussycat…see if you want to come out and play…”

  He hung onto the last word as he looked intensely into her eyes. And once again, she hated herself for finding him so intriguing, sexy and almost irresistible…

  “I’ve heard you’ve been asking questions about me. You seem to have pulled in some favors, got people to talk.” She smirked.

  “I didn’t pull in a damn thing. People listen to me and give me what I want more times than not,” he said matter-of-factly as he ran his index finger down the side of his jaw, scratching an itch. “I didn’t have to pay, borrow or steal for this. I like what I like, and I know what I like…and that’s you.”

  “Did you ever consider that you weren’t my type?”

  “Your type? Hmmm.” There popped his smirk again, before he set his blazing eyes upon her once more. “I beg to differ. I’m definitely your type. You see, a square isn’t going to understand you, Paris. A man working a nine to five isn’t going to feel your pain like I do.”

  She drew in air, filling her chest with oxygen as she crossed her arms over her chest. She couldn’t deny the truth that the tall glass of water laid at her feet. He may have been slick, he may have been cunning, but he spoke realness. Yes, he understood the disease she had, that of being addicted and afflicted with street life though most others couldn’t see she was completely infected with her profession and not interested in a cure.

  “You’ve been underestimated, investigated and player hated. I get it, baby.”

  He smiled slyly, leaned forward and traced her cheek, forcing her to snap out of the fog and back away from his touch.

  “And you think I’m part of that whole mess, too. Well, I did investigate you…but underestimate and player hate? Never that, my love.”

  “Are you for real?” A part of her had problems taking this shit in. Denying the attraction was plain silly at this point, but going forward, making plans based upon it, was pure lunacy. He’d made some
good points, but it simply wasn’t enough. So what if they found each other attractive—what difference did it make? None at all. “Don’t touch me again.” She pointed in his face, only to be greeted by that cocky ass smirk of his—again! “Besides, I can’t date a pimp, and that’s final.” She turned to walk away and return to her building, but he quickened his pace and stopped her, gently grabbing her arm to make her face him.

  He’s touching me again! Is this fucker hard of hearing?!

  “You can’t date a pimp? But I’m the very person you should be looking for, Paris. This is my last sales pitch to you; well, I hope it is.” That caused both of them to smile, and she relaxed a bit. “Look, baby, you don’t have to pretend with me. You don’t really want to run from me…you want me to chase you. Chasing isn’t really my thing, but I’ll do it. Yeah, I’ll do it for a little bit of Paris, but not forever.”

  She roamed in the brief silence, feeling rather silly as he pulled the truth out of the situation, revealing her nature.

  “Unlike the squares out here, I won’t judge you for the number of men you’ve slept with, because I understand it. Besides, I’m not that insecure. Furthermore…” He stepped in closer once again, making her heart beat a little faster. “I would always believe that, with me, every time I push inside of you, it would feel like the first time you’d ever made love.”

  Her breathing turned erratic and she prayed he didn’t notice her hairline dotting with perspiration.

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious to test drive me?” He slicked his long, fat tongue over his lower lip, doing that sexual perverted flick he’d shown her a few moments previously.

  “Not really. I’ve fucked pimps before. You’re all the same,” she said dryly. “Now, I understand your Daddy Fat Sacks,” she teased, eliciting a grin from the man. “If you name the right price, I’ll let you pay me to fuck, but best believe, it’s going to be five digits for thirty minutes, because I don’t sell my pussy anymore…but for you, I’d make an exception,” she goaded, then winked.