Show and Tell

by Niobia Bryant

  I grab my Gucci briefcase. My goals to take corporate America by storm ain’t changed so I will just have to knuckle up, stroll into that paid internship with my head held high and my heart protected. I already turned down the offer to intern at Braun, Weber last fall semester because I couldn’t face Cameron Steele, who is the Vice President of Mergers and Acquisitions for the large investment firm. He’s married now and living in New York. I’m fine with it. Time to move the hell on. New year. New things. It’s all about the MBA, baby. Trust.

  With one last wink at my reflection that is a big old front, I left my bedroom. While I’m in school—working hard to be able to make the money . . . one day—I still live with Mom. She is the epitome of a divorcée who’d rather be anything else. Unfortunately, my dad doesn’t feel the same about reconciling as she does. One day, I hope to myself—and that’s one day my mom will move on and not one day my dad will give in.

  I walk to the head of the wooden staircase. I hate the nerves that clutch my guts just before I can take the first step.

  Having my leg broken in half makes me anxious as hell. Anything that can lead to me breaking it again fucks with me real bad. My panic only lasts in those moments just before my foot hits the steps, but it’s there each and every time. I shake away a flash of Rah’s angry face looking down at me as I lay on the floor just before he raised his foot and stomped my leg, shattering it in two. That dumb motherfucker is in jail for what he did to me. Just like my ex-friend Dom’s betraying ass is struggling to stay her project ass off of drugs.

  Humph. My friend since high school slept with my man and then dimed me out to him about cheating. I walked into his apartment that night to find him fucking her nasty stripper ass and then he gone have the nerve to fight me. Ain’t that some shit?

  I feel anger rising like crazy.

  I stop, close my eyes, and breathe as I count to one hundred slowly. It’s a trick my therapist, Dr. Locke, taught me to overcome my anger. Shit, who wouldn’t be mad about the betrayal of a friend, the betrayal of your man with your friend, losing the real man you love because your immature ass was too caught up in thug appeal to appreciate a stand-up man like Cameron, and never being able to quite dance like I used to because that fool broke my damn leg. I have plenty of reason to be mad as hell. Not being able to dance hurt me more deeply than Dom or Rah’s no-good asses. I used to teach dance classes at Dana’s Dance Studio but with the internship and classes I knew I wouldn’t have time. Plus teaching and not dancing was hard for me.

  Let it go, I tell myself. I try to think of Dr. Locke’s calm voice telling me that my anger will only hurt me in the end. “Ninety-seven . . . ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred,” I finish calmly, grateful when the emotions bubbling up in me die down some.

  I don’t give a shit what anybody says. I’m a strong woman to put up with everything I dealt with in the last year. I overcame it all. And on top of it all, my ass is celibate. No dick for me. It has been months and trust, for me that is a huge deal. Dr. Locke says I should focus all of my energy on healing myself and that welcoming another relationship into my life at this time would be a setback. So, I have sworn off dicks and gladly welcomed masturbation into my life. Today is just another test of my clit. Another check of how much of a woman I really am. All of these months in therapy got me ready for this. I got this. I can do this. No, fuck that. I will do this.

  My BlackBerry begins to vibrate in the pocket of my thin wool trench. I rush to pull it out. This is what good friends—real friends—are all about. They check on you when they know your ass is scared as hell. “Hey,” I say in my little sing-song way.

  “Are you okay?” Cristal asks in her mothering kinda way.

  “Cris, what am I going to say when I see him?” I ask, not even trying to hold it back.

  “I’m here too, Alizé.”

  I smile at the sound of Moët’s voice on the line. Then I pause. These two bitches can be tricky when they want to. “Who else is on the line?” I ask with a voice that shows I ain’t even playing.

  They both sigh. “Dom is not on the phone, Alizé,” Cristal says. “I am done trying to get you two back together. If you two do not care then I do not care anymore either.”

  “Good,” I answer, even as I feel a little petty. Only a little.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Cristal asks, changing the subject.

  “Yes,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “I am going to walk in there and be nothing but business all the way. In fact, if he doesn’t want to talk anything but mergers and acquisitions then that is fine with me. In fact, that is perfect for me.”

  “You’ll be fine. Just say a little prayer and make sure you call one of us as soon as you get a chance,” Moët says in a positive way like only Moët can.

  I shook my head even as I said, “Yes, I will.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  “Alright, Ze, I have to go before I am late to work.”

  “I’ll call y’all as soon as I can,” I promise, before ending the call and sliding the BlackBerry back into the pocket of my coat.

  With one last shake, I press my Donna Karan suede round-toe platform onto the first step. The rest are easy. Now if I can just convince myself of the same about seeing Cameron for the first time in months.

  “Welcome back, Monica.”

  I look up from the company manual I’m skimming over to see him standing across the table from me. All of the air leaves my body. Suddenly the large conference room feels small as hell. My eyes eat him up. The tall muscular frame. His fine-ass square features. The way his suit fits his athletic frame. Here he is. The man that I loved and lost.

  Breathe, Alizé, breathe. I rise and present him my hand in full professional mode. “Hello, Mr. Steele.”

  Cameron focuses his deep-set eyes on my outstretched hand. “Mr. Steele?” he asks with a sardonic tone before he enfolds my slender hand into a shake.

  His touch reminds me of everything we never shared together. Everything my dumb ass pushed away. Our eyes lock. His hands feel so warm in mine. I feel so attracted to him. So pulled into him. But I have to remember that he’s married now. This man belongs to someone else.

  Not that I ain’t never dealt with married men. Just not any that I had feelings for. Cameron Steele is—was—the first man I ever loved.

  Thankfully, the conference doors open and the rest of the staff wander in. Cameron releases my hand with one last long look before claiming his spot at the head of the table. I only have moments to get myself together. I prayed no one notices that my nipples are rock hard. Sitting up in the meeting sweating like a crack fiend ain’t a good thing.

  I’ve never even kissed Cameron but throughout the entire meeting I have to make myself stay focused and stop daydreaming about him stripping me naked and fucking me doggy style in the middle of the conference table. Pulling my hair, slapping my ass, popping my pussy....

  I twirl my Mont Blanc pen in my hand as I cross my legs hoping to stop that steady throb of my clit. Ba-doop. Ba-doop. God, I am so horny and Cameron’s married ass is looking so damn good. As I set the tip of my pen against my bottom lip, I wonder just what kind of lover he is. Gentle and sweet? Rough and ready? Deep and demanding?

  What size dick does he have?

  Does he eat pussy?

  Would he talk nasty while pounding in this here pussy?

  Is he a freak?

  That day in my bedroom when he admitted that he loved me I should have at least given him some consolation pussy. I should’ve jacked my broke leg right on up to the sky and let him fuck away some of the pain of me turning him down. Now he is married to someone else.

  I level my eyes on him as some random executive rambles off some report about something or other. Cameron is writing something on a notepad and just the strong, tight way he grips the pen makes me hot. It’s not like me to not be focused on learning all I can but right now my celibacy and being within feet of Cameron has my mind all fuc
ked up.

  He looks up suddenly and catches my eyes on him. He looks away as if I am nothing but a stranger. No lie? My feelings are hurt.

  I force myself to pay attention in the meeting. Getting my MBA is more important to me than sitting here sexdreaming about a married damn man. A married man that I still love.

  I’m fucked.

  I spent most of the day cooped up in another small office that is just an inch bigger than the closet they masqueraded as my office last summer. Delaney, Cameron’s assistant, followed his instructions and made sure I had plenty of office manuals to read over. I saw Cameron in passing a few times but he never once cracked his neck to look in my direction. Wifey must have his ass on a tight leash.

  Or Cameron is the stand-up, reliable man that I know he is. I sucked air between my teeth. Man, you know what? I don’t give a fuck how faithful his ass is. Shit, he ain’t my damn man.

  I pick up the phone and quickly dial Cristal’s work number. Nothing like talking to her saddity ass to make me forget my troubles.

  “Lowe, Ingram, and Banks.”

  “Hey girl. You busy?” I lean back in my swivel chair and then frown when the back of the chair hits the wall.

  “Too busy to hear gossip? Never.”

  “Girl, how ’bout Mr. Cameron is ignoring my ass big time.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” I stress as I lean forward to pick up my Mont Blanc.

  “Well, I hate to say it but I think it is definitely time for someone to say it.”

  I roll my eyes ’cause I already know where her ass is headed. “If you say it I will hang up on you. No lie.”

  Cristal makes a mocking noise. “When you had a chance to have Cameron you didn’t want him. And I told you—”

  I took great pleasure hanging up on her.

  Yes, last year Cristal was the main one telling me to snatch Cameron up. At the time he was more her type than mine. Of course fate is a no-good bitch. Therapy helped me to realize that my parents’ divorce—or rather my mother’s reaction to the divorce—made me afraid to fall in love. My thug appeal was in direct contradiction to my ambition. It was real easy for me to keep my thuggish boyfriends from getting anywhere near my heart. I was afraid to fall in love. I was afraid to love Cameron.

  And now it’s too late.

  Ain’t life a no good, ragged-mouth, bald-headed bitch?

  Knock-knock.

  I look up to find Delaney peeking her head into my office. “Hi, Delaney,” I greet her as I scribble a note in my planner to schedule an extra session with Dr. Locke.

  “Just checking up on you,” she says, walking in to stand her plump frame before my desk. “I know reading can make you go crazy . . . especially in here.”

  “I’m cool.”

  “Everyone is real excited to have you back this semester.”

  My smile this time is a little more genuine.

  “I’ll have to remind Cameron to invite you to the wedding. We’re all going.”

  I freeze. Say what? Say who? “The wedding? You . . . you’re talking about Cameron’s wedding?”

  Delaney nodded, causing her bright red pageboy to swing back and forth past her round cheeks. “The first one was cancelled because Serena’s mother was sick.”

  My heart is racing like crazy and I feel excitement fill me. I try not to show it as I casually flip through the manual. “When’s the wedding?” I ask, sounding like I’m bored. Humph. Bored my ass.

  “It’s in April.”

  Five whole months away.

  “I hope I get to go,” I lie with a straight face. Fuck it.

  “Well, I better get back to work.” With one last wave, Delaney is gone.

  I snatch up the phone and dial Cristal back.

  “Lowe, Ingram, and Banks.”

  “Cristal, girl, guess what?” My excitement made me loud as hell on the phone.

  The line went dead.

  Now is not the time for payback. I dial her ass right back. “Lowe, Ingram, and Banks.”

  “You feel better now?” I snap.

  “Lots. Thank you very much.”

  “Anyway. Cameron didn’t get married in December—”

  “What!”

  “They postponed the wedding.” My damn hands are shaking.

  “Oh-oh.”

  I nodded. “Oh-oh is right. Oh it . . . is . . . on. Trust.”

  Chapter Three

  Dom

  “I’m Dom, and I can’t be nobody but Dom until the day I die. Fuck it.”

  I’m a junkie. Whether I’m snortin’ a bag of dope or not I will always be a junkie. An addict. A dope fiend. A head.

  Yeah, I did rehab. I laid on the couch and let some shrink help me figure out why I even started with drugs. I moved out of the projects. I got off the stripper pole. I cut all ties with Diane (my mother who didn’t deserve to be called Mama) who was—is—an abusive, weed smokin’, manipulative, money-hungry bitch. (Fuck it, that bitch done called me much worse.) I got an honest job that don’t make shit. I have a better relationship with my daughter.

  I been through a lot. I’m not makin’ excuses, I’m just statin’ fuckin’ fact.

  I’ve done a lot. Again no excuses. Fact.

  My journal is full and it’s funny ’cause I never thought my ass would ever read outside of school or flippin’ through some fuckin’ magazine or some shit, but here I am writin’. Tellin’ my own stories. Healin’ myself through a pen and pad. I even told my drug counselor that I might write a book one day but my life ain’t over yet. Maybe when I’m old with gray hairs on my pussy I’ll sit back and really recollect on everythin’ I’ve done. Things I have to forgive or be forgiven for.

  The death of my ex in a car wreck after we argued.

  The way I started to fuck my kid’s head up talkin’ down to her the way Diane shit me up.

  The bullshit I pulled on Alizé. Yeah, I was fucked up for fuckin’ her man behind her back and tellin’ his no good ass how she was cheatin’ on him. Sometimes I still can hear the sound of her bone breakin’ and her cry that gave me chills. Even though I helped the police catch Rah, Alizé still won’t fuck with me. She ain’t been to the apartment to visit since I moved in. I can’t say that I blame her but I ain’t kissin’ her motherfuckin’ ass either.

  I still got Moët and Cristal and dem bitches help keep me straight.

  Livin’ in Livingston in that fancy apartment is different from my days in the projects. It helps keep me clean and away from them people who ain’t want shit ’cept for me to get high with ’em. It’s hard enough goin’ to that area everyday to work here at the daycare center. I love Newark. I’m a fuckin’ Brick City Baby ’til I die, but right now I ain’t strong enough to move back. Not if I want to stay clean.

  “Mama.”

  I look down at my little girl, Kimani. In her I see everythin’ my ass wants to be. I want the way she feels about me to be different than the way I feel about Diane. So I will never smoke weed with her. I stopped cussin’ at her little ass like she ain’t shit but a stray dog. I stopped droppin’ her off with anybody willin’ to babysit. I stopped her from callin’ me by my first name (that was Moët’s idea).

  I ain’t tryin’ to say I’m Mother of the year or some shit but I’m tryin.’

  As she hugs my leg like I’m a fuckin’ mix of Barney, Elmo, and Dora the Explorer I feel so much love for her. She looks just like me: slim, trim, dark, and beautiful.

  “You ready to go?”

  “Yup,” she says.

  I finish up cleanin’ the area where I assist the afterschool teacher for the first graders. This shit is a long way from my days as Juicy up on the pole at Club XXXCite. Makin’ mad loot for shakin’ a little ass or workin’ my ass off for damn near minimum wage? Being able to afford the best designer labels or having to learn to appreciate the value of Wal-Mart and stores like NY & Co and Gap? It used to be nothin’ for me to drop two grand on a pair of shoes. Yes, I was livin’ in the projects at that time but I str
utted through that motherfucker dressed like I owned it. Oh, I miss that motherfuckin’ money, don’t get it twisted. But bein’ on that stage was just a part of me tryin’ to prove to myself that I was special. Pretty. Needed. All the shit Diane took from me with her hateful ass words.

  As soon as Kimani and me step out the buildin’ on Broad Street I rush her to my car—my same red Lexus that is kickin’ my ass with the car and insurance payments. Just that small walk from the front door to my car door feels like I leavin’ my damn self open to turn the corner and buy a bag of dope to sniff the fuck up.

  Dope used to be my friend when I turned my back on my real friends.

  My morals. My conscience. My life. My everythin’. All of it caught up in a bag of dope.

  I drive until I’m in an area I don’t know like the back of my hand. Where the drug dealers are hidin’ in their houses to sling that shit and not on the street corners and in front of stores . . . waitin’ for me. Out of sight. Out of mind. That’s how I felt. Shit.

  “Mama, where my daddy?” Kimani asks out the straight blue.

  I damn near swerve into a car in the opposite lane. “Huh?”

  “My friend Hiasha said her daddy was pickin’ her up from school and I told her I didn’t have a daddy and she asked me where he was and I said I don’t know.”

  Shit, I don’t fuckin’ know either. But what do I say? Your daddy hauled ass as soon as I told that no good son-of-a-bitch I was pregnant. Last I heard he was livin’ with some bitch in Hill Manor. He is a fuckin’ drop shot just like my daddy, sperm donor, nut giver, man who gave my mother a wet ass . . . what the fuck ever.