Captain Save a Hoe

by iiKane

  Skye rolled her eyes but kept her game face on. Niia pretended that she didn’t hear it, but the subtle blush in her cheeks made a mockery of her mask.

  “Niia! It’s nice to meet you,” Skye gushed, appropriate smile glued in place.

  “Skye, it is an honor. I love your music; you have such a pretty voice,” Niia replied, her accent like global gumbo—a little French and British English with an African inflection.

  Air kisses and half hugs were exchanged. Seeing that Skye wasn’t going to introduce him, Georgie stepped forward and said, “I’m Giorgio,” taking her hand.

  He started to kiss it, but there was no telling what Skye would do, so he simply shook it softly, raking his index finger across the palm as he withdrew.

  “And I’m Alphonse.”

  Georgie turned his head, and for the first time noticed the man beside Niia. He was a good two inches taller than Georgie, broad shoulders and looked like an African Denzel Washington.

  “I’m Niia’s fiancé,” he added, with a cocked half-smirk that said, Yeah.

  Georgie gave him a subtle up and down then accepted his extended hand.

  “Yeah, yeah, congratulations.”

  Skye shook his hand next.

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “And you Mademoiselle,” Alphonse charmed, then spat something in French as he kissed Skye’s hand, making her giggle.

  “Let’s get a table,” Georgie said, a bit sharply, feeling a way about not being the smoothest dude in the room.

  The maître d’ showed them to their table. Orders were made and small talk ensued between Skye and Niia.

  “Have you read the book?” Niia asked, as the orders were being brought out.

  “I’m reading it again now. I really like it,” Skye replied.

  “Yeah, it is good, but I may be a little biased because I’m from Philly,” Georgie chimed in, then glanced at Alphonse. “You ever been to Philly?”

  Alphonse looked confused.

  “Philly? I have never heard of it. I’ve been to many countries, but not Philly,” Alphonse replied, as if he were already bored with talking before he finished his sentenced.

  Georgie bit back his irritation, feeling like Alphonse had gotten in a subtle dig. Alphonse said something to Niia in French. She replied, then averted her eyes from Georgie, focusing her attention on Skye.

  “So Skye, are you from Philly, too?” Niia questioned.

  Skye laughed lightly.

  “No, I’m from here. California. Oakland, to be exact. I haven’t been home in a long time. When I was 16, I ran away from home, stole a car and drove to New York.” She explained, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Mon Dieu, you did? I could’ve never done that,” Niia said, shaking her head.

  “What? Stolen a car?” Skye asked.

  “No. Ran away.”

  To Georgie, Niia seemed as beautiful—and as fragile—as a rose with its thorns stripped away. Her every move had feminine grace that bordered on timidity, a timidity that told Georgie something wasn’t right.

  Skye sipped her wine.

  “Actually, I was running to something: my music. I knew if I was ever going to make it, it would be in New York.”

  “Oui, I love the music, too. American music, especially. Prince, Michael Jackson, Nina Simone, Gwen Guthrie.”

  Georgie stopped, mid bite of mignon and said, “Gwen Guthrie. What you know about Gwen Guthrie?”

  Niia’s demeanor lit up.

  “She’s the best. I love…” She caught herself, shot a quick glance at a tense-eyed Alphonse, and just like that her cage shut, and she concluded, “umm, yes, she’s really good.”

  Skye and Georgie exchanged a quick, knowing glance. Skye’s held pity, whereas Georgie’s held annoyance, but he forced a smile.

  “Yeah, yeah, ‘Padlock’ was the joint, right? Lock it up,” he sang with a thought—as if it hadn’t already been there—then said, “You know…a friend of mine is half owner in a dance club not too far from here. Let’s go!” he suggested effused, then looked at Alphonse. “What about it; you wanna dance, bruh?”

  Alphonse didn’t have to be from Philly to understand the subtle invitation.

  “I – uh – don’t think…” he started to grumble, but Georgie cut him off.

  He turned to Skye.

  “What up, baby? We’re suppose to be getting acquainted; let’s go to ‘Vette’s spot.”

  Skye’s look said, I told you… but Georgie, dimpled her.

  “Come on, Ma! You don’t wanna go? Okay, we’ll dance right here. Waiter! Bring my banjo!” he said, loud enough to garner a few disapproving stares from proximate patrons.

  Skye stifled her laugh.

  “Georgie,” she whispered feverishly.

  He nuzzled her neck, making her giggle.

  “Stop.”

  “Then dance with me,” he charmed.

  “One dance, Georgie,” Skye conceded.

  “One dance,” he echoed, with a mischievous grin, but truthfully thinking—he wasn’t picturing Skye as his partner.

  Seeing his silly behavior and playful banter, Niia couldn’t help but smile and snicker. Alphonse fumed.

  And then it happened in a blink. Skye had looked at her watch. Only Georgie saw it.

  “Waiter,” Alphonse growled and threw up his hand—the one closest to Niia—in a gesture to get the waiter’s attention.

  There was nothing menacing about the motion, it had been occurring in restaurants since restaurants had bills, but the movement was quick…sudden…sharp…and Niia flinched.

  It was subtle, yet so engrained as to be reflexive, with the strange significance of déjà vu.

  That flinch became a flame in Georgie‘s veins with the whoosh of total consumption, as their eyes met, or rather flickered, long enough for her to register his reaction and him to see her lower her eyes in shame.

  Pop!

  Went the starter pistol in Georgie’s mind—in his ears, he could hear his own breath—and his blood shot out of the blocks like a bullet aimed straight at Alphonse’s ass.

  Georgie downed his drink.

  “Let’s go.”

  The name of the club was Xandu and was co-owned by Yvette. Since coming to L.A., she had looked nowhere but up. Her boutique began to thrive, but quickly became a trend. Celebrity after celebrity came for her designs, including Skye, courtesy of Georgie’s introduction.

  As soon as they entered, Georgie spotted Yvette speaking to a famous choreographer. From the back, in her rainbow spandex cat suit, Yvette’s feminine figure was totally convincing.

  Georgie snuck up behind her and hummed into her ear, “Have I told you lately how good L.A. looks on you, and if I ever lose my mind, you’ll be the one to help me find it?”

  Yvette looked nonchalantly over her shoulder, and replied, “Hmph! Not nearly enough,” then broke into a fit of laughter, turning to give Georgie then Skye a hug. “What’s up Georgie, with your crazy self! Skye, hello Miss Gorgeous! I hate you!”

  Skye laughed.

  “How you doing, Yvette?”

  “’Vette, this is Niia Akimbe and uh—bruh, what’s your name again?” Georgie introduced.

  Alphonse sneered. “Alphonse.”

  Pleasantries were exchanged; drinks were offered then sent for.

  “’Vette, listen. Niia thinks she knows something about music. So I need you to tell the DJ what time it is. I need him to show her ass! Take me back to sweaty Philly basements, aight?” Georgie instructed her.

  “Oh, you want the Georgie?” Yvette replied, referring to the famous New York club that helped birth the house music scene.

  “Exactly.”

  “Done,” she confirmed, then sashayed away.

  Several minutes later, while Madonna’s “Vogue” was playing, Georgie heard the cascading opening baseline of “Love Thang” by First Choice, and grabbed Skye’s hand.

  “Come on Ma, let me show you how we do down Richard Allen!”r />
  Georgie took Skye to the dance floor and put her body to the test. However, in reality he was toying with Skye, doing an elaborate two step, but two steps nevertheless, being playful. He was like a tiger trying to hide his stripes to convince the gazelle that he is just a cat, because he knew she was watching. The DJ turned it up another notch, taking him through a “Love is the Message” mix that broke into “Break for Love” before da-da-daing into “Gypsy Woman.”

  “Georgie, my feet hurt,” Skye complained.

  He picked her up and wrapped her legs around his waist.

  “I gotta pee.”

  “Pee on me,” he snickered, freaking like they were fucking.

  Skye threw her head back, laughing.

  “Boy, put me down.”

  He did.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  By the time the crowd swallowed her departing back, he had already started over to Niia. She couldn’t look directly at him, but he could feel her eyes on him because—when he got close—she started to tremble slightly, like a tuning fork hitting true pitch.

  “Alphonse, with all due respect, you don’t mind if I dance with your fiancée do you? I mean, you ain’t gotta hold her that tight do you, bruh?” Georgie asked, adding the last part to challenge his manhood.

  Alphonse bit, his smile like a leer, then, “Not at all,” he replied in measured British tones. “Be my guest.”

  Georgie took Niia by the hand and led her to the dance floor.

  Before I let you in, there’s just one thing I want to say;

  There’s no need to pretend that this will end another way.

  Jocelyn Brown crooned the beginning of “I’m Caught Up” as they reached the spot.

  “Now listen ma, I don’t know how y’all do it over there, but you might want to get a seatbelt,” Georgie smirked.

  Niia eyed him demurely, but with a smoky gaze that said so much by saying less.

  “Believe me, I can keep up. Music is one of the universal languages.”

  “What are the others?”

  “Love and money,” she replied, and then…she began to move.

  When man first laid eyes on woman, and realized that she was a woman and not a rib, she was dancing because the taste of apple made her hips sway.

  When Julius Caesar met Cleopatra, she had slithered out of a basket with the sensual sway of a snake, hypnotized him, and he ended up dead on the Senate stairs. And when the ancestors of Africa wanted rain, they relied on the pulse of the drum, the gyrations, grinds and sensual suggestion of the dance that is the Black woman to make God himself fall to his knees and soak the earth with tears of joy.

  That’s how Georgie felt. But Georgie was nothing if not a competitor, who was more than equal to the task. He came out of his suit jacket and let it fall to the floor.

  Umm-umm, yeah, yeah, umm-umm, yeah, yeah,

  Umm-umm, yeah, yeah, all I can say was.…

  “Nu-Nu” banged from the speakers, as Georgie pulled Niia close, grinding her, pelvis to pelvis, looking into her eyes for reaction.

  “He told you not to look at me, didn’t he?” Georgie questioned.

  She looked away, but not before giving the subtlest of nods.

  “Look at me now,” he growled.

  And she did, with a gaze as naked as the way he was picturing her body.

  And then Georgie began to freak her.

  Likethislikethislikethislikethislikethislikethis

  He ran his hands down the contour of her body as he Philly-rocked lower and lower until his face was pussy level. One by one, and without missing a beat, he freaked her out of her shoes, making her laugh at his ingenuity, but cream at the implications. By the time he rose up, he was behind her, riding that juicy ass like the world’s hardest jockey. The DJ threw on “French Kiss” by Lil Louis.

  “It’s not over for you yet ma, rock with me,” Georgie huffed, sweat pouring from his face and every fourth step screaming, “Double up!” 1.2.3.4 “Double up!” in order to get her in synch with his flex.

  When you’re as high as Georgie was, the record “French Kiss” sounds like a musical trance—wordless and brain numbingly repetitious—but that’s the point; don’t think, feel. The bassline feels like blood rushing through the veins, pulsating to a rhythm of its own, and the melody feels like you’re flying through a black hole, until you emerge on the other side…

  Like an orgasm.

  A woman begins to moan, purr, gasp and squeal to the rhythm of the track, like the sound itself is long-dicking her into a melodic ecstasy. And then the music begins to slow down, BPM by BPM. At first, you think it’s you, but it slows and slows and slooooooows…

  By the time that it had slowed to the tempo of a slow jam, Georgie had leaned Niia so far over, she had to wrap her legs around his thighs to keep from falling. And by the time the beat slowed to a crawl, and the woman’s moans echoed through the club acapella, Georgie had Niia lying down, pinned beneath him and looking into her eyes.

  Their chests heaved in unison, then as the beat began to speed back up, Niia—without smiling—said, “Okay…you win.”

  Georgie smirked and helped her to her feet. It was then that he noticed that half of the dance floor had stopped to look at them.

  Georgie picked up his jacket and Niia stepped into her shoes.

  “Thank you for the dance, Giorgio,” Niia remarked.

  He normally corrected people, but she said it with her luscious accent and damn near made it the only word he wanted to hear for the rest of his life.

  “Don’t thank me yet. Tomorrow, on the set, I’ma be the one doing your hair,” said the spider to the fly.

  Niia smiled.

  “We’ll see.”

  As they left the dance floor, Georgie looked around just in time to see Skye’s head getting smaller as she stormed out of the door.

  When she had come out of the bathroom, she returned to the booth about the time of “French Kiss,” so she had missed the foreplay, but she saw every moment of the climax.

  It was like they were making love without taking off their clothes.

  Skye froze. Bile rose in her throat that she had to swallow to keep down. Her stomach churned and she saw Georgie as he truly was and always would be. Untamable.

  By the time he had laid Niia on the floor, she had seen enough. She headed straight for the door, brushing past Yvette, who could do nothing but shake her head.

  Georgie Porgie.

  Alphonse sat in the booth, silently seething. A murderous rage gripped him, but it wasn’t aimed at Georgie, because at heart he was a coward. As soon as Georgie led Niia back to the booth, Alphonse jumped up and began berating her in French. Her timidity re-appeared, like Clark Kent after experiencing Superman, and Georgie got heated.

  “Yo, yo bruh, that was on me-–” Georgie emphasized, pressing his hand to his own chest. “You ain’t gotta holla at her like that.”

  “Do not tell me how to speak to my woman!” he huffed then turned to Niia, grabbed her arm and demanded that she come with him.

  He led her off and it took everything in Georgie not to go after them. But he respected the rule that is, whatever is between a man and a woman is between that man and that woman…for now.

  “Skye, Ma, open the door,” Georgie knocked on the hotel door.

  “Fuck no! Go knock on that French bongo bitch’s door!” she yelled form inside.

  “Ma, we were dancin’! It ain’t that serious!”

  No response. He knocked hard.

  “Georgie, go away!” she shouted, through clenched teeth.

  “Fuck!” he barked, giving the door a kick. He hated locked doors. He paced the floor in front of the door. Stopped. Thought. Shook it off.

  “Fuck that.”

  Paced again. Stopped. Looked around.

  “Fuck it!”

  He shot through the stairwell door, ascended the stairs, two at a time to the next floor up. He went to the door directly above his and knocked. It took a while bef
ore a man’s voice said, “Yes?”

  “Listen, I’m sorry to disturb you. But I need…” he began to dig in his pocket, pulled out his money clip and peeled off a hundred dollar bill, then held it up in front of the peephole, “just a minute of your time.”

  The lock clacked and retreated, then the door opened. In its place stood a tall, grey-haired White man in a robe, looking like all that he was missing was a pipe.

  “Yes?”

  Georgie put the hundred in his hand.

  “This is going to sound crazy, I know. But I need to use your balcony,” Georgie requested.

  “Balcony?”

  “I…uh…got locked out of my room and I can’t find my key,” Georgie lied.

  “So why don’t you just go down to the front desk?”

  Georgie peeled off three more hundreds and put the in the man’s hand.

  “Because I’m embarrassed. Can I use your balcony?” Georgie repeated.

  The man smiled slyly.

  “Girlfriend locked you out, huh? I heard her yelling from up here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sorry we disturbed you…again…”

  The man stepped aside.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “No, thank you,” the man chuckled, pocketing his take.

  “Who was it, Jerry?” a woman with a nasal voice called out from the bathroom.

  “Just some guy who wants to jump off our balcony.”

  “Okay.”

  Georgie reached the balcony and looked down. The L.A. streets squinted up at him from seventeen floors down. Jerry peeked over.

  “Sure you don’t want to go to the front desk?”

  “You gonna give me my four hundred back?”

  “Be careful.”

  Georgie stepped carefully over the cast iron railing then paused. He looked down. He should not have looked down.

  “Man, if I ain’t love this mother…” he grumbled as he slowly lowered himself, stretching his body toward the rail of his room’s balcony. If he had been three inches shorter, he would have been dangling ‘til this day. Once he got his footing, he carefully inched his hands down, splay palming the top of the balcony as he jumped to solid ground, breathed a sigh of relief as his asshole unclenched.

  Skye was lying in the bed, looking at MTV. He opened the sliding balcony door and stepped into the room.