“Use what?” Tracy whispered into the phone. “Tell him to talk up, I can’t hear him.”
He was pressed so close to the crack of the door that I didn’t know what to say right away, so I said, “Tracy, let me call you back.” I hung up before she could start complaining.
“I promise not to rob you if you open the door a little more.” He smiled and his dimples started glowing. Shit! The heart in my coochie was awake. I opened the door and he stepped inside. He looked around at my red leather living room set; my mud cloth print area rug with matching pillows; wicker trunk, brass floor lamp; and large cherrywood Ethan Allen entertainment center; with a 36-inch TV, books, and fifty-disc CD changer.
Grover Washington Jr. was playing lightly in the background and Devin started moving his head a little. “Grover Washington?” he asked, pointing to the CD player.
“Yes.” I was still standing by the door.
He took off his butter-soft brown leather jacket and placed it on the arm of my couch. He had on a gray hoody, the same sweatpants he had on earlier, and a pair of beige Tims. “It smells good in here. What are you cooking?”
“Chicken stir-fry with Chinese vegetables. . . . Devin.”
“Yes, baby.”
Baby? Please don’t let me start blushing. Damn, it’s too late. I folded my arms across my breasts and sat on the arm of my couch, next to his jacket. I could smell his Dolce & Gabbana cologne. “What . . . are you doing here?”
“I came to return your camera.” He was still looking around my living room.
“What are you looking for?” I asked him.
“Your man.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Not yet anyway.”
Before I could comment or erase the stupid smile off my face my phone started ringing. “Hello?”
“Damnit, India!” Joan yelled. “Where the hell is my camera?”
“What do you mean?”
“Tracy told me that she told you I needed my camera. I would’ve caught this dirty dick ma’fucker today, if I had my camera.”
“What was the camera going to do?” As soon as I said that, Devin looked directly in my eyes and smirked. He must’ve known that I was talking to his mother because he took his hand and waved it under his chin, as a sign for me not to mention him.
“India, are you listening to me?” Joan grumbled.
“Yes.”
“Well then, Devin Senior is the type of man that I have to tap on the shoulder, breathe in his face, and say, ‘You know I see yo’ ass!’ And the camera would’ve allowed me to take pictures of him, shoot some video of the girl, and play it all out for him tomorrow night at dinner. I would’ve cooked his favorite meal and all the while have his shit packed. Hold on, India . . . D.J.! D.J!” she said away from the phone. “Where is this boy at? I need me some cigarettes. You know he asked me about you the other day.”
“Really?”
Devin walked over and stood directly in front of me. Don’t ask me why but I opened my legs, so he could stand between them . . . and he did.
“Remember the night you and Tracy stopped by for martinis?” Joan continued. She must’ve found a cigarette, because I could hear her taking a pull.
“Yeah.”
“Well”—she paused and blew out the smoke—”apparently D.J. saw you when you were leaving and thought you looked pretty good. He had the nerve to ask me were you single.”
“Really?” My eyes lit up. “And what did you say?”
“I told him that you were too goddamn old for his ass, so not to even go there. I had enough problems with his daddy and the neighborhood skeezers, I didn’t need any with him.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Girl, I didn’t exactly mean you were a neighborhood skeezer. I was just making a point.”
Devin bent down and whispered into my neck, “Tell her you’ll call her back.” The tip of his broad nose felt warm and his breath felt as if it were heating up the chocolate in my skin. I wanted to tell him to stop it, but all I could do was open my legs wider. Truth be told, I really wanted to throw one leg over his shoulder. “Look, Joan, my food is burning. I’ll call you back.”
“Wait a minute, India. Did you go to the grocery store?”
“For what?”
“It’s supposed to be a snowstorm. You better go to the store and hurry back home. Girl, let me call and find D.J. and tell him to get his butt in here.”
“All right, Joan. I’ll talk to you later.” I placed the cordless phone back on the base and pushed Devin slightly, enough so that he would no longer be standing between my legs. In order to fight my desire to reopen them, I crossed my ankles. Before I could tell him how he needed to leave, his cell phone rang. “It’s my mother. One minute.” He said, “Yeah, Ma.” He was still looking in my eyes.
I could hear her yelling in his phone. “Why are you yelling?” he asked her. “Ma, don’t worry about me. Didn’t we have this talk about me being okay when I go out and for you to stop worrying? If I need you I’ll call you. . . . I love you, Ma.” I could hear her still fussing as he hung up.
“Look, Devin, this is cute,” I said, standing up and walking back toward the front door. “But you and I both know that this is a bit much. You’re way too young for me. Not to mention you’re my girlfriend’s son.”
“I’m your friend’s son, that part is true. That just means you’ll get along with your mother-in-law.” He chuckled. “But who said that I was too young for you? I like you. Hell, you’re fly as hell and I wanna get to know you. For real.”
“But, Devin, I just don’t know about this.”
He walked over to me and stood so close that I started backing up and hit my head against the door. He placed his hands above my head. “You really want me to leave? Or do you want me to stay and get snowed in with you?”
“Boy, please.”
“I already told you to stop calling me a boy.”
I took a deep breath and shook my head no. This could not be happening. “You don’t even know me like that and vice versa.”
“What better way to get to know each other?” He took one of his hands and started massaging my cheek.
Damn, I can’t stand that the flesh is weak. Good Lord, I feel cheap. “Your mother will call you all night long,” I said.
“I know how to take care of my mother. Now I need to know how to take care of you.”
Why did that comment make me think about the size of his dick? “You can stay and we’ll talk. But I will not be having sex with you.” Dear coochie, please don’t make me out to be a liar.
“Who said anything about sex?” He smiled. “When the time comes for me to hit it, it’ll be after you beg me to.”
“Please, I think not.”
“You will.” He moved his head toward me for a kiss. I turned my face to the side and his lips landed on my right cheek. He kissed me from my cheek down to my neck. I know he felt my nipples get hard.
“I’ll make a bet with you,” he said, looking up at me. “If you don’t want to be bothered, after tonight, I’ll leave and won’t come back. But if you do, and you will, then you give me a chance and no more slick shit about our age difference.”
I didn’t agree one way or the other. I mushed him in the head and ducked beneath his arm. He turned around and pressed his back against the door. “If I tell you something, I want you to take it the right way, okay?”
“What?” I threw over my shoulder, heading toward the kitchen.
“You got a fat ass.” He laughed. “That’s the first thing I noticed.”
“So you like me for my ass?”
“I like you. I’m just happy your fat ass is a part of you.”
“Uhmm hmm.”
* * *
“So have you always tried to hit on old women?” I laughed, wanting desperately to take my fork, stick it in his plate, and begin to feed him. This is a hot-ass mess, that I’ve resorted to children. I took a piece of chicken from my own plate and
stuck it in my mouth.
Devin had a serious look on his face. The corners of his lips curled up, causing his smooth mustache and shadow beard to wrinkle. “You have an issue with being thirty-six, don’t you?”
“No, I have an issue with you being twenty-three.”
“I don’t think so.” He smirked.
Despite me having a fork in my hand, he pushed my plate from in front of me. Pushing his plate to the side, he grabbed my hand and said, “I think the issue lies with you. Now check it. Either we converse about you and me, without continuously talking about our age difference, or I go home. Snow and all.”
“That’s on you.” I snatched back my hand and rolled my eyes. If he thinks I’m sweating his ass he’s got another thing coming.
“Call me when you get your attitude in order,” he snapped. He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.
“Uhmm hmm. Bye.” I waved my hand. “See ya.” I gave him a salute. Damn I need a cigarette.
He walked in the living room, grabbed his coat, and opened the door. I stood in the kitchen doorway. From what I could see, it was at least two inches of snow on the ground. “So you’re leaving here in all that snow?” I asked.
“Don’t be concerned about me and the snow. I’m good.”
“Take care then.”
He slammed the door behind him.
* * *
I decided that the Rocky Road ice cream, with the extra nuts, should help melt the foot in my mouth. . . . I’ma go outside and see if he’s still here. . . . No, I can’t do that . . . I’ll look desperate. He’s too young for me anyway. He needs to be dating my oldest niece and not me. I took my spoon and dug into the gallon of ice cream. I walked back into the living room and sat down on the couch. As I stuffed the spoon in my mouth, there was a knock on the door. I practically broke a fuckin’ kneecap sliding across the floor. Before I turned the knob, I made sure my clothes were nice and neat. I took a deep breath and cracked the door open.
“Hey, Indian.” Mr. Marcus, my next-door neighbor, smiled, with the gold caps in the front of his mouth shining. I felt like pimp slapping the shit out of him. How many times do I have to tell him my damn name is not Indian? I hope he’s not coming to borrow any sugar, because I’ma tell him no.
“Ya got any sugar?” he asked, rocking from side to side.
“It’s India, Mr. Marcus. I’m fine, and no I don’t have any sugar.”
“Ya wouldn’t lie to an old man, now would you, Indian?”
“In-di-a, Mr. Marcus . . .” I took a deep breath. “Just come in and let me check.”
He closed the door and followed me into the kitchen. I could feel his beady eyes checking out my ass. When I turned around to quickly confirm my suspicion, he winked his eye, clicked his tongue, and made a gun motion with his hand. “Anytime, anyplace,” he mumbled.
“What did you say, Mr. Marcus?”
“Nothin’,” he said, squinting his eyes. “Nothin’.”
I took some sugar out of my Annie Lee canister and poured it into a Rubbermaid cup. “You can return the cup tomorrow.”
“What you cookin’?” he asked, taking the cup but looking toward the stove.
“I’m not cooking,” I snapped. I wish he would get his bald-headed, suspender-wearin’ ass outta here! I would like to get my misery on in peace!
“You got a lil’ attitude, Indian? I mean if you want me to leave”—he frowned, while pulling at his suspenders—”tell me to bust a move. I’ma grown ass man, dawg. Ain’t no need in you being all nasty and er’thang. Gon’ tell me you ain’t cookin’, and I see the food sittin’ right there.” He pointed to the stove.
Should I tell him now or later that I fight old people?
“Ain’t no need,” he continued, “in lyin,’ ya heard? It ain’t like I’m starving. It’s just that ever since my wife died I ain’t had no home-cooked meal. Usually I eat food right out the can, go to the soup kitchen or the food banks. It’s all good though.” He turned to leave.
“Mr. Marcus . . . ,” I sighed. “Have a seat.”
He turned back around smiling and sat down at the kitchen table. I started fixing him a plate. “Indian, you got a cigarette?” he asked. I really wanted to smack him upside the head. I reached in my purse and handed him a cigarette. Before he could ask, I handed him a lighter. He tucked the cigarette behind his ear and the lighter in his pocket. Then he started eating. He pointed to his plate. “Next time cook some collard greens.” He frowned. “This taste like it got MSG in it. This the type shit that give ya the runs. By the way, I could use a lil’ somethin’ to drink.”
The runs? Oh no he didn’t! “Juice or water?!” I snapped.
“You got soda?”
“Juice or water!” I snarled, giving him the evil eye.
“Whooo, look at you. You a pretty lil’ mean thing. I’ll take ice-cold water. You know, I’m having a private New Year’s party over at my spot. We could rent some smoke machines, dim the lights, and get two thousand and six started off right!”
“Have you lost your mind?! I wish I would rent some smoke machines with you.”
“I wish you would too.” He grinned, picking up a toothpick and sucking food from between his teeth.
“Mr. Marcus, please stop doing that. I can’t stand the noise.”
“Well, if I can have some water, I could wash it out.”
He’s a nasty ass, no wonder his wife died. I was careful not to bend over while I reached in the refrigerator for a bottle of springwater, I didn’t want him looking at my ass again. I slammed the water down in front of him and just as I did that my doorbell rang. I swear, I can’t be miserable for five fuckin’ minutes! Don’t these people know it’s a snowstorm? I didn’t even press the intercom, I simply walked into the living room and opened the door. It was Devin. My heart started skipping beats.
“I had a flat tire.” His deep voice was sounding like jazz to my ears. His hair and his jacket were sprinkled with snowflakes. I wanted to lick off the ones that were melting on his face.
“Really?” I smirked, fighting back a blush. “And you didn’t have a spare?”
“I did.”
“Well . . . why didn’t you change it?”
“I did.”
“Okay . . . and . . .”
“I didn’t like the way things ended between us, so I came back.” He hunched his shoulders slightly. “Problem with that?”
“Did I say there was a problem? And furthermore, I didn’t know there was an us.”
He tilted his head to the side. “India, cut it.”
I sucked my teeth. “Truce.” I opened the door wide enough for him to come in. He walked past me. As I turned around to close and lock the door, he slapped me on the ass. “Stop being so mean.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Damn, I want to fuck him.
“I hope my food is still on the table,” he said, taking off his jacket and handing it to me. “On the real, I’m hungry as hell.” He walked in the kitchen and before I hung up his jacket, I buried my nose in it. It smelt so good.
As I started walking, I heard Mr. Marcus say, “Yeah, she gotta lil’ thang for me.”
I hurried my ass in the kitchen. Devin was leaning against the center island, with his arms folded across his chest, looking at Mr. Marcus. Mr. Marcus was reared back in the kitchen chair, smoking the cigarette I gave him. “Your neighbor . . . Mr. Marcus, right?” Devin said.
“You right.” Mr. Marcus grinned, flicking ashes into the ashtray next to his plate.
“Well . . . he was just telling me,” Devin continued, sounding sarcastic, “how you cooked this big dinner for him.” Then he twisted his lips. Wait a minute . . . if I’m not mistaken, he has the nerve to have a smirk on his face. Is he jealous . . . of Mr. Marcus?
“I always cook for Mr. Marcus.” I smiled, winking my eye at Mr. Marcus, who I really could’ve choked.
Mr. Marcus laughed and crossed his legs. “Sho’ly do. She luvs Big Daddy!” He took a drag off his cigarette and b
egan swinging his foot. “Tell him about our private New Year’s party with the smoke machines.”
“Smoke machines?” Devin asked, taken aback. The vein in his neck was starting to stick out. He was really jealous . . . oh my God.
“I’m tellin’ you, Youngblood. Ain’t no party like a Marcus Robinson party!” Mr. Marcus started waving his cigarette from side to side. “Wave ya hands in the air and party like ya just don’t care.”
“Sounds like fun.” Devin looked at me and cut his eyes.
“It will be, won’t it, Indian?” Mr. Marcus looked at me and curled his lips.
“Indian?” Devin mumbled to himself.
Mr. Marcus looked back toward Devin. “Youngblood, if you gota lil’ honey then who knows, maybe we can get a lil’ swingin’ goin’ for the New Year and straight up set this ma’fucker off! I might be an old man, but I’m a freak to the core.”
“A freaky old man? Well, hell.” Devin chuckled. “You should be right up her alley.”
He’s jealous. Damn, I got his ass! “All right, Mr. Marcus,” I said, taking his plate from in front of him. “Would you like the rest of this to go?”
“To go?”
“Yes, I need to speak to Devin . . . alone.”
“Oh, it’s like that? Keep ya food. How you gon’ use me, abuse me, and throw me out in the night air, in a snowstorm at that?”
“Night air? Mr. Marcus, it’s just seven o’clock . . . and in a snowstorm? Hell, you live in the town house next door.”
“Ain’t no problem,” he grumbled, getting up. “ ’Cause Sandy Jones, in the town house over, cooks way better than you do anyhow!”
“Sandy Jones? Bye, Mr. Marcus.” I walked his ass to the front door and locked it behind him. I wanted to kick him in his back, but I didn’t wanna go to jail for fuckin’ up an old man.
“So that’s ya type, huh?” Devin said, as I walked back into the kitchen. He was still leaning against the center island.
“Why? Are you jealous?” I asked, trying not to smile.
“Me? Please, never that.”
“Yeah sure.” I walked over and stood in front of him. He held his arms out and I walked into his embrace. To hell with it, I couldn’t fight it anymore. I placed my head in the center of his chest, took in the sweet smell of his cologne, and exhaled. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing . . . but it feels so good.
Whatever It Takes Page 2
