Careful What You Click For

by Mary B. Morrison

  “Time is money, Henry,” Victoria said, escorting him to a guest bedroom. “The sooner you learn that, the richer you’ll become.”

  Easing atop the comforter, Victoria unsnapped the garment, spread her legs, and moaned, “Touch me.”

  Henry stood at the foot of her bed, stared at her pussy. Victoria locked eyes with him.

  “What?” she questioned.

  Her profile included a decade shaved off of her age, because she knew she didn’t look a day over forty-five. MamaKnowsBest was her username. Hobby: World Traveler. The site appealed to her because there were handsome young men under forty seeking assistance to either pay their tuition or pay off student loans. At this pace, Henry wasn’t getting a dime.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Sweetheart, if you’re going to get your bills paid you’re going to have to use your imagination.”

  “Okay. I don’t see any gray pubic hairs. I like them. I’ll start with your feet,” he said.

  Was the young man serious? He didn’t, and wouldn’t, see any graying on Victoria ever. She’d had permanent hair removal done at Beauty by Bowers years ago. It wasn’t that temporary laser treatment where hairs grow back after eight weeks. It was gone for good. But she gave the young man credit for appreciating an older woman’s assets.

  Pressing his thumbs into the arch, he massaged her foot in small, circular motions. “How’s that?”

  Thank You, Jesus. He should’ve rotated his fist in her arch, but what he was doing felt orgasmic. She had a good four hours before putting Henry out of her house and meeting up with Noel. Relaxing on her back, Victoria sighed as she pulled the lingerie over her head. A man who took his time was refreshing, but this guy was kind to a tortoise. Victoria didn’t get a background check from Jordan, but she’d learned over the phone that Henry was a four-year army veteran and a freshman in college. The longest he’d gone without seeing a woman was three consecutive months.

  Thanks to Jordan, Victoria had a new pleasure. “Go to the kitchen and get a cup of ice.” She stroked her pussy, thinking she might have to incorporate a few toys with Henry.

  “I’ve never done anything like this before,” he said, returning holding a glass of cubes.

  “Where are you really from?” she asked.

  Placing the glass on the nightstand, he scooped an ice cube into each palm. “Small-town Mississippi boy, ma’am.” His shaking hands slid from her ankles to her knees. He rubbed the ice up and down.

  If Henry only dialogued and caressed her with those big, strong hands, Victoria would make good on her promise to pay him $500. Was it Henry’s innocence that excited her to the point of climaxing without penetration? She reached toward the nightstand, picked a cube, then circled it atop her nipple. His eyes widened as he watched her go from soft to hard.

  Taking a deep breath, she admired the young man. Victoria moaned. He did, too.

  “I take it I’m doing a good job?” Henry asked.

  “Better than that,” she acknowledged.

  Nestling his hands in the arch of her thighs, he gently grazed her outer labia. “You mind if I use a cube here?”

  “Not at all,” she replied.

  “I’m enjoying you.” He helped himself to a melting cube, placed it in his mouth, then pressed his lips to hers. She redirected him to her vagina.

  She wasn’t sure if it was the excitement of the coachable young man, or the matcha green tea powder she’d started taking every morning, which had stopped her flashes, or the fact that she hadn’t been touched that delicately in years . . . But thank You, Jesus, she thought . . . then screamed, “Thank You, Jesus!” as she climaxed so intensely, her juices flooded his mouth.

  He yelled, “Shit!” wiping his face.

  “Great job, Henry. You just drew nectar from a woman’s well,” she told him. “That makes you a pussy pleaser.”

  Henry started grinning. “I’m a what?”

  “You heard me, Henry. Stay hungry,” Victoria said.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jordan

  Dickless by default, Jordan hadn’t felt sparks in any part of her vulva or a man’s penis in 469 days. With or without her friends’ support of online dating, it was time for her drought to end.

  At forty, she was percolating at her sexual prime, but the men in Atlanta—irrespective of their single status—most were not willing to make a commitment to a relationship, and definitely not to marriage. If she wanted to put her pussy back in action, she was the one who needed a major attitude adjustment.

  “Yes, Mr. Ealy. Your hearing is set two weeks from today. We need to Skype next week. I’ll have Tia contact you to arrange a time.” Jordan powered off her laptop, stored it in her tote.

  “I can’t go to jail for killing my father. He deserved it. He came to my house inebriated and belligerent, demanding money. What had he ever done for me? I’ll tell you,” he cried, then answered his own question. “Beat my and my mother’s ass every time he showed up at my mother’s house drunk, looking for what? Money from my mother!” Mr. Ealy shouted. “I’m grown now, and I don’t owe him a motherfucking thing! If this was Florida, I would’ve been standing my ground!”

  Mr. Ealy was emotional and he was right. But Georgia wasn’t Florida. His father was trespassing, but his dad was unarmed. Jordan had to prove Mr. Ealy’s father was a threat. Calmly Jordan advised him, “We just learned who the solicitor on your case is. I’m going to speak with her in the morning.”

  “I don’t want a plea deal or probation. I want my case thrown out,” he cried.

  The strongest men became infantile when they realized they could be sentenced to years in the state penitentiary. The upside for her client was he owned a billion-dollar corporation that invested millions into Georgia’s economy. His downside, he was a seventy-year-old black man who’d killed a ninety-year-old black man. Since it was a black-on-black crime, the color wouldn’t matter as much to a jury. It was his father’s age that would be the biggest challenge. Her client’s trump card was his case was in Fulton County, where Jordan’s firm had key connections.

  Jordan glanced at her wristwatch. If she was going to be on time for her date, she had to get Mr. Ealy off the phone. “We’re entering a plea of not guilty. Your corporation feeds a lot of homeless people in Georgia. The court of public opinion supports you, but we cannot make it seem as though we’re trying to influence the judge or the solicitor. The solicitor is numbers-driven and she’s seeking to keep her reputation of lowest cases lost.”

  “Zero?” he asked.

  “No. But don’t worry. We got you. Go play golf. Take it out on your balls.” Jordan laughed.

  Mr. Ealy did, too. “That’s why you’re worth every cent. I’m heading to the country club. Talk with you in the morning.”

  Ending the call feeling good, Jordan secured her office; then she told her assistant, Tia, “I’m leaving early today. With the exception of the Wilson Ealy case, take messages. I’ll return all other calls tomorrow.”

  “Will do, Ms. Jackson. Have a good rest of your day,” Tia said politely.

  * * *

  Exhausted from giving her love and trust to a prestigious guy that would say whatever he thought was clever to maintain her interest, Jordan’s last “situationship” with Donovan Bradley left her in emotional turmoil for nine months (long enough to have given birth to a child).

  Suggesting that the group online date was more because she did not want to be the only one talking about her encounters. Jordan’s first date on CelibateNoMore was requested ten minutes after creating her profile. Twenty minutes into her membership, her in-box was flooded with opportunities. She’d narrowed it down to three entrepreneurs. It was easier for her to conduct background checks on established men than those who were trying to chase a dream. After she learned their net worth, Terrence Russell outranked the other two.

  No intentions of deviating from her standing hair appointment with Dwayne Xavier, Jordan gave herself an extra hour to deal with traffic from
downtown to his salon inside Perimeter Mall.

  Parking near Dillard’s, she entered the store, bypassed the shoe department, exited into the mall, then walked, instead of taking the elevator, to the second floor.

  “Hey, my gorgeous Nubian Queen of Lady in Red! How are you doing, darling?” Dwayne asked in his normal jovial voice. “Over-the-top” was an understatement for Dwayne’s upbeat personality and his designer taste in fashion.

  “Perfect. But I don’t need to ask, I can see you are fabulous as always,” she told him, then strolled to the shampoo room in the rear.

  “I need you to blow this hair all the way out. Make these curls super-triple-X silky straight to every strand.” Jordan snapped her fingers in Dwayne’s face.

  Terrence had a lot of ones: kid, ex-wife, home, S-Corp, car, yacht, and a misdemeanor. A black man under forty without an arrest record was an anomaly. Prejudgment free, Jordan opted to get to know the new guy face-to-face at Bar Purgatory. If things didn’t work out, she could stay and talk with Levi. Jordan planned on looking into Terrence’s eyes and observing his body language to determine if he was truthful or a liar, like Donovan.

  Placing his hand on his hip, Dwayne swayed his pointing finger at Jordan. “Bitch, don’t tell me the well is about to get wet.” He snapped the black plastic in front of Jordan as though he were a matador. “Let me see his picture.” He flapped the cape once more before covering her body from the neck to her knees.

  Glancing at her watch, Jordan told Dwayne, “I don’t want to be late. Blow and flat iron it.”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Attorney. A real man will wait, and you need to make an entrance. When I’m done, go downstairs to the MAC store and let ’em beat your face. You have to slay, bitch.” Dwayne spun. Stopped. “Loose curls pent up, with a few dangling. Okay?”

  “That’s old-fashioned,” Jordan countered.

  “Men love it!” he said. “I’m not trying to have you looking like a reality-television star. Men know when they see a real woman. And you, Ms. Jackson, ain’t no joke.”

  “Okay, all right,” Jordan conceded, leaning her head back. Closing her eyes, she melted at the sensation of Dwayne’s fingertips massaging her scalp. If only Terrence could make her feel as good tonight.

  Jordan entered Bar Purgatory. Glanced around.

  “Oh, shit. Levi, you’re overpouring my drink,” a customer at the bar said, scooting her stool back.

  “Sorry, babe.” He noticed nothing had spilled on her clothing, but she was a great tipper and a regular. “Your tab is on me. I got you,” Levi said, wiping the counter as he stared at Jordan.

  “The lady is in all red and bouncing curls, too. Hurt him. Hell, hurt me, Ms. Jackson. Let me knock the dust off that pussy.” He laughed. “Seriously, you look incredible,” Levi said, wiping off the countertop with a dry cloth. “Your gentleman friend Terrence awaits. He’s at your reserved table, number twelve.”

  No need to inquire how Levi knew Terrence’s name. Not many people slipped through the door of his place of employment and remained unknown.

  “Thanks,” Jordan answered.

  Having been a waitress during the summer between high school and college at Hampton University, Jordan was familiar with the layout and table numbering of the restaurant side of the bar. Heading toward the table in the corner with a view of the entire room, she noticed her date stood immediately, then pulled out her chair.

  Crossing one stiletto over the other, Jordan stepped slowly in her fitted dress as she swayed her hips.

  “Wow! Your photos do not do you justice. You are breathtaking,” Terrence acknowledged, standing approximately two-inches below six feet.

  Scanning him face-to-feet-to-face, Jordan replied, “Thanks.” With her five-inch heels on, she was kissing height with the cleanest-shaved gentleman, who was dressed in a navy suit with lime green pinstripes and a tie that matched her attire.

  This time her approach would be different. Jordan would start off letting Terrence Russell salivate over her. If his enthusiasm for her should fade after date one, two, or three . . . that was fine. Jordan wasn’t emotionally investing in another man. At least not first.

  “You were definitely worth the wait.” Terrence eased the chair under her before sitting to her left. “What do you prefer? A bottle of champagne or wine. Order whatever you’d like,” he said, handing her the cocktail list.

  His paying the bill was understood, as Jordan never touched her purse or went on a date where she suspected the man wouldn’t pick up the tab. Removing her cell from her tote, she placed it in front of her.

  Approaching them, Levi stood with his hands behind his back, then asked in a deep voice, “A bottle from your private locker, Ms. Jackson?”

  “Hmm,” Terrence commented.

  Shaking her head, Jordan replied, “I’ll let my date decide,” wanting to poke Levi in the stomach for his being silly. Bar Purgatory didn’t have private cellars. Capital Grille did.

  Terrence ordered a bottle of champagne and the seafood trio.

  “Are you married? Cohabiting? Attached? Engaged? Or in any form of situationship with a male or female?” Jordan asked her date.

  Terrence smiled. She raised her brows.

  “I can’t blame you for being direct. I like that,” he confessed. “I’m very single. Have been celibate for over six months. I meditate and pray daily. I’m more spiritual than religious. I believe in God. And I’m hoping to meet a woman that is ready to be romanced without nuisance. We’re the same age, let’s explore if we want the same things. I want your mind and your heart’s undivided attention. Are you intimately or physically involved?”

  “I am—”

  An incoming text interrupted Jordan’s response. Levi returned with the champagne. A waiter placed the dish of calamari, crab cakes, and seared scallops in the center of the table, along with two setups and small plates.

  Jordan read, Baby, I need you!, then angled her cell where Levi could see the message. She placed it on the white tablecloth. She scanned the room. Perhaps her ex was dining at the restaurant also and being an inconsiderate, jealous asshole.

  “Pardon that.” Jordan silenced her phone, then explained. “I have to make myself available for a top client my company is representing. That’s the only call I must take. Back to your question. I am—”

  Her screen lit up. Same person, who didn’t seem to be in the restaurant, texted the same message. Levi shook his head, placed the champagne in the ice bucket before walking away. Staring at her screen, Jordan pressed the lock button. Reaching for her flute, her ex’s face appeared with an incoming call this time. Jordan ignored his FaceTime attempt to contact her.

  Exhaling, Terrence commented, “You’re what?”

  “Single and interested in getting to know you better. Cheers,” she said, holding up her glass, then asked what she already knew. “Where do you live?”

  Again. Her ex Donovan Bradley’s face appeared. Again, attempting to FaceTime her.

  “Why don’t you take a moment to respond, to minimize our interruptions,” Terrence suggested.

  She hadn’t heard from Donovan in over fifteen months. What could be so pressing that he relentlessly reached out? Answering the call, she placed it on speaker as she had nothing to hide from the man she wanted to know . . . and potentially have sex with. Tonight.

  “What do you want, Donovan?” Jordan asked with annoyance, then mentioned, “I’m on a date.”

  “Baby, I need you,” Donovan said, sounding desperate.

  “Call me tomorrow. I said I’m on a—”

  Donovan cried, “Turn on the news, baby. Our son, DJ, was just shot and killed by a police officer. Jordan. Please,” he pleaded, “fuck that date. Your man needs you now, baby.”

  Why in the hell had she placed the call on speaker? Now other diners redirected their attention toward her. Donovan knew she wasn’t the mother of his child, nor was he her man. She told Donovan, “Give me a minute. I’ll call you back.”

  Shakin
g her head, Jordan said, “Listen, Terrence. I apologize. Donovan is my ex.”

  “And the kid? He’s an ex, too?” Terrence asked.

  She Googled “Donovan Bradley Jr.” and the headline read: POLICE OFFICER ALLEGEDLY SHOT AND KILLED TEENAGER FOR REFUSING TO GET OUT OF A SUSPECTED STOLEN VEHICLE.

  Jordan cried. “I used to call him my son when I dated his father. But he’s not my biological.”

  Being an attorney was tough. Jordan was desensitized toward almost every professional and personal situation, including Wilson Ealy’s. Business. Every legal situation was business. But not DJ. She loved him so much, it hurt both of them when Donovan Sr. insisted she stopped communicating with his son.

  DJ was smart, thoughtful, loving, and kind.

  Tears streamed down her once-perfect makeup, splattering onto the lap of her red dress.

  Levi approached the table. Placed his hand on her back. “I just saw on the flat screen. Get up. Dinner is on the house, Terrence. I’m taking Jordan home, man.”

  “What about the bar?” Jordan asked as she stood.

  “Fuck the bar. I can serve drinks anywhere. Our friendship is worth more than this job to me,” Levi said. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Chancelor

  “I have one question for you, Tracy. Why? Why? Why?” Chancelor sat in his car and yelled at the call box at her home. Before Chancelor could mentally move forward, he demanded closure.

  He got out of his car, left the engine running, took ten steps to the black-and-gold-painted wrought-iron gate. Grabbing the bars, he shook it hard, then yelled, “Why?! Tracy!”

  “Why what, Chancelor? I can hear you from my living room.” Her voice resonated from the box that was behind him.

  Hurrying back to respond, Chancelor commanded, “Let me in. We need to talk.”

  She’d broken his heart and it was her responsibility to mend it. He’d given her his all. Now she was approaching him like he was shit on the bottom of her shoes that he’d paid for. Prancing toward him, she posed inside of the fence. Tracy placed her hand on her hip. Her eyeballs scrolled right to left, along with her neck.