Careful What You Click For

by Mary B. Morrison

  Showering in his new suite, he dressed, then splashed on cologne. The upside of his having sexed a man was there was no trace—lipstick, perfume, or hair.

  En route to his house in Columbia, he texted the entry code to Lilly, then added, Get all of my things out of the Airbnb now.

  And do what with them? Lilly replied.

  Kingston texted Trinity, I need a different Airbnb tomorrow.

  Keep them at your place until I get back, he answered Lilly.

  Entering the gate code to his property, Kingston instructed the driver, “Let me out in front of the steps.”

  Kingston pressed his thumb on the pad, stepped inside, then stood in the foyer. He prayed for the Lord to take away his urges to have sex with men, and for his wife not to shoot him. No need to text Theodore an apology. He wouldn’t get it.

  “Daddy, you’re back,” Nairobi said, then called out, “Daddy’s home!”

  Lifting Nairobi up, he held her close. “I’m here to stay . . . for a little while.”

  “You’re always here ‘for a little while,’ silly,” Israel said, then gave him a quick hug. “I’m going upstairs by Grandma.”

  “Wait for me,” Nairobi said, wiggling until Kingston put her down. She ran until she caught up with her big sister.

  Monet walked by him without speaking, exited the front door, got in the car with Bianca. Kingston supposed he deserved that.

  The one thing he knew for sure was Monet would be back and he’d be there waiting for her. Now was the perfect time to talk with Trinity. Calling out her name, he poured a glass of cold, fresh lemonade.

  He texted Victoria, I’m in Columbia. I’ll be back in Atlanta next Sunday.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Trinity said, joining him at the kitchen island.

  “I could say the same,” Kingston sarcastically replied. “When did you return??

  Moving closer to him, Trinity stated, “Enough, already. Obviously, you’re not here to stay. You don’t have your bags.”

  Kingston hunched both shoulders.

  “Then why are you requesting another Airbnb?” she questioned.

  Oh, yeah. That’s right. That has to be rhetorical, he thought. “Thanks for renting the first and the second Airbnb for me. I got myself into an uncomfortable situation.”

  Trinity helped herself to a glass, filled it with freshly squeezed orange juice. “What’s the verdict?” she asked, texting him his new reservation.

  Kingston sat on a barstool and looked at his mother-in-law; she had proven she’d do anything for him.

  Truth was: “The jury is still out.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Monet

  “Make love to me, Kingston. The way you used to,” Monet said.

  Craving his touch. The feel of his naked body against hers. Monet lay atop her husband and pressed her lips against his. If they were going to make their marriage work, one of them had to initiate an effort.

  Kingston’s long fingers gently glided along the crevice in her spine as he kissed her. “This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have left you here with the girls. I’m going to do better. I promise.” Rolling her onto her back, her husband spread her thighs.

  “It’s my fault, too,” Monet said as she looked into her husband’s eyes. She loved him so much that it hurt her to think about losing him. “I should’ve been more patient with you.”

  “Shhh.” Kingston eased his way to her sweetest spot. Parted her labia. Slowly he sucked her clitoral shaft in his mouth. His enormous lips traveled all the way up, then back down to her clitoris.

  Monet moaned. “I miss this. Go slow, baby.”

  Sliding back the hood of her clit, exposing her pearl, her husband patiently circled his tongue, then suctioned her shaft faster.

  Her body tensed due to how he was sucking. Monet felt her entire vulva becoming engorged. Her husband pressed his tongue at the opening of her vagina, swept upward, engaged her clit again, suctioning all the way up, again and again.

  Where had he learned that technique? It felt sooooo good, she had back-to-back small orgasms. Whatever woman Kingston was cheating with definitely had schooled him well.

  Kingston’s repetition picked up momentum.

  Monet thrust her hips upward. Held the back of his head. Clamped her thighs over his ears, then grunted with pleasure. It was hard for her not to scream; if she had, she’d have awakened the girls.

  “I want to feel all of you inside of me, baby.” Monet pushed the crown of her husband’s head, moving him away from her vagina.

  Kingston tightly squeezed her ass. He began devouring her as though he were determined to make her cum.

  Recalling the times when Kingston stroked deep inside her womb, and she could feel every inch of him, made her crave his dick, not his mouth. “Stop.” Monet scooted toward the headboard. “Let me get on top.” In case he’d be gone an additional four weeks. “I need you to beat this pussy all the way up,” she pleaded.

  Kingston froze. Stared at her. “This is all about your needs, not mine.”

  Shaking her head, Monet began to cry. She never had to beg her husband to fuck her. Kingston positioned himself on his back. Monet held his flaccid shaft in disbelief. She opened her mouth. Gripping him at the base, she passionately performed fellatio on her husband. The faster she sucked, the harder he became.

  Monet climbed atop her husband, guided his head to the opening of her vagina. As she was bouncing and grinding, his limp dick unexpectedly slipped out.

  “Shit.” Reaching behind her back, she tightened her fingers around his shaft, tried positioning him at her slippery opening.

  Kingston held her hips. “That’s it, baby. Ride your dick,” he said, forcing her down harder and harder until he said, “Cum with me.”

  Was he serious? Struggling to match his rhythm, she said, “Okay. Okay.” Her breathing was weighted with frustration.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  For what? Faking she was on the verge of climaxing, she said, “Yes. Yes. Yes.” More important than having an orgasm, Monet needed what only her husband could give her. Reassurance. “Baby, why did you leave us?” she asked, using her vaginal muscles to push out the head of his limp penis.

  “Baby, I apologize. When my career ended, a part of me died inside. My being away wasn’t your fault,” he said, embracing her.

  She placed her cheek on his chest. “I felt abandoned. Even with the girls and my mother here, at times,” she admitted. “For the first time since we were really young, I felt like you didn’t care . . . about me. About my feelings. You were cold-blooded, Kingston.”

  His hug became heavy. Seemed as though his concerns had evaporated.

  “Do you still love me?” Monet asked, looking up into her husband’s eyes.

  His hesitation spoke volume.

  “Of course, I do, baby. Didn’t you hear me say a part of me died. The one thing I was great at is gone for the rest of my life. I don’t know who I am anymore.” Tears escaped the corners of his eyes.

  She heard the sadness in his voice. It was different from when his team lost a game. “Are you blaming yourself for you guys losing the championship?”

  “Worse. No one calls to check on me. No ‘Kingston, how you doing, man? How’s the family?’ Nothing. I thought joining church would give clarity to who I am off the court.”

  Kingston rolled her onto her side, then got out of bed.

  “You are a loving, kind, caring husband and father,” Monet said.

  He entered the bathroom. Staring at the ceiling, she heard the shower. Kingston entered his walk-in closet, appeared fully dressed, holding a designer carry-on bag.

  “I know you’re not leaving,” Monet said.

  “I have to usher at church tomorrow. I’ll call you when I get to Atlanta.” Kingston left their bedroom and closed the door.

  Shaking her head, Monet was too confused and disgusted to cry.

  CHAPTER 24

  Chancelor

  “Let the church
say, ‘Amen.’ ” Pastor Baloney scurried back and forth behind the pulpit as though he were a moving target about to break out into a sanctified dance.

  Chancelor laughed, looking at Brother Melvin, who was sitting alone, until he heard a familiar voice shout, “Amen!”

  Tracy clapped her hands. From the side of the choir stand, Chancelor saw that Brother Melvin was seated on the pew behind the deacons, rocking side to side. A new guy was sitting on the last pew next to Tracy, following her lead. Leaning her shoulder into his, Tracy smiled, then stood. He jumped up, too.

  They need to sit their asses down!

  Fake whore. Lying bitch!

  That was the last $4,000 she’d get from him. For a total of seven grand, Chancelor owned Tracy, and he wasn’t going to stop pursuing her until he got what was rightfully his. There should be a way to have her arrested for scamming men. Obviously, she didn’t discriminate. This one was white. Dressed in a suit. Clean-shaved. Grinning from ear to ear.

  Chancelor stood next to Victoria with his eyes fixated on Tracy. Interrupting his plot to take Tracy down, Victoria nudged him, then motioned with a nod for him to step into the back.

  “How well do you know this Tracy Benjamin?” Victoria asked.

  “Not well enough to know if Benjamin is her real last name or some fake shit she came up with to fit her thieving personality,” Chancelor stated, then asked, “What’s up?”

  He was embarrassed to tell Victoria he’d CashApped Tracy more money than the first time.

  “She’s convinced Brother Copeland that she’s his daughter and now I can’t talk him off the ledge. He’s getting ready to put her on his trust. I’m going to stop her.” Victoria seemed more desperate than angry.

  Chancelor rubbed his palms together furiously enough to spark a fire. Shaking his head, he tightened his lips. “Let’s ask Jordan for legal help. Tracy needs to go to jail,” Chancelor said, happy to have Victoria join him on team “Get Tracy’s Ass Back.”

  “Okay. I got this. We have to go back inside.” Victoria entered first.

  Briskly walking to the altar to join Kingston and Jordan, the four of them faced the congregation. Why the fuck doesn’t Tracy sit on someone else’s side?

  Rolling his eyes at Brother Melvin, Chancelor should’ve apologized. Brother Melvin flashed a fake smile. Damn! Both of his front teeth were missing. Oh, well. That was Brother Melvin’s fault for fucking that ho Tracy. Had Melvin seen her pussy?

  Chancelor took the wicker basket from the woman on his end. Handing the collection plate to Peaches, the “give the Lord $5 and save the rest for wigs and weaves” member, he mumbled, “Next time throw in a couple tracks.”

  Her stare didn’t scare Chancelor. He was Tracy-proof!

  Finally making it to the second-to-last row, Chancelor stepped to the left, handed the basket to Tracy.

  “Hello, Brother Leonard. You sure are a blessing.” She passed the basket to the white guy seated next to her. Sliding his jacket aside, he put his hand in his pocket, removed a stack of hundreds, peeled off one Benjamin, added it to the collection.

  Chancelor didn’t know which one to stare at longer. The white guy’s FBI badge or his wedding band. Trick-ass Tracy got an officer of the law. A sponsor and a bodyguard. Bet she gave him some pussy. Chancelor should kick his teeth out, too.

  That was okay. Neither the FBI, CIA, nor APD was going to keep Chancelor from making sure Tracy went to prison. Taking advantage of a senior like Brother Copeland was a crime in every state.

  CHAPTER 25

  Jordan

  “Only one bottle of wine today?” Levi asked Jordan as he uncorked, then partially filled two goblets, placing the other in front of Victoria.

  “I have a date later with Terrence Russell,” Jordan said, glad he hadn’t given up on her.

  “I’ll be right back with your usual, fellas.” Levi pointed at Chancelor, then at Kingston.

  “Make mine a double, bruh,” Kingston said. “Shit getting hectic with Monet. It’s not enough I went to visit her. She wants to move here with the girls.”

  Levi replied, “Beef last longer than fish, man. She’ll ruin your good thing. You’re single. In Atlanta. Just sayin’.”

  “Duplicate my cognac,” Chancelor added, then told Jordan, “We need you to do a background check on Tracy Benjamin.”

  We? Jordan smiled at him. She was not entertaining Chancelor’s foolery. His spiked Afro, locked at the blue-dyed tips, appeared as though he’d been running his fingers backward against the front-line. Chancelor began looking the way he was acting . . . unstable.

  “I don’t know who we is, but I could’ve had an opportunity to get laid, aka get me some dick, aka get fucked so incredible in every hole that I’d become comatose. But no!” Jordan pushed her finger against Chancelor’s temple.

  Frowning, he massaged the side of his face.

  “All because of you and your ego assaulting Tracy and kicking out Melvin’s tooth—”

  “Teeth,” Chancelor corrected.

  “Whatever. I had to apologize to Terrence and come here to counsel your dumb ass.”

  Levi’s gasp was heard from the register. “Let it go, Chancelor. My best advice, bro.”

  “As far as I know, Tracy hasn’t done anything illegal. You need to move on,” Jordan insisted. “I’ll check anyone new that any of you have met on your app.”

  “We includes me,” Victoria said. “Tracy is claiming to be Willy Copeland’s daughter. And she’s convinced him to leave her half of his estate, which is supposed to be all mine.” By the time Victoria stopped sipping her wine, her glass was upside down.

  Levi slid up to the table, placed drinks in front of Kingston and Chancelor. “Repeat that, Victoria.”

  For the same reason Jordan didn’t want to represent Donovan, Jordan wasn’t getting involved in a situation that could deem her intent unethical. “Brother Copeland can leave all his money to a bitch or a dog. That’s his right.”

  “Or a bitch and a dog,” Levi added.

  Kingston chimed in, “Correction. A bitch is a dog.”

  Victoria gripped the bottle by the neck, narrowed her eyes at Jordan, Kingston, and Levi, then filled Jordan’s glass to the rim. “Enjoy.”

  Jordan winked at Victoria, emptied half of her wine into Victoria’s glass. “Don’t get an attitude with me. If you think you can compete with Tracy, secure your position.”

  Possession was an advantage in most cases. But there was no guarantee that because she was currently the sole heir, Willy wouldn’t change his mind. Victoria could have had sex with Brother Copeland seven days a week. Yet, on his dying bed he reserved the right to will his assets to the person of his choosing.

  “The problem with women is y’all try to control the man,” Kingston said, then laughed. “Women like Tracy rule the heads. Dick first.”

  Chancelor frowned. “What if you’ve never seen the pussy?”

  “Jordan is right. You are dumb, dude,” Levi told Chancelor. “Control the dick and the brain will follow. Most women don’t know how to take charge,” Levi commented from behind the bar.

  “Are you guys serious? I’ve been screwing this man for over forty years. If you won’t help me, Jordan, then tell me how I can prove Tracy is not his daughter.” Victoria sat on the edge of her seat, awaiting a response.

  God will make a way . . . somehow, Jordan thought.

  A text registered from Terrence: Can’t wait to see you, Jordan.

  Ms. Jackson . . . if you’re nasty, she replied.

  Ms. Jackson it is, Terrence answered.

  “Jordan,” Chancelor said, commanding her attention. “What if Tracy has conned elderly men out of their money? How many fathers does that ho have? If we can prove she’s a thief, can she go to prison?”

  Jordan sighed. Long as they’d known her, her friends didn’t understand the law. Brother Willy Copeland was of sound mind. Was he naïve? Probably not to the extent that Victoria might believe.

  “I love each of
you, but don’t ask me to do your dirty work. Chancelor, leave Tracy Benjamin the hell alone. Victoria, you can try to change Willy’s mind, but don’t deal with Tracy. I thought you guys were smarter than this. Smart young pussy always wins in the end.”

  Jordan stood, then looked at Kingston. “Stay out of their business. You have enough to worry about. See—”

  “Wait,” he said, holding her hand. “You don’t know me.”

  “If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be at this table,” she countered.

  Jordan background checked everyone in her circle. Her investigation extended well beyond what was online. She never wanted to be in the presence of a criminal or pervert and not know it. She wondered how long Kingston would withhold the fact he was married. Vital records were the easiest to confirm—birth, death, and marriage certificates—but most of her female clients never checked online to find out if the man was lying.

  “See you guys Sunday,” she said, then exited the bar.

  * * *

  Heading home for a shower and change of clothing, Jordan put on a fitted sleeveless white dress that stopped six inches above her knees. Stepping into black-and-white stilettos, she drove to one of her favorite restaurants, The Capital Grille Buckhead.

  Terrence was seated at the bar, facing the door. Welcoming her with open arms, he whispered in her ear, “You look and smell amazing.”

  “Thanks.” Jordan was holding to her “always let a man like/love you more” rule.

  After they were seated at the table, Jordan silenced her phone, then tucked it in her purse. “No interruptions this time,” she said, praying Wilson Ealy didn’t need to contact her. And that Donovan didn’t mysteriously appear.

  “Tell me one thing about yourself that if I dug to the bottom of your soul, you hope I’ll never find out,” Jordan said. “Don’t overthink it. And please don’t respond with the obvious.”

  “I like you, Jordan. If I share this with you, you have to promise not—”

  “If there is anything I do well, it’s keep pertinent information confidential,” Jordan replied.