“Let's sit down,” he said as they pulled away. They took their seats. “I'm starved,” he said, and flipped through his menu. “I already know what I want.”
“I'm really not hungry,” she replied. A combination of being with Rondell again, worrying about what events the evening would bring, and wanting to seem appealing had taken away her appetite.
“You mean to tell me you're not hungry?” he said, sounding surprised and just a tiny bit frustrated.
“Positive,” Catara replied with confidence. “But I'll get a side salad and soda.”
“Salad?” he shook his head and frowned. “Dig it. Well, it's on you. When the waitress comes you can order for both of us. I want the artichoke and spinach dip appetizer and the rib and fries for the entrée. I'll be back. I need to take a leak.” Rondell shoved his fingers in his mane, picked through it, and slid out of the booth.
As she watched him walk away, she remembered just why, when he'd stopped calling, she didn't try to contact him. Why should he be any different tonight? she thought. She went ahead and ordered for the both of them when the waiter came. She asked if she could have a side salad as her entrée. The waiter rolled his eyes and said, “A side salad must accompany a meal. Only garden salads can be purchased as entrées.”
“Well, I only want a Coke!” she replied matter-of-factly. “Add a side salad to my date's meal.”
“Whatever you say,” he responded, grabbing the menus from the edge of the table and walking away.
Several minutes passed, and the waiter came back with the appetizer, saying, “I brought two plates so you and your date could share.” He looked over at the empty seat, snickered, and walked away.
What a jerk, she thought. And just where is Rondell?
By the time the snobby waiter returned with their entrées, Rondell was just coming back to their table. Catara had gotten so bored waiting that she had pulled out her cell phone and was cleaning up her phone book.
“Where have you been?” she huffed in a low and angry voice. “I've been looking over my shoulder for the past fifteen minutes, wondering what had happened to you. Plus, the waiter was being an ass.”
“I got a call from Wayne—remember him, the keyboard player I vibe with sometimes? Anyway, he was talking about this gig opportunity.”
“You've been on the phone with him this long?”
“I hadn't talked to him in a while, so we were catching up.”
“Well, you haven't spoken to me in a while, either,” she said in a huff.
“Girl, I see you've still got a mouth on you!” Rondell smiled, picked up his fork, and began digging into her side salad, which the waiter had set on his side of the table.
Catara was getting ready to stop him, but decided against it because he was hovering over his food, going through it like it was the first bite he'd eaten in days.
Then he dipped the tortilla chips into the spinach and artichoke dip. He was shoveling into the dip and devouring every bite with merciless chomps.
“So where's the gig?” she asked.
He looked up at her for the first time since he'd started eating and realized that she wasn't joining him. He looked confused but continued to munch on the chips. With his mouth full, he munched out, “I thought you were going to eat a side salad or something?”
“Well, I was, but you seemed to be enjoying it so much that I didn't want to stop you,” Catara responded.
“My bad,” he replied nonchalantly and picked up a rib, licking his lips in anticipation.
At that point, Catara was astonished, not only by his devouring of the meal but by his inconsiderate attitude. She stared at him and her jaw dropped as she watched him tear into the rib.
“These things are good!” he sang. Catara continued to sit in silence, watching.
Rondell felt her staring and looked at her, chuckling to himself. “I'm being rude,” he said and then pushed the basket of tortilla chips to the middle of the table. “Why don't you eat some of these? The dip is slap-yo'-momma good!”
Catara continued to stare.
“I didn't mean to eat your salad, man.”
“Man?” Her questioning was more out of shock than of wanting an explanation. There couldn't possibly be an excuse for his behavior.
“Catara, man … I mean, Catara I'm not trying to be rude, or anything.” He nervously wiped his hands on his napkin. “Why don't you order another side salad? I'm sure they'll have it here in no time.”
“I've lost whatever appetite I walked in here with,” Catara said, and she wasn't referring only to the food.
“Listen, I haven't eaten anything all day. And if you don't count that wimpy burger that I ate yesterday, it would be two days.” He picked up another rib and consumed it.
Catara didn't like the way this evening was going one bit. Her first inclination was to get up and leave that sorry excuse for a man to enjoy his meal in peace, but she couldn't seem to move. She had to know why he wanted to see her, and she wasn't at all in a hurry to get back on the subway. This trip had to be worth her while.
“So why did you want to see me tonight?” she questioned. “I mean, it's been a while.”
“It has been a while. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Oh, really?” Catara replied. She had no idea what he could possibly want to talk to her about.
“Yeah, really. I'll be finished with this food in no time and then we can talk, okay?”
Rondell seemed so sincere that Catara's heart softened a little. She realized that maybe she was being too hard on him. Maybe he was nervous or had a lot on his mind. “So what do you want to talk about until then?” she asked.
“You,” he said enthusiastically. “How's life dressing up the rich and the bougie?”
“The same ol' same ol'. I seem to keep getting these old white women who've had the same style for years and stick to the same designer. Anytime I bring in something out of their usual scheme, they turn up their noses at it.”
“Uh-huh,” Rondell said, continuing to eat.
“But every once in a while some young chick with new money will come in with her husband's charge card, and she'll be open to whatever. Those are my favorite clients because I can mold them.”
Rondell didn't say anything. Catara knew she had lost his attention. As she felt her right hand balling into a fist underneath the table, she knew she was becoming frustrated.
“Did you hear me, Rondell?” she asked.
“Huh?” He looked up from his ribs, eyes wide.
“So what did you want to talk to me about? Let's not wait. Let's get it out of the way.”
Rondell devoured his one last rib and began finishing off the chips and dip. “Okay,” he said hesitantly. “I'm almost finished eating anyway.” He shoved the tortillas in his mouth two and three at a time.
He munched and munched. Then he quickly washed them down with the remainder of his Coke, took a deep breath, then paused as if to get his words together.
“Go ahead,” Catara pushed.
“Catara, we're friends, right?”
“I guess you could say that, although you sometimes have a funny way of showing your friendship.”
“I mean, I am your friend, and I consider you mine.”
As badly as she wanted to believe that Rondell was going in a positive direction with this conversation, she couldn't see how. She made her approach as direct as possible to stop his beating around the bush. “What do you want to talk to me about?”
“Okay, Catara, okay.” He took a deep breath. “Can I borrow some money?”
“What?” she screamed. This time she didn't care who heard her outburst.
“Only a hundred dollars. I swear I'll pay you back.”
“You mean to tell me that you sweet-talked me into leaving the comfort of my apartment—and you know I don't care to ride the subway late at night, plus it's freezing out there—to come all the way over here just so you could ask me to borrow a hundred dollars? Rondell, you'
ve lost your mind!”
Catara picked up her purse and began sliding out of the seat. Rondell stopped her. “What about the meal?”
“What about it?” Catara turned and cut her eyes at him.
Rondell looked dumbfounded. “Well, I don't have enough to pay. I was hoping …”
Repeating what Rondell had said to her before he gave his order, Catara shook her head and whispered, “It's on you.”
She stood up and clenched her fist beside her leg. “Lose my number,” she lashed. “Don't ever call me again. Act like you never met me.”
“Come on, Catara,” Rondell begged. “We can work this out.”
“Screw you, Rondell!” she barked over her shoulder, and walked past the snotty waiter and out the door, leaving Rondell forever.
LECIA JEWEL PARKER tapped the shoulder of the gentleman standing next to her at the baggage claim carousel, pointed at her Louis Vuitton bag moving closer to her around the carousel, and coyly said, “Excuse me, but could you be a dear and grab my bag for me, it's just too heav—”
Before she could finish her sentence, the guy leaped forward, almost knocking down the woman standing next to him, and retrieved Alecia's bag. He set it on the floor in front of her, pulled up the handle, and through his huffing and goofy grin asked, “Is there anything else that I can do to help?”
Alecia smiled pleasantly and then replied with a short “No, thank you.” She was very familiar with that look in his eyes. Most heterosexual men displayed it in her presence.
Her beauty seemed to mesmerize them. She called it “the gift,” her ticket to whatever she wanted out of life, and she knew how to use it, when to use it, and on whom to use it. She was convinced that all men wanted a piece of her, and this “Buster” was no exception. If she didn't move quickly, he was going to ask her for her phone number.
She clutched the handle of her bag and proceeded toward the door as quickly as she possibly could, but the guy caught up to her. Alecia continued to walk out of the door as if she didn't notice, then pulled out her cell phone and pretended to be engaged in a heavy conversation. The guy finally caught the hint and walked back toward the carousel to retrieve his own luggage.
Outside of the terminal, she looked over her shoulder to make sure he was gone. He was, but her ride was nowhere to be seen; her sugar daddy of two years was supposed to pick her up. He usually arranged to have a car for her whenever she flew back into town, but since he hadn't seen her in more than a month, he'd decided to pick her up. He personally wanted to see to it that she was properly settled back into her high-rise condominium, located in the Westwood district of Los Angeles, which he had purchased for her a year ago and put in her name.
Neither he nor his car was anywhere to be found. Although she was easily frustrated when put in the position of waiting, Alecia took a deep breath and tried to keep her composure. If William was running late, there had to be a logical reason. Since she'd known William Master-son IV, he'd always been prompt. A high-powered entertainment lawyer, he kept a tight schedule. And despite his being married with two grown daughters and a high-maintenance wife, he always managed to be where he said he was going to be and do what he said he was going to do. That's why Alecia cared for him so much. He was not only reliable but also worldly, intelligent, and knowledgeable about a host of subjects. Married or not, aged or not, the man was refined. Plus, he understood her lifestyle—as long as she was there for him in his times of need, he never questioned her comings and goings.
A bragging member of the jet set, Alecia flew first-class in and out of LAX on a moment's notice. All she needed was for one of her “beaus,” as she affectionately referred to all the wealthy men who pursued her, to call and ask if she was interested, and she'd pack a bag and head to the airport. She spent weekends skiing, golfing, sailing, dining, shopping—whatever the adventure, Alecia was up for it.
She was a platinum-miles cardholder with all major airlines and had frequent-flier miles piled high, most of which had been earned with someone else's money. Her passport was well stamped, reflecting evidence of her excursions to some of the most exotic and desirable locations in the world. She secretly delighted in the fact that she had spent time on six of the seven continents—if someone found a way to set up an adventure for her in Antarctica, she'd be there. Alecia spoke Spanish and French fluently and could meet and greet in Japanese, Chinese, Italian, Russian, and the Nigerian languages Hausa and Yoruba. Her motto was “When preparation meets the right opportunity, success is bound to materialize.”
An example of her motto paying off was the wonderful week she'd just spent in Paris with one of her suitors, Larry Winston, vice president of a large international marketing firm and pushing to make president. Larry wanted to impress his clients in France and had invited her along to wow them with her good looks, her charming personality, and her ability to speak their language.
When she wasn't schmoozing at parties, dinners, and other social settings with Larry, he gave her his platinum card and sent her to be pampered at the hotel's spa and to enjoy a shopping spree so excessive that she had to have her new things shipped back over to the States. Larry stayed on for a few more days, but Alecia returned alone. That's the way it usually worked, and she was fine with it—juggling so many relationships of convenience meant never knowing when she would run into someone with whom she had an “arrangement.”
As much as she enjoyed the company of her beaus, none of the men she dated could ever measure up to William Masterson. He had her heart. She was committed to him, lured by the power he possessed in Hollywood and attracted by his attentiveness to her every little need. She wasn't really worried about his being married, because Alecia eventually got everything she went after. She knew that if she waited out their situation and stuck by William, he would eventually leave his wife and commit to her. Besides, she was still young, just twenty-nine, and enjoying her youth, her beauty, and the perks that came along with both. There was no need to push the issue, not just yet.
For now, she was going to be patient, but today William seemed to be taking forever to get to her. Alecia found herself pacing the sidewalk in her tall heels, just the tiniest bit exasperated. She took off the jacket of her suede pantsuit; even though it was November, it was an exceptionally warm California day. Where is he? she thought. She couldn't believe he would have her waiting outside like this. She laid the jacket over her suitcase, and then looked around one more time. No sign, so she pulled out her cell phone, this time to make a real call. She dialed William's mobile number and hoped he would pick up.
She got his voice mail on the first ring. Maybe he's in a bad area, she thought, and then dialed again. This time he answered.
“This is William Masterson.”
“William, honey, where are you?”
“Oh, it's my Jewel. Alecia, I am close to you, yet so far away. We just passed that huge LAX sign, which means I'll be there before you know it.” William's tone reflected a day filled with negotiation. He conducted all of their phone calls as if he were closing a deal. “See you then,” he said abruptly, and ended their call.
Alecia never took his businesslike, matter-of-fact manner personally because she knew that when he was in her presence he was as attentive as a little puppy. Excited at the thought of seeing him, she pulled a compact out of her purse and checked her hair in the mirror. It was nearly perfect, as usual, bone-straight and parted down the middle. Then she applied additional powder to her T zone, just in case her forehead and nose had become too shiny. Upon closer observation, she decided she needed to freshen up her lipstick.
She was standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, with passersby moving all around her. She didn't seem to acknowledge or care that the walking traffic would have flown a bit more smoothly if only she had positioned herself either closer to the curb or to the building. No, it was Alecia's world. There was no way she could have possibly been in the way. She applied her lipstick lightly, licked her lips, and then used her fingers
to fuss around her eyes, ensuring her appearance was as fresh as it could possibly be after such a long flight.
Satisfied, Alecia pulled out an atomizer and sprayed her neck and the folds of her arms. By the time she'd put away her makeup and moved closer to the curb in anticipation, she saw the law firm's sedan moving slowly toward her. She found herself feeling giddy, but she caught herself. Wait a minute. I am the shit. He's the one who should be excited.
The driver stopped the car directly in front of her and rushed out to greet her.
“How are you today, Miss Parker?” he asked, opening the car door for her.
“Charmed, Tony. Thanks. And you?” she asked, slipping into the seat next to William without looking at the chauffeur or waiting to hear a response.
Tony shook his head. He was used to Alecia's antics. He closed the door and grabbed her luggage and jacket. He put the luggage in the trunk and came back around to find Alecia and William in a tongue lock. He cleared his throat to announce his presence. “Your jacket, Miss Parker.”
“Oh,” she said, turning to face him. She placed the jacket on the seat beside her, pulled the door closed, and went back to kissing up her man.
“How's that for a welcome-home kiss?” she purred.
“Fantastic. But I'm not the one who's been globe-trotting.”
“Right you are, handsome, but just know that when you're in my presence, you're home. Your Jewel is here in the flesh,” she said, and then cascaded her hands past her breasts and down her waist. “Again, welcome home.”
“You are too much,” William replied, blushing. Then he grabbed her hand. “I'm glad to be home.” He squeezed. “I missed you, Jewel, I missed everything about you.” He rubbed her thighs. “I missed your long legs, your small waist …” He leaned over and planted a light kiss on her breast. “I missed that killer cleavage that called to me every night in my dreams.”
“Stop it,” Alecia said, and playfully nudged the back of his neck so his lips would fall back on her breast. Then she crossed her legs with her knees facing him and arched her back to make sure her cleavage was pumped up and in his face.
The Night Before Thirty Page 2
