It dawned on him it had to be the new tenant. He’d seen the moving truck pull up and unload a pitiful few pieces of furniture; mostly antiques though, so at least she had good taste. Sheer nosiness had forced him to inquire of the moving men where they were taking them. They’d told him they belonged to the occupant of 5C.
“Is there something you wanted?” Tre asked, staring at the woman. She’d folded her arms across those luscious breasts and now they threatened to spill from the low-cut halter.
“Your music is driving me crazy. I can hardly think. Much less work.”
“Who am I turning my music down for?” Tre asked, his glance sliding over her body again.
She seemed conscious of his assessment but not at all self-conscious. Yet she backed off, putting space between them. “I live in 5C,” she said, pointing up the hallway. “Next door. Show a little consideration. I’m surprised 5A and D haven’t called security.”
Tre narrowed his eyes, giving her the look that usually made women’s legs buckle. He’d been told often enough he had bedroom eyes. He swept his gaze over the tempting piece of flesh standing in front of him, letting his eyes linger for a second too long on the woman’s cleavage, then focusing on those long legs again. And what legs. He’d always been a leg man.
“No one’s ever complained about my music before, baby,” he drawled. “I’ve lived here two years. You’ve been here how long?” One eyebrow arched upward. He was at his most intimidating.
“About six weeks,” his pissed-off neighbor supplied.
“Long enough to listen to noisy altercations in the hallway and develop headaches from that obnoxious stereo of yours. I work at home a couple days a week.”
Tre draped an arm across the doorsill. “Who am I supposed to be shutting down my boom box for? You got a name?” On purpose he’d slipped into the dialect of the street.
5C actually had the grace to look embarrassed. She thrust a toned arm forward. She must work out with weights, another point in her favor. Toned arms with just a trace of muscle were sexy.
“Jen St. George. And you are?”
“Jen?”
Tre let the name wrap around his tongue. The last name was definitely foreign. She might be from the islands; Haiti quite possibly. He’d always had a thang for island girls. They were feisty and knew exactly who they were. She waited for him to tell her his name.
“Trestin,” Tre said, skipping his last name as he often did. Once women found out he was WARP’s music director, and popular radio personality, D’Dawg, they began acting like fools. The name was rightfully earned from his “poon hound” days.
“Well, Trestin,” Jen said, “can we come to an agreement? Can you at least lower your tunes so I can get back to work?”
The door of 5A located directly across from Tre pushed open. Ida Rosenstein stuck a head decorated with pink curlers covered by a net through the opening. She called in the loud croaky voice of a smoker, “You could at least invite this one in.” Looking from one to the other, she sniffed. “How come your girlfriends never wear clothes?”
“I am not one of his girlfriends,” Jen snapped. “Like you, I’m his next-door neighbor.”
“What was that?” Ida shouted, lighting a cigarette and blowing a perfect smoke ring.
Jen pinched her nose. “Must you?”
Tre’s palm cupped Jen’s elbow. He propelled her in the direction of the smokestack. “This is Jen St. George,” he said. “Jen just moved in.”
“John, did you say? Why does she have a man’s name?”
“My name’s Jen,” Jen carefully repeated. “Doesn’t his music bother you? How come you’re not complaining?”
“I’m too old to complain. It doesn’t do any good. I just take action.”
Tre tried to discreetly whisper to Jen that Ida was severely hard of hearing.
“His music,” Jen shouted. “Doesn’t it bother you? It’s too loud.”
“I like his music,” Ida boomed back. Good for her. “It makes me feel alive.” She began mimicking urban dance movements she must have seen on TV.
Jen was stunned.
Tre smiled brightly at Ida. She was taking up for him. He’d always liked the old lady and gave her credit for being so open-minded at her age. She’d told him she refused to move when the building was remodeled and the first influx of black upper-middle-class tenants moved in. According to Ida, she was the first resident to move in after the building was constructed. She’d be there until it was torn down or they took her out in a box.
A head poked out from 5D. “Can you keep it down?”
Camille Lewis was the last person Tre wanted involved in his business. Her mouth ran like there was no tomorrow. She thrived on gossip or made it up. Tre would have to convince Winston, her husband, to help put a lid on Camille’s mouth. That would cost him a handful of new CDs.
“This is Jen St. George, our new neighbor,” Tre said smoothly, forcing a smile. “Camille Lewis.”
“We already met.” Camille turned her attention back to her cell phone.
She had a heavy West Indian accent that came and went depending on whether she was talking to a relative or not. She waggled the cell phone at him. “I’m trying to talk to my girlfriend. Can you at least go inside?”
He was being ganged up on. Camille Lewis normally didn’t care about how loud he played his music; just that he made sure some of the disks came her way. She’d mastered the art of multitasking and knew everything there was to know about everyone in the building. They usually got along fine and Tre had learned to ignore her monitoring of his comings and goings.
“Fine. We’ll take our discussion inside,” Tre agreed. He held his apartment door open hoping Jen would come in. “Night, y’all.”
Camille grunted at him and slammed shut her door. Ida stayed put.
“Tomorrow this entire building’s going to hear about the threesome we had in the hallway.” Ida cackled loudly and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray she held. Examining Jen through rheumy eyes, she continued. “You’re a step up from his usual. His taste is improving.”
“I am not his usual. I am nothing to him,” Jen answered before stomping off.
Tre said good-night to Ida Rosenstein and slipped inside his apartment.
Jen St. George wasn’t going to be easy. He’d have to plan a strategy, maybe take a bottle of wine over to her later in the week and turn up the heat.
With any luck, he’d have her on her back and those long legs wrapped around him.
Give him one month and he’d be in those tight shorts of hers. Then guess who would be complaining about who.
Chapter 2
“Yo, Flamingo Beach. This is D’Dawg coming to you live from WARP. Bad day at work? You been dumped, lied to, or just played? Come sit back and chill with me. My tunes are guaranteed to make you relax and take you on a trip down memory lane to the good old days when brothas and sistahs pushed getting high on life. Let’s conversate. You can tell me what’s happening in this sleepy little town of ours, the Southern answer to Peyton Place.”
Tre had a habit of slipping into urban vernacular when addressing his radio audience. He’d grown up in the ghettos of Detroit and knew this was what his people expected and what they understood. He punched a button and Luther Vandross’s soulful crooning dominated the airwaves. The singer was a man he’d deeply admired. Tonight would be a tribute to him.
Tre sat back, preparing to listen. He propped his feet on the console and took a bite of his sandwich, letting Luther’s sensual voice mesmerize him. It was times like this he wished he was with someone special, someone he had a connection with. So far that hadn’t happened and he didn’t want to just hook up with anyone. Times had changed and making the wrong choice came with consequences.
Another Luther song dropped, this one in a slightly different vein. As the singer began sharing his childhood memories with the radio audience, Tre unfolded The Flamingo Beach Chronicle and began flipping through it. This new advice col
umnist was a trip. Here she was giving some crazy old lady tips on marrying off her son. What if the man was a confirmed bachelor? And who cared if he was gay?
He reread the mother’s letter and dissected Dear Jenna’s response. Pushing a button on the console he drawled, “Nothing like a little Luther to soothe the soul and get us in the groove. So what y’all think about this chick Aunt Jemima, the new advice columnist from Cincinnati? Anyone read today’s column? Let’s break it down. I’m here to take your calls.”
Tre guffawed loudly. “Freudian slip, y’all. The lady’s name is Jenna. This brotha thinks she likes to stir things up, telling the man’s mama to get on the Internet and place one of them personal ads. Phone lines are open, y’all. I’ll be here for the next four hours.”
During the next fifteen minutes every line at WARP lit up. Tre took call after call and conceded he just couldn’t keep up. His show rocked.
“Sheila, what do you think?”
“Dear Jenna gave sound advice.”
“Why is that? What mama needs to get involved in a grown man’s business?”
To her credit, Sheila stood firm. “I’m a mama. My son brings home these hos. They come into my house, belly hanging out, disrespecting me. Who can blame a mother for wanting to see her son settled with a good churchgoing woman?”
“I hear that. But what if the man’s gay or as Jemima calls it, queer?” Tre now appealed to the audience. “Anybody else got anything contradictory to say?” He punched another button. “Rufus, you still hanging?”
“In for the duration, my man.”
“You got a different opinion from Sheila?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. Mama needs to butt out. Cut the apron strings and let sonny boy make his own mistakes.” Rufus’s raucous laughter rang out. “Mama needs to find herself a man.”
“Anyone else in the house?” Using a finger that was almost as dark as the console before him, Tre pressed the button on yet another line.
“This is Kim. My ex-boyfriend turned out to be gay and there was nothing I could do to change that.”
“Hear that, callers. Kim couldn’t get her man to change. You try one of them Victoria’s Secret numbers?”
“Yes, I did.…”
Kim quickly hung up. She’d lost it and sounded like she was about to cry.
And so it went on, until Tre took a break for advertising. All of Flamingo Beach must have tuned in tonight. Some had opposing views but the discussion was lively, controversial, and at times irreverent, just like Tre liked it. Four hours would pass quickly tonight.
Jen stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her dripping body. When the phone rang she considered letting the machine pick up but at the last minute grabbed it.
“Hello?”
“Watcha doing?” Chere bellowed.
Ignoring the puddle beginning to form on the white tile floor, Jen responded, “Getting ready to head for the Pink Flamingo to grab something to eat.”
“Want company?”
What about Leon? I thought you two were joined at the hip.”
Chere sucked her teeth. “Leon who?”
Clearly that diversion was over with. Chere sounded perfectly fine. She was one of the most resilient people Jen had ever met.
Balancing the receiver between ear and shoulder, Jen said, “Okay, give me the lowdown.”
“Turn your radio on, girl. Tune into WARP. D’Dawg’s dissing you.”
“Is it some kind of wrestling station?” Nope. The DJ’s supposed to be finer than The Rock. Alls I know is he sure as hell cracks me up.”
Jen vaguely recalled hearing something about a controversial show modeled after the New Yorker, Howard Stern’s, except a whole lot cleaner.
“The man is slamming our column and he’s got the listeners calling you Dear Jemima and saying you’re a bigot.”
“Why am I a bigot?”
“Might have something to do with your using the word ‘queer.’ You don’t look a thing like that fat turban-headed woman selling her maple syrup.”
Chere cracked her up. “Queer is politically correct,” Jen explained. “I meant no disrespect. It’s like the way colored evolved to Negro, then became black, and now African-American.”
Her assistant snorted and began snapping her gum; at least Jen hoped that was what she was snapping. She refused to get bent out of shape. Controversy was her middle name.
“I’ll turn on my radio and see what the fuss is about.” Jen sighed. “All of that free advertising’s bound to snag me more readers.”
Snap. Snap. Snap. “And you’ll take me on one ah dem ‘Fun Ship’ cruises?”
Jen’s laughter rippled out. Chere supposedly had been the publisher, Ian Pendergrass’s housekeeper. He’d had a one-night stand with her and to shut her up he’d given her a job.
“Here’s the deal,” Jen said, still laughing. “You read the mail when it comes in and keep me up to date, then we’ll talk.”
There wasn’t a prayer in hell of Chere catching her up. She wasn’t one to work harder than she needed to.
“Done. Tomorrow I’m going shopping for one ah them skimpy little bikinis that shows off my curves.”
Jen wisely let that thread of conversation drop. Full-figured Chere in an itsy-bitsy bikini wasn’t something she wanted to think about.
“See you at the Pink Flamingo in half an hour then,” Jen said fumbling with the radio dial. She located WARP where a lively discussion was underway.
“Mama needs a good whopping,” a strident male voice said. “Mabel shouldn’t even be meddling in her grown son’s affairs. And that advice columnist don’t have a clue. Do you know the kind of women answering those personal ads?” The caller didn’t wait for the DJ to comment. “Chicks no one else wants. Two tons of fun, and a whole lot neurotic.”
The disk jockey chuckled. “I hear you. My man speaks from experience. Who in the house has been on one of those Internet dates? Step up now. Tell us if our man here is right.”
Phones began ringing off the hook. It still amazed Jen just how much information people were willing to share about the intimate details of their lives. D’Dawg’s audience for the most part were very vocal about her usage of the word queer.
The discord caused Jen to second-guess herself. Maybe as some had suggested she really should have told the old lady to get a life. Perhaps she could have presented other options, but she’d gone with her gut. And her gut seldom let her down.
D’Dawg’s urban drawl snapped Jen back to the present.
“Any of you see Dear Jenna up close and personal? There’s a photo in the newspaper with girlfriend wearing this little business suit, pearls and glasses. Looks to me like she stepped right outta the fifties. Uptight I say, lady needs a good loving to loosen her up.”
The DJ’s raucous laughter caused Jen to quickly shut off the radio. Even though only a chauvinist would have made that outrageous remark, he’d hit a nerve. Jen hadn’t allowed a man to get next to her since Anderson dumped her. She was still recovering from his betrayal and it would be a cold day in hell before she trusted another man. She would play the same game men did. No connection and no commitment. Live in the present and enjoy each day as it came.
Jen had dated Anderson for two years. Even so, he’d walked away without an explanation and a short time later gotten engaged to another woman. Adding insult to injury, he’d purchased a home in the same Ashton suburb as Jen.
She would be late if she didn’t hurry. Chere, the bottomless pit, would be waiting at the Pink Flamingo’s bar checking out the prospects. After hurriedly zipping up the apricot sundress scooped low in the back, Jen stepped into matching wedge sandals. She finger-combed her shoulder-length hair and added a pair of gold hoop earrings. Convinced she no longer even faintly resembled Dear Jenna, she headed off.
Ten minutes later, Jen strolled into the packed Pink Flamingo. The place was filled with patrons winding down from a stressful work week. At the bar, groups of me
n nursed beers while female companions sipped on Cosmos and Appletinis. How could anyone possibly hear themselves? Jen wondered.
An olive-skinned hostess in a Flamingo Pink mini-dress chatted with a man Jen guessed to be the restaurant manager. He wore the exact color shirt. She tore herself away to point out a vacant seat at the outdoor bar.
Jen’s first impressions were of Flamingo heaven or maybe it was hell. Fluttering from the thatched ceiling of the Tikki Hut were the pink birds in abundance. Jen eased onto the vacant bar stool, noting there was no sign of Chere. Her administrative assistant wasn’t amongst the chattering twosomes and single hopefuls. Nor was she holding court with the two men at the end of the bar looking for action. The lighter one in a turquoise linen shirt, winked at Jen. Forcing herself, she winked back. She’d promised herself a new life.
Just then Chere entered in a ridiculously short skirt she had no business being in. Her cropped top exposed a layer of jiggling mahogany flesh. Two hundred pounds of confidence tottered across the floor in acrylic platform-soled sandals; a red hibiscus wobbled from the big toe.
“Sorry. Something came up,” she said wedging herself between Jen and the man to her right.
Better not ask Chere what that might be, lest Chere told her.
Chere began flirting outrageously with the buff bartender.
“I’ll have a glass of Chablis,” Jen quickly interjected before things got out of hand.
“Make mine Sex on the Beach, Dwayne,” Chere added coyly.
“Sure you don’t want a Slow Comfortable Screw?”
While Jen sipped her wine, Chere stirred her drink with one finger and filled the bartender in on her issues with Leon. The two probably had history.
A bunch of nubile women were being checked out by the man who’d winked at Jen. On the rattan chairs, hopeful couples, many of the same gender, played footsie while sipping their drinks. Those more enterprising gyrated to the lively reggae band on the beach.
Flamingo Place (Mills & Boon Kimani) Page 2
