by Love Belvin
You’ll never catch me tripping about Jax’s company. He’s his own man. Not mine to control.
Even if I were daft enough to take on an official relationship with him, I understood my limitations. I knew the risk involved in dating someone younger, and that was he could always want the lifestyle of someone his age. It’s human nature!
I sat down and started my massive telephone calls, which included checking up on Jackson’s birthday gift. One hour into it, Clarice came strolling into the office wearing her brightest smile. I raised a finger asking her to hold off until I was done with the call I was concluding. I left a message for the tour manager, requesting a conference to discuss the dancers Patience had issues with.
When I was done, I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. “How can I help you, Clarice?”
As soon as Clarice opened her mouth to reply, my phone rang.
“Elle Jarreau,” I greeted.
“Hey… Uh…Elle, it’s me, Bridgette.” My gaze flew over to her office, feeling it was only ten minutes since I last spoke her. Then my sights went to the time on my desktop. I’d been on the phone for almost two hours. Sheesh! “Is that woman still in there, waiting on Jackson?”
I glanced over into Jackson’s office and sure enough, amongst the deliveries was the petite woman, still sitting desolately on the sofa.
“Yes.”
“I just spoke to Jackson finally, from calling him about his visitor hours ago. Could you tell her he won’t be back in for the rest of the day and she should call for an appointment? Obviously, I can’t since I’ve left for the day.” My eyes immediately scanned the office for another person she could ask. No one. I was there alone until Clarice. “Do you mind?” I could hear the plea in her tone.
Just then, Marie hopped off the elevator, bouncing excitedly toward my desk.
Just perfect…
“Sure,” I grunted, vastly annoyed within the span of ninety seconds.
“Thanks!” Bridgette chirped. “See you tonight.”
Before I could place the phone in its cradle, Marie was at my desk next to Clarice.
“So, where should we meet to hit up the soirée and what time?” Marie blurted.
“Shit! That’s what I came up to ask,” Clarice shrieked. “I guess it’ll be a threesome kind of night, huhn?”
Rolling my eyes, I stood and sighed, “I’ll leave you two to the details. Just give them to me once you do.”
I sauntered over to Jackson’s office and leaned casually against the frame of the door.
“Hi,” I greeted. “You’re waiting on Mr. Hunter, right?”
The woman stood at a graceful pace to her feet. She was petite, amazingly fit and styled. With her now standing, I could confirm her diva. She wore a relaxed cranberry turtleneck blouse tied into a bow at the neck, a sculpted black leather skirt that fell just below her knees, and black Barbie doll leather boots with five inch heels. Her hair was cut with precision into a pixie, reminding me of Halle Berry’s signature do. Her jewelry was tastefully displayed, small diamond hoops and a bold face wrist watch. Her makeup carefully applied to her mocha skin, nude lips and richly lined eyes. This woman was very much in touch with her personal style.
She cocked her head to the side, acknowledging me. And that’s when I could ratify her mature age. I sulked inside, facing another one of Jackson’s previous lovers. I could identify them now. Having been so intimate with him and in touch with infinitesimal yet significant details of his private being, I—begrudgingly—was tied to this man and standing defeated across from me was a former lover. Her body gave no clues to her advanced age, but her eyes did. There were lines in their parameters that only age and hard living could occur.
“He actually won’t be in for the remainder of the day. He sends his regrets and asked that you call back to make an appointment.” I protracted Bridgette’s script.
I don’t know why, but I felt it necessary and had it confirmed when the woman’s shoulders sagged.
Her head dropped and she gripped her forehead harshly, “I knew it,” she whispered to herself. Then her eyes reappeared. “Listen,” She moved back toward the couch for her duffle bag that I recognized as Chloé and pulled out an envelope. “Give him this and tell him it’s from Miracle and me and that he can’t hide from me forever.”
She gathered her trench jacket and duffle in haste, and strutted toward me in the doorway, forcing the thick manila envelope in my hands. It wasn’t rough, but the speed instinctively had me receiving it. She didn’t break her stride, making it out of his office.
“It would be nice to give him a name,” I called after her calmly, taunting her.
She’s got some damn nerve.
“Cheryl”—she called over her shoulder—“with a C!”
What the hell?
I glanced back at the two ladies, awaiting me at my desk and noticed even they perceived that encounter as curt. Shaking it off, I turned on my heel for my desk.
“What the fuck crawled up her ass?” Marie bit out, still regarding Cheryl with a C summonsing the elevator.
Maybe it’s what hasn’t crawled up her ass recently. Jackson clearly hasn’t fucked her in some time.
fifteen
The line literally wrapped around the block. In all my years in New York, I’d never seen anything like it.
“Shit, this is going to be an epic night!” Marie uttered just above a whisper, in awe.
At least someone else found it to be mania as much as I had. There were women shivering in their best mini dresses and high heels, men with big eyes, rubbing their hands together in great anticipation of the evening—or to relieve themselves of the frigid temperature.
Marie instructed the cab to let us out at the front. Clarice paid him our collected monies and we were in front of the door in no time. Just when I thought we’d join the line of shivering estrogen, Marie called for us to make our way to the front. I was hesitant, realizing I’d made no special arrangements with Jackson to get in. I’d in fact, gotten the invite from Jamie and nothing more. I was resigned to being lucky to get inside once we made it to the door from the line.
In seconds, we were entering and experienced the upscale and contemporary décor of the club. There were people everywhere, but traffic was well organized. Right away, I could determine this place was larger than Jackson’s karaoke bar. This was more technologically modern, too, with widescreen monitors boasting the birthday boy’s name and pictures ranging from birth to present day. But not unlike the other place, this club was teeming with vibrant character. Lit mostly with blue lights, the stark whites and aluminum materials illuminated the place to the perfect degree. Energy bounced off the walls, ringing hypnotic vibes. I was surprised to see there were people of all legal ages in there. It wasn’t the toddler playground I had been anticipating.
Hmmmmm… Maybe I’ll stay longer.
Clarice bumped me and motioned to follow Marie, who was in motion to the bar by raising her hand to her mouth, gesturing a drink. The place was so palatial and expansive that once we crossed onto the mezzanine level I gained a better vantage point and could see a massive bar across the room. I’d hoped we didn’t have to thread through the boisterous crowd to get over there. I’d made sure to wear my most comfortable Loubs, but had no interest in working out in them. My look for Jackson’s birthday was simple and elegant. I figured the other kids his age would be wearing mini dresses cropped to the camel toe, so I needed to set myself apart. I chose a black tuxedo vest over black sequin harem pants and a black leather rolled clutch with bold yet minimal black jewelry to match. The invisible bra I wore underneath the vest made my modest breasts produce a curvy cleavage. My neck was exposed all the way down to the top of my abdomen. Stepping into Jackson’s shindig, I felt classy and sensual.
Perfect.
To my surprise, we walked up to a large bar on the immediate side of the club where we were able to find two empty stools and Clarice and I slid on them. We ordered our drinks and while we
waited, we people watched.
“This shit is fancy!” Clarice shouted over the remix of Dale’s “Good Licker.”
“Yeah, this one he owns with two other guys he met in college,” Marie contributed.
“Who owns?” Clarice hooted like an owl, mimicking my question.
“Jackson,” Marie answered receiving her white wine from the bartender. “He started a business a couple of years ago. His own little baby project, according to my mom. This is one of them. I think Azmir Jacobs was an investor on this one, too.”
Azmir Jacobs?
“Shit! Jackson knows A.D. Jacobs?” Clarice shrieked. “Damn, I need to hang out with him. If Greg, your graphic designs guy, isn’t working out, I’d come cheap. Just let me be in the same room as A.D. Jacobs.”
That got a chuckle out of me. Clarice didn’t come cheap. Her salary rivaled the senior designers at the firm.
“Speaking of which, is that…” Marie’s words faltered.
When I matched her line of vision, I caught a small group of beefy men in black suites moving swiftly through the crowd near the bar, creating a path. They passed us so quickly, causing a whir of cool air. When the center of the tornado neared us, I was able to catch a glimpse of the eye of the storm. It was indeed Mr. Jacobs himself, looking as divine as his given name. He was tall—well over six feet—beautifully chocolate and walked with more poise and grace than I’d ever seen in a man his extreme height. And before I knew it, he was gone, pushing through the crowd.
“Muthafucka! That man is foine!” Clarice professed. “And he and Jackson are that tight that he’s here? How does he know so many influential people?”
“Jackson’s father, Quincy, was quite the quintessential man,” Marie asserted. “He knew just about everybody. He and Azmir Jacobs were tight. Jackson grew up around all that dominating virility. Can’t you now see why I want in his bed?”
That statement jolted me and my drink went down the wrong pipe. What the fuck? I mean, not that I cared who Jackson slept with, just as long as he kept the agreement of monogamy.
Since when have you valued that kind of pact, Elle?
Since… Jackson.
“Anyway, don’t be surprised at the level of celebrity we’re due to experience tonight,” Marie sang. “Come on! Let’s hit the dance floor. I’m on the hunt for someone and think that’s where they may be.” I couldn’t miss the naughty gleam in her eyes.
“Who, Jax?” Clarice asked.
That halted my steps.
Marie did a twirl. “Nope.” She popped her lips on the “p” giving emphasis. “But close.”
No! I didn’t have time to watch Clarice figure out they were anticipating the same…toddler of a man, Jamie.
Surprisingly, I got lost in the music and high-paced energy on the dance floor. I didn’t dip it low like Marie or Clarice, who nearly ripped her dress, trying to keep up with an agile Marie. I stuck with my two-step that never steered me wrong. The music selections were a nice combination of new R&B and hip-hop, mixed with that which I could identify. There was a track played that had everyone screaming their delight and I noticed them all doing the same dance, or at least attempting to with their faces buried in their outstretched arms. I guessed Marie caught my bemusement to the phenomenon in the room and informed me it was called the Bobby Shmurda dance, which was also the name of the rapper singing it.
Okay…
When Foxxy Brown’s “Take You Home” featuring Blackstreet, blended in, I ended my time on the rail and created a small place on the floor to sway to a record of my era. I could vividly recall my junior year in high school when this song hit the airwaves. I was creeping with Dave Brown, a senior. He was dating Daisy Brown, of no relation, but for some reason felt ownership to him because she’d already shared his last name. As I waved my arms high in the air, being sure not to spill what was left in my martini glass, I laughed plenty with my eyes closed. No, I wasn’t proud of cheating with him, but it did serve some satisfaction when Daisy hissed, “Trash,” to me when I was working at the daycare her kids were enrolled at the first time she saw me years later. The sad thing was, it wasn’t because she had knowledge of me sleeping with Dave. It was because I’d slept with her best friend’s boyfriend, who failed to tell me he was in a relationship.
That was one of the few occasions where I’d been deceived. It was one where my grandmother’s heeding of me accepting culpability was invalid. That thought struck a nerve, killing my buzz. As soon as I’d decided to resume the railing off the dance floor, I heard the crowd go up in a frenzy; not in a panicking manner, a celebratory one instead.
“The burfday boy is here!” the D.J. shouted into the microphone.
The patrons’ screams went up to a deafening volume. I scanned all around me but didn’t see Jackson. Because the place was extremely packed, I was resigned to not being able to catch him entering at all. I did find Clarice and motioned I was making my way to the bar. I caught her tugging Marie and gestured our agenda. We arrived at the other end of the bar and I ordered us a round of drinks, and when I was prepared to pay, learned they were on the house. I left a generous tip in the jar and resumed the dance floor with Clarice and Marie in tow.
When Clarice asked, “Where’s Jackson? Can you see him?” in my ear, I shrugged.
I didn’t waste any brain cells over it. We’d see him eventually, even if that meant at the office next week. Sometime later, there was an announcement of a special guest performance. Naturally, the crowd went up.
Marie squealed behind me. “Didn’t I tell you this would be epic?”
“A live performance at Jackson’s party?” Clarice shouted over the commotion.
I rolled my eyes. There was no way I’d get pumped over any artist performing at a man in his 20’s party. I was sure I wouldn’t even recognize the song.
I have nothing musically in common with someone Jackson’s age, to care to see them perform live anyways.
Then the beat dropped and a familiar melody rang in the air. I couldn’t believe just how old school they’d just gone back. Well…arguably old school. Then I heard live vocals of Koffee Brown’s “After Party” and my mouth dropped. I loved this track, too. It brought back memories of a darker time in my life, but the power of music was demonstrated when I still felt fondness when experiencing the track. And then live? How could Jackson have Koffee Brown performing at his party? They were no longer a group from what I knew.
I could hear Clarice hooting behind me how this was her jam. I was stuck in a stupor, still wondering about Jackson and his persona. I totally didn’t expect to enjoy the music entertainment at a 27-year-old’s birthday party. In the back of my consciousness, I could perceive the sounds of the crowd growing, but I was too busy processing this revelation of Jackson to pay it any attention.
That was until I felt heat on my back, then immediately felt hands on my hips, spurring them to increase in speed. One of his hands rose to my belly, making me feel locked in his hold. No matter how awkward the sensation, I felt incredibly sexy in his arms.
Jackson.
“Thanks for restoring the car,” he droned into my ear with his lips pressed tantalizingly into my skin about his father’s Austin-Healey 3000. I’d forgotten all about his birthday gift. “Now, I have to take you for a ride in it.”
Damn me!
My sex clenched at the prospect of a ride with Jackson in a restored sports car. I couldn’t speak to tell him he was welcome.
He took my free hand, lifting it in the air and twirling me at a 360 degree angle. I was sure it was a cunning way for him to absorb my ensemble and body. I had no problem obliging him and yet knew to keep it to a minimum as to not tip anyone off. During my spin, I was able to take a cursory glance at an unknowing Clarice whose back was to us and I also saw that Marie was dirty dancing with her own partner. Within seconds, I was wrapped in his arms and against his chest again, inhaling his delectable scent. Jackson’s thrusts weren’t what I was accustomed to as there was fabric
between us, but they were lewd to a watching party. His hip flexes were wide and perfectly targeted at the center of my lower back. It reminded me of his dexterity and athleticism. My eyes squeezed involuntarily and I was able to isolate each upward launch against me as he whispered the lyrics in my ear.
I needed to see him again. I had to see if I’d really captured the easy smile on his face when he spun me around. I twisted in his arms, but continued with our rhythmic movements. Sure enough, Jackson was smiling without creases around his eyes. He was content, and with the expression I usually experienced from him when in the heat of our passion. He was having a good time at his party and sharing it with me. I watched as he continued to lip synch the lyrics, a lighthearted act for such a stodgy man. In that moment, I saw his boyish charm. Jackson behaved his age and it lightened something in my chest. Oddly, I wasn’t turned off by it. To the contrary, I was very much aroused. The sensual energy of the song mixed with the nostalgia of it, put me in a zone where there was just Jackson and me.
Before I knew it, Jackson twirled me once again and he was behind me, applying measured thrusts into my rear cheeks again, causing scorching flames to course my frame. He reached down to my bare neck and placed a wet and suctioning kiss. My thighs clenched at the bold act in public, but I fought to not react.
“You look utterly gorgeous, baby,” he whirred easily in my ear.
His heat, touch, sound and scent tossed me into delirium there on the dance floor, and before I could make sense of it all, he was gone. I was left with a cool breeze pushing away his electrical heat. Immediately, I mourned him. When I skimmed the area around me for him, I saw he was now dancing with Marie. To minimize the awkward state his leaving clearly put me into, I tried to regain the rhythm and dance again. But my eyes kept roving over to him, tracking his movements. His smile remained as he swayed with Marie, but his hips didn’t touch her. She threw her little ass in the area of his crotch, but he’d inched away, refusing her target. Then he’d find a way to interrupt her attempt at sensual thrusting by spinning her.
