by Love Belvin
Was that his tactic with me? Is that why I got two twirls?
Jackson didn’t stay with Marie for long. He moved on to Bridgette, who I didn’t see come in. I saw Jackson pull her away from her fiancé, Bobby, furnishing a short bow of humility which the other man returned. As I tried to keep up with my own two-step, I observed the way Jackson moved with his right-hand woman, and again, his crotch didn’t touch her while they moved. Humorously, Bridgette’s goofy, rhythmless dancing wouldn’t allow for sensualism if Jackson were interested. I could swear I saw her mimicking a duck at Jackson’s waist level. Laughing to the point of grabbing my belly, I took my eyes off of them for a few seconds. Bad move. When I opened them again, Jackson was gone.
The evening progressed and so did the performers. I was amazed when two members of the group, Guy, took the stage and performed abbreviated renditions of two of their hits: “Let’s Chill” and “Groove Me.” They spoke fondly of Quincy during their performance and even surprised Jackson with a picture of him at around 2-3 years old with Quincy, backstage at one of their concerts.
A grown man taking his toddler to a Guy concert? That was odd to me, but tender and humorous to seemingly everyone else in the room.
There were endless celebrities in the building, many of them singing to their tracks and sharing words of warm endeavors to Jackson and encouraging him to continue in his dad’s memory. I mean the likes of Dave Hollister, Doug E. Fresh, Kay Gee of Naughty by Nature, Big Daddy Kane, and other notable figures. And the women… My God, the women who took the microphone with the camera accompanied streaming images on the gigantic monitors throughout the room, shouted the praises of an obvious lover in Quincy! It was unnerving in my opinion, but clearly I was of the minority considering the blaring applause each time someone spoke of Quincy’s passion for life and people. Hmmmm… All this mention of Quincy and his life partner—his wife—was noticeably absent from tonight’s festive occasion.
Odd.
I learned so much about Jackson simply by attending his birthday party. I was at the bar when I heard George Clinton’s “Atomic Dog” streaming from the speakers. The room seemed to have narrowed, patrons shifting in from walls at the heeding of beefy bodyguards. I was yanked at the arm by an enthusiastic Clarice, nearly spilling her drink as she threaded through the sea of people. We made it to the outer-banks of bodies and I heard the thunderous stomps and resounding claps nearing. I glanced down the artificial path created, not knowing what to anticipate when I saw a line of men hopping and stepping in different styles, but sharing the same rhythm and movements at some point. They were coordinated, brash and… Led by Jackson.
Holy shi—
I watched on a collapsed jaw as Jackson twirled with athletic virility with his eyes scowling and tongue deployed long and wide from his mouth, appearing like a dog. His shirt was unbuttoned, displaying a smooth plane of muscles that rolled during each leap in the air. His arms alternated from harsh claps to arching out like the Greek Q symbol. On his feet were metallic gold boots.
Jackson was a member of Omega Psi Phi.
So many thoughts populated in my mind. So, that’s where the branding on his upper arm comes from!
It had totally gone over my head, being that I’d never done the traditional undergraduate career. I’d never infiltrated the culture to learn common social groups and pursuits. I was only able to recognize the organization because a fellow grad student from one of my courses was an Omega man and had taken me to a function with his frat brothers. It was small, nothing on this level. I tried to calculate how long the line was. As Jackson passed me, he seemed totally unaware of his surroundings and was in a zone, representing his fraternity with stark concentration. As the train of stepping men hooting and making lewd facial expressions while passing by, I stood there in a daze long past when the last man stepped along. There had to be at least fifty of them in all. Talk about strange discoveries. They wouldn’t end for me that evening.
At some point during the night, the music lowered and the D.J., D.J. Khaled, a music producer and disc jockey of Palestinian heritage out of Miami came into the spotlight. Though he’d barely missed my generation of music, it was my business to know who the movers in the entertainment business were. D.J. Khaled was definitely making a name for himself in Hip Hop.
I shouldn’t have been surprised when Regina Belle, of all people, took the stage serenading Jackson with “Happy Birthday.”
Did Quincy sleep with—
No!
I wouldn’t allow my thoughts to go there. I would just keep the clean, graceful and classy image of the songstress that I’d always had. That Quincy Hunter was a wild man was for sure. I wondered how many of his traits Jackson inherited.
“Where ‘da burfday boy?”—he scratched the record several times—“Where ‘da burfday boy?” He repeated this several times, inciting the crowd until Jackson appeared at the booth with him. Jackson’s smile was well measured, eyes gleaming with contentment as the two men gave each other some dap.
“Yo, man, I remember meeting you like eight years ago, and was blown the fuck away when they told me how old you was.” The crowd when up with hoots, screams and applause, apparently affirming the D.J.’s experience. Khaled tumbled over in a quick chortle. “Yo, for real, man! Your swag was on one hun’ed all the damn time. When I put together you being Quincy’s seed, it automatically made sense. It’s only right for his dun-dun to inherit the king of swag crown that, that dude sported like nobody else man!” Khaled’s delivery was always hyped up, to the point of screaming. It was an organic emcee trait.
I watched as Jackson gave a mild nod of humility, agreeing to the memory of his father.
“Yo, let’s give it up one time for our man, Quincy Hunter. The best to ever do it!”
He played a track and the crowd went up again. Even I found myself clapping with vigor. Jackson, once again, nodded and pumped his fist in the air. He hid his emotions like the best of us. Jackson still didn’t speak about his dad to me with ease. Only when it was relevant to business or when I cashed in one of my questions.
The music lowered again and Khaled shouted, “Q would be proud. I see you celebrating it real big tonight and I ain’t mad. When they called, asking for me to spin for your born day, I said to ‘dem, “you already know…!” Nah mean? And this your joint, man? Anytime you want me to come grace the wheels of steel, it ain’t a question, man!” That earned him more dap from Jackson. “Say something to your guests, man!” The hyped D.J. handed the microphone to Jackson.
The crowd went wild again. I didn’t know how Jackson could handle the fanfare, but he didn’t seem the least bit fazed.
“Yo,” Jackson began, adorning the biggest smile that shrunk his eyes. “I don’t have much to say.” He tented his free hand over his eyes to shade the glaring spotlight on him and perceptively scanned the enormous room. “I’m just looking forward to my cake at the end of the night.”
My thighs clenched at the first pulse of my clitoris. Though being amusing, I understood Jackson’s double entendre. It was a cute…and shocking reference.
“Hold up, we ‘bout to get to that now, whodie!” Khaled shouted into the microphone. “That’s what was next. Roll out the big homie’s cake.” Jackson, still wearing an adorable…and now mischievous grin, shook his head. The D.J.’s eyes grew large in recognition. “Oh, nah? Not that cake?”
“Nah,” Jackson clarified. “The cake I’m talking about having tonight, ain’t nobody else sampling,” he confidently declared.
I squirmed in my seat.
“See, girl,” Marie popped me excitedly on the shoulder from behind. “Jamie don’t know what he be talking about when he say Jackson’s dull.”
And that’s for damn sure…
“Oh, shit!” Khaled exclaimed on a titter. “That type of cake! Where she at?” Khaled gave a cursory glance of the room, mimicking a search.
“Easy, man. I’m just fuckin’ with y’all,” Jackson chuckled, further sending me
into a lecherous zone. I had no idea why I allowed myself to be so affected: he’d be too busy partying until dawn to deliver on that. “She ain’t surfacing…trust!”
I didn’t know how I felt about that. I assumed he was referring to me, but was he? He sounded too confident as though there had been an understanding with him and this lover of his.
Damn…
The alcohol certainly set in. OF COURSE IT’S YOU! YOU DEMANDED DISCRETION!
I flinched at my own scolding.
The night went on. Jackson was presented with a big cake in the image of a photo of his dad and himself when he was school-aged. Why that twisted my chest similar to other affairs of Jackson and Candice that didn’t concern me, I had no idea. I could tell it was a touching moment for him, too, no matter how cool he played it.
About forty-five minutes later, I found myself back in V.I.P., enjoying the view of people watching. Something in my peripheral caught my eye. I turned to my right and in between the beefy guards that patrolled them, I was able to see a woman giving a man a lap dance—and not just any lap dance. This one was skilled. I couldn’t remove my gape as I watched her bent over in a tea-length skirt that was drawn up just above her knees because of her sensual movements on the lap of a spellbound man. I inclined a few inches and recognized Azmir Jacobs with his head cocked to side, raptly observing every inch of his private dancer’s frame. And what a body she had. Her hips were perfectly round above fit thighs and strong calf muscles that were able to keep her steady without hands as she intermittently allowed her ass to touch his pelvis, but clearly didn’t do it relieve her legs. She swirled and popped with perfect precision. Her arms and hands sensually moved into the air or roved over her body in a teasing manner as she gyrated over him. His gaze didn’t shift even when she, at one point, grabbed her ankles and swayed her cheeks inches from his face.
That’s talent!
It was nothing short of a skillset that this woman could capture and isolate the attention of this mogul when there were half naked dancers twirling all around the club. He was aroused. He had to be. My eyes keened in on his lap and sure enough, his impressive erection was present. Holy shit! Azmir was large. My lewd mind wondered if he was as big as Jackson. I shook my head at that inquiry. I couldn’t believe where my mind had ventured to. This was a private moment between the two, even if in a club amongst about a thousand patrons.
Then I sensed him, received his scent before registering his being.
“Rayna has a talent for arresting his attention.” His thick voice, spoken directly in my ear over the glaring music, caressed my skin, causing my lashes to flutter.
When I regained myself, I uttered, “Talent.” That’s the only way I could describe this skillset. To shake the provocative mood they set a few feet away, I shouted over to Jackson as he lent me his ear, “It’s crazy to be in the same room as him. I’ve dreamed of working for him…heading up his public relations. I didn’t know you knew him this well.”
I’d heard lots about Azmir Divine Jacobs over the years. He’d been renowned for his shrewd business savvy and keen eye for trends and setting them over the past few years. His Mauve deal would go down in African American pop culture history. It was unprecedented until the rapper Jay Z did a similar deal with D’USSÉ nearly two years later. Not even Diddy’s relationship with CÎROC, giving his ability to pull them out of the throes of debunk status was as impressive. Azmir Jacobs began his relationship with the Moreau brothers, the original owners of Mauve, as an ambassador of the brandy line. It became so profitable, and literally overnight, that Jacobs became a co-owner of the brand, buying a huge portion of shares. Some say Jacobs strategically took ownership, understanding the power of his brand and being confident in his ability to turn a profit for the Moreau’s.
I was mindful that all of this was just a morsel of his total portfolio.
“Well, don’t try to do it now,” Jackson’s throaty tone broke me from my trance. “I need you on my team.”
Despite myself, I giggled, thrilled by his admittance. Jackson cracked a knowing smirk. He took a swig of his tumbler with a red liquid that I knew without a doubt was a nonalcoholic drink, likely cranberry juice.
“Rayna is a practiced dancer. In fact, the first time I saw her, she was dancing at Divine’s birthday party a few years ago.”
He brought my attention back to the couple displaying tasteful public intimacy.
“She’s doing one hell of a job.” I sighed, thoroughly awestruck.
“You can dance for me like that,” Jackson noted, sipping his drink again.
I scoffed. “First of all it wouldn’t happen here if I could dance.”
“What? You can’t dance?” His brows furrowed.
I supplied a nervous smile in an attempt to cover my insecurities on the subject matter. “I’m a P.K. and we learned one dance…a different type of dance, Jackson.”
“What kind of dance is that?”
“The Holy Ghost dance.” I chuckled at my admission, no longer feeling embarrassed. Jackson was able to relieve me of that with little effort. I could never shock him for some reason. “I mean, I can move sensually, don’t get me wrong.” My eyes travel back over to the Jacobs’. “But I can’t do all of that.”
“Sure you can. I’m your lover; I know you’re capable of it. Have you ever tried?”
I shrugged my shoulders pathetically while casting my eyes afar. I felt uncharacteristically shy, another factor he brought out of me. I didn’t know how, neither did I know why, but he did. I tried to guard myself from it, but tonight I’d had a few drinks and my guard was lowered.
“I’ll get you to dance for me,” My neck snapped in his direction at that declaration. “…and on a pole. I’ll pay you to do it. And you will.” My mouth collapsed. He was getting even bolder, demanding even. “And you’re going to have fun doing it, too.”
His eyes danced on me for a while, swallowing me whole. Similar to moments ago with Azmir Jacobs and his wife, I couldn’t break my sights if I wanted to. Jackson entranced me and it was beyond my tipsy state. He spoke so much through those heavy eyes and clenched jaw. It was more than a sexual communication. It was something that touched the core of me, trying to illuminate my innermost. My soul. How long could I have him, yet resist the disruption of my dark being?
“Jax!” That yelp snapped our concentrated gazing. Jamie was climbing the short set of steps behind Jackson. “They need you at the north side bar. Something about a key to the cellar.”
At that, Clarice stood and shimmied, pulling her silver sequin mini down her thighs. I knew she reacted to Jamie’s presence. It was ignored.
“They ran out of bottles already?” Jackson mused out loud before standing.
He didn’t say goodbye and it was best for him not to. He didn’t know I’d be leaving in minutes, something I didn’t believe was of any circumstance to him anyway. He was free to enjoy his party without me lurking. Clarice, surprisingly, was happy to go home after that. I purposely didn’t broach the topic of why while outside waiting for a cab to be flagged for us.
My eyes sauntered over to the unoccupied pillow next to me. They skirted down that side of the mattress, in search of something that I conceivably knew was not there, neither would be.
You’re trippin’, Elle.
I couldn’t escape the visions of him jumping all around in merriment. He was energetic and bursting with life, as a man his age should have been. I’d never seen him so animated…outside of bed. Tonight, I’d seen a new Jackson. I saw his friends, extended colleagues and even family. At his birthday celebration, I’d experienced a new Jackson.
The enthusiasm expressed earlier was not his usual persona. No. Jackson was more reserved, with a coasting-paced lifestyle. Seeing him so blithe and smiling without guards, unlike the man I worked with and slept with, reminded me of his age. No doubt his next phase would be settling down. Just having an arranged sexual affair would no longer do. I had to stop this. I couldn’t continue to all
ow our intense passion and fluid chemistry on this stray away track. If he wanted more—and one day soon he would—I couldn’t be that person to transition over with.
A knock at my door had me leaping from my bed without thought. My feet skidded across the wooden planks and came to an ungainly stop at the door when I pulled at all the locks and yanked it open with urgency.
“I was expecting a welcoming reception, just not one so expeditious.” Jackson strolled in with an unhurried stride, removing his jacket.
It snapped me from my bubble of stupor. He could have been an intruder! I buried my face in my hands, realizing my lapse in judgment.
“Hey,” he whirred, voice thick, appropriately for the hour. Swiftly, he spun me around, taking me at the waist and pulled my back into his hard front. His soft lips grazed the skin of my neck, provoking a shiver. “I was just coming to inhale my birthday cake. What’s got you so shaky?”
Angel…
“And since when do you sleep in something other than a bra and panties?” he groaned, inching his masterful fingers up my slip and under the lace of my panties.
My belly caved under his touch. I clasped his arm wrapped around me, pinning me to him. My body brewed and my heart ached at the same time. My frame melded into his with little effort as usual, just with a touch of hesitance tonight. My eyes rolled to the back of my head when I felt the sliver of his tongue swiping the area between my neck and shoulder as those skilled fingers traveled closer to my engorged nub. My breathing turned wracked in no time.
“I can’t give you babies,” soared from my mouth just above a whisper.
All of Jackson’s sensual orchestration immediately halted. Those few seconds felt like an eternity.
“I didn’t come over to get babies, doll,” he murmured into my neck, his voice placid.
I squeezed my eyes in the darkened room. “I mean…ever. I would never be able to give you babies. Or…marriage.” My voice was so small—I felt small.
