Pleasure’s deep-set eyes widened in understanding as his mother’s caramel cheeks flushed and she avoided his eyes before breaking into tears that shook her rounded shoulders. He frowned deeply.
“He told me to—”
“Ma!” he exclaimed in disbelief, throwing his hands up in the air. “I’m sorry I asked.”
What the fuck were they doing?
Cara turned her back to him in the chair and dropped her head in her hand.
“No, son, I’m sorry I asked.”
They both looked over to the bed to find Tylar’s eyes on them and his oxygen mask pulled down around his chin.
Pleasure smiled in relief and then turned suddenly to look out the window at the street traffic in a clear move of avoidance as he felt all his emotions surge forward and gather in tears. Tears he refused to let fall.
Losing his father shouldn’t have been a possibility.
“You all right, Graham?”
He nodded and turned with a smile as he continued to blink rapidly. His mother was stroking his father’s closely shaved salt-and-pepper hair, but their eyes were on him.
“Cara, let me talk to him for a second, baby?” Tylar asked, his voice slightly hoarse.
She nodded and pressed a half dozen kisses to his forehead before she left the room with an encouraging look at her son.
Tylar replaced his oxygen mask and took several deep breaths before moving it down onto his chin again. He waved his hand at the chair. Pleasure took the seat.
“You are my son,” Tylar said, shifting his tall frame to sit a bit higher in the bed. “When I was your age I was running wild. Enjoying life. The women. The sex. I didn’t give a damn about anything or anyone but what I wanted... when I wanted it.”
Pleasure kept his eyes locked on his father.
“I thought the world owed me everything. Hell, that was still true up until a year ago,” he said, shifting his eyes to look up at the ceiling. “I hurt a lot of women, son. Your mother included.”
“Dad—”
Tylar shook his head and took another few breaths from his mask. “It took me damn near all of my fifty-one years to realize that I was hurting myself too.”
Pleasure looked pensive.
“I don’t want it to take you fifty years to learn the same lesson.” Tylar raised his arm to slide it under his head as he looked at his son. “You’re young and handsome and you know it. You’re running through women like cheap panties. I knew that. The whole stripping thing is new to me.”
Pleasure covered his surprise well.
“You got more than my looks, son, you got my ego too,” Tylar said. “And I didn’t set the best example of how to treat women.”
“Fuck ’em and leave ’em,” Pleasure said, pressing his elbows into his thighs and folding his hands in the space between his knees.
Tylar shook his head. “That was my motto,” he said. “But then I realized I left so many behind that I was alone.”
They both fell silent, and nothing but the steady beep of his machines filled the air.
“Don’t be so focused on the pussy, son, that you don’t take time to find the right one to share your life with,” Tylar said suddenly.
“I’m only twenty-six, Pops,” he reminded him.
Tylar nodded in understanding. “And before you know it you’ll be thirty-six and then forty-six and fifty-six . . .”
Pleasure chuckled. “I got it.”
“I’m just saying time flies, son.” Tylar used his mask again. “I got lucky when your mother gave me a second chance. I just want more for you, son. Pussy is easy to come by, love ain’t.”
Pleasure nodded, letting his father’s words sink in.
“Just imagine lying in a bed after a major heart attack and not having someone you love—who loves you back—by your side letting you know she’s happy you made it. Imagine that, son.”
Pleasure appreciated his father’s concern, and it nagged at him that his father didn’t even know the half of just how much pussy was a factor in his life and not love. Love was nowhere in sight.
“You make good money?”
He shook his head and laughed. “I do a’ight,” he said, jokingly.
Tylar made a face. “You look like me. You should be doing better than just a’ight . . . make sure your ass not forty still doing that shit.”
Pleasure made a face. “I would be dead wrong for that.”
“Yes the fuck you would.”
The door to the room opened and his father motioned for him to say no more. Pleasure knew then that his father was not going to tell his mother about his stripping, and he was happy for that.
“And don’t forget what I said, Graham. Love over sex always wins in this game called life.”
“Good evening, sir.”
Pleasure nodded at the uniformed door attendant as he held the large ornate door open for him. He entered and crossed the large expanse of the marbled foyer to the gilded elevators with a brief wave to the concierge.
He could hardly believe this had been his home for the last couple of months.
He moved to the small group of residents. Only one of the four elevators was exclusively for the use of the owners of the two penthouse apartments. He eyed the interracial couple standing before that one. The white man in his early forties was Baldwin Grant, a popular and wealthy plastic surgeon catering to discreet celebrities, and the African American woman in her early thirties, Smyth, was his devoted wife.
Everything about him spoke to his well-to-do lifestyle, from the cut of his pin-striped suit and double-knotted silk tie to the beautiful woman draped on his arm. Both cost him well, but the man could afford it.
That’s what the fuck I’m talking about.
Pleasure shared a brief glance with her and she looked offended before she clutched her husband’s arm a little tighter and looked away as if dismissing him.
Whatever.
The elevators slid open. Pleasure was one of the last to get on. He leaned against the wall of the elevator. The metal showed his reflection. His dreads were pulled back from his face, revealing his lean features. The crisp striped monogrammed shirt and dark denims he wore could not hide his tall, muscular frame. The clothes were so different from the athletic gear he always wore, but he figured taking college classes had called for a change in wardrobe . . . when he wasn’t working or tricking.
The elevator came to a stop on the twelfth floor and he pushed up off the wall to ease past the other occupants. He had barely made it inside the apartment and dropped his bag by the door before the doorbell sounded. He opened it and stepped back as Smyth Grant breezed in.
“That was quick,” he said.
“Baldwin had a conference call and locked himself in his office as soon as we walked into the apartment,” she said with a shrug before she turned and lifted the layers of her hair to offer him the zipper to the designer dress she wore.
Pleasure eyed the dark-skinned, slender beauty. Nothing about her was real except for the deep brown tone of her skin. Her shoulder-length auburn weave, the hazel contacts, her double DD breasts, and lipo’ed stomach were all manufactured by her husband, but only genetics and the Great One above could create the skin that was almost as dark as midnight. She reminded him of the model Alek Wek. Smooth. Unmarred. Radiant.
Knowing exactly what she needed, Pleasure unzipped her dress and pressed a row of kisses down her spine. It was his job as her paramour to know her wants and supply them without question.
Two months ago, Smyth Grant, a Dartmouth graduate and heir to her father’s makeup company, had solicited him to be her lover on demand. The position included a stipend and free use of the apartment she’d resided in before she wed her husband. Her only stipulation was that he make love to no other woman during their arrangement. She hadn’t even known he was a stripper when she was initially referred to him, and so she made no claims on that part of his life. Plea-sure didn’t bother to fill her in.
Pleasure had been hes
itant, but he couldn’t deny that her generous stipend and the rent-free apartment left him with plenty of time on his hands. Not wanting them to become too idle and serve as the devil’s playground more than they already did, he decided to enroll in college. Being involved with Smyth had opened up possibilities to him that the hunt for pussy had blocked from his vision for himself. Plus she was decent enough in bed—a bit restrained and seemingly afraid to break a real sweat. No Assefa by any means.
As he unlatched her bra with one move of his finger, Pleasure forced himself not to think of Assefa. It had been a year since he walked out of her house, and he had not been back, just like he said. The blow to her ego—or maybe a testament to the skill she finally acknowledged—had led to her blowing up his phone and even changing her number several times to trick him into picking up.
“Baldwin was asking questions about the apartment,” Smyth said, turning to face him.
He took in her ebony beauty and wished she hadn’t gotten such large implants for her slender frame. It was all very Barbie-like and not to his liking—not enough to keep his dick from getting hard, but definitely not his preference in women.
“I told him I was renting it out for five grand,” she said in between soft whimpers as he massaged her buttocks and kissed her collarbone.
Pleasure didn’t give a damn what she told her husband. The ins and outs of their marriage and the lies needed to maintain the façade were not his concern.
“So if he comes—”
“Do you want to cum?” Pleasure asked as he swung her up into his arms.
Smyth nodded.
“Good.”
With that said, he carried her into the master bedroom and delivered on his promise.
Long after Smyth washed up and changed her panties before returning to the penthouse apartment she shared with her husband, Pleasure was sitting on the ledge of one of the many windows lining the apartment in nothing but cotton sleep pants. His textbook was in his lap as he prepared for a test the following day. Because of his GED and his last-minute decision to start school, Pleasure was attending a community college, but he intended to transfer to NYU to complete his bachelor’s degree in mass communications.
It felt good to have a goal outside of making a woman cum.
Closing his book, he looked out at the varying heights of the many buildings comprising the New York skyline. His eyes were troubled, reflecting his heart, as he thought of his father. He had called to check on him and his mother said he was resting but stable. Still, he was concerned.
A bright spot in the darkness was seeing his parents united.
Turning away from the window, he looked at the stylish décor of the spacious Upper East Side apartment. It was all very Smyth, with its subdued neutral colors and posh accessories to give it a feminine feel.
He didn’t care.
He had given up his apartment in Newark, placed his things in storage, and was saving the money he made from Smyth’s stipend and still dancing to grow his already sizeable bank. Stripping and selling dick was not brag worthy, but it afforded him a nice lifestyle and plenty of savings.
Because her husband lived right upstairs and required her at his side for social events, Smyth was hardly ever underfoot and he was left alone in the luxury she provided. And he took full advantage of being in the middle of an existence so different from anything he knew. Wanting to attain that level of life for himself was part of his motivation to go to college. Pleasure was under no illusions that he could strip and sell dick forever.
Standing up, he stretched his arms high above his head and rose on his toes for as long as he could. Every muscle in his body flexed as he moved. He spread his legs wide and tilted his head back so far that his dreads, now a good length beyond his shoulders, touched his lower back. Lowering his arms, he jumped up and down in place lightly before bending over to touch his toes.
Bzzz . . .
He turned to pick his iPhone up from the pale gold padded window seat. No one had the number for that cell but Smyth, she insisted on that. His trick phone was working, but he kept it powered off with a voice mail saying he was on “extended vacation.” Sometimes for kicks he would listen to the messages a lot of his clients left. Most were annoyed, but a lot were playfully chastising about him holding out or playing hard to get.
He frowned when he opened and read Smyth’s text.
COME UP.
That was a first. In the two months since he’d moved into the building, Pleasure had never been inside the Grants’ apartment. It felt like a major violation to him. So is fucking the man’s wife.
Shaking his head, he slid the phone into his pocket and strolled across the travertine floor to the bedroom to pull on a long-sleeved tee and his Air Jordan sandals. Grabbing his keys and a couple of Magnum condoms, he left the apartment and walked the short distance down the hall among its elaborate architectural features. The elevator was empty as he rode the four floors up to the top level.
As soon as he stepped off onto a rug that could only be Persian, there was just a small foyer with two front doors facing each other. One was to his left and the other to his right. The door to his left opened but Smyth never appeared.
Is this some Law & Order type shit?
He walked the short distance down the hall and pushed the wood door open just enough to peek his dreadlocked head inside. Smyth was leaning against the wall in nothing but a satin robe with tears streaming from her closed eyes, her head tilted back against the wall.
Shit.
Kissing boo-boos—physical or emotional—was not a part of the deal. It was scenes like this that made him avoid a serious relationship.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He stepped inside the apartment, and the grandeur of it made him pause. The high ceilings, views of Central Park, columns and lit marble fireplaces made the apartment downstairs look low-rent.
Smyth pressed her slender body against his as soon as he shut the door. “I want you to fuck me in our bed so I can think about you when he makes love to me,” she said in a whisper against his ear.
“Smyth, this is crazy,” he said.
“He’s not here. He left. He won’t be back,” she said, stepping back to turn and walk away. “He’s with his white whore.”
Pleasure let his head drop. He hated watching soap operas, and for sure he cared nothing about being a part of one.
“I guess he’s tired of dark meat,” Smyth said bitterly as she turned to face him. “But I’m not.”
She untied her robe and let it drape off her thin shoulders, exposing her full breasts and white lace thong that looked brilliant against her skin. “He can have that minimum-wage ho,” she said, her diction making the words seem even more crass. “I have you.”
Pleasure watched as she swiped away her tears and walked over to him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. He had always wondered just why a woman like Smyth would “keep” a man, but now he knew. For her there was power and redemption in not just having a love, but having one stashed right under her husband’s nose. If he thought he was smart, she knew she was smarter.
Pleasure was just a pawn in their chess game.
The doorknob rattled.
Smyth pushed past him to silently but quickly slide the chain lock on the door while she motioned for him to get down behind one of the four couches situated around the spacious living room.
Pleasure threw his hands up in the air, his face incredulous, and did just as she bid; she backed away from the door, tying her robe before she sat on one of the sofas.
Just a moment after Pleasure knelt down, her husband pushed the door, but the chain kept it from opening wide.
“Honey, honey, come take the chain off the door,” Baldwin called through the slim opening.
“I’m coming,” Smyth called out, rising to move to the door.
Ain’t this some bullshit.
“So you didn’t have an emergency at the hospital again?” she asked.
“Dr. Harmon i
s on duty. I asked him to check on the patient for me and call if I’m needed,” Baldwin said.
Pleasure assumed Smyth would lead him out of the living room as soon as possible to allow him to escape the drama. He frowned when he heard them settle onto the couch.
“So we can finish what we started?” she asked, sounding coy.
“I’m tired, Smyth, I just—”
At the sound of their kissing and moaning, Pleasure fought the urge to calmly stand up and walk out. It took him a moment to notice he could see their reflection in the windows. They hadn’t been kissing. It was Smyth on her knees desperately giving her husband head.
Pleasure wiped his eyes with his hand and just shook his head. I must be a magnet for crazy bitches. Rich ones, poor ones. Black ones, Latina ones.
He sat quietly on the floor behind the sofa as Smyth gave her hubby the “happy ending” and all, causing the middle-aged man to squeal like a pig. Pleasure was embarrassed for them both. It was a lot more of Baldwin Grant and his six thin inches than he needed to see. Ever. In life.
“Let’s go to take a bath,” Smyth said, rising and wiping her mouth with one hand while reaching for her husband’s with the other.
Soon their footsteps and voices faded, and Pleasure wasted no time rising and walking out the front door, quietly closing it behind him. He had just stepped on the elevator when his phone vibrated against his thigh in his pocket. He didn’t bother to pull it out.
It was Smyth playing more games—or better yet, feeling as if she had just made a move to checkmate.
Chapter 17
Smyth
Pleasure had become the headliner at Club Trick a long time ago, but he always insisted on performing during the earlier shift on Thursday’s ladies’ night as well. Always. He felt he couldn’t break their ritual. If she—Miss Prim and Proper Pearls—could continue for all these years to never miss her once-a-month show, then he would hold up his end of their unspoken bargain and perform during that five o’clock hour.
There she is.
He watched her take a seat down at the base of the stage in the middle. As Jamie Foxx’s “Blame It” faded out and Usher’s “U Got it Bad” began to play, Pleasure rotated his hips to cause his thick semi-hard dick in a neon green sleeve to swing back and forth as he also worked his abs. He moved his body down to the floor, as fluid as that of a snake, as he imitated fucking in a way that would make her never forget him.
The Pleasure Trap Page 18
