SaVoy’s special day was complete when Papa told her about her mother. They sat in the family room. Vanessa went into Papa’s room and closed the door.
Papa sat quietly for a while, then said, “Your mother abandoned you when you were six months old. She claimed she wouldn’t make a good mother. She was afraid. Said she was depressed. Too young to be a mother. Something about postpartum blues. I told her ‘if you leave us, don’t come back.’ I thought that would be enough to make her stay. Since she didn’t, I figured she was seeing someone else or her family had disowned you because I was black. What kind of woman would leave her child?”
“Oh, Papa.” SaVoy held her father’s hand. “I don’t know. But don’t hate Mama.” SaVoy squeezed her dad’s hand. “I have so many questions.”
“She’s alive and doing well from what I hear. Last I heard she was living in Sacramento. I think she still lives there. I hope you forgive me. If you want to meet her, I’ll find her.”
“Do you have any pictures of her?” SaVoy wanted to see the woman she prayed for every night.
Papa left and came back with one four-by-six photo.
The pregnant white girl in the picture looked to be about fifteen. She was beautiful and SaVoy felt as though she was looking at a picture of herself when she was that age. She cried uncontrollably. Papa held her close.
SaVoy couldn’t imagine how a child could raise a child. No high school degree. No steady income. That must have been hard. Especially for Papa. Papa was seventeen when SaVoy was born and they lived with his parents until she graduated from the sixth grade. That’s when Papa had finally saved enough money to buy the store. The store. SaVoy thought about her first kiss with Tyronne. Now she understood how young girls could become lost in the fantasy. SaVoy was thankful she had the Lord, Papa, Vanessa, and her virginity. And soon, her mother and Tyronne.
CHAPTER 16
Fancy sat in Byron’s living room waiting for him to come home. Where was he? Who was he with? Who in hell did Byron think he was, standing up Fancy Taylor? Sure he’d canceled dates with her on several occasions, but never had he not shown or called.
All dressed up, Fancy had sat in her lobby talking to the doorman for almost an hour. No way was she going back upstairs to her apartment after all she’d gone through to get ready. Manicure. Pedicure. Body scrub. She’d personally done all three. When Fancy arrived at Byron’s, several cars blocked the driveway so she’d found the closest space available, two blocks away, that didn’t have a street cleaning sign posted. Usually when she used her keys, she left the outside light on to let Byron know she was inside. Not tonight. She had to see or know whoever or whatever was more important than her.
Nine o’clock. Ten. Eleven. Fancy heard a noise outside. She tiptoed from the sofa to the door—trying not to bump into any objects in the dark room—and peeped out the window. Those got damn black-eyed raccoons were ransacking the neighbors’ garbage cans. Fancy opened the door and yelled, “Get away from here!”
One raccoon covered his eyes; another ignored her and continued searching for food; while the third raced toward her. Bam! Fancy slammed the door. The last thing she needed was to contract rabies from an oversize rodent. She ignored the raccoon furiously scratching on the door. If she were lucky, the crazy raccoon might bite Byron in the ass and give him rabies. Then, right before Byron died, she could marry him, claim his inheritance, and live happily ever after.
Twelve o’clock. No Byron. Fancy scrolled Byron’s caller ID, then dialed star seventy-two and forwarded his calls to her cell phone. Don’t be irrational. That would definitely piss Byron off enough for him to end the relationship. Fancy dialed star seventy-three, listened for the interrupted dial tone, then hung up.
The black wool blanket they usually cuddled under to watch movies covered her body as Fancy curled into a fetal position on the sofa. Two of the three cushions shifted forward. Her shoulder, side, and butt bridged the gap. Instead of relaxing, uncurling her body, and repositioning the cushions, Fancy tucked her knees closer to her naked breasts and dozed off.
When she awakened, the lit digital clock on Byron’s stereo displayed three, zero, zero. No Byron. Fancy sat, wondering if she shouldn’t just go home. Four, zero, zero. The more she thought about leaving the angrier she’d become. Where in the hell was he? Daylight had beaten Byron to his doorstep. “Forget this. I’m out.” Fancy gathered her thong, shoes, dress, and purse from the bedroom and tossed them on the edge of the sofa.
Her heart thumped in her throat as she heard laughter outside the door. Fancy’s eyes tightened when the melodic laughter of a woman’s voice penetrated the solid oak wood. Fancy stood behind the door anxiously waiting for it to open. Where were those damn raccoons when she needed them?
“You are so wonderful. I enjoyed myself immensely but I enjoyed you even more, baby,” the woman said.
Fancy backed farther into the empty corner.
“You haven’t seen anything yet. I’ve warned you. I’m single. Never married. No kids. You sure you don’t want to work on conceiving Byron Junior tonight?”
“Oh, hell no!” Fancy yelled as she forcefully opened the door, prying the knob from Byron’s grip. When Fancy saw the woman, her mouth fell open. Fancy froze.
Byron calmly said, “Why did I know you’d be here? Maybe because you parked my Benz down the street from my house.”
The woman extended her hand to Fancy, “Hi, I’m Byron’s friend, and you are?”
That shit was not funny. Fancy thought about breaking Byron’s expensive vase over the woman’s head. Then she stared at a more expensive painting hanging on the wall.
Byron said, “I wouldn’t do that, Fancy, if I were you. Carlita, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” Byron picked up Fancy’s shoes, handed them to her, and exited the room.
Carlita sat on the sofa beside Fancy’s clothes and said, “So how does it feel?”
Fancy opened the door and said, “You are not welcome here. You need to leave our home.” Fancy stomped her foot, then said, “Now!”
Carlita didn’t flinch, twitch, or budge. “Having someone take your man doesn’t feel good, now, does it? Don’t worry. You’ll get him back. Tomorrow. But tonight I’m going to teach him a few new techniques, then he can try them on you. Tomorrow.”
Fancy aimed her magenta spiked heel at Carlita.
Byron walked in the room with a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Fancy, why are you still here? Either you leave on your own, or I will have you escorted out. You have exactly five minutes to decide.”
Who in the hell did he think he was talking to?
Byron sat beside Carlita, poured two half glasses of merlot, and said, “So where were we?”
“Umm, I’m going to have my baby’s baby, remember?”
Snatching the painting from the wall, Fancy raised the mahogany- framed Darryl Thompson original print in the air. The heaviness weighing on her shoulders rattled her body.
“Wake up. Wake up! Are you okay?” Desmond asked. “You must have had another bad dream.”
Fancy closed her eyes real tight, then opened them. She looked at Desmond but saw the vivid scenes from her dream. Fancy’s breasts heaved against Desmond’s chest. Damn. Thoughts about Carlita had seeped into her subconscious. Watching Carlita and Byron interact at SaVoy’s party was awkward for Fancy and she’d noticed the same uneasiness in Desmond’s reactions. Byron and Carlita barely spoke to one another five minutes but it was apparent they were very well acquainted. Was it equally obvious to Byron and Carlita that Fancy and Desmond were intimate?
“Just hold me, Dez,” Fancy said, grasping his back.
“I love you, Fancy. But I’ve gotta go.” Desmond paused, then said, “Make that we’ve gotta go, to work. But if you need me to stay, you know I will.”
“Go. I’ll be fine.” Fancy turned her back to Desmond and said, “Call me later.”
Fancy gazed out her patio window. The sun was rising and seagulls were flying in front
of the blinding orange ball creeping above Oakland’s east hillside. The cloudless sky carried warm sun rays into her patio but Fancy knew although it was June, it was fifty degrees or below outside. A mirage. Just like her life. Just like Desmond had said. Fancy was not looking forward to leaving for work at eight o’clock. There was no parking place reserved for her at BART. The direct deposit pay wouldn’t credit to her account until midnight. She could use her last few dollars to get to and from work or Fancy could roll over and go back to sleep and tomorrow, pretend this day never happened. Sleep. Dream. Fancy decided she needed to stop exclusively dating Byron. The more men she had in her life, the more money and options she had. Okay, the decision was final. Ride BART. And find a new sponsor.
Sitting at her desk, Fancy gazed at Byron’s five-by-seven framed photo. He was especially handsome in his olive-colored slacks and black crew neck sweater. Byron was the first and only man she’d allowed herself to fall deeply in love with. Fancy tried to recall at what point she had fallen in love with Byron. Was it after their first date? First kiss? Before he bought her the car? Whatever happened to Darius Jones? He was the sponsor, husband, man she needed. Byron hadn’t mentioned Darius lately. Was she really in love with Byron? What about Desmond? How did she honestly feel about Dez?
Of the two prospects she’d met on her way to work, neither was worthy of having her card. Byron hadn’t proposed or agreed to a commitment so why did she feel as though she were cheating on him while talking to the other men? Her emotions were truly out of synch. Mandy could help. Oh, that’s right. Fancy had forgotten she owed Mandy for their last session. Oh, well.
The telephone rang several times before Fancy realized it was ringing. Hoping the blocked number was Byron’s, Fancy slowly said, “Speak to me.”
“Hey, girl. It’s five after five. I wasn’t expecting you to answer the phone this late in the evening. How are you?” SaVoy’s voice was perky.
“I’m fine. Waiting for Byron to call. We’re going out to dinner. What’s up with you?” Fancy asked, lusting at Byron’s image while clenching Miss Kitty between her thighs.
“Have you spoken with Desmond lately?”
“If this morning qualifies, yes. Why?”
“I was just wondering if he had mentioned Tyronne because I haven’t seen or heard from him since my party.” The perkiness in SaVoy’s voice subsided into a light quiver.
Fancy imitated the seriousness in SaVoy’s tone and said, “You haven’t seen or heard from me either.”
“Oh, Fancy. That’s different.”
“I could understand if a month had passed, but, girlfriend, it’s only been, what, a week or so since your party.”
“Never mind, Fancy.”
“If you must know, no. Desmond has not mentioned Tyronne, so Tyronne must be okay. I warned you about those big dicks. You’d better stay away from Tyronne.”
“It’s not like that. Look, can I have Desmond’s phone number?” SaVoy asked.
“Did I tell you where Byron is taking me tonight?”
“Fancy. I know you heard me.”
“Girl, you’ve got it bad and you haven’t even had any yet. Desmond’s cell number is five, ten . . . Bye.” Fancy hung up the phone because if SaVoy was that impatient, she wasn’t interested in chatting.
Fancy stared in the mirror wondering how much longer she could hide the new growth under her tracks. This morning she’d spent an extra thirty minutes pressing the edges. She had one more hour before Byron arrived so Fancy logged on to the real estate Web site and studied for her exam.
When the phone rang, Fancy answered, “Speak to me.”
“Fancy, I need to see you in my office,” Harry said, then hung up.
“Uh.” Fancy sighed heavily. She smoothed her cream-colored skirt over her garter and stockings. Running her hands over her breasts, she straightened her waist-length long-sleeve jacket and left her door open in case Byron called. Fancy strolled into Harry’s office.
Harry closed the door, then instructed, “Have a seat in my chair.”
Fancy sat in Harry’s chair and crossed her legs, intentionally exposing her garter. “What’s up? I’m surprised you’re working so late on Friday. No plans with the wife tonight?” Despite Fancy’s attempts, Mrs. Washington hadn’t divorced Harry.
Harry propped one leg on the edge of his desk and leaned toward Fancy. He removed his jacket and laid it on the desk beside him. “You look nice. You always look nice, Fancy. How about we go out someplace nice tonight. Would you like that? I’d like that.” Harry loosened his tie. His eyes were glazed.
Fancy casually answered, “Oh, I can’t. I already have plans.”
“Well, I hope those plans include working off the twelve thousand dollars you charged to my business account.” One of Harry’s hands hoisted his belt. Zip. Fancy watched in disbelief as Harry stroked his dick. Her heart pounded as she uncrossed her legs, regretting all the times they’d had sex in his office.
“That’s Mrs. Washington’s job. Not mine,” Fancy said, squinting at Harry.
“Well, I’ve just added it to your job description. If you don’t get him back down, I’m gonna have to write you up for insubordination. Maybe even fire you.”
Fancy stood. Lifted her skirt so Harry could get a good visual of the red thong. “Write this up, Harry,” Fancy said, slapping her own ass.
Harry stood. Grabbed the back of Fancy’s weave and slammed her against his desk. “You think I’m some kind of a joke?”
“What the fuck are you doing!” Fancy yelled. Each time she lifted herself off the desk, Harry forced her body flush against the large black-and-white calendar pad.
She felt his pants slide against her thighs, legs, then they dropped behind her ankles. “Harry, please. Don’t do this. I’ll pay you back. I promise,” Fancy pleaded as his dick moved her thong aside and slid inside her vagina.
“You know you want me. And you know I don’t care about the money. So let’s stop playing games. You screw me. I screw you. And everybody’s happy.” Harry pressed both hands into her shoulder blades. His dick glided back and forth like he was enjoying every stroke. “I love you, Fancy.” His rhythm increased. “Oh, how my heart bleeds for you.” Harry started breathing hard. “I’m cumming baby. Daddy’s cumming. Ow. Ah. Here it comes.” Harry thrust deep and held himself inside. “Uuhhh!” The pulsation of his release came in waves as Harry jammed himself farther inside. He collapsed on top of Fancy, kissing the side of her lips as the opposite side of her face pressed against the desk. “I really do love you,” he said, standing straight and reclaiming his limp dick.
Fancy didn’t move. Her eyes fluttered as the box of wet wipes landed next to her head.
“Clean yourself up. I’ve gotta go.”
Fancy’s eyes squinted as she heard her telephone ring. Her fingers curled around the crystal paperweight. She picked it up and shouted, “Muthafucka!” then slammed the pointed edge against the side of Harry’s head. “Muthafucka! I hate you! You gon’ pay for this shit, Harry Washington!” Fancy’s arm reared back. She wanted to hit Harry again and again until he felt her pain. Harry grabbed her hand. Fancy watched the blood stream down his face. The collar of his shirt changed from white to red.
“You’re fired! If you show your trifling ass up here Monday morning, I’ll have you arrested. You hear me! Arrested! You know, you can go to jail for this shit!” Harry touched the blood streaming down his temple.
Fancy straightened her G-string, pulled down her skirt, and said, “Harry Washington, you are going to wish you never met Fancy Taylor.” Running into her office, she locked the door. Fancy wanted to cry. What made Harry treat her that way? What had she done to deserve this? What gave Harry the right to rape her? Fancy laid her head on her desk and cried.
Her phone rang several times. Fancy sniffled, then answered, “Hello.”
“Hello? What happened to my special greeting?” Byron asked.
“I have to cancel. Call me tomorrow.” Fancy dried he
r tears.
“What’s wrong, baby? I can hear it in your voice. What’s wrong?”
“My mother. She’s sick.” Fancy hadn’t lied because Caroline’s condition had gotten worse. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Fancy stopped in the rest room and locked the door. She combed her hair, replenished her lipstick, removed her stockings, and put them in her purse. She removed her soiled thong, wrapped it in white paper napkins, and placed it beside her stockings. She brushed a dry paper towel over her clothes. The dark marks streaked across the front of her jacket and silk blouse. Fancy smiled in the mirror. “Don’t walk out looking like a victim. Compose yourself. Hold your head high. No one knows what just happened to you.” Unlocking the door, the only footsteps Fancy heard until she reached the lobby were her own.
Honk. Honk.
Fancy kept walking.
Honk. Honk. Honk.
“Fancy, it’s me, Byron.”
Fancy had bypassed Byron’s black Benz without noticing. She walked over to him.
“Hey,” Byron said, hugging her. “How you doin’? I was worried about you. Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Just had a rough day. I just want to go home.”
“Sure. That’s fine. But what were you doing? Cleaning out your file cabinet or something?” Byron said.
Fancy sat quietly. If she ignored Byron, maybe he’d shut the hell up or at least stop asking so many damn questions. Byron turned on his commercial free classical jazz station. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, caressing her thighs.
Fancy bit her the corner of her bottom lip. Please stop asking questions.
He's Just A Friend Page 13
