He's Just A Friend

by Mary B. Morrison

  “Don’t worry. I packed last night. And my dad is dropping me off in a few. I’ll call you when my plane lands in Oakland.” She paused then whispered, “I miss you, brother.”

  Darius remained silent. Damn. Although they spoke every day, three to five times each day, he’d practically forgotten about the incident with her dad. Darius hadn’t seen her father since the day, over two years ago, when he’d beaten her father’s ass for causing his mother to hurt her arm and leg. In retrospect, Darius understood Lawrence’s frustrations with his mother because after that physical altercation Darius’s mother gave him the shock of his life. Thereafter, his feelings for his mother numbed his compassion toward women even more. If his mother were a liar, then every other woman was too. Except his lady on the opposite end of the phone. But the feasibility existed, so he couldn’t completely trust her either. What a fucked-up world to live in, Darius thought, when the only person he could trust one hundred percent of the time was himself.

  Forgetting about her dad and his mom, Darius massaged his erection through his pleated slacks hoping she’d continue talking, but hopefully not about her dad. Her voice had him so turned on he wanted to make love. To her. For years. Say something. Anything. Please, his dick urged, her tone repeating in his mind. I miss you. He’d missed her too. But silence lingered in his ear.

  New Year’s Eve this year would be unforgettable. He wasn’t going to propose, but he’d finally gathered the courage to logically express the depth of his love. His birth parents weren’t hers so factually they weren’t related. And since his mom was remarried to her soul mate, Wellington Jones, the man his mother should’ve married instead of Lawrence, Darius felt Ashlee and he were two consenting adults capable of making their own decisions.

  Darius’s flight from Los Angeles would arrive into Oakland International Airport one hour before Ashlee’s plane from Dallas was scheduled to land. His luggage would remain at baggage claim because he wanted to surprise Ashlee by waiting at her gate with a dozen of her favorite long-stem white roses.

  Breaking the silence she finally spoke, “Did you hear me?” Lightly she articulated, “I said, I miss you.”

  Ashlee’s delayed response made Darius believe she was also thinking about him. The cordless phone slipped from between his ear and shoulder so he quickly activated the speaker. “Of course I heard you. I just wanted you to repeat it. That’s all.” He placed his fingers against his thick lips then laid the same two fingers atop the glass frame over her mouth.

  She inhaled then softly said, “I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. How’s that? Turn on your cam so I can see you.”

  No way, Darius thought as he unzipped his pants and squeezed his head suppressing the cum vowing to escape his hard-on. He imagined what she looked like in the nude. Although they’d visited one another for more than ten years—he still had no idea if her nipples were lighter or darker than her breasts. If her pubic hairs were curly or straight. If her clitoris was small or large.

  “Hey, lady. I’ve gotta run. I’ll see you later.” Darius stood. Securing his relaxed muscle into his black silk boxers, he then watched the tiny metal clamps overlap until the last one reached the top.

  His lungs suctioned in the much-needed oxygen for his brain when she exhaled an intoxicating, “Bye.”

  Darius waited until she hung up then removed his tan coat, tossing it onto his chair. He entered the private rest room connected to his office and vigorously rinsed his face with cold water. While staring at his reflection in the mirror, Darius wondered why his mother had lied to him about his biological father? Why she’d waited twenty years to reveal the truth? Why didn’t his biological father, Darryl Williams, Sr., display the same love for him as he did for Darius’s two half brothers?

  Darryl was a former NBA all-star whom Darius had overtly idolized most of his childhood, including the four years Darius started on the varsity basketball team in high school. Darryl was his college basketball coach at Georgetown, which explained why his mother never came to any of his college games. His mother apparently had an epiphany when her mother died and decided it was time for a damn confession. A truth that mentally scarred him. Possibly for life.

  Fuck Darryl Williams! Darius Jones didn’t need anybody but Darius Jones. His beloved grandmother, Ma Dear, the only woman that had never lied to him, would’ve said, “Don’t waste time disliking people who don’t like you when you can appreciate the many people that do love you.” Darius knew Ma Dear was right, but after Ma Dear died disappointment and resentment befriended him.

  Although sometimes Darius drowned in his waterless tears, real men, when their hearts ached with sadness and their souls suffocated from failure, didn’t show signs of weakness. Darius remembered because Ma Dear’s husband, Grandpa Robert, whom she’d joined in heaven, told Darius when Darius was four years old, “Boy, looks like you been crying. Crying is for girls and sissies. Remember that.” Darius never forgot. Tears. Confessions. There was no way Darius would ever let Grandpa Robert down by displaying a wimpish attitude. Sensitivity belonged to losers like Rodney, the undercover bisexual brother who infected his ex-fiancée with HIV. Anger and outrage were more acceptable. Darius thought again, what a fucked-up world to live in.

  Buying his office building and loaning him a million dollars was just another one of his mother’s ways to compensate for her guilt. And he had every intention of making her suffer for the next twenty years or at least until he felt she’d repaid her debt. Everyone was indebted to something or someone. But if his mother hadn’t married Lawrence, Darius would’ve never met his number one lady. So perhaps he should’ve been grateful, but gratitude required expressing feelings.

  Shifting his thoughts back to his lady, he smiled in the mirror, running his fingers over his locks. He gathered each shoulder-length strand in a ponytail then admired the sweet brown succulent flesh hundreds of women had enjoyed feasting upon. Her flight would arrive at ten o’clock tonight. What would she wear to his parents’ ball tomorrow? Hell, it didn’t matter. Possessing the same qualities as his mother, his stepsister always looked great. Just like his ex-fiancée, Maxine. Ladylike. Feminine.

  Why was his childhood so innocent and his adult life so skeptical? As a child he could do no wrong. Women adored him. Fantasies of having his own family. A loving wife who’d only love him and he’d exclusively love her. At one time he believed that was true. Until those two fifth graders told him he could have both of them or his boring girlfriend. She wasn’t boring. She was quiet. There was a difference. But two were definitely better than one. Darius once believed marriage was sacred. Until he witnessed his mother divorcing Lawrence for no good reason other than she wanted another man.

  Why did grown-ups lie about simple shit? Santa? The Easter bunny? Who was this dude Cupid? Someone who was supposed to make him believe he was in love? Most people weren’t. Most people were lonely or afraid of being alone so, good or bad, they clung to the familiar. Not Darius.

  Darius walked out of his corner office, one flight down the back stairway, entered the exit door, stood over his new employee and folded his arms high across his cashmere shirt. Quickly she clicked on the minimize box at the top of her computer screen and the game vanished.

  “Naw, put the screen back up,” Darius insisted, staring over her shoulder. “I wanna see how good you are because obviously you’re no good for my company.” Darius waited. “You’ve got ten seconds. Ten. Nine. Eight . . .” he always counted backward so when he stopped, he was at number one because he was number one. The best at business, politics, economics, sports, and sex. Especially, sex. Darius’s eyes focused on the digital clock at the bottom of the seventeen-inch flat screen monitor. Two hours remaining before his driver would take him to the airport.

  When the screen came into view, Darius pointed toward the door and said, “Get your shit and get the fuck out of my office.”

  “But, it’s the holidays and there isn’t any work to do. I can ex—”r />
  “Don’t waste any more of my time or my money.” He’d warned her in the orientation last month not to use his company’s equipment or services for personal reasons. At the top of the items listed on the acknowledgment form by his Human Resources Director was the computer, followed by the telephone—both cellular and office—supplies, beverages, and so forth. “What’s my mission statement?” Darius asked, watching the woman hesitantly remove his company’s cell phone and credit card from her purse.

  She mumbled, “If it doesn’t make money, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “So, what? You thought I was joking?”

  “But, I can ex—”

  “Explain what! Explain why I’m paying you thirty-five dollars an hour to waste my electricity!” The back of his hand slapped into his opposite palm repeatedly as he continued. “Occupy my space! Drink my coffee! Eat my bagels! And play games on my computer!” Darius threw his hands in the air then said, “That doesn’t require an explanation. The only thing I want to know is how you’re playing a sorry-ass losing hand of three-card draw,” his pointing finger landed next to her score, “solitaire made me money? Prove that and you can stay.”

  The twenty-two-year-old recent college graduate, who was the same age as Darius, silently stared at him, then said, “But everyone in the entertainment business is on vacation except us.”

  “That’s right! And you should be studying the screenplay I gave you yesterday because I specifically told you I need to hand this to my inside contact at Parapictures and give a copy to Morris Chestnut first thing Monday morning. Am I supposed to pay you and someone else to do your job? Huh? Answer me!”

  Calmly she replied with a frown, “Why are you so upset? You’re the one who said your mother’s best friend, Candice Morgan, wrote the screenplay, so obviously Candice will select you as her agent. What’s the big deal?”

  “I don’t care who wrote the damn script! Unless I secure the best deal possible before anyone else—” Darius shook his head. “You just don’t get it. You may have graduated cum laude but you sure as hell flunked basic comprehension.” He grumbled, “Damn, it’s hard to get good help.” Darius paged security from his mobile phone and said, “Escort my new employee out of my building. Immediately,” and went back upstairs into his office.

  How in the hell was he going to maintain an advantage over the other nine companies that were also given a non-exclusive right to shop the hottest screenplay on the market? As much as he wanted to attend the ball, he had no choice. He had to stay home and work. Darius speed-dialed his mother’s number.

  Candice and his mother had fallen out when Candice produced an unauthorized biography of his parents’ love life including all the graphic juicy details his mother had shared with her so-called best friend. That’s what his mother deserved for telling all her business to her so-called trustworthy girlfriend. Women. They all spent too much time analyzing every damn thing, talking too damn much, and complaining all the time. Maybe women were the ones responsible for fucking up the world. First Eve. Then his ex-fiancée. And of all persons, his mother.

  Sighing heavily Darius said, “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, baby, I’m glad you called. I was just thinking about you.” His mother whispered, “Stop, Wellington. I’m on the phone with Darius.” Returning to a normal tone, she asked, “So what time is your flight getting in?”

  “Hi, son!” Wellington’s voice cheerfully resonated in the background.

  Wellington Jones, although he wasn’t Darius’s biological father, was the only male man enough to raise Darius from birth until now. When Darius’s mother revealed the truth, Wellington had said, “You are my son. A very brave man stepped up to the plate and raised me as his own.” Darius recalled how Wellington had shared his adoption history. “I don’t wish this type of devastation on any person. Honestly, I’m disappointed in your mother. But God wants us to learn the importance of forgiveness. You have every right to be mad. Just don’t let your anger destroy you . . . I love you no matter what.” Darius wondered how Wellington could be so compassionate without losing his masculinity.

  “Sorry, Mom. I’m not going to make it. Gotta work. Something important just came up.” Darius couldn’t dare tell his mother her life was the greatest story roaming throughout the industry, because his mother was livid with Candice while Wellington thought how wonderful it would be if another black person could join the ranks of becoming a millionaire. His dad felt there was no direct harm to them. Wellington’s only request was that Candice change the names.

  “Darius, you work too hard. You just started in this business. Give it some time, honey. You’ll get the next movie deal and I bet it’ll be a more lucrative contract.”

  “Mom, you don’t understand. There’s no such thing as working too hard. If I get this deal, my reputation will soar internationally. Mark my words. Darius Jones will instantly become a household name because this is a script all nationalities can relate to. Mom, somebody’s gotta be on top. There’s those who do and those who don’t. And those who don’t never come out on top. Gotta go. Gotta work. Happy New Year, Mom, and tell Dad I said the same.”

  “Well, honey, if you insist. But before you go, how’s your proposal coming along?”

  “Not as well as I thought. I just fired the person assigned to put together my presentation. The meeting for selection of an agent is Tuesday morning. Every interested agency is going to pitch why they should represent Candice. I have a meeting with my inside contact person at Parapictures on Monday. And if I’m lucky, Morris will show up as promised to the meeting.”

  “Okay, baby. Now, I’ve got to go. Your dad is trying to—never mind. I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.”

  “Yeah, Mom. I know. Bye.”

  Darius gazed at the family photo, dialed his travel agent, and arranged for Ashlee to take a flight into Los Angeles.

  The following is a sample chapter from Mary B. Morrison’s eagerly anticipated upcoming novel

  NOTHING HAS EVER FELT LIKE THIS.

  It will be available in August 2005, wherever hardcover books are sold.

  CHAPTER 1

  A woman didn’t have to stand on the corner to become a prostitute. All women at some point in their lives have exchanged pussy for goods and services. The best tricksters could barter for homes, cars, diamonds, furs, and enough cash to maintain a five figure bank account. The unsophisticated females, oblivious to how much men would pay to bust a nut or have their dicks sucked, were happy with a movie, a meal, and a few lies about how much the man loved her. The naïve chicken-heads came out of their pockets with top dollars, leasing their showcase men, not realizing that gigolos were always on auction awaiting the next highest bidder. No matter what the circumstances or consequences were: Men needed to get laid. Women wanted to get paid.

  “Females! Fuck!”

  Darius yelled, thrusting his fist, parting the gushing water with the force of his hand. Starting the New Year masturbating in the shower wasn’t his idea of pleasurable sex but it was safe. At least he didn’t have to worry about allegedly getting another feline pregnant. Tricksters spelled financial security b-a-b-y.

  “The next female kickin’ it with me better not have the word baby in her vocabulary,” Darius said aloud to himself, massaging his dick under the water. “Darius, please baby, just put it in one more time. Baby don’t leave, I’m not finished cumming yet. Oh, baby, your dick is so good,” Darius mimicked. “Please, baby, please my ass.” Stroking his dick with each syllable, Darius said, “I’ll beat my shit every day befo’ I get suckered in by another leeching-ass woman.”

  Warm streams of water, pounding against Darius’s muscular neck and shoulders, drenched his locks. Darius admired his caramel reflection, illuminated by candlelight, that danced on the glass shower door. Massaging the creamy body wash onto his well-defined chest, Darius’s hand slid along the crevices on his abdomen, over his inward navel, then teased his curly dark chocolate pubic hairs. Cupping his balls, Darius squeeze
d his nuts, watching his dick grow longer.

  “Damn! Women are straight up scandalous.”

  Didn’t matter if the fe-fe was a VP, VIP, stay-at-home wife, his wife, his sister, a lover, an employee, an associate, a groupie, a counterpart, smart, fine, dumb, ugly, dumb and ugly, a model, a hooker, a Christian, his best friend, or his mother. The one thing Darius knew women shared in common was placing an invisible price tag on their pussies.

  “If I give you some, what you gon’ do for me?” Undercover prostitutes in denial like he owed them something. If anyone was getting paid, it should’ve been him. Hell, Darius did most of the work most of the time. Darius didn’t mind working for his, but the lazy females were history. The next woman he met had to be physically fit, no exceptions. Females unable to ride Slugger for five minutes straight without falling off or holding on had to get up off of his dick and out of his bed. He’d cum within five minutes and if she didn’t get hers, oh well, she could work for it or take her lazy ass to a gym and learn how to work it out.

  Women were simple and Darius didn’t mean in a basic kinda way. Ignorant. Shysters. Dick-headhunters. The sweeter the pussy, the higher the ransom: Husband Wanted, Medical Benefits Needed, Rent Overdue, Children Gotta Eat, Desire a Trip to Paris, Pussy Needs Recreational Lickin’ and Stickin’ While Man is Away.

  And the tag lines were consistent, “Here’s my number Darius, call me on my cell. Hit me on e-mail, Daddy. Oh, what the hell, you can come on over to my place.” On the first date? Damn! But if all he wanted to do was hit it, Darius was down for banging a female’s cranium against the headboard so hard that he cared less about remembering her first, last, or nickname, never taking her public, and never seeing or calling her again. The easier the woman, the cheaper the pussy. Cheap pussy was not on his list of chicks to do. Some females—just because he was rich—were so dumb, they’d do anything to lay with him. Those were the ones who got nada, nothing, zilch.