“Definitely in the thousands.” She blushed.
We slapped hands. “I’m happy for you, girl.”
“I’m jealous of you, ya slut.” Nat smiled.
India pushed her playfully. “Whatever.”
“So tell us. What’s his name? Where did you meet him?”
“We ran into each other and got better acquainted the night of Randy’s birthday party.”
Nat tried to recall. “But I didn’t see you with anyone.”
“It’s all about what you didn’t see,” India joked.
“You would pick a party that I wasn’t in town to attend, huh?”
She turned to me. “Oh, that’s right. You weren’t there.”
“No, I was in country-ass Nashville at a Tim McGraw concert.”
Working for BIG COUNTRY had its perks. I traveled a lot, but it was always to attend country music concerts, parties, and clubs. Then I had to come back and hit the airwaves with a smile as I reported on how great it was. After those events were done, I also found a hip-hop club or concert and used my media pass to get my groove on properly.
“Well, is this guy going to be at the party on Saturday?” I asked.
“He might be there. We’ll see.”
“That’s right. Let’s talk about my party,” Nat said.
We spent the next hour and a half ironing out the details for Nat’s party. Being the balla she was, India was picking up the tab. She gave us a $10,000 check and permission to do whatever we wanted. Of course, we didn’t need that much, so we pocketed $2,500 each right off the top and used the rest to throw a party that no one would soon forget.
My share wasn’t actually pocketed. It was already spent. I used it to pay for my all-inclusive vacation the following month. I needed a break not just from everything, but also from everyone. I pretended not to pick up on Damian’s subtle clues to be invited. In fifteen days, I’d be aboard a Bahamas-air flight to Paradise Island in Nassau, Bahamas, where I’d be staying at the world-renowned Atlantis Hotel.
India, Natalya, and I parted ways around nine, leaving me with only three hours free before work. I cruised down Ocean Drive; the beach wasn’t nearly as busy or live as it would be on Friday night because of the Memorial Day Hip-Hop weekend. My apartment was right across the Rickenbacker Causeway in Downtown Miami, so getting home from South Beach was never more than a ten-minute ride. I searched my parking garage for a space and couldn’t help but get excited when I saw Damian’s Hummer. I’m not sure if it was because he had been out of town or because I’d been talking about penises for hours, but chills ran through my body. I was so anxious that I nearly got electrocuted pressing the button for the eleventh floor so hard.
I unlocked my apartment door with a Kool-Aid grin, but found the living room area empty. Miles Davis was blasting from the stereo, which meant that my man was in a good mood, the best mood— a sexual mood. I dropped my purse on the couch, watered my plants, kicked off my shoes, and lit a jarred candle. We had a large, three-bedroom, penthouse-style apartment. One of the spare bedrooms was my home office, and the other was his. I tiptoed past both and continued down the hallway leading to our bedroom. I slowly opened the door and saw him lying in the king-sized bed with our black satin sheets pulled up to his chest. Without him seeing me, I quickly slid my hand down the wall to turn off the light.
Startled, he sat up when the darkness hit him. When he saw me approaching with the candle, his surprised look turned into a smile.
He waved me over. He was on the phone. “Well, thanks for calling. I’ll definitely know something by tomorrow afternoon.” He continued to speak into the phone while he held his left hand out to me. “I’ll have all the details at the meeting.”
I rested the candle on the nightstand and placed my hand in his warm hand.
“Right, right.” He was trying to get rid of the caller. “Yeah, that’s right.” He paused. “Tomorrow. All right, have a good night.”
I sat on the bed next to him. “Hi.”
“Hi back at you.” He moved close to my face. “I missed you.”
“I missed you more.” I squeezed his hand.
He kissed me, and I realized just how much I did miss him. Damian was my lover, my best friend and roommate for the past year. He was also an architect working on opening his own architectural firm. He stood at five eleven and weighed around 180 pounds. He kept himself tight, and my favorite thing to see him in was his skin.
“How was your trip?”
“It was productive. I think we may have landed the deal to design the shopping center, but I’m not certain about the hospital.” He leaned back against the headboard.
I removed my shirt, and he smiled. But I wondered why he wasn’t helping. “So when will you know?”
“By next Thursday. They’re still meeting with other firms.” He leaned over to the other side of the bed and placed the phone on the charger.
I stood up and watched him not watch me as I pulled down my pants. Removing them slowly, I hoped it would interest him.
He looked, but I could tell that he wasn’t into it.
“Hey! What’s wrong?”
He grimaced. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little tired.”
I slid under the sheets next to him. “I’ll fix that.” I allowed my fingers to glide down his chest as I kissed him softly again and again on the lips then smiled. “I’ll give you something to be tired about.” My fingers moved from the smooth surface of his chest to sliding around his abs, like they were wrapped in lotion.
I was confused. “What’s that?” I yanked the covers and saw the transparent fluid plastered like glue to his lower abdominal area. “Thanks a lot.” I rolled my eyes.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “I didn’t know you were coming home right now. I thought you’d be gone until it was time for work. I couldn’t wait.”
I blew out the candle. “Why couldn’t you wait?” I pulled away from him. “You’ve been out of town for a week. Why would you wait until you’re home to jack off?” I jumped up from the bed and headed toward the bathroom.
“Sarai, I missed you. I came home and you weren’t here, but I smelled your perfume, saw your pictures and couldn’t wait. I got hard so I stroked,” he shouted as I walked away, “What’s the fuckin’ problem?”
“You.” I turned and looked at him before I closed the bathroom door.
“Yeah?” he yelled. “Well, fuck you too then.”
I bet the guys at the firm never heard him talk that way.
Dwayne Cart was born and raised in the Bronx, New York. His dad was currently serving life in prison for the murder of his mother, a murder that happened right in front of him at the tender age of nine. From then until he was eighteen, Dwayne was placed in a total of twelve different foster homes. An unruly, violent and troubled soul, he found comfort in joining a gang. After numerous run-ins with the New York City juvenile crime system he used the streets to his advantage, selling enough drugs in high school to pay his own college tuition and have his name legally changed to Damian Carter.
Though he traded in the streets of New York for the Sunshine State, Damian was still very much what I considered a thug. He moved south not only because of a job offer from The Steinbach Group, but also to be closer to the Jamaican and Colombian drug dealers he’d befriended and started conducting business with. Yes, it was safe to say that he lived a double life; it might even be safe to assume that he had multiple personalities at times. The president of the firm, William Steinbach, cherished him as a devoted, brilliant, young and extremely skilled architect. But when he left the office, he became Dwayne Cart, drowning in Sean John gear and strapped with a 9-millimeter pistol, roaming the Miami streets in his white H2. The best thing about it was that Damian was sexy in a suit and even more attractive when he threw on his Tims and baggie jeans.
Seconds after I turned off the shower, I watched the bathroom door open through the fogged-up shower door.
“Why in the hell do you put me throug
h this, Sarai?”
I faced him through the door. “Can I have some privacy, please?”
“No.” He reached for the door.
“Damian, I’m being serious.” I held the door shut and tried not to smile. “Get out of here.”
“No.” He sounded angry.
“Why not?”
He pushed the door open and grabbed my hands. “Not until you ride this dick.”
Damn, he knew how I liked it.
He sat on the toilet and pulled me out of the tub and onto his lap. “Why do you put me through this, huh?” He smacked my butt. “One of these days I’m gonna hurt your ass, with that playing-hard-to-get shit.”
My man knew me well. I rose and fell onto his thick nine inches in-between his sentences.
“You know I just take this pussy when I want it.”
I was melting. I loved to hear him talk that way, and he knew it.
“I don’t have to ask for this, I don’t have to ask for shit. I take it. You missed me?”
“Yes,” I whimpered.
“No, you didn’t.” He smacked my wet ass again.
“Yeah. Yes, I did.”
“Then fuck me like you haven’t had dick in a week.” He took my breast into his mouth.
I did exactly what he asked.
After it was all said and done, I had to take another shower, and he joined me.
Damian knew that I liked dramatic sex, so at least twice a week I brought out the Dwayne in him to hit me with some thug passion. I liked that New York gangsta to handle me like I stole some money from him or was giving away his drugs for free. He could read my moods and decipher when to present me Dwayne or Damian. Tonight was definitely the night that I had out an APB on Dwayne Cart.
Later that night, I hopped around, putting on my jeans, boots, and a shirt. I checked my messages on my office line. I wrote down a few names and numbers, grabbed my keys and the cordless phone on the way to kiss him goodbye. “Baby, I’m leaving.” I entered his office. “Here is the phone.” I quickly went through the caller ID to see who called while I was out or while we were busy. “India called?” I noticed her cellular number on the display.
“Yeah, she called when I was on the phone with Rick.”
“I just left her out on the beach.” I was concerned. “Was she all right?”
“She didn’t say that anything was wrong. She said that she tried you on your cell but you didn’t pick up.”
I looked at my cell phone and saw that I did have a missed call. “I’ll call her on the way to work.” I put the phone on his desk and kissed the back of his bald head. “I love you, boy.”
He grabbed my hand and kissed it before I walked away. “I love you, girl.”
“It’s midnight,” I spoke into the microphone with a sexy bedroom voice. “Is your lover next to you?” I always smiled during my opening. “If they’re not, then Sarah is here to give you a little something to hold on to.”
The station manager, Richard “Country Ass” Motes, thought that Sarai Emery wasn’t “hick” enough for WBIG, so everyone at the station referred to me as Sarah or Sarah E. “I’m here to give you something that you can feel.” I giggled when I said it, thinking of Natalya’s dilemma. “Let me ease your troubled mind.” I had a good ole boy set already lined up: Brooks & Dunn’s “Till My Dyin’ Day,” Trace Adkins’ “Help Me Understand,” Dwight Yoakam’s “The Back of Your Hand,” and Kenny Chesney’s “On the Coast of Somewhere Beautiful.”
By the time I made it home, Damian was heading out the door, his coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other, and a bunch of rolled up plans under his arm. I fixed his tie, gave him a quick smack on the lips, then locked the door behind him.
I caught up on much-needed rest until one in the afternoon; then I mailed out two personalized picnic baskets that were ordered from my site, and responded to the six queries to youplanmytrip.com. I ended the day with a profit of $117; that was a record day.
It was Thursday. I called Nat and discussed the details of her birthday party on Saturday night. Since we were spending India’s money, we went all out. We reserved a private room at BED, a nightclub and restaurant on Miami Beach. At BED, all of the tables were actually king-sized beds, draped in clean, crisp, white sheets and white, fluffy pillows. Patrons ate dinner in beds enclosed by silky sheer material draped from floor to ceiling. Candles helped to provide a sexy and very romantic atmosphere.
The private room that we reserved was designed to comfortably fit eighty people. We were expecting a total of seventy-eight. For $4,000 it included ten beds decorated in our Mardi Gras masquerade theme, an open bar, buffet appetizers, main course and desserts, and our own personal DJ. The “get your freak on” party gift bags ran us $300. We used $200 on the games we decided we weren’t too old to play, $200 on prizes, and $200 on decorations.
My favorite color was purple, Nat’s yellow, and India’s green. We bickered back and forth about the color of the decorations, until Nat decided that we put them together. They were the Mardi Gras colors. Purple sheets were set to adorn the beds, and green and yellow sheers would be falling from the ceiling.
We asked the guests to wear masks, and even talked the chefs into creating a spicy New Orleans-style feast for the party. We had enough beads to keep the party interesting, and even planned on hanging poster-sized pictures of topless women in the room. This was going to be a real Mardi Gras party. Saturday needed to hop a train to Miami. It was not coming fast enough for me.
“Never invest your money in anything that eats
or needs repainting.”
—Billy Rose, in The New York Post
Bank Statement # 2
Account Balance: $25,027.92
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Who is this?”
A tear ran down my cheek just like every other time I talked to him. “This is Sarai.”
“Sa—what?”
“Sarai.” I tried to hold myself together. “Sarai.” I repeated it, hoping to jog his memory.
“What kind of name is that?” He sounded upset.
It was the name he had given to the oldest of his twins, Sarai and Savion. It was the name he wrote poems and songs about, a name he used to smile and scream when I walked through the door.
“Daddy, it’s me.”
Suddenly, I heard a tremendous amount of noise and commotion before I heard the nurse’s voice.
“Hi, Miss Emery.” She was polite. “I’m sorry, your father is having a bad day. He refused his medication again. I’m sure if you call tomorrow he’ll be a little better.”
I could hear him in the background telling her to tell that gal never to call back again. Alzheimer’s was a bitch.
My father’s name was Lawrence Emery. He was just sixteen years old in 1952, when his 14-year-old girlfriend, Esther, turned up pregnant. They were forced to marry and later became the proud parents of not just Lawrence Jr., but also Emerald, James, and Rose.
After twenty-eight years of marriage, at age forty-four, Lawrence left his wife and children and relinquished the family grocery store to his wife, when he met twenty-one-year-old Sarah Irene Peterson, a nightclub singer traveling through Louisiana with a jazz band called the Bed Bugs.
Joining the band on the road, not only did Lawrence become their manager, but also Sarah’s husband. Married only two years, twenty-three-year-old Sarah became pregnant with twins. She begged Lawrence not to cancel shows, promising him that she’d take it easy. However, Sarah Irene fell ill in the middle of January 1976. Everyone thought it was just exhaustion from her hectic performance schedule, but fate took a tragic turn on January 29th when she died in childbirth.
It was rumored that Esther, Lawrence’s ex-wife, who had deep Creole roots, conjured up a voodoo spell to put Sarah and the babies to rest and bring her husband back home. Only a portion of the spell was successful.
Lawrence gathered his babies and belongings and moved to Dover, Delaware. He raised me and my brother, Savion, all alone, never
remarried, and never wanted us to return to New Orleans to meet our half-sisters and -brothers.
Alzheimer’s started plaguing him at the young age of sixty-five. He’d been in a nursing home for a little over a year. The disease was said to be yet another spell cast by Esther just before her death from a short battle with cancer.
I sniffled. “Please let me just say goodbye to him.”
“Well, he’s a bit feisty right now,” the nurse said.
“Just give him the damn phone,” I snapped. I was paying $700 a month to have him in that nursing home, and as long as I was paying her bills, she’d better give me what I wanted.
“Who is this that keeps calling me?” he screamed.
“Daddy, I love you,” I cried.
“Yeah, yeah. If I tell you that I love you, will you stop calling here?”
“Yes.” I was desperate.
“What’s your name again?” he asked.
“Sarah Irene,” I said, as though there was hope. “That’s why you named me Sarah I. Sarai.”
“I said, ‘What your name?’—no time fo’ long talk.”
“Sa-rye.” I sounded it out.
“I love you, Sarai.” He hung up.
With tears streaming down my face, I ran into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of Kendall Jackson’s Syrah.
“What’s wrong?” Damian walked up to me and took the glass out of my hand.
I tried to speak between my heavy breathing. “I just spoke to Daddy.”
“Oh.” He cradled me in his arms. “Baby, I’m sorry.”
I hated talking to my father.
“Why did this have to happen to him?”
As if having my mom die in childbirth didn’t make me crazy enough. Having a father who didn’t remember my name was like dipping me in a pool of alcohol after being clawed by a lion.
“Why?”
“Sarai, I told you to stop calling him so much.”
Going Broke Page 2
