Between the Sheets (9781476775807)

by Cairo

  “Yeah, well, you’re the one who had to fuck her like you loved her. Now you got this bitch thinking you’re in love with her.”

  I frowned. “I wasn’t making love to her. I fucked her.”

  She grunted. “Well, tell that bitch that. It looked that way to me. So I can see why she’d get it in her nutty-ass head that you have a thing for her.”

  I sighed. “See. Now you’re blaming me. You’re talking like I invited that broad into our lives to harass us. How was I supposed to know her ass was unstable?”

  Silence.

  “C’mon, baby. Look. I don’t wanna beef with you. This is the shit that broad wants us doing. Going at each other. You know this isn’t even us.”

  “Do you want that bitch, MarSell?”

  Real shit, when she came at me with that, heat washed all through my veins, had every fucking vein in my forehead and neck pulsing. I frowned. “Are you fuckin’ serious right now, yo? Vous parlez baise fou!”

  She huffed. “Oh, now you want to speak in French, knowing I don’t know what the hell you’ve said. So typical.”

  I sighed. “I said, you’re talking fuckin’ crazy now.”

  “Oh, am I? Well, crazy is the bitch that just left here telling me she wants my husband because she knows he loves her.”

  Hands curled into a fist, I got up and punched a hole in the wall, barely missing a beam. “What the fuck, man! No, I don’t want that broad. You think I’ma throw away fifteen years with you for some one-night stand that we both wanted to fuck?”

  Silence.

  “What, now you’re gonna ig me?”

  “I’m tired, MarSell. I’m drained. And I’m going to sleep. I’ll talk to you when I get home.”

  She’d hung up on me. But fuck what ya heard! Two hours later, my ass was in Atlantic City and I was the one banging on her room door. Believe that.

  I snap out of my reverie when my door opens and in walks Carlos. “Hey, what’s good, playboy?” he says, shutting the door behind him.

  “Nothing, man,” I say, getting up and walking around my desk to give him dap. “What’s good with you?”

  He takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk. I sit back in the chair behind my desk. “Nothing much, man. You know, just tryna put the finishing touches on this album. Laila’s interested in being featured on my joint, ‘Unforgiveable.’ ”

  I nod my head, digging the idea. “Oh, aiight, aiight. That’s definitely a good look. The two of you together spitting that hot, sexy shit will be straight fire.”

  “Exactly. And since we’re label mates, who are both sexy as fuck, it’s a win-win.”

  I chuckle. “Man, listen to ya ugly-ass. You stay suckin’ ya own dick.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, well, it beats letting another muhfucka do it.”

  Suddenly the room fills with an awkward silence. Then Carlos gives me this strange look, as if there’s something else on his mind.

  I shift in my seat. “What, what’s good, yo? Why you giving me that look?”

  “Nah, man. It ain’t nothing. Just some bullshit; that’s all.”

  I frown. “Aiight, then holla at me with it. If there’s something on your mind, speak your piece, bruh.”

  He leans up in his seat. “We’re boys, right?”

  My brows bunch. “Yo, what the fuck you mean, ‘we boys, right?’ You know we fuckin’ boys, niggah. For life. Where’s this coming from, man?”

  “I need to know.”

  I eye him suspiciously. “Man, fuck outta here with that. I can’t believe you’d ask me some shit like that. You already know what it is.”

  “True, true. I just need to know I can trust you to always keep it straight with me no matter what.”

  “Man, fuck. Say what you gotta say.”

  “Well, you’ll probably feel some kinda way for me even coming at you with this, but you know how punk-ass muhfuckas in the industry like to gossip…”

  I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, and?”

  “Well, there’s this bullshit-ass rumor going around that you’re on the DL.”

  I shoot him an incredulous look.

  He repeats himself. Tells me some muhfucka said some shit about me being on the down low and that Marika and I have some kind of open understanding.

  I frown. Although I was aware that there’d been talk over the years of muhfuckas speculating behind my back how I get down behind closed doors, no one has ever been bold enough to step to me with the shit.

  And the one time the shit popped up on some blogger’s website and in some blind item celebrity gossip, instead of going on the defense, Marika and I agreed to ignore the shit. Muhfuckas can think what they want.

  “Man fuck outta here.”

  Carlos leans forward in his seat. Looks me dead in the eye, and says, “You know I don’t get caught up in bullshit like that, but this is like the third time I’ve heard this over the last several years, and I always igged that ignorant shit. But last night, man…” He shakes his head. “I had to check this muhfucka for coming out of pocket. The muhfucka was talking real slick, and I wasn’t digging it.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Who was it?”

  “Man, it doesn’t matter.” He opens and closes his fist. “Hatin’-ass muhfucka, that’s all. Niggah mad ’cause his shit got dropped. I handled it.” I peep his swollen knuckles, and it’s clear: He took it to the muhfucka’s head. He eyes me. “So is it true?”

  I swallow. Now it’s my turn to look him dead in the eye, and say, “Hell naw, muhfucka. I ain’t on no down low shit. That DL shit is for pussy-ass niggahs. I’ve never crept on Marika to rock with some muhfucka in the sheets.”

  Well, it’s not a lie. I’m not DL. And I’ve never slid off to chill with a muhfucka behind Marika’s back. And I never will. Don’t get it twisted. Being DL and bisexual are two separate things. I’m not with that DL shit; period, point blank.

  “Oh, aiight. I didn’t think so. I’ve known you for years and have never seen you look at another muhfucka, licking your lips or winking at his ass.”

  That’s because I know how to move, muhfucka.

  “Nah, that’s not me, playboy. I love pussy. And lots of it.”

  No lie there.

  And having a muhfucka suck on this big, thick-ass dick…

  “But I’ma say this, man. Real shit, I wouldn’t give a fuck if you got down like that or not. We boys. Always have been; always will be. But I’d be kinda hurt that you couldn’t trust me enough to share something like that with me.”

  “Man, I appreciate you, real shit. But being a DL muhfucka is one rumor you can def ignore. And that’s fact.”

  And, nah, niggah, I’m not about to offer up being bisexual to you or anyone else. But on some real type shit, if he asked me if I was a bisexual muhfucka, I’m not so sure I’d tell him. I mean, what the fuck for? As far as I’m concerned, shit like that only matters if you’re tryna rock in the sheets with a muhfucka. And, yeah, it isn’t a secret how Marika feels about having him beneath the sheets with us, but we know that’s not about to happen so there’s no need in him knowing how I get down.

  Boys or not.

  He glances at his Rolex. “Yo, let me get up outta here. I’m meeting up with Laila real quick.”

  I stand. “Oh, aiight, that’s what’s up.” I walk around and give him dap, and a brotherly embrace. He presses his body into mine.

  “Damn, muhfucka, get ya dick up off me,” I say, playfully nudging him back.

  He cracks up laughing. “Yo, B, you shot the fuck out, man.”

  He walks toward the door. “Yo, come get at me later tonight on the court. Me and a few other cats are tryna get in a quick pickup game. Paper on the table. Fifteen hundred a point. You down?”

  “No doubt. Whose team am I playing on?”

  He grins. “Mine, muhfucka. Who elses?”

  “Oh, aiight. Tell them muhfuckas, then, to get their money up.”

  He laughs. I eye him, shaking my head as he walks out the door. The minut
e the door shuts, I flop back in my chair, wondering who the fuck is flapping their jaws, running their muthafuckin’ mouth about me.

  Fuck.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Marcel

  One week later, Marika and I are in Monte Carlo, Monaco for the Twenty-Fifth Annual World Music Awards, an international award show designed to recognize the world’s best-selling artists in various categories, hosted at the world-famous Salle des Etoiles. Although I wasn’t really beat for coming out here, I knew not coming wouldn’t be a good look.

  So here we are.

  I glide my hand over Marika’s hip. She rests her hand over mine. Her sexy ass is wrapped in a beaded, form-fitting couture gown. The sight of her makes blood rush to my dick.

  I lean into her ear, and whisper, “I wish I could take you somewhere and slide this dick up in you real quick.”

  She smiles. “Not yet, but soon. I’ll have my lips sliding down over that long, delicious cock of yours, coming all over it.”

  “Damn…” I groan. “You’re killing me, baby.”

  She chuckles. “Softly, I hope.”

  “Always.”

  I scan the room and peep Alicia Keys taking a photo with Rihanna. Someone says something that makes the two of them laugh and share a sisterly embrace.

  “And look what the angels have blessed upon us,” I tease, nodding my head in the direction across the room.

  Marika gasps. “She looks so fucking gorgeous,” she whispers, slinking her arm through mine.

  Nairobia sashays over wearing a long, flowing, ultra-sheer dress that hangs off her smooth shoulders, showcasing her long legs, tiny waist, mouthwatering tits, and magnificent ass. The only things covered—barely—are her nipples and pussy. As usual, her dress leaves nothing for the imagination, and every muhfucka in here is envisioning fucking her, her legs wrapped around them, swimming in her juices. Heart stopping, jaw dropping, real shit…Nairobia Bryant has a body made for all-night fucking.

  All eyes are on her. Conversations go on pause as she saunters by, and muhfuckas soak her in. The flimsy garment she’s rocking parts down the front, and causes muhfuckas’ eyes bulging from sockets. She looks like an Egyptian goddess.

  My dick starts to stir as she nears, her expensive perfume swirling around me and making my mouth water.

  Marika slyly slides her tongue over her glossed lips.

  “Marika, my sweet,” Nairobia coos, voice throaty, smile wicked. “You look ravishing.”

  “So do you. And you’re wearing the hell out of that dress, girl.”

  She waves Marika on. “What, this old rag? Darling, please.” They giggle, then lean in and air kiss.

  “You smell divine.” Nairobia squeezes Marika into her. “My tongue thickens to taste you, my darling. You know how to get my sweet juices flowing.”

  Marika flushes with heat. “Oh, hush,” she whispers. “Seeing you, and I’m already a wet river.”

  “Damn,” I groan low. “Both y’all about to have me nut in my drawz.”

  Nairobia eyes me, licking her lips. “Aah, MarSell. Ik heb je mijn sexy chocolade gemist.” Translation: I’ve missed you, my sexy chocolate.

  I grin, then lean in and kiss her on the cheek, placing my hand on the small of her back. The back of her dress drops into a sexy V-shape that tapers down to a sharp point, stopping at the crack of her ass.

  A photographer with fucked-up skin and shiny hair stops in front of us and snaps our picture.

  “Nairobia, baby,” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth as our photo is being taken, “you’re so good for my ego.”

  Marika waits for the photographer to move out of earshot and chimes, “And we both know what a big ego he has.”

  “Ooh, yes, darling. We do.” They share a knowing smile. Desire darkens her expression as she grabs Marika’s hand. “MarSell, may I borrow your beautiful wife for a spell?”

  “No doubt.” I glance over her shoulder and spot J-Smooth—eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses—with…I blink, then frown…with Lydia Miles on his arm and a posse behind him. “I’ma go holla at Lydia Miles.”

  “The singer?” Marika asks, glancing over her shoulder.

  She’s wearing a pearlized gown that clings to her curves. A gaggle of photographers spot her, and rush over to her, snapping photos. She quickly lets go of J-Smooth’s arm and smiles for the cameras as he eases back.

  Marika gasps. “Ohmygod. Please tell me that isn’t J-Smooth she’s here with.” She lets out a grunt of disgust. “I thought she had a restraining order out against him.”

  I shrug, shaking my head. “Nah. His other chick does.”

  Marika shakes her head. “Oh, that’s right. For slashing her tires or something.”

  “Let’s not babble over folly tonight,” Nairobia says, giving a two-finger wave and half-smile to a young Middle Eastern-looking cat dressed in royal garb. “Ooh, there’s my sweet prince with the dick of a spider and the balls of a bush cricket.” She blows him a kiss. “But he has the tongue of a giraffe.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “Yo, you shot out, baby.”

  “I’m ovulating,” she shares, snapping open a bejeweled fan and fanning her crotch area.

  Marika laughs. “Nairobia, girl, you’re a mess.”

  Licking her red pouty lips, Nairobia says teasingly, “And I’m wet and juicy.” She loops her arm through Marika’s. “Come, darling. Let’s go quickly…freshen up…before the festivities begin. Then I want to introduce you to the princess of Sweden.”

  I eye them as they strut off—the two finest women up in this muhfucka, then make my way through the crowd.

  Lydia smiles when she sees me approaching. “Oh, there he is.” She sassily struts over, titties bouncing freely, with her arms outstretched.

  “What’s good, beautiful?” I lean forward and wrap my arms around her, enveloping her into a friendly embrace, lifting her up off the floor and kissing her on the cheek.

  She giggles. “MarSell, you’re so lucky I’m already taken.”

  It’s a loaded statement. But I know she’s referring to record labels.

  “You aiight?”

  She flashes me her pearly whites. “I’m great. Thanks.”

  I don’t acknowledge J-Smooth. I front like I don’t see the muhfucka standing here.

  “Oh, aiight. I wanted to congratulate you on another number one single, baby. You’re doing your thing.”

  She smiles. Thanks me. Then nervously shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

  J-Smooth clears his throat. “What, you drop me from your label, and now wanna act like you don’t know me.”

  “Oh, damn. J-Smooth? Damn, man. I didn’t even know that was you.” I laugh. “You standing there looking all incogneegro ‘n’ whatnot. What’s good with you?” I lean in, offering a fist to him. One of his cronies in his lil’ entourage takes a step forward.

  I narrow my eyes. “Yo, there a problem?”

  He throws a hand up to stop his lapdog from advancing.

  Muhfucka, I wish the fuck you would.

  “Nah, we good,” J-Smooth says.

  “Oh, aiight. Just checkin’.”

  He reaches out and gives me dap. But for some reason the shit feels fake. But I’m cool with it. The muhfucka’s pretty much on the verge of becoming a has-been, anyway, now that he’s lost all of his endorsements and no one else in the industry is checking for him.

  If he wants to be heard, or seen, he’ll have to put out an independent project, or keep leeching off the spotlight of chicks like Lydia, too fucked up to peep he’s only using them.

  Lydia steps closer to J-Smooth. “MarSell, I hope to see you opening night at my concert at the Garden.”

  I glance over at J-Smooth on the sly. What the fuck? I notice a tight lump over his left eye. And it looks like there’s a bruise under his eye. But I can’t be for certain.

  Muhfucka was probably somewhere running his mouth.

  “Damn, bruh, whose fist you run into?”

 
He scowls, touching the frame of his shades. “Oh, nah, nah; just some bullshit-ass squabble. Nothing major.”

  But then something major saunters in, causing murmurs through the crowd and everyone to turn their heads, including Lydia and J-Smooth. It’s Laila Reynolds—sexy as shit in a shimmering bronze mini and knee-high gladiator-style heels—on the arm of my boy Carlos in a tux, with his long, wavy hair slicked back. Both looking like they’ve been airbrushed to perfection.

  Photographers swarm them, blinding them with flashing bulbs.

  I shake my head, grinning. This muhfucka here.

  “Pussy-ass niggah,” one of J-Smooth’s cronies, Leon, mumbles under his breath. Cat is about six one, two-thirty, eyeballing Carlos, like he’s ready to get it in.

  I can almost see the hairs on the back of Lydia’s neck raise as she eyes Laila with what looks to be envy. As talented as they both are, she seems threatened by Laila’s success. And J-Smooth seems fidgety all of a sudden, stretching and rolling his neck.

  I open my mouth to call cat out for that slick shit just as Marika sidles up beside me. “You ready.”

  I kiss Marika on the cheek; quickly letting dude’s comment slide, then introduce her to Lydia. “Lydia, this is my wife, Marika. Marika, Lydia Miles.”

  Lydia smiles. “Nice meeting you.”

  “Oh, the pleasures all mine,” Marika says warmly. “I love your last album. I think I kept it in rotation for almost a month straight. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

  I nod absently, eyeing J-Smooth as he shoots glances over at Leon, who smirks.

  “There’s this bullshit-ass rumor going around that you’re on the DL.”

  I cut my eye back over at J-Smooth. I think to pull this muhfucka to the side to see if he’s been coming outta his face sideways about me, but then decide the shit’s not relevant. I’m good with who and what I am.

  “Well, we better get going,” Lydia says briskly. “The show is about to start. It was great seeing you, MarSell.”

  “Yeah, you too, beautiful.” I lean in and give her a kiss on the cheek. “Again, congrats on all of your success.”

  She smiles, waves goodbye to Marika, as J-Smooth quickly grabs her hand and whisks her toward the auditorium.