by Shelly Ellis
Ricky frowned. “Wait. You got a butterfly tattoo because of Mariah Carey?”
“It wasn’t because of her. I said she inspired it!”
He started to laugh and she grabbed one of the pillows from his leather headboard and thumped him over the head with it, making him laugh even harder.
“Stop making fun of me,” she chided playfully and he wrenched the pillow out of her hands and tucked it behind his head.
Now she was laughing too. “Look, I know it was cheesy. But again . . . I was eighteen! Just chalk it up to the stupidity of youth. We do dumb shit at that age.”
“That’s true. When I think about what I was doing at eighteen, it wasn’t pretty either. I did a lot worse than get a tattoo I didn’t want to own up to later.”
She raised her brows expectantly. “Like?”
He shook his head. “Yeah, no offense but I’m gonna keep that shit on the low, Miss Police Officer. I don’t want my ass thrown in jail for something I did years ago.”
“I’m sure the statute of limitations has already passed,” she said dryly. “Besides, I’d be more worried about what you’re doing now than what you did when you were a teenager.”
“What does that mean? What am I doing now?”
She shifted off of him. “Come on, Ricky! You’re working for Dolla Dolla. Don’t play stupid.”
“I’m not working for Dolla. He’s my business partner. There’s a big damn difference. We own a club together. That’s all!”
“A club that’s probably a front for shit that could land the average person in prison for twenty to thirty years.”
“That’s his business. It’s not mine. I ain’t got a damn thing to do with it!”
“That’s complete crap, Ricky, and you know it.”
The sex afterglow was fading. He was starting to get annoyed with her little lecture.
“By associating with someone like him,” she continued, “you’re setting yourself up for—”
“Do you take responsibility for everything the dirty cops do in this city, Simone?” He sat upright and slumped against the headboard. “Should I blame you every time a pig pulls over some poor dude and beats the hell out of him on the side of the road because he didn’t show his license and registration fast enough?”
She pursed her lips. “That’s different and you know it.”
“No, I don’t fucking know it! How the fuck is it different? If I’m responsible for Dolla, then how aren’t you responsible for what they do, too?”
“You knowingly associate with a criminal, Ricky . . . with the man who basically kidnapped my little sister. You can’t ignore that.”
“And I’m trying to help save your sister!”
“Don’t you get it? Saving just her isn’t enough. A man like that needs to be taken down,” she said, drawing close to his face.
“Taken down?” He barked out a laugh. “You’re joking, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
He stared at her in shock. So she really was crazy, after all.
“Do you know how powerful Dolla is? How deep his connections are? Nobody can take him down, especially not you and me! What do you expect me to—”
“Damnit, stop making excuses and stop enabling him!” She pounded her fist into the mattress. “Stop being a front for his bullshit, Ricky. You’re better than this!”
Her words cut deep. He didn’t know how to respond so he didn’t say anything at all.
She slowly climbed off the bed. “Look,” she said, bending down to pick up her panties, “I didn’t come here to argue with you.”
“Then why did you come here?” he asked, watching as she slipped on her underwear.
She chuckled and reached for her jeans. “Why do you think I came here? To do what we just did. Next to agonizing about my sister, thinking about you and that magic stick of yours,” she said, glancing down at his bare crotch, “had been keeping me up at night. I thought this would be the distraction I needed.” She started to put on her jeans, tugging them up her legs.
“Glad to offer you a distraction,” he muttered, trying his best to keep the bitterness he felt out of his voice.
So that’s all he was to her? A distraction? He swore he didn’t understand this woman.
“I guess it’s ‘peace out’ then? You headed home?” he asked.
She raised her zipper and turned to him. “I didn’t expect to stay the night. I figured a guy like you would be counting down the minutes until I grabbed my clothes and purse and headed out the door.”
“A guy like me?”
“Isn’t that usually the case?”
“You know me so well,” he murmured. “A guy like me must be so easy to read.”
“I’m just stating the obvious, Ricky.” She paused and squinted at him. “You aren’t mad, are you?”
No, he wasn’t mad—he was furious. Furious that she could give him a lecture about how he should live up to his character one minute, then question his character the next. Yes, he usually preferred women not to spend the night, but he resented all these assumptions she was making about him. Just who did she think she was?
“Did you want me stay?”
He shrugged and turned away, giving the illusion of indifference even though he wanted to shout at her. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t have time for this shit, and he wasn’t going to apologize for the decisions he had made, and she wasn’t going to make him feel guilty for being the man that he was. He wanted to tell her that she had no right to barge into his apartment and his life and stir up all these emotions and open doors he thought he had sealed off a long time ago.
She walked around the bed and sat on the mattress beside him.
“Do you want me to stay, Ricky?” she repeated.
He did, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. Instead he reached for the digital clock on his night table. “It’s three a.m.,” he said holding up the clock for inspection. “Metro is closed and you shouldn’t be driving on the road this late. It’s not safe.”
She looked at the clock then at him.
“You can stay tonight. Better to get some sleep and drive after the sun is up.”
He could tell she was holding back a smile. She knew what he really meant, but thankfully, she pretended that she didn’t. Simone nodded. “You’re right. I should sleep and drive when I’m more refreshed. Good idea.”
She undressed again and climbed back in bed beside him. She snuggled up against him beneath the sheets and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Within fifteen minutes, they both fell asleep.
Chapter 21
Jamal
“Hey, Gladys,” Jamal said as he strode into the mayor’s office.
He smiled down at Mayor Johnson’s secretary who was sitting primly at the large desk near the entrance, typing away at her keyboard. Even though it was the end of the day, she looked as fresh and alert in her crisp white blouse and stiff snowy white bob as she had when he saw her at 8 o’clock that morning.
“Working late too, huh? I stopped by to see the mayor. Is he in?”
She stopped typing and stared at him blankly. She seemed to hesitate before she finally nodded. “Uh, y-yes. Yes, he is, but he’s . . . he’s busy at the moment, Mr. Lighty.”
“Oh, well, Mayor Johnson asked me to stop by before I left for the day. He said it was important.” He glanced at the mayor’s closed office door. “I’ll just wait for him here, if you don’t mind.”
He strolled to one of the leather sofas on the other side of the waiting area. He began to pull out his cell phone from his suit jacket pocket.
“Actually,” she called out as he lowered himself to one of sofa cushions, stopping him mid-motion, “it was an unexpected meeting, I believe, and it might be a while before he’s done. You’d . . . you’d probably be better off . . . umm . . . coming back tomorrow, Mr. Lighty.”
Jamal realized for the first time that Gladys’s smile was tight, almost forced. She looked nervous for some reason, alm
ost desperate—like she really wanted him out of that room.
“Oh. Well . . . okay, I’ll just . . . try again tomorrow then.” He rose to his feet, tucked his cell back into his pocket, and began to walk back toward the waiting room entrance when a door opened behind him. Jamal turned and stared in surprise at the three men who strolled out of the mayor’s office into the waiting room.
One was a short young man—even shorter than Jamal. The two others were hulking dudes who looked like linebackers on a college football team with their barrel chests and thick arms. They were all wearing jeans and T-shirts and had this menacing air about them. Jamal couldn’t say for sure, but he suspected men like these weren’t constituents complaining to the mayor about their electric bills. They weren’t members of the neighborhood watch either.
He wondered who they were. He wondered if they were Dolla Dolla’s men.
“He’ll be waitin’ to hear from you,” the short, skinny one called over his shoulder at Mayor Johnson who stood in his doorway. “Don’t make him wait too long. You feel me?”
The mayor dropped his eyes to his Florsheims and gave a barely discernable nod.
The trio gradually made their way to where Jamal stood near the waiting room’s entrance.
“Hey, don’t I know you, nigga?” the skinny one called out, jabbing his index finger at Jamal. “Haven’t I seen you around somewhere?”
Jamal didn’t respond. He didn’t know where he could possibly have run into this character. Jamal began to shake his head, but stopped when the young man snapped his fingers.
“Yeah, you tight with Pretty Ricky, ain’t you? I seen you at his strip club on S Street in Northwest.”
Jamal’s eyes widened. If he knew Ricky then these were definitely Dolla Dolla’s men. He couldn’t believe they were bold enough to show up here at the Wilson Building.
His gaze shifted to Gladys, who was now gawking at him. When she realized her mouth had fallen open, she snapped it shut. He then looked at the mayor who was staring at him, too.
“You mute, motherfucka’?” the skinny one barked, sneering up at Jamal, baring his buckteeth. “Didn’t you hear me ask you a question!”
“No, I’m not mute,” Jamal finally answered, glaring right back at him. “I just don’t know anybody named Ricky,” he lied. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
At that, the skinny one began to laugh. “Yeah, okay. My bad then.” He glanced over his shoulder at the two large men standing behind him. “Come on, y’all. Let’s get the fuck up out of here. I’m hungry. Y’all want some chicken wings?”
“Sounds good to me, T. J.,” one of them said with a nod.
T. J. cast one more contemptuous glance at the mayor before striding past Jamal into the hallway. He was then followed by the two other men. One bumped Jamal’s shoulder as he passed.
“Move the fuck out the way,” he grumbled, making Jamal grit his teeth in frustration. Jamal then turned to see the mayor still looking at him.
“Thanks for stopping by, Sinclair,” the older man said.
“No problem, sir,” Jamal murmured before glancing at the retreating backs of the men who were now headed down the hall toward the elevators. “I got your message from earlier. You said you wanted to see me, but Gladys mentioned it was a bad time—”
“No, right now is fine.” The mayor shook his graying head. “Please, come in.” He gestured him into his office.
Jamal stared at him apprehensively. The mayor seemed unaffected by what had just transpired. Three thugs had just walked out of his office literally seconds ago and he was behaving as if it had never happened.
“Please come in, Sinclair,” he repeated.
Jamal walked across the waiting room and stepped through the doorway into an office that was about three times the size of his and much more expensively decorated with cherry wood and leather furniture.
“Have a seat,” the mayor said, gesturing to one of the leather chairs facing his desk. Just as Jamal lowered himself into the chair, the mayor shut his office door and strolled across the room. He then walked to a cabinet and opened one of the doors, revealing several liquor bottles and a row of glass tumblers. Jamal watched as the mayor removed a bottle of Jack Daniels and set it on his desk.
“Would you like some, Sinclair?” the mayor asked, twisting off the bottle cap.
Jamal blinked. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, sir?”
“Would you like something to drink?” the mayor asked again in a louder voice before gesturing to the glass he was now pouring. “I don’t know what you usually drink. So many folks are all about wine nowadays. But I’m old fashioned; I like the hard stuff—especially after the day I’ve had. I’ve got it all here: whiskey, scotch, bourbon, vodka . . . I make sure I stay fully stocked.”
“Uh, Jack Daniels is fine, sir,” Jamal said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
The mayor grabbed another tumbler from the cabinet and poured Jamal a glass. He handed it to him before falling back into the chair behind his large, mahogany desk. Instead of looking at Jamal as he sipped, he stared out the window facing the busy D.C. street, staring at the people and cars streaming five stories below.
Jamal waited patiently for him to say something, to say anything. After all, the older man had called him in here for a reason, conceivably. When he didn’t say a word, but continued to gaze out the window, Jamal shrugged and took a drink.
“Do you know those men who just left my office?” the mayor asked, still not looking at him.
“I don’t believe so, sir.”
“They seemed to know you though.” He slowly turned his chair around to face Jamal again. “Do you know who those men were, Sinclair?” he repeated with a sharper edge to his voice.
Jamal nervously licked the last bit of Jack Daniels that lingered on his lips. He gradually nodded. “I . . . I think I do.”
“You think you do,” the mayor repeated. He laughed, reclined back in his chair, and took another drink. “Oh, don’t be modest, son! Of course, you know who they are. You know lots of things, don’t you? You see, I’ve been keeping an eye on you. You’ve been busy lately. I’m aware of your little . . . research project, shall we say. I know that you’ve been asking questions of people in other divisions in the mayor’s office. You’ve been asking them questions about me.”
Jamal swallowed. Suddenly, it started to feel very hot in the mayor’s chambers.
The mayor tilted his head. “Did you think it wouldn’t get back to me? My people are loyal, Sinclair. They tell me what foxes are sniffing around my hen house.”
“Sir, I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”
The mayor narrowed his eyes. “Don’t insult my intelligence, son. It’s offensive.”
“I . . . I’m not trying to offend you,” he stuttered. “I really d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, let me refresh your memory.”
He watched as Mayor Johnson yanked open one of his desk drawers, reached inside, and pulled out an envelope—a large manila envelope. He tossed it onto his desk and it landed only inches away from Jamal.
Jamal instantly recognized his own handwriting. He recognized Phillip’s name and the mailing address to the Washington Recorder headquarters.
At the sight of the envelope he’d thought he’d hidden in a locked office drawer, Jamal went silent. All the blood drained from his head. He could feel the Jack Daniels that he had drank only seconds ago rise in his throat. He was dangerously close to hurling it right there on Mayor Johnson’s desk and Afghan rug.
“How did you . . . how did you find . . .” His words faded as he sputtered helplessly.
The mayor shrugged. “Nothing happens in this building without me knowing about it, Sinclair.”
“You went into my desk? You dug through my things and—”
“Your desk, your phone, and your computer are all the property of the D.C. government. If you want to keep something private, don’t keep it here,” the mayor repli
ed icily.
How could he have been so dumb? Why had he kept the envelope at the office and not back at his place?
“Besides, don’t act self-righteous like your privacy was invaded, like you were violated. What about me, Sinclair? How should I feel knowing that you’ve been slithering around here like some snake? How should I feel knowing you were about to stab me in the back?”
Jamal didn’t answer him. He couldn’t. He felt like he had been forced into a corner, and there was nothing he could do to get out of it.
“So when were you planning to mail this little bombshell?”
“I . . . I hadn’t decided,” Jamal finally said, deciding he had no other choice but to be honest at this point. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to mail it at all.”
The mayor cocked an eyebrow. “Why? Were you planning to use it for blackmail instead?”
“No! No, of course not! I would never do something like that.”
“Yes! Yes!” the mayor said, waving his hand dismissively. “That’s what people always say—until they’re backed into a corner. But situations change, Sinclair. It happens all the time.” He lowered his now empty tumbler to his desk, thumping it against the varnished wood. “So here is what I will tell you. Hopefully, it can help you determine what you plan to do with the information you gathered, since you claim to be undecided.” He sat upright in his chair. “If you know who those men are that just left my office, then you also know who they work for. You know what they are capable of. They will protect their boss’s interests, which, for now, are also my interests. If anyone gets in the way of what he and I are trying to accomplish, that person will in turn get taken care of. Do you understand me?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“I’m not issuing a threat, mind you. I’m only explaining the reality of the situation. I would hate to see anything happen to you, Sinclair. Or for anything to happen to your beautiful girlfriend, Bridget. That’s her name, isn’t it?”
Jamal nodded limply.
“You’re a smart young man with lots of potential. I wouldn’t have promoted you to deputy mayor if I hadn’t known this . . . if I hadn’t believed it. And people make mistakes. I know this, too. But I ask that you smarten up and do it quickly. Don’t make a mistake like this ever again, or my partner will make sure it doesn’t happen a third time.”
