by Tyree, Omar
“Selling books up in Harlem. He bought one of my first self-published books and started asking me questions.”
“And that was it?” Tony asked, amazed. Could it really be that easy to get published?
D shook it off. “Aw, naw, it took a while. I ain’t even know who he was at first. But I had my e-mail address inside the book, and he started e-mailing me. And once I saw his return e-mail address, I was like, ‘Oh shit! He at Williams and Klein.’ Then I started reading more about him. He was publishing every-fucking-thing. But he ain’t try to sign me for like a year. Then he told me I had to get a lawyer or an agent first.”
Antonio nodded as they reached the subway entrance and descended the stairs. He didn’t have an agent or a lawyer. So what would Vincent tell him?
“How long did it take you to find one?”
D shrugged. “Like, three, four months. But I was bullshittin’, man. I was still out there try’na get my money. But you gotta pay a lawyer or an agent. So, I wasn’t try’na hear that shit at first. But then V kept putting shit in my ear, talking about how many authors were self-publishing. And he kept saying, ‘Soon, you won’t be able to make no more money on the streets.’ And I was really seeing that shit. A lot of new writers were coming up. And my ends wasn’t meeting like they used to, you know.”
D looked Tony straight in his eyes as he made his points. Antonio was all ears, taking it in, like is was gospel.
“Then he started talking about putting my new books out in hardback,” D explained. “But that didn’t make no sense to me. If a ma-fucka hard up out here to pay twelve to fifteen dollars for a soft back, then why would a ma-fucka pay twenty-four for a hard back? You feel me?”
Tony laughed and said, “Yeah, I know what you mean,” as they approached the turnstiles.
D told him, “But once he hit me up with that advance, I was like, ‘Fuck it! Let it do what it do.’ And in hardback, I started getting book reviews, going on tours, talking to white people; Hollywood and television folks. And I didn’t get my books turned into shows or movies or nothing yet, like Jackson, but the hype took me off the streets. So now I don’t have to sell out there like that no more. I’m up in all the stores now. And the retail know my name; DeWayne ‘Double D’ McDonald.”
Antonio nodded, hoping and praying for a success story of his own. But before they passed through the turnstiles, he stopped and made sure to check his cell phone for a text from Darlene.
He looked down, found it and read it.
--Thanx for a wonderful evening. I can’t wait for part 2 tomorrow (smiley face).--
Antonio grinned and sent her a text back.
--Ditto. But Im getting on train now. Call you when I get in. If not too late.--
As soon as Tony raised his head and eyes from his cell phone, he came face to face with DeWayne, who was staring at him and grinning.
“Now, if I was a bettin’ man, I’d bet that was somebody new, saying that she had great time tonight. If I was a bettin’ man,” he repeated and laughed.
Tony broke up and laughed himself. “How much would you bet?” he questioned.
They swiped their Metrocards and finally moved through the turnstiles.
D said, “I’d bet a hundred dollars and come home with four hundred. Now tell me I’m wrong.”
Antonio kept smiling and wouldn’t admit it. But he didn’t deny it either. And that was all the confirmation that D needed.
Inside the taxi that sped quickly into the Times Square area, Darlene was ribbed just the same.
“You and Antonio looked like you were joined at the hip tonight,” Jill joked. “Is that him you’re texting now?”
“Who else could it be at this time of night?” Chelsea joined in.
But Darlene was a lot more coy than Antonio had been. She said, “I’m texting my mom. It’s just after midnight in Denver. She told me to text her on my way in no matter what time it was.”
Chelsea eyed her sideways and didn’t go for it. “Yeah, right. Your mom is how old now? And she’s texting you after midnight on a cell phone? Girl, please. My mom don’t even know how to use those things, let alone late at night with nobody there to help her with it.”
“I taught my mom how to use it,” Darlene responded. She was quick enough with her Blackberry to text her mother right after she said it too, while deleting Antonio’s text. Her business was her private business. Always!
And it was a good thing, because Chelsea was outright rude with her curiosity.
“Let me see it then,” she demanded.
“No,” Darlene told her and grinned. “You don’t believe me?”
“No, I don’t believe your ass. If you’re telling the truth, then let us see it.”
Brittney listened to everything from the front seat and shook her head. She continued to observe Darlene in silence. But she had heard more than enough from Chelsea. And she didn’t like her.
I would never sign that girl as an author. She’s just obnoxious, writing about nothing but filth, she told herself. It’s embarrassing!
To make her point, Darlene showed Chelsea her text message to her mother on her Blackberry, and her mother responded back.
“Oh shit, she does not how to use. Ain’t that nice. I need to get you to teach my mom.”
Brittney couldn’t wait long enough to drop Chelsea off. Every minute of the erotica author irritated her. Nevertheless, she had been successful with seven titles and millions of copies sold.
Unbelievable, Brittney mused. Vincent can sell ice water to Eskimos.
“All right, this is me,” Chelsea announced, climbing out the back as the taxi parked alongside the curb at The Millennium Hotel. She pulled out two twenties from her purse on the sidewalk and offered to pay for the two editors.
“You’re only around the corner from here, right? I’ve stayed at The Hudson before. I got it,” she told Brittney.
Brittney shook it off. “No, that’s all right. This is company money. We need our receipts.”
“Well, take my receipt then and keep your money. Don’t pay for something if you don’t have to. Or just give it to Darlene then.”
Everyone froze in an awkward moment. Darlene didn’t want to take any money that Brittney wouldn’t take. She didn’t want to seem greedy or needy. But the taxi driver did take the money. An extra twenty-dollar tip was fine with him.
“I’ll take it,” he told her, jokingly but serious.
“I know you will,” Chelsea told him. When no one else spoke up to claim the money, she said, “All right then. I’ll see y’all tomorrow.” And she walked toward the hotel entrance.
“Well, at least she was generous,” Jill commented as the taxi pulled off.
Darlene held her tongue to see what Brittney would say.
“It’s just the principle of it,” the editor commented. “Don’t tell us to turn in a receipt for something we didn’t pay for.”
Jill decided to hold her tongue as well. She didn’t consider herself an angel, so she had nothing to add around an aspiring author who they may be bidding for soon. They were in the arena of too much information.
“And how she gonna demand to see your cell phone?” Brittney reflected. “I mean, that was just plain rude.”
Darlene agreed with her on that note, but again, she felt no need to add anything. She was now studying Brittney. Was she really the opposite of Vincent, or was it all a front to appear holier than thou. Therefore, she became cautious.
In less than five minutes, it was Brittney and Jill’s time to climb out of the taxi in front of their hotel. That’s when Brittney pulled out an extra thirty dollars of her own.
“Okay, we need you to take her up to Columbia University in Harlem. She’ll give you the exact address.” She then handed the driver the extra ten and twenty.
Darlene told her, “I have it,” and started reaching for her purse.
“No, it’s already paid for,” Brittney countered. “And this is my money, but you don’t owe me anything
. Okay? You just get home safely, and I’ll see you around somewhere at the BEA tomorrow.”
Brittney backed away from the taxi before there were any more arguments. The taxi driver didn’t want to hear it either. He had a job to do and the payment was in his hands already. It was getting too late for women bickering over money. So he sped off for Harlem before Darlene could utter another word. All she could do was wave good bye.
From the sidewalk, Jill watched the taxi speed up the New York street and through a yellow light at the corner before she turned and commented to Brittney.
“You don’t think you’re doing too much? I mean, she could very easily feel as if she owes you.”
“Well, that wasn’t my intention,” Brittney insisted.
“Maybe not, but I would feel a lot better about it myself if you were not interested in signing her as an author. But since you are interested . . . I mean, everything you do could be construed as an I-O-U. You know what I mean?”
Brittney let out a deep sigh as they walked into the rotating doors of the hotel. She waited for them both to clear to the other side before she made her comment.
“This job can be so hard sometimes. It allows me to see exactly how Vincent became the monster that he is today. It just seems so easy to go there.”
Jill tossed a soft hand on her shoulder and said, “Please, don’t flog yourself that bad. You have a lonnng way to go before you get anywhere near Vincent’s level. And I’ll let you know about it miles in advance.”
By the time Brittney and Jill had made it to the elevators at The Hudson, Chelsea was already getting comfortable in her room at The Millennium. She stripped butt naked and made her planned call from her cell phone.
“Okay, I’m here, but don’t take too long, because if I fall asleep before you get here, then that’s on you,” she said in one big breath.
“All right, I’m on my way now. What room are you in again?”
“Twenty-two eighteen.”
“Aw’ight, I’ll be there.”
“O-kay,” she hummed as a warning. She hung up her cell phone and fell back into the comfortable, king-sized bed like it was a pile of snow in the wintertime. She was so tiny that the sheets swallowed her up and was ready to suffocate her. But she loved it!
“Damn, I love my life,” she expressed up to the ceiling. And if she was safe and healthy, then why not fuck and enjoy it? It was her pussy and her life. Who cared what she did with it? She was single with no kids and free to do what she wanted.
“Bitches hate out here for no reason,” she stated. “It ain’t my fault you a stiff. Get yourself a fucking life. Zombie.”
Still wide awake, feeling zestful and lustful, she jumped on her Twitter account from through cell phone to update her thousands of followers on her raw emotions.
--If you like to fuck after midnight, holler back--
--If you like the long dick stroke of pro basketball players, then holler back--
--If you like to fall asleep ass naked with toys, holler back--
--If you like to read the kinky, freaky, real life stories of Chelsea Christmas, then follow me--
--I got a real treat for yall tonight, so stay tuned--
--It’s time to creep with my freak of the week in the sheets so don’t sleep--
By the time she sent off her last text message, there was a strong knock on her door.
DOOMP DOOMP DOOMP
She frowned and mumbled, “Damn, he wasn’t playing.” It had taken her late-night guest less than ten minutes to arrive at her room. “His ass must have been waiting down in the lobby. I ain’t even fucking wet for him yet,” she whispered to herself.
She climbed up out of the bed and tossed on her pink chemise just to give him something to do before he got in to it. She couldn’t make it too easy for him. Then she squirted herself down low with some of her special sauce in a bottle, with the ingredients only known to her.
She looked through her peephole and could only see his chest, wearing white Nike gear with an expensive gold medallion.
“Damn, that nigga tall,” she whispered to herself again.
She opened the door and smiled at him. “Don’t lie. You were waiting down in the lobby, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, and three other stunnas almost got me instead of you; two white girls and a Dominican,” he teased her. He walked in wearing expensive denim jeans, alligator shoes, a diamond watch, sparkling bracelets, and smelling like his worth, millions of dollars in contract money.
“Well, you should have invited them up. We could have had an orgy,” Chelsea teased him back.
That caught the ballplayer off guard. “Are you serious?”
“Are you?”
He paused. “I’m saying, what if I was?”
“Well . . .”
He paused again. “You fucking wit’ me right? Because if I go back down there and get these bitches and bring them back up to the room, it’s on.”
“It’ll be on then,” she told him. She was curious to see what they looked like. Chelsea was always curious.
The professional ballplayer laughed and shook it off. “See, that’s why I like you. You only half my size, but you crazy than a motherfucker.”
“Whatever. You should have brought your little groupies up here with you. I could have given them some training.” She thought about it and snapped her fingers. “In fact, that’s my next book; Training Day.”
“Oh yeah. What’s it about it?” he asked her to humor himself.
“A sex therapist teaches a baller’s dates and girlfriends how to fuck him right to become wifey material.”
He heard that and burst out laughing.
“You just come up with shit off the top of your head, hunh?”
“No, I didn’t, you brought it to me.”
“I was only fucking with you though.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
He stood there and said, “Damn.” He was always impressed by her swagger. He shrugged and added, “I guess that’s how you make your money then.”
She shrugged back and said, “For real though, fuck these broke bitches out here trying to milk you. You need to stay with rich pussy like mine anyway.” She walked through the expensive hotel room with a full view of Times Square out the window. She told him. “I got all this shit in here paid for already. All you gotta do is bring a clean dick and relax, and the pleasure’s all mine with no hassles.
“Now what groupie bitch can you get that from?” she asked him. “I can help elevate your game to gigolo status.”
He took a seat on edge of her soft bed and agreed with her. “That’s real talk.”
Chelsea turned and faced him from her window view, giving him a long, good look. He was tall, dark, young, long and sexier than an R&B singer. And he had her thinking spontaneously.
“So, can I ride you or what?” she asked him. Fuck all of the small talk.
He said, “Shid, of course you can, especially with how you ride it. You get my toes curling up so bad I catch cramps in ’em.”
