“Danielle, no!” I remember saying. You drove him away, I remember thinking. She expected too much out of him, was too hard on him, wanted him to be perfect in everything. But he was human; he excelled in some things and struggled in others like everyone else. He was a great father; he was a challenging husband. But what did that matter? The next guy could be a great husband and a crummy dad. You can’t expect anyone to be completely perfect in everything they do. It’s just not possible. Sometimes you have to learn to compromise.
“Stop it,” she said as she fixed a stray piece of my hair. “Watch your man, he’s dancing for you.” She immediately returned her attention back to the fellas and started smiling; she would hear no more of it. She wasn’t going to let her broken relationship with Jon, Marlon’s best friend, ruin my moment with Marlon.
Before I had a chance to respond, Marlon came out of nowhere and pulled me onto the dance floor. The cheers got louder as he wrapped me in his arms and we slow danced to “Atomic Dog”. I was happy. Genuinely happy. And quite honestly, there were no thoughts of Jacob that night. Because, let’s be frank, my reception would have been totally different had I married him. We would have had a live band instead of a DJ. He, Malcolm, Cadence and Nat would not have been stepping to “Atomic Dog’; they belonged to their own white frat and weren’t about to dance around with their brothers. The entire night wouldn’t have been about me, it would have been about networking. Beautiful but impersonal.
“I have no regrets, Jasmine Harlow,” Marlon said to me in my ear. “You’re the girl.”
“I better be.” I wiped the sweat from his face and then wrapped my arms around his neck. He was it. He was the man I was supposed to marry. There was no one in the world but him. Fate pushed me into his arms, and boy, was I glad it did.
Marlon was it. No regrets.
The music was beginning to fade out so Marlon turned towards the DJ and shouted, “Play our song again! I wanna dance with my girl!”
The DJ began playing our wedding song again, Roberta Flack’s, “Let It Be Me”. And there we were, in the middle of the floor, in complete and utter bliss. Couples had paired off, Matt had joined Rena and Danielle was walking back to the wedding party table alone. I forgot how bad I felt for her.
“Just so you know, I plan on giving you anything you want,” Marlon said to me, breaking my attention away from Danielle.
“A long life with you, a few kids, and membership on The Board. That’s it,” I said to him before giving him a soft kiss on the lips.
“Done.” We smiled at each other and continued to dance. I remember feeling that this love was the real deal and every other love was an imitation. I couldn’t imagine anybody loving each other more.
As much as I hate to admit it, that night I wasn’t concerned about anyone but Marlon and me. Not only had I not thought of Jacob, Winnie was the furthest thing from my mind, and even Danielle’s unhappiness came second to my own. I wasn’t thinking about how she felt, I was just thinking about being happy with Marlon. That was it.
For the entire night, I would scarcely leave Marlon’s side. He had his arm draped around me, knowing I didn’t want to be away from him for even a second. I was attached to him, already. The thought of him being away from me was actually depressing. He was smiling, greeting people, having conversations with his arm draped around me. Occasionally, he’d kiss the side of my head randomly while he spoke to people. I felt treasured, I felt special. I was excited about our life. We were going to wear rings and have sex and create babies. I was going be called his wife, take his last name and finally get to use my new Jasmine Kyles stationery. He and I would have kids together and my babies would have his last name. I loved that! This tall, rich, black guy from an amazing Philadelphia family was mine.
I was in love with Marlon that night. I loved Jacob, too. It’s just that the heavens had mercy on me and gave my Jacob-love a night off so that I could be totally present for Marlon. Unfortunately, I’ve never had a night off since.
Because today, all these years later, I’m still stone cold in love with Marlon … and Jacob.
Ritz Carlton
While You Were Out …
December 22nd
Dear Mrs. Jasmine Kyles,
There is a town car currently waiting for you downstairs.
Thank You,
Landon Quince
Ritz Carlton Concierge
Jacob
(jazz.)
I love this woman. Let there be no mistaking it. Jasmine was my first love. She knows that, I know that, Mac knows that, Winnie now knows that, Danielle knows it. They all know it. If there’s any woman on earth that can bring me to the brink of complete surrender, it’s Jasmine. There is no other woman I’ve ever given that power to and for good reason—she nearly ruined my life.
I had my life arranged and set up with Mac and Cadence. We knew what we had to do in order to steal a piece of our family’s pie and we knew that shit would get grimy. Cadence dropped out of the deal, citing moral concerns; ‘he just wanted to practice law according to the law’. Bullshit. Mac and I brought Nat in to balance us out. Like Mac said, we needed a conscience. But we would always outnumber Nat, which was the point. We didn’t want to be good; we wanted to be safe. Safety has its aggravations. Or should I say, Nat has his aggravations:
Don’t kill him Jake, get your finger off the trigger.
That’s enough Mac; overdose him, don’t murder him.
Stop screwing with these normal chicks, Jake. Fuck with women who have something to lose.
Cut Laura off, Mac. Get her out of that house. If Danielle finds out, she’ll break your damn neck.
Get home, Jake, Winnie’s packing her shit.
I know it’s harmless, Mac, but don’t get too friendly at the bar. You know how women talk and Danny’s six months pregnant.
Put the glass down, Jake, you’ve had enough.
Don’t encourage him, Mac. Come on, let’s get back to the girls.
Yeah, safety has its aggravations. It stifles you, though it saves your life. It annoys you, though you know it’s right. It’s meant to be helpful but it only makes you resentful. You know it means well, but safety doesn’t feel good. And still, when you’re in the company of safety, if only for a moment, you surrender to its will. Where there is safety, there is no fighting or struggling. Where there is safety, there is no anxiety or regrets. Safety saves you from all of that.
But I’ve never wanted to be saved.
Jasmine kicks her boots off.
I get on my knees and slide her pants down … past her thighs, licking the crease between them, finding my way up to where it really counts. I yank all of this lace shit off. I appreciate the gesture, but trust me, it’s not needed. She kicks it off to the side before sliding her top off. She knows the rules; take it off before it gets too chaotic in here. Because if I get too hungry, all of this shit will be torn to shreds.
We’re in my condo building, Brookshire Condominiums, in Cadence’s place. I told him not to come home tonight, he didn’t ask questions. He knows the routine. Right now I’m in the living room, too hungry to even head to the bedroom. I had the door opened before she knocked. I was on my knees before she closed it. She’s leaning against it now, hands on my head, one leg cocked up with my hand keeping it steady, my tongue inside of her, my thumb on her spot circling … circling … my tongue going in and out … in … out. It’s how she likes it. She was a virgin when I met her; this is what I had to do to get her ready for me. To get her ready for something bigger. Something better. This is what we do.
I back up and lie down on the floor—fuck the bed. I nod for her to come to me; she knows the drill. She slides her bra off as she move past my dick, past my shoulder and right to my face. She has a seat. This is what we do. I take her hips in my hands and slide her back and forth; she likes to ride my tongue but always needs some encouragement. It’s not right, she would always say, it’s unnatural. But she’s grown to appreciate it. She drops her
hands on the floor above my head to steady herself and slides back and forth on my face … back and forth … This is how I first taught her how to ride dick. You grind down and move side to side, up and down, back and forth. It’s when I hear her moans coming faster together and her slides getting quicker that I know she’s ready.
A gentleman would let this be all. He’d please her, but let her keep her dignity. After all, she’s married. He’d let her feel some semblance of superiority about this decision. He’d let her feel that though she was wrong for coming here, it could have been much worse. But I want Jasmine Harlow. I want Marlon’s wife. And guess what? I’m about to have Marlon’s wife.
I slide her down as I struggle to unbuckle my belt and pants and she struggles to loosen my shirt buttons and tie. I want it. She wants it. She’s about to get it. By the time I throw my boxers to the side, she’s already hovering over me, has me in her hand, and is trying to shove me inside of her. I flip her around, land her on her back, pin her legs open and … I’m in.
Shit … I’m in.
There are no formalities; there is no small talk. I’m in and I’m going. She’s getting it and she’s telling me to go harder. She’s brought my mouth to hers; we’ve got a hectic lip lock going on; tongues and sucking and biting. I’m letting go of her legs and I’m grabbing her ass, squeezing it in my hands, clapping it just to remember the sound. She always did have a nice ass. I’m wrapping her legs around me. I’m standing up. I’m setting my feet firmly on the ground. I’m giving it the good old college try. It’s been over a decade. I’ve been a husband for a while now. I have four kids. But fuck that, because now I’ve got that Jasmine feeling back.
Jasmine is why I could never be faithful to my wife. I’ve been trying to get this Jasmine feeling back with random ass women. I’d leave hotel rooms feeling like shit; not because I fucked around on Winnie (Mac always thinks that) but because it was unfulfilling. I didn’t get that Jasmine feeling. What was the point? Shit, I might as well go home to my wife. I’d call her right after and see what she was up to. Whoever I was with wasn’t worth risking my marriage over, after all. Whoever I was with wasn’t Jasmine. I haven’t been with another woman except Winnie for six years, and let me tell you, that shit has been tough. But tonight I can admit that I don’t need other women. Only Jasmine can give me what Winnie can’t. If I have Jasmine and Winnie, I won’t need another piece of ass for as long as I live.
And I’m going. I’m trying to savor this moment. I need this to last me another twelve years. For the sake of my marriage, I need this Jasmine feeling to last. I need for the feeling of this very moment to last me another decade or until Jasmine has mercy on me and grants me another go ‘round.
I know she has Marlon. I have Winnie. But for the sake of our marriages, Jasmine and I need each other. If we deny our need, we’re bound to never be satisfied with what we have and it’ll make Winnie and Marlon miserable. They won’t understand why we’re irritable sometimes or why we just don’t feel like being bothered. They don’t deserve that. They deserve for me and Jasmine to be completely happy with them. And for that to happen, we have to carry on with a separate relationship in order to feel fully satisfied. I’m telling you, I could go home to Winnie each night and be perfectly content if I knew that I had Jasmine to enjoy whenever she and I desired. And I know she feels the same. We don’t want to leave our homes; we just want brief moments in time to live in our own world.
Damn Jasmine, let’s just do this shit.
Jacob
(amy.)
Winnie’s cool. She is. It’s easy living with her. Fresh brewed coffee and strawberry pop tarts in the morning, popcorn and red wine in the evening, a nice session in bed at night. She and I normally don’t talk during work hours, so when I get home from the office, I’m actually pissed if she hasn’t made it in yet. I rustle the keys in the front door lock, toss them on the table beside it, drop the Chinese food on the counter and catch myself rolling my eyes. I don’t know why. I just started feeling this way. I guess the feeling is … well, I’m not sure what the feeling is. But I’ve gotta admit. I like it. I’ve been married to Gwyneth Blair for going on two years now and I never thought I’d say this but I—
“Winnie!” I yell before I yank her by the arm and she hops back from the curb. Damn, people talk about New York drivers but everyone fails to mention that London cabbies will run you the fuck over—no questions asked. “Damn, baby, watch out.”
“Shit!” Winnie screams out as she grabs hold of my hand. “Didn’t even see that cab.”
“You didn’t see a moving vehicle headed your way? What the hell were you looking at?”
“A cute guy caught my eye.”
“Winnie, pay attention to the damn traffic, please.”
“It’s crowded out here!” she screams excitedly over the crowd of people, or hipsters or whatever you call this multitude that likes blue-eyed soul. This new girl from London, Amy Winehouse, is releasing an album that’s supposed to be a Motown throwback. A month ago, Winnie bought a mixtape from Hackney in east London, a part of town I asked her not to go into without me. But, of course, this is Winnie. She went to buy incense and came back with a mixtape with a ‘white girl singing the hell out of this Donny Hathaway song’. Amy Winehouse’s rendition of “A Song For You” impressed me so much that I put it on rotation on my iPod. Winnie and I rock out to it coming back and forth from weekend trips to Paris, weekday trips to Borough Market and on our way to Saturday Mass. (Winnie and I go to Mass on Saturday evenings instead of Sunday mornings, so we won’t have to worship with a big ass crowd.) A few weeks ago, I bought two tickets to see Amy perform at Royal Albert Hall. Just a little gift for Winnie, and a nice outing for the two of us.
I wrap my fingers within Winnie’s and pull her closer to me. She pats her bob as the two of us head across the street. I’ve been out of law school for about two months now. Mac, Cadence and I live in London as we try to figure this law shit out. Cadence and Lola are in wedded bliss, as usual, while Malcolm is dragging his feet on moving Laura over here. Let’s just say life with Laura and her moods isn’t easy. Add that to the fact that she has no other interests outside of Malcolm and her Junior League and what you have is a woman who has built her entire world around being the wife of a Blair and all the social perks that come along with it. That’s where Winnie is different.
Winnie graduated from Boston College with a music degree. Jazz, Asian, blues, World, classical, modern, rap, medieval, baroque, African, Irish Folk, Rhythm and Blues; if it’s music, she knows it and she loves it. Her instrument of choice is the violin, though she’s proficient in all string instruments—which also includes the piano. I moved her in with me right after I got my law degree, and with Uncle Wynston’s help she enrolled in University of Cambridge. She’s getting her master’s in music and moonlighting on the side, giving piano lessons to the privileged kids of Uncle Wynston’s London circle. So,while Laura is trying to get her wedding ring and Dena is trying to conceive her first baby, Winnie isbusy being who she’s always been, with or without me: herself.
“I’m telling you, this bitch is bad,” she says to me as we make it to the curb.
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” I say as I navigate through throngs of Londoners. “I’m just hoping she sounds good in person.”
“Me too. You wanna grab something to eat afterwards at that little diner we like? And just so you know, I plan on stealing some of your chips because I know that’s what you’ll be ordering as your side item.”
“Yeah, about my chips, order your own. Last time you asked for a taste and then damn near licked my plate clean,” I say just before someone comes crashing into Winnie, nearly knocking her over.
“Damn!” she screams out.
“What the fuck?” I say to this big ass bearded redhead as I yank Winnie out of the way and slide in front of him. “Watch where the fuck you’re going.”
“Sorry, mate.” he says in an Australian accent. “Just trying
to find my wife.”
“You plan on killing mine in the process?”
“Won’t happen again.” He puts his hands up in a truce.
“No shit.” Winnie wraps her arms in mine.
“Come on, Jakie,” she says as she begins pulling me away from him. I throw one last threatening look at the Aussie before I head with Winnie towards the ticket agent. “It’s about to go down in here!” Winnie says as I hand our tickets to the agent. The ticket agent lets us through the door where we enter more confusion and an even bigger crowd. I wrap my arm around Winnie’s shoulders this time, as we navigate towards our row.
“Yeah, it is,” I say, still reeling from the Aussie. I mean, this muthafucka just bumped right into my wife. Back in the States, I would have floored his ass for that. Bumping into Winnie … watch where the fuck you’re going.
Jasmine
(after.)
The glow of his cell phone wakes me up. I open my eyes slightly, look to his side of the bed and see that he’s looking at his cell. I glance on the screen.
Winnie 2:36 am: Where are you? I think I’m having contractions.
“Shit,” I hear him whisper before bolting upright. He rushes into the bathroom and eases the door shut without turning on the light.
“Baby … how far apart are they?” I hear him say. “When did they start? Okay, calm down. Calm down … I went back to the office and fell asleep; I’m walking in the building now … I’m on my way … Baby, relax … Winnie … Okay, I’m on my way … Relax, alright? … I love you … Relax.”
I’m already up by that last ‘relax’ and now I’m out of the bedroom. I grab my clothes off the floor, slide them on, grab my clutch, carry my boots in my hands and within seconds, I’m out the front door. He doesn’t have to tell me to leave.
I can’t explain why but in this moment, I feel like a new woman. I feel free. I’ve done something that goes against everything I preach. I’ve done something that would land me in divorce court and yet I feel like I did in college.
Forever. (This. Is. Not. Over. Book 3) Page 13
