The Takedown

by Nia Forrester

“See?” he whispered against the shell of her ear. “Mellower already.”

  His fingers worked in small circles, the limited give of her jeans making it hard for him to do much more than that. But it wasn’t even just the motion and contact, it was being close to him. He could set her off like a firecracker, pretty much at will. But she wanted him to do more than just switch her libido on and off. She wanted him present. And lately, he just hadn’t been.

  She knew that he was likely to be busy coming back from a ten-day trip to L.A., and she had accepted that. She didn’t even expect to see him until later that evening. But it was almost as though once he’d reassured himself she was still available to him, he felt no obligation to make himself available to her.

  But God, his fingers felt good though. So good.

  Despite herself, Makayla heard a small moan escape her barely parted lips, and her knees began to get a little wobbly. Jamal reached down with his free hand, his mouth still on her neck and opened the button fly on her jeans, working it over her hips. Picturing herself standing in the middle of his office with her jeans puddled about her ankles, Makayla shoved back against the pleasure, and pushed him away from her.

  “No,” she said shaking her head. “Not like this. I haven’t seen you in more than a week, Jamal. I don’t want you to just get me off so I won’t be mad at you for canceling lunch. I want …”

  “Hold up, hold up. Get you off? Believe me, I was fully intending to get off as well, so …”

  Makayla yanked her jeans back together, refastening the fly and going around to the other side of his desk to retrieve her phone.

  “Sometimes …” She exhaled a heavy breath. “I swear …”

  “And technically, I’m not canceling lunch since we never had actual lunch plans.”

  She shot him a dirty look, shoving her phone into her back pocket and heading to the door.

  “That’s real cute. You really missed your calling as a lawyer, Jamal. Honestly.”

  “Kayla, c’mon. I’m just kidding, baby. I hear you. Okay, look, how about …”

  Makayla brushed past him and pulled open his office door. Heading down the hall toward the elevators, she ignored the stares she got from people in the offices on either side of the hallway, and the sound of Jamal, calling out to her retreating back.

  ~2~

  Jamal shoved open the door, listening as he entered the semi-dark apartment.

  Silence.

  Glancing down at his watch, he saw that it was just past one a.m. He was definitely getting too old for this. There was a period in his life when this was primetime, and things were just about to get cracking; when he would have just been leaving the officially-sanctioned event, and heading to the place where the real festivities were. To the after-parties, the exclusive soirée in the suite of a major recording artist, the late-night dinner at the chef’s table in a three Michelin star restaurant, or to an Upper West Side apartment for the kind of celebrating that never made the headlines.

  As Director of Artist and Product Development at Scaife Enterprises, he had for many years been one of the most valuable front-men for the organization. He was that dude, developing and befriending artists, helping them catch that elusive little sprite called ‘fame’ and then making sure she didn’t leave them. It had been one hell of a ride, and Jamal enjoyed every minute of it.

  But now, though no one expected him to show up at the after-parties, the new demands on his time sometimes made those nights look like child’s play. He was glad to be doing none of that tonight. The week had been a long one, sleeping away from home and from his woman, and this was the first weekend in a long while when he had no obligations other than the most pleasant—reconnecting with Makayla, playing some basketball with his boys, watching sports on his own television.

  Makayla left the light in the fireplace on, so he switched it off before heading further into the apartment. The one in the kitchen above the range was on as well, because she knew he would come in late, wanting to make himself something to eat.

  Cooking after events was both a necessity and a meditation for him. He never ate much while he was out, and was usually ravenous by the time he got home. But he also liked the well-ordered process of pulling things out and constructing a meal. It was a welcome contrast to the over-stimulation of pressing the flesh and making nice with dozens of people, in places that were filled with voices, music, and rapidly flashing lights.

  Jamal wondered how long Makayla stayed up before deciding to turn in without him. It used to be that no matter how late, she would wait. If she didn’t go out with him, he would get home to find her sitting on the sofa, her legs folded beneath her, covered by a blanket and head lolling backward, drifting off. The sound of him opening the door would rouse her, and she would look up, and smile.

  After a time, that routine changed and his opening the door wouldn’t make a difference. As she slept on, Jamal would put an arm beneath her legs, one behind her back and carry her in to their bed while she moaned and shifted against him, saying his name against his neck. Now, she carried herself to bed before he was even home so she was no longer the first thing he saw when he opened the door.

  He had been traveling for more than a week, but even before that, it seemed like he was on the road for six months. When he got back to New York this time, it was to an office teeming with demands, including a last-minute party that someone added to his schedule. Although it was his first night home in a while, Kayla didn’t want to join him when he called her to tell her about it.

  No surprise there, given their mini-argument at the office earlier that afternoon. Jamal shoved aside his disappointment at her refusal and told her he would see her at home.

  And now here he was. Home.

  But he didn’t see her.

  Makayla knew he was back because of the aroma of breakfast food permeating the apartment.

  Eggs. Onions. Peppers.

  It was still dark out, and if she had to guess, somewhere around two in the morning. Yawning, she stretched beneath the soft cotton sheets, feeling her body heave, and relax. She was never completely at ease until she knew Jamal was back from one of his late-night engagements. While he was out, she imagined all manner of calamities—from a car accident to a pushy ex-girlfriend—until he was safely back with her, where he belonged. The smell of food being prepared was usually her signal that she could rest easy.

  No matter the hour, Jamal liked to cook when he got in. Sometimes he made full meals—pan-seared steak, and brussel sprouts sautéed with garlic and basil; or a tray full of the disgusting pre-cooked buffalo chicken wings he was always asking her to buy, broiled in the oven.

  Tonight, it smelled like frittatas, or omelets.

  Makayla used to try to stay up to cook for him, until he told her that the food was only partly the point—he liked the process of cooking it, because it helped him decompress from the evening. And it was true, because even when she went with him to his work functions, he wanted to be the one to prepare their after-party meals.

  Once he had eaten, he would shower, then crawl in next to her. If she was awake, they would talk about his evening a little until one or another of them drifted off.

  Or he would pull her closer and, face inches from hers, ask, ‘you good?’

  And she might answer, ‘Yeah, I’m good. How ‘bout you?’

  ‘Nah,’ he’d almost always say. And Makayla would hear the smile and the mischief in his tone. ‘Not good at all.’

  And then in the blink of an eye he would have her naked beneath him.

  ‘Now I’m good,’ he would say against her ear as he entered her. ‘Now … I am.’

  Makayla smiled, thinking that even as tired as she was, she wouldn’t mind if tonight were one of those nights. She missed him. Jamal’s challenging schedule had recently become even more so because his official and unofficial onboarding processes were done.

  Chris Scaife had completely turned over the reins to Scaife Enterprises, not even retaining hi
s office on the twentieth floor. The training wheels were off and Jamal was no-kidding-around “in charge” of one of the top ten most successful multinational music conglomerates in the world.

  Whenever Makayla thought about it that way, it felt surreal. It didn’t seem to have anything to do with him, with his unpretentious outlook on life, and down-to-earth manner. He was just Jamal—the man she was going to marry. Just as soon as she could get her act together and figure out how to plan their November wedding.

  But if she had trouble remembering his new stature, there were the parties, the premieres, the release events and interviews to remind her. Not to mention the pictures in magazines and occasional stories online. All of that reminded her that they weren’t just a couple on the come up any longer—they had, from all outward appearances, arrived.

  Suddenly, the quiet of the apartment was breached with the pulsing hum of their landline. It only rang for two reasons—if someone was downstairs, or if she was getting a call from …

  “Wha’s up, Scout?”

  Makayla groaned and covered her head with a pillow, hoping to block out what came after that greeting. The affable choice of words was a ruse. Jamal only called one person ‘Scout’. That was when he wasn’t calling him some other borderline demeaning moniker like, ‘Kid’ or ‘Son’.

  But almost never his name. Almost never just ‘Devin’.

  “… not an emergency, is it?”

  Bits and pieces of the conversation reached her, despite her best efforts not to hear it. Jamal’s deep voice carried, even when he was trying not to speak too loudly.

  “… asleep. Nah. It can wait till morning. I don’t … look, bruh … look … I don’t care what she told you. Don’t call my house after midnight unless you’re bleeding. Matter of fact, not even then. If you’re bleeding, you need to call 9-1-1.”

  And then there was silence. Well, not exactly silence.

  The conversation was clearly over, but after that, Jamal was banging around a lot more, audibly closing cabinet doors and yanking open drawers, pulling out cutlery and plates, taking out his irritation on their kitchen. Makayla pictured his face drawn into a mean scowl, and she mentally cursed Devin’s bad timing.

  Since they’d seen each other only briefly when Makayla stopped by SE, tonight was supposed to be their real reunion, but then something else came up—a stupid party where he had to make an appearance. Makayla told him she would be waiting at home, and then the waiting went on too late, so she killed time talking to Devin. He, too, had something to do—a gig at a club. So, she told him, idly and out of habit, that he should call her afterward to let her know how it went, and so she could know he got home safely. And of course, he did, because Devin and she always kept their word to each other.

  Makayla listened to Jamal moving around, debating whether to go out to defuse his ill-temper and finally deciding against it. Her eyes were growing heavy again, and besides, there was little she could say that would quell his irritation with Devin.

  Sighing, she hugged her pillow and closed her eyes, drifting off once again.

  The shift of the mattress awakened her a little later. The room smelled of soap, the air was damp and she felt the warmth of a presence next to her. She had slept though Jamal’s shower, and hadn’t heard a thing.

  Turning onto her side to face him, she made out his face in the dark on the pillow next to her—his dark, formidable eyebrows, the slope of his nose, and the curve of his full lips. The lights from the New York City skyline gave them dim illumination in the master suite because Makayla liked falling asleep to the view across the river all the way to Brooklyn, toward the neighborhood where she used to live.

  “You ‘wake?”

  “Yeah. I was waiting for you,” she said.

  “Sorry it’s so late,” he said, his voice hoarse, and barely above a whisper.

  Then he reached over and anchored his fingers in her long, thick locs.

  Makayla moved closer, resting her head on his arm, using it as a pillow, feeling the gentle tug of Jamal’s hand, tightening its hold on her hair. He always fell asleep that way, stroking the coarse, dense ropes of her hair.

  On the rare mornings when Makayla was up before him she might sit up and find her head yanked backward, because his grip didn’t relax much, even in his sleep. And she would have to extricate herself, feeling strangely comforted that even while unconscious, her man wanted to hold on to part of her.

  “You smell like bread after you’ve been working out.”

  “Bread?”

  “Yeah. Like freshly-baked bread. Kind of yeasty, and warm …”

  Makayla buried her face into Jamal’s neck, ignoring the fact that he’d jumped right back into bed with her after coming from a long morning of running around in the damp and weighty summer heat. She didn’t like when he did that, because it meant he’d get the sheets all sweaty, and they would have to be changed. But he was hardly ever funky. Like right now? He should have been, because he’d been playing basketball with his friends on the courts in Washington Square Park for the past several hours. But nope. No funk. Just warm, yeasty deliciousness.

  Even though he had gotten home at some ungodly hour, he was up before she was, and had gone for what had become a customary Saturday morning two-on-two with Brendan, Chris and Shawn. Their games had become somewhat legendary in that neighborhood, and some weekends they drew quite the crowd, mostly of hip-hop fans who wanted to watch this group of cooler-than-cool music industry trendsetters getting their game on.

  “You know what you smell like when you work out?” Jamal turned his head so they were nose-to-nose. He nudged hers with the tip of his, his lips tantalizingly close.

  “No. What?”

  “Like … sweat.”

  Makayla laughed and pulled back, shoving against his chest. “Shut up! And go take a shower. We have the florist at one-thirty.”

  Rolling onto his back, Jamal groaned. “I don’t feel like spending my Saturday wandering around looking at daisies, Kayla. You need to find someone else for that little excursion, for real.”

  “No,” she said airily. “Because you promised. And you’re the one who said you want, I think the quote was, ‘the wedding of the mutha-effin’ century’.”

  “I don’t know why you take me seriously when I say shit like that,” he mumbled, pushing himself up to a sitting position and pulling his shirt off.

  “Because you were serious.” Makayla kissed him on his bicep. “It’s okay to admit it. You’re excited to get married to me. You’re … stoked.”

  “Stoked,” Jamal scoffed, standing up and shedding his sweats and boxer-briefs. “You really need to stop talkin’ like those White folks you hang out with at school.”

  When he was naked, Makayla couldn’t help it that her eyes followed his every move. God, he was beautiful. Sleek and dark like a jungle cat, moving with just as much grace. And sometimes, if she turned her back on him, he pounced.

  “C’mon shower with me,” he said, inclining his head toward the bathroom.

  “No. Because then we’d never leave the apartment.”

  “Why do we have to leave the apartment?” he asked biting into the fleshiest part of his lower lip.

  “Flowers,” she reminded him, trying to sound stern.

  Jamal shook his head. “I bet I could talk you out of it,” he said, advancing toward her again.

  Makayla pulled back further onto the bed until her back was against the headboard.

  “Jamal …” she warned.

  “Fine,” he said wearily. “I’ll be out in twenty and we can go look at some flowers.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, we can only spend about an hour there because I told Devin I’d go look for a new place with him. He’s finally moving out of that crappy spot he’s been in for a million years.”

  At the mention of Devin, Jamal’s eyes hardened.

  Shit. She’d forgotten about the phone call.

  “About that,” he began. “Why does h
e feel like he can call here at any ol’ time that …”

  “I asked him to,” Makayla said, quickly shutting down what felt like the beginning of a familiar rant. “And if he knew you were home, he probably wouldn’t have called that late.”

  Jamal made a scoffing noise and sat on the edge of their bed. “So, he calls here at two in the morning when I’m not here? And wouldn’t do it if he knew that I was. You see anything wrong with that, Kayla?”

  “Jamal, he’s practically my brother. It’s not like …”

  “No. He’s not practically your brother. Any dude you once screwed cannot practically be your brother, that’s the first thing. So, for him to call my crib, and try to demand to speak to you …”

  “He didn’t demand.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “You’re exaggerating. He wouldn’t …”

  “He did. And the only reason I didn’t drive over to Brownsville just to kick his ass is because I was too damn tired.”

  Makayla said nothing, realizing that Jamal had just worked himself up to a state of anger that he rarely got to, and one that Devin was particularly good at inspiring. Over the past year since she and Jamal had been living together, there were at least weekly games of one-upmanship between the two most important people in her life.

  Instead of arguing, it was better to just wait for the punchline, because there always was one.

  “As a matter of fact, you can call him up and tell him to go look for his own damn apartment because you and me have plans all day today. But first, let’s go look at some motherfuckin’ flowers for our wedding.”

  And there it was.

  Makayla sighed. She had no idea what she was doing, or even what she was looking for.

  And because of that, they were probably going to get hosed on the cost. Jamal had a guest list of over one hundred and fifty people, and she had fewer than twenty-five. Devin, of course; and some girlfriends who she didn’t even see anymore, a handful of friends from school, and a few people from her old neighborhood who had been kind to her grandmother while she was ill.