“So it goes.”
As if she had read my mind, she said, “At least six, maybe eight, people in here are working.”
“You can tell?”
“That white guy talking to the brother with the locks? The brother is working. The white guy is his client. Subtle body language. I’ve seen the brother around here before. The redheaded girl having dinner with the man old enough to be her grandfather is working too. The two Filipina-looking girls at the bar are looking for work.”
“This is your world.”
“I’m an engineer. This is their world. This is just a layover for me, not the destination.”
“I stand corrected.” Then I checked the time again. “You said you know this client?”
“Doctor from Yale. Born in Detroit. Passes through here once a month or so.”
I asked, “How long you want to wait for your paycheck to show up?”
“Twenty more minutes. We can chill and watch people struggle with the seven deadly sins.”
“If you get stood up, we can get dinner at Katana in Hollywood, eat sushi, maybe go dance.”
She brightened up. “That would be nice.”
“I like the way you dance.”
“Yeah? You were watching me at Savoy?”
“Hard not to look at you. The way you move. You almost shut it down.”
She faced me head-on. “Is that right? Why were you looking at me?”
“Beauty is an aphrodisiac of which you are not in short supply. I see an abundance. You’re intelligent and gorgeous, and you make the best pancakes. I’m just being honest and speaking my mind.”
“Don’t play with me like that. Don’t say things like that to me. It does stuff to me.”
“Don’t make me blueberry flapjacks. Don’t be smart. Don’t make me laugh. Don’t make me sit here and wish I had met you instead of Coretta. Don’t smile at me the way you smile at me. It does stuff to me.”
“Stop playing, Brick.”
“You’re the perfect woman.”
“Nobody wants me.”
“Bullshit. A man will get with you and not know how to let go.”
“Look at Angelina Jolie. Brad Pitt grew tired of fucking her. Ain’t no hope for me.”
Again, there was a moment between us. Eye contact. Imagining.
She raised her drink to mine. “Here’s to the people who know the real me but still stick around.”
Jazz played as our fingers almost touched.
She said, “I saw the medicines lined up on your dresser. Ondansetron. Sildenafil. Terbinafine. Prednisone. Hydroxyzine. Prochlorperazine. Gabapentin. You know I had to google all that shit.”
“The sildenafil was for Coretta.”
“I’ll bet it was.”
“It was. What I have left is what we didn’t use.”
“She was working you that hard?”
“We were pretty hot for a while.”
“Who is the pill for now?”
“Nobody. I don’t need it. We just used it for kicks. Was like being on steroids.”
“On the serious tip, you’re okay? Those other meds add up to cancer.”
“I’m fine. Never been better. I was one of the lucky ones. Got in early before it took root.”
“You sure?”
“Had some peripheral neuropathy, but it’s gone now. Doctor said being young and fit helped.”
“Did you try using ice gloves?”
“Oh yeah. Bought a pair of NatraCure cold therapy socks on Amazon.”
“Those are still experimental.”
“Doctor said they were for people on a different chemo, but I used them anyway.”
“Too many black men don’t go to the doctor, and when they do, it’s too late.”
“Girl I met in chemo, Ericka Stockwell, she told me the same thing.”
“Oh, got an empathy hookup? I hear cancer patients do that.”
“Met her in passing on her last day, actually. After your final treatment is done, you get to ring the bell. She was with her fiancé, or husband, didn’t ask. It’s an emotional moment. She cried. Her man cried. I cried. Cried again when I got to ring that bell for myself. Felt like the world applauded for me that day. I got my freedom back.”
“Who was there with you when you got to ring that bell of freedom?”
“Nobody. I was by myself.”
She touched my hand, looked sad. Just like that, I was closer to her than I’d ever been to Coretta.
She said, “You know I was engaged to two men at once. I told you all of my business. So, tell me about your past girlfriends, before the one we saw at Roscoe’s, and after your freaky teacher.”
I told her about Stephanie Nwabuzor, from Savannah, whose parents were Nigerian and wanted her to marry a fellow Nigerian. That was four years ago. Miko Crawford from Little Rock, three years ago. Ann-Marie Moreau, a black French girl from Houston, was right before Coretta.
I said, “When I met Coretta, I thought she was the end-all, be-all.”
Mocha Latte asked, “Who was best in bed?”
“It wasn’t a contest.”
“It’s always a contest. Who?”
“Each brought her own sexual proclivities and skill set and was perfect in her own way.”
“Who was the smart one? Mr. Master’s Degree, I can tell you like shrewd girls. You have to see how keen a girl is, what her personality is like, and then you decide if she’s beautiful to you.”
“Maybe. All had advanced degrees.”
Mocha Latte put on a devilish smile. “Brick, tell me the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done.”
“Oh God. We going there? Are we really going there?”
“I see it in your face. The memory. Tell me.”
“When I was nine, I had to pick a song at random, a church song, and do a solo.”
“Okay.”
“I picked a song I heard my momma singing at home all the time.”
“What song?”
“‘Stairway to Heaven’ by the O’Jays.”
“Get out.”
“Had the word heaven in the title. Momma’s favorite song. Learned every word, taught myself to play it on the piano. I sat in front of the congregation of three hundred, played the piano, and sang my heart out.”
“That song is straight up about sex and having an orgasm.”
“I thought the O’Jays were praising Jesus and talking about going to see God.”
“You sat in church on a Sunday and sang a song about busting a nut?”
“I was nine. I had no idea what a ‘road to ecstasy’ was. And I don’t think half the women in church knew either. I thought it was about people trying to get into heaven, going up one step at a time. I tore it up when I got to the part about heaven being right here on earth, was expecting them to open the doors of the church and take new members. I sang my heart out. Sang every word. When I was done, the church was quiet, and my mom was mortified.”
“What happened when you finished singing about sex on a Sunday in the house of the Lord?”
“Preacher asked me why I picked that song. I said it was my momma’s favorite church song.”
“What did your momma do?”
“She spanked my ass, we changed churches, and I was never allowed to sing again.”
“Yeah, that shit was embarrassing. I can’t top that.”
“No, tell me the dirtiest thing you’ve ever done.”
“One client paid me to watch him suck himself off. Autofellatio. He was huge.”
“Wow.”
“A mouth is a mouth, quite simply. Even if it’s your own.”
“What else?”
“There was another client who practiced eproctophilia.”
“I have no idea what that is.”
“That’s a thing? Someone paid you top dollar to . . . to do what exactly?”
“So, Mr. Poot Lover would feed me cans of beans, then put his face in my booty and I’d . . . dammit.”
Mocha Latte’s phone buzzed and startled her. She looked at the text message, lost some of her teasing smile. She wore the look of a woman who was suddenly disappointed about something.
I asked, “What happened? Client’s not coming?”
Mocha Latte waved toward the entrance to the bar. “The opposite. My client is here.”
Curious, a little jealous, I wanted to see the scoundrel who was going to feed one of his wolves tonight. I saw men of every nationality entering the bar, powerful men in suits; then I saw the customer wave at Mocha Latte.
CHAPTER 21
BRICK
COMING TOWARD US, smiling, was a curvaceous lady. She was a freckle-faced woman, each freckle a snowflake. She had the type of well-to-do beauty that was hard to see and not become transfixed.
I told Mocha Latte, “I’ll go and come back when you call.”
“Chill out here. I’ll be done with her in thirty minutes, no more than an hour.”
The client wore a beautiful, multicolored, high-fashion hijab. She rocked skinny jeans and a loose, faded, long-sleeved jean shirt that covered her arms to her wrists. When she was closer, I saw she had eyes the color of sand. At least five nine in low heels. I’d guess she was in her mid-twenties, early thirties at the most.
The client asked Mocha Latte, “How’s my favorite marathon runner?”
“You made it. I was getting worried.”
“Did I interrupt your conversation?”
She had a nice voice, professional, sounded East Coast.
Mocha Latte said, “He’s driving me.”
“Never knew you had a driver.”
Mocha Latte said, “If I dress like this and sit in a bar at an airport hotel, next thing you know, two men will be trying to kill each other to get me to kiss the winner on the cheek. My friend keeps the wolves away.”
The client smiled. “Sorry I took so long. Airport security is racist. My running terrified them.”
Mocha Latte said, “His name is Brick.”
We shook hands. I saw a hint of concern on her face.
I said, “I’m not a police officer. I don’t do any work with law enforcement.”
She relaxed, exhaled like she felt safe. This wasn’t entrapment.
Mocha Latte said, “He’s copper-bottomed. Our conversations will stay private.”
I thought they would leave right away, go do whatever they had planned to do for the next hour, but the graduate from Yale pulled up the barstool next to Mocha Latte. “How have you been?”
“I could say I’ve been unhappy, still struggling intellectually, spiritually, and financially, but there is always someone out there who has it worse. So, I’ll just say, I’m still here. Still fighting a good fight.”
“Oh, I so feel you on that. My husband . . . let’s just say when you marry someone, you take on all of their issues, and all of their family’s issues . . . It has been one thing after the other for five years.”
“Communication is the key in every relationship.”
“What’s the point of communicating if it’s all lies? Expecting honesty is expecting too much?”
Without a segue, Mocha Latte asked her client, “How are we for time?”
“If I get back to LAX in two hours, it’ll give security enough time to harass me, so I should be fine.”
“Let’s get you a drink.”
“Please do.”
“On your American Express? If that’s cool.”
“Of course. I will take care of the bill. Same as before.”
“A Yale graduate working at the nation’s top hospital can afford a couple of drinks.”
“Doctors have student loans like you would not believe. Girl, I stay broke.”
Mocha Latte laughed. “Your broke ain’t like my broke. Your broke incudes a mansion.”
The client touched Mocha Latte’s thigh. “That’s a dress made for undressing.”
Mocha Latte bounced her leg. “You have your room key?”
“I have it.”
“Should we go upstairs?”
“Someone is anxious.”
“Was just trying to be considerate.”
The client whispered, “When I am with you, I am nervous. This is different, you know? I text you provocative messages, say bold things; then when I get here, I get so very nervous. This conflict is not an easy one to resolve. I always want you so badly. Crave to feel your hands embracing me, and your hugs feel so good. All day I have imagined the taste of your tongue and wanted to suck your lips. Turns me on to be naked in front of you. Miss the way you snuggle with me. Enjoy feeling your skin, your legs intertwined with mine. Your touch, the slightest touch from you makes me wet. I try to control myself when I’m with you. Sometimes, like now, I feel like I want to scream. I could make love to you all night and then all day.”
She said those things the way I was accustomed to a woman talking to a man, or a man to a woman.
Mocha Latte leaned into her. “Touch me.”
“First, do that thing you do with your tongue. Make it touch your philtrum, then, you know.”
Mocha Latte took a breath and made her tongue snake from her mouth. It touched the indent just above her upper lip; then it wiggled to the tip of her nose. The client hummed, remembering a good time. After that, Mocha Latte made that flesh go beyond the bottom of her chin. She made it do the wave, rolled it like a taco, then made it move like a snake. They grinned at each other, both biting the corners of their lips. Mocha Latte uncrossed her legs, put the client’s hand in her lap, then discreetly under her dress. Mocha Latte’s eyes tightened; she hummed like a soft fire on a winter day. Her client hummed and licked her lips, famished.
Mocha Latte whispered, “That feels good.”
“You are an oyster with a hardening pearl.”
“You’re the same.”
“I feel like an animal with you. Animals don’t know sin. Animals are free.”
In a sultry voice Mocha Latte said, “Hour starts when we get in the room.”
The client licked her fingers, then put her fingers in Mocha Latte’s mouth for a quick second, then took her hand back and grinned.
Mocha Latte asked, “Mind paying for my driver’s drink too?”
The client flagged down the bartender and went to take care of the tab.
Mocha Latte leaned to me, whispered, “The dignified woman across the bar is still checking you out.”
“The MILF? She probably has a thing for sexy chocolate like you.”
Mocha Latte winked at me. “I’ll be upstairs. Go investigate.”
“My job is to wait in Barstow while you go to Vegas. I’ll be right here until you’re done.”
The client wrapped up the bill, then eased off her barstool. Mocha Latte did the same, adjusted her black dress, then finger waved good-bye to me. Her client looked back, and her hijab framed the kind of smile that told me she hoped I was as discreet as the beautiful black woman she was renting by the hour.
As soon as they disappeared, I googled BDE, saw what it meant, then smiled at the compliment.
I took in the people at the bar dealing with their two wolves, strangers in need of aged alcohol and a new friend for a few hours, felt the heat between them all, felt capitalism and biology at play. Biology kept the escorts of the night in business. Biology kept wedding chapels booked and divorce courts filled with people ready to try again. Biology made burn victims run back into another blazing fire. Biology had sent me to Penny when Penny had called me to soothe her pain. Biology had sent Mocha Latte to two men and made it impossi
ble to decide on one. Biology had sent Christiana to an unfaithful husband, a man she didn’t know as well as she had assumed. That same biology had sent Christiana’s sister to that same stranger. Biology had sent Dwayne to Frenchie, or Frenchie to Dwayne, depending on whose version of their complicated love affair you believed.
Biology whispered in my ear, voice like honey, then gently kissed my face.
To shake it off, I responded to a message from someone in Santa Monica interested in buying two bottles of high-end wine. I scheduled a meeting with them at the Farmers Market in the Grove tomorrow.
Anything to distract me from biology.
One of the televisions in the bar was on CNN. Twenty million people without food. I was reading the closed captions when my phone rang. It was Mocha Latte. I didn’t recognize her voice at first. It was deep. Husky. Fifteen minutes had passed. She said the code phrase so I’d know everything was okay, but something must have gone wrong for her to call so soon.
Mocha Latte took a breath, let out a little moan. “My date wants you to help us do something.”
“What does that mean?”
“Room 1237. Come up in ten.”
“My job is to wait in Barstow. I’m waiting in Barstow. Enjoy Vegas.”
“Come to Vegas in ten. You’ll be done in two, and you can go back to Barstow.”
Mocha Latte hung up. I sat back, sipped my Corona, and within seconds, my phone rang again. It was Coretta. My heart stopped, and I was going to let it roll to voice mail, but I answered.
She hesitated, then said my name like it weighed a thousand pounds. “Brick.”
Her name weighed twice that. “Coretta.”
“That was a surprise. Stepping out of Roscoe’s and bam. There you were.”
I said, “Only took six months for us to cross paths again.”
“I guess LA is shrinking.”
“Coretta, are you drunk? You fell off the wagon and bumped your pretty little head?”
She made a nasty sound. “You never asked me to come back. Not once.”
“You landed on a softer pillow. Two softer pillows based on her cleavage.”
The Business of Lovers Page 14
