“Since I can no longer run track, I try and keep myself occupied. I still train. I came in sixth at the LA Marathon. The wheelchair portion, of course. Came in tenth in Boston. That was disappointing.”
She shifted in a provocative way; then she turned and put her brown eyes deep inside of mine.
She asked, “Did I tell you what I do for a living?”
“No. We skipped that part and went to war.”
She was an actuary but was ready to move on and do something else more challenging.
I said, “You have a PhD.”
“I do.”
“What are your interests?”
“I want to be become a neurosurgeon.”
“You’re a badass.”
“I feel like I am out of my league.”
“Why is that?”
Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle grinned. “This is not what I normally do. I’ve never done this before.”
“I’m new to this too.”
She held her grin. “Well, I won’t ask how new is new.”
I let that ride, then said, “PhD, it also means you are a doctor of philosophy.”
“Yeah. Not many people know that. Not many people care.”
“You know what? I’ve always found it odd, because even if you don’t know all that much about philosophy, you’re still called a doctor of philosophy. But I guess it’s one of those things you accept, even if it rattles your brain.”
She hummed. “Yeah, being named doctor of philosophy is a bit off, but it is what it is.”
“A medical doctor might have earned a PhD in immunology and infectious diseases, though they don’t actually need one to treat patients with infectious diseases.”
“Look at you. Now who’s the smart one?”
I smiled, then winked at her.
She said, “I haven’t had this much intellectual stimulation in a long time.”
“Neither have I.”
“Talking like this makes me want to stand up and dance.”
“Then let’s dance.”
“I was joking.”
“I’m not.”
Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle laughed. “Did you not notice I am in a moving chair? Daleks don’t dance.”
I went to the television, turned it on a music channel with old-school slow jams; then I reached for her hand. She hesitated, then extended her fingers. I picked her up, held her in my arms, moved around the room slowly. She pulled her Afro back, rested her face next to mine, cheek to cheek. My hunger for her pulled at the chains, and I held her and kissed her cheek, then kissed her lips, gave her a slow and easy French kiss without asking.
She whispered, “I wanted to do that twenty minutes ago.”
I asked, “Why didn’t you?”
“I was winning.”
“Those lips. I wanted to kiss you from the moment I first saw you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Barking dog.”
“Strawberry has warmed up to you. She stopped barking. That means she trusts you.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I do. Yeah, I do. I thought this would be awkward, but it really isn’t.”
“So, I have permission?”
“Yes. You have permission, but if she barks, you’d better stop. She will bite your ankles.”
I carried her to the king bed. She opened my shirt, sucked my nipples. We kissed, first lips, more lips, then tongue. Every woman was different, every kiss was different, and every session was different. Each time I learned something else about women, but each time I learned more about myself. I was able to adapt, adjust, be generous.
She said, “The way you look at me, from the moment you opened the door.”
I took over the kissing. “And?”
“I didn’t tell them I was in a wheelchair. I mean, you did notice the wheelchair, right?”
“You mean, your Uber for one made by Tesla?”
She paused. “That joke. That’s my joke. Do I know you?”
“You are a combination of Aphrodite, Helen of Troy, and Lupita.”
“Wow. I like this. This is scaring me, but don’t stop scaring me. It’s a good scary.”
The timer went off and the kissing went on, until my phone rang. I didn’t answer the call.
Her cute little dog barked at us, tail wagging, like it was laughing.
My client moved like she was about to gather her things. I stopped her.
I told her, “Don’t go. Stay another hour.”
Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle smiled.
My phone rang again, and I answered with the code phrase.
I asked Christiana, “We good?”
“You’re done for the night. The room is paid for and yours until morning.”
“Everybody okay?”
“Everybody is working until morning. I’m about to meet a client.”
“See you downstairs at breakfast.”
Then I ended the call.
* * *
—
DR. ALLISON ÉMILIE Chappelle pulled away her jacket, then gestured for me to come to her. I pulled her sexy little black dress up enough to expose her breasts. Her breasts were wonderful, perfect, full and firm, full C-cups; her nipples were thick as a thumb, dark like Belgian chocolate. Both grew harder under my tongue.
She moaned, whispered, “I am a thinker. I know the place this is coming from. I understand my motivation, the emotions that have led me to you, Brick. I know my reality, and I know truth.”
“What does that mean?”
Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle undid my shirt, then pulled at my belt, unzipped my pants and hurriedly pulled my pants and underwear down to my knees. She gave me head, the kind that made me groan and weak at the knees. Whenever a woman did that, it always astonished me. Her lipstick was glossy, glittery, shined on her full pillow-soft lips. Amazed me how a woman dressed up her mouth and made her lips look so seductive, so sensual. So erotic. She gave me head and for a moment her beautiful lips looked like a sideways vagina. A swollen vagina that felt better than the real thing. It was an odd thought and left me fascinated, holding her hair and watching her work me toward a poor man’s heaven. Those lips. Those goddamn lips. She looked up at me, teabagged me and stroked my penis as it grew in her hands, then kissed her way north, licked my nipples like that was her fetish.
She said, “Talk to me. Tell me what you like. Tell me what to do to please you.”
She took care of me, hugged my erection with her mouth, as I kicked my shoes off. She fellated me as I undressed. She paused, and I kissed her, ran my fingers up and down her legs. She responded. She felt my touch. I helped her out of her four-thousand-dollar boots, then smiled at how good she looked unclothed, and took her to the shower. I sat her on a stool and cleaned her, then dried her off and put lotion and oils on her skin before I carried her to the bed.
She said, “Dogs can smell the subtle changes in your natural aroma, and that lets them know how you are feeling. Strawberry knows I am happy now. She won’t bark when she knows I’m happy.”
I went down on her, stirred her, made her talk to God. She tasted virtuous, tasted wholesome and sweet.
She pulled me back to her, kissed me like she was overwhelmed with greed to savor our combined flavor, tasted herself on my tongue and moaned like that turned her on so much she couldn’t wait to have me inside her.
She said, “I brought my own protection.”
“How would you like me to start?”
“On my stomach. I love being on my stomach. My spot is easier to reach like that.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not delicate. I won’t break.”
“Okay.”
“Do we need a safe word?”
“Just say stop and I’ll stop.”
>
“I wish I had brought along sex wedges. They are better than soft pillows.”
She told me she would be able to feel me inside of her, would be able to have an orgasm.
She chuckled. “But I won’t be able to twerk it.”
I told her. “I got this. I’ll twerk, wukkup, and whine you so good you’ll think we’re in the West Indies.”
She put her face into a pillow, muffled her sounds. I rubbed her butt awhile, then did a slow stroke. Twerk. Wukkup. Slow whine.
“Ahhhhh ooooooo-ooooooo-ooooooo.”
I didn’t go fast until she was wet, until her moans begged for more, until she was one level deep. I went from being halfway inside her to all the way.
“Ooooo-oooooooo, ooooo-oooo.”
I held her waist and rocked her, twerk, wukkup, whine, kept it steady until she was down two levels.
“Ahhhhh, ooooooo-oooooo-ooooooo-oooooooo-oooooo.”
Her sensuous cries and the bark from her dog mingled when she was feeling level three.
“Mmmm, ooooooo, that’s what I’m talking about, right there, right there, yes, ooooooo, yes, ooooooo, right there, oh my, oh my God, mmm mmmm, oh yes, oh my God, like that like that like that like that.”
For thirty-six minutes and thirty-four seconds it was more than sex, and I was living in my feelings. I felt like I loved her. I had loved her before I touched her, had wanted her before she knew my name, before she knew I existed.
CHAPTER 44
DWAYNE
THE LIBRARY IN Manhattan Beach was another world. The two-level library had no scent, and all I heard inside was the soft hum from the air conditioning, no street sounds, because the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows were double-paned. When I made it upstairs, I gazed out at the seaside city built on a sand dune for a moment; then I walked around until I found Fela. He was next to a window at a high-tech table for two, the kind with built-in outlets.
He saw me, smiled, and whispered, “Dad, thirty more minutes and I’ll be done with homework.”
“Cool beans.”
“Here, read my short story. My own little Hunger Games.”
He handed it to me and I smiled. “‘Lottery: A True Game of Hunger.’ Interesting title.”
I was glad to be included in this part of his life. I read the two-thousand-word story in a matter of minutes. It was good. I’d created the teenager who had written this. I had enjoyed it. He had included parts of his life in his fiction and I saw his struggle on the page, saw what was beneath the words. I saw the fears and pain of a black teenager.
I needed him to never be hungry, or feel hunger, ever again. It made me feel like a failure.
I looked out at the pristine city. I had just driven down La Cienega, the highway between two well-to-do black sections. The median had looked like a dumping ground. Manhattan Beach was spotless. I was looking at a banner advertising a Catalina Classic Paddleboard Race when Fela came over and stood next to me, pulling on his backpack.
He pointed at the banner and whispered, “Mom wants to do that paddleboard race.”
“Where’s my hug?”
We embraced each other, kissed cheeks.
I asked my one and only heir, “Hungry?”
“Bruh.”
“What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“Hamburger.”
“Give the man a door prize.”
We headed to the elevator, rode down a level, then went out of the public library into the sunshine. I had parked in the back, probably the only place in the city that had free parking, and that was for only two hours.
“Dad, question. I don’t want to ask Mom, well, because she’s a girl and might be offended.”
“What?”
“Is a blow job sex? I know it’s called oral sex, but is it really like sex-sex?”
I took a second. “Can’t make a baby that way, so I’d have to say no.”
“Okay. I’m still a virgin.”
“Well. Okay.”
“Dad, one more question. And don’t judge me. If I finger a girl, is she still a virgin?”
“Uh. Well. Yeah, I guess. Can’t make a baby that way, either.”
“Okay. She’s still a virgin, too.”
“So, you’re still interested in the red-haired freckle-faced biracial girl?”
“And I found out she’s very interested in me.”
“Do I get to meet her?”
“Awkward.”
“You made it awkward. Up to you.”
“One day. I really like her. I told Chavers I had the coolest dad on the planet. I showed her videos of you singing in a bunch of shows on Broadway. I even found a video posted of you and Mom singing together.”
“Where did you find that?”
“YouTube.”
“Get the fuck outta here.”
“Language. Swear jar. Keep swearing and make me rich.”
“How did you find that?”
“I put in your name and Mom’s name and it popped up. You and Mom doing a duet.”
“Back to the Chavers girl. You really like her?”
His grin was wide. “A lot.”
“In love?”
“Think so.”
The conversation rattled me, but I didn’t show it.
When we got to my rental, Fela looked inside. I had forgotten to clean it out and hide my stuff.
“Dad, why do you have so many junk-food wrappers in the car?”
“I need to take it to the car wash.”
“All the dirty clothes in the back seat. Your luggage. Looks like you’ve been living inside this car.”
“Let’s get you to the spot where we’re to meet your mother.”
“Her text said she’ll meet me by the Apple store in two hours.”
“Why does Frenchie bring you to a public library this far from home?”
“It’s a lot nicer down here. This library is amazing, like a museum with books.”
“It’s white and this zip code has a tax base that—”
“Dad.”
“Never mind.”
“Thank you.”
“She loves to have you in white areas.”
“But a lot of black people are here, more blacks than anybody, not just me and you.”
“I see. Don’t think I didn’t notice that.”
“Black people like nice stuff too.”
“If they build it, we will come, invited or not.”
“Mom fantasizes about living on the beach, so we come down here all the time and hang out and walk around acting like we live here and not in Inglewood. We play make-believe. And with the number of black people down here studying and reading and surfing and playing volleyball, Mom’s not the only one with that kind of fantasy.”
* * *
—
I TOOK FELA to Manhattan Village Shopping Center on Rosecrans and Sepulveda. The mall was a small, relaxed community with loads of clothing shops, restaurants, and bars. It had a Macy’s anchored at both ends; the one at the west end was a men’s store. We entered the mall there and browsed around on the first level.
“Those jeans are popping. Want me to buy you something, Fela?”
“These prices. I’d rather go thrifting, Dad. I can get a lot for a little. I mean, a lot.”
“Thrifting?”
“Goodwill is the bomb. Especially the ones around here.”
We hit the Apple store next. He played with all the latest iPhones while I checked out an iPad. Fela went to the back of the store, browsed headphones. He picked up a pair and smiled like it was the jackpot.
He said, “Chavers has some of these. These are awesome.”
I asked, “Want me to get those for you?”
“Dad, no. Maybe a refurbished pai
r, if they’re mad cheap, but not a new pair. Cost too much.”
When we left the Apple store, Frenchie was standing at the fountain, arms folded, checking her watch, waiting for her son. She wore slim jeans that hugged her body, Chucks, and a shocking-pink FEMINIST AF T-shirt.
I said, “I’m not late, am I?”
“I’m early. Didn’t want to end up stuck in traffic trying to get here.”
“We’re about to grab a bite to eat at Islands.”
Fela said, “Eat with us, Ma. I don’t think we’ve ever sat down and had a meal like a family.”
There was a moment of hesitation; then Frenchie looked at me. I nodded that it was okay.
We headed toward Islands, Fela walking between us, no one talking.
We were put in a large booth, one big enough for six people, under pictures of surfers, ocean waves, and Hawaiian girls. I sat facing the three screens high on the walls, a different sport on each channel.
Fela sat next to his mom, was all up under her like a momma’s boy.
“Ma, this is a historic moment, one I’ll tell my kids about. I’ll need proof. Okay, selfie. Everybody in. Smile like you did before I was born, because I know both of you’ve been frowning ever since.”
Frenchie said, “I’m not in a picture-taking mood, Fela.”
“Get in the picture with us, Mom.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have a picture of all three of us together. Because it would be cool to have one like all the other kids at school do. It would help me feel normal for once. This is not an option, parents.”
We considered each other, then shook off the discomfort. I went to their side of the large booth, put Fela in the middle. Frenchie and I leaned in and took the selfie, all smiles, like we were a happy family.
I hadn’t seen Frenchie smile since before New Jersey. She still lit up a room.
Fela showed us the photo.
Frenchie scrunched her face. “I look horrible.”
“You look fine, Ma. Not like you have another face you can use.”
“Delete it.”
“Not deleting it. Like the way you look or not, that was how you looked. Don’t blame my iPhone, and this one-of-a-kind photo is how we looked ten seconds ago. It’s a moment that will never happen again.”
The Business of Lovers Page 27
