Baby, You're the Best (5 page)

CHAPTER 8

Blake

 

 

 

“H
appy fiftieth, Blake Crystal. I love you.” Untying my leopard robe, I let it drop to the floor.

I stood face-to-face with my naked reflection. I saw a beautiful, dark-skinned African-American woman. I was strong. Successful. I scanned myself head to toe. I was far from perfect. My breasts hung lower, stomach protruded a tad. Those were things I could fix with cosmetic surgery. The ass God blessed me with still sat high enough for a pencil to fall if placed underneath my cheek.

“Starting today, I am going to concentrate on me.”

The little girl inside of me cried for my mother. My lip quivered. “I miss and love you, Mommy.” I dried my tears. My feelings for my father weren’t the same. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him. The paternal love I had was different. Outside of being told that I was his daughter, I didn’t know him very well. Not wanting to be sad on my birthday, I went into my bedroom.

Fortune’s name had registered on my caller ID seventeen times. Make that eighteen. I declined, switched my cell to silent, tossed it on my comforter. I picked up the open bottle of champagne. The ice from last night had melted. Cool water dripped into the bucket. I refilled my flute then headed downstairs.

Sliding open my door, I stepped onto my patio. The fresh midafternoon humid breeze filled my lungs. I took in as much as I could, sat my flute on the table, then stood at the edge of my pool. Eighty-five degrees of sunshine heated my body.

I inhaled, stretched my arms wide, then softly exhaled, “Thank you, Jesus.”

All that I had, I owed to Him. I placed my palms together, closed my eyes, then I dove into the deep end. The cold water felt exhilarating.

I opened my eyes.

Midway, I came up for air. Treading the blue chlorinated water, all that I saw, I owned. The twelve blue lawn chairs with yellow cushions. The barbecue grill, round tables with umbrellas, and the outdoor fireplace were mine. Two acres of backyard covered with trees. Mine.

I swam to the side, got out, relaxed on a lounge chair. Raising my glass to the blue sky scattered with white clouds, I said, “A toast, to Blake Crystal.” I slid on my sunglasses.

The sound of my breathing was peaceful. I rubbed sunblock on my skin, reclined, and enjoyed my “me time.” I couldn’t recall the last time there was no Fortune, no Mercedes, Devereaux, Alexis, Sandara, or some man living under my roof. In this moment, I felt good.

I thought about my dad, wondering if our casual acquaintance made it easy for me to bond with men I barely knew. My memories transitioned to my daughter. While I felt she still needed my protection, Alexis deserved to know her dad. All of my children did. It was time for me to let my baby judge Conner Rogers for herself. After she walked across the stage, I’d give her his number.

The sweet melody of the saxophone penetrated my soul. I loved my
Hidden Beach Unwrapped
music collection. I reflected on my life. It wasn’t perfect but it was good, and I was grateful.

Picking up my glass, I strolled through my place naked. I thrust my hips side to side. The room I entered off of the living area used to be Mercedes’s. The other girls were jealous my eldest, Devereaux, had the largest bedroom next to mine and that Mercedes had a Jacuzzi in her bathroom. Now that I was alone, I had the freedom to do whatever, whomever, wherever, in my house. The whomever included me doing myself and that was exactly what I was getting ready to do.

I filled the tub, stepped down two times, then pressed my lower back into the strong stream of bubbles. I sat directly on top of a jet that pumped cool water into my vagina. Today was all about me!

I squeezed my vaginal muscles to stop the flow of water entering me. “Yes!” I held my hands high. She still had it. I relaxed. Sipped champagne.

Thirty-four years had gone by since my sweet sixteenth birthday. I remembered 1980 well. Junior year my skirts were shorter; my legs had grown longer. My firm breasts were larger and my nipples stood out. They still did that. The skin-tight yellow, pink, blue, and green Gloria Vanderbilt jeans I loved to wear made boys and men stare at my ass.

Mama couldn’t buy me the clothes I wanted. I refused to accept hand-me-downs from my older sisters Ruby and Carol so I kept a part-time job babysitting until I got a work permit.

Soaking in the tub made me restless. I no longer felt like masturbating. Getting out of the Jacuzzi, I stepped into the shower, washed my hair. I dried off with a plush towel, then I massaged lotion all over my body.

I applied my favorite Lash Love Front Row eyelashes with the rhinestones, then eased into my fitted mid-thigh, red halter designer dress. I smoothed my hair into a bun, slid Tom Ford Slander red lipstick across my mouth.

Locking my door, I dropped my new keys in my red Lady Dior bag. Firing up the engine of my Ferrari, I listened to R. Kelly’s
Genius,
while cruising south on I-85.

The valet attendant opened my door. He reached for my hand. I gave him my key and a tip at the same time. I strutted inside the Cheesecake Factory at Lenox Square, sat at the bar, dangled my red stiletto on the tip of my toes, then ordered a drink.

“I need to see your ID,” the bartender said.

Smiling, I handed it over.

He looked at my driver’s license, then at me, then at my license, back at me, then said, “No way.”

I had to admit. Right now, I was feeling myself.

CHAPTER 9

Blake

 

 

 

“Y
ou chill?” the bartender asked.

I nodded.

“If you need anything else,” he paused, tapped the bar twice, then said, “I got you.”

“Thanks,” I said, stirring my vodka martini with the three olives that were aligned on a plastic pick.

He was cute. I stared into my glass. Waiting for my girls to arrive, I thought about Brandon’s comment that most relationships were messed up. He was right. I recalled the families that lived on my block when I was a teenager.

If God were gracious to say, Blake Crystal, I’m going to let you go back to being sweet sixteen, what would I do differently?

Not have lost my virginity in the back seat of a Camaro? Not have had sex with more than one guy in the same day? Have all of my kids by the same man? Been a hundred percent sure who the fathers of my children were? Marry before starting a family? Not allow some of the men I dated to move into my home? I wasn’t proud of my past but I wasn’t ashamed of it either. I’d done well on my own.

He tapped twice, then asked, “You chill?”

This time I looked at him and smiled. I hadn’t noticed his sexy undertone the first time he’d asked. “Yes, I’m chill.”

My gaze lingered. I shook my head as though I was trying to awaken from a dream. This mixologist had a lot of sexual energy resonating from his mannerisms.

“If you need anything—”

I interrupted, “Yes, I know. You got me.”

A young lady wearing a white sleeveless maxi dress and high heels, said, “Is this seat taken, ma’am?”

Looking at her, I replied, “Only if you sit in it.”

“Cool beans,” she said, pulling out the vanilla-colored wicker stool.

She was shaped like most of the twentysomethings in Atlanta. Big breasts. Bigger butt. Small waist. She could’ve placed her purse in the chair next to me and sat one seat over. She did the opposite. “You look real nice, ma’am.”

“Thanks,” was all I said.

A text came in from Echo.
Happy birthday my bff Blake Crystal. I love you.

I smiled on the inside. Echo was going to be excited when I gave her the news about ending my relationship with Fortune. Finally, I could reunite with my best friend.

“What’s your pleasure, beautiful?” my waiter asked the young lady next to me.

“I’ll have a lemon drop and I’d like a menu, handsome.”

Observing them from my peripheral, had I forgotten how to flirt? I ate two of my olives.

More texts chimed in from my siblings. Peter, Walter, Teresa, Kevin, and Kim. I didn’t want any of them to think I was clinging to my cell on my fiftieth. Nor did I want the bartender to detect my hint of jealousy. I’d respond to my family’s texts tomorrow.

Sipping my drink, I let my tongue marinate in vodka.
What was the purpose of my life?
At some point it would end. In the meantime . . . heaving, I almost swallowed the third olive whole when I’d gotten a glimpse of the waiter’s dick imprint. Quickly, I took another sip, placed my cocktail on the counter.

“You okay, ma’am?”

This time, I narrowed my eyes. Softly, I hissed, “Please, stop calling me ma’am.”

“Cool beans,” she said, then scrolled through her cell phone.

Exhaling, I took another swig, placed my glass in front of me.

When I was sixteen, the dad who lived next door to us desperately wanted to see his children. I recalled how that man spent his time and money in court fighting for joint custody because the mother of his children was pissed that he was remarried to a much younger wife. She wasn’t prettier though. Not in my opinion. Eventually, he won his case. But what would’ve become of his children if he’d conceded to his ex, moved on, and never fought for his parental rights?

The guy who lived on the other side of him—we called him Mr. E—could see his children anytime he wanted, but Mr. E never did. Every weekend there were men coming and going in and out of his house. Sometimes different ones visited in the same day. None stayed more than two days. Religiously washing his luxury cars every Sunday morning seemed more important than his being a dad.

Setting a lemon drop by the young lady next to me, he tapped the bar twice in front of me. “You chill?”

This time my smile was tighter. I gave him a firm, “Yes.”

“Excuse me, handsome, may I tell you what I’d like?” the young lady said.

“I’m all yours,” he replied, taking one step sideways to his left.

I waited for him to take her order, then said, “I’d like another.”

He stood in front of me. Gazed into my eyes. I swore the temperature between my legs rose six degrees.

“I can’t allow you to stack drinks but . . .” He gave me a closed-lip smile.

“Excuse me, handsome, but, can you put my order in? If I don’t get something to eat soon, I’m going to have to eat you. I’m hungry.”

Frowning, I looked at her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. No disrespect,” she said.

He didn’t move. He replied to her, “I’m on it,” then he tapped the bar twice and told me, “When you’re ready.” He paused, then said, “I want you.” Then he walked away.

I downed my drink, turned the glass upside down. He picked it up, cleaned the counter, made me another, then placed it in front of me without saying a word.

I texted Brandon,
This young bartender is hot. I like him. I’m pretty sure he’s flirting with me. Should I take him seriously?

He replied,
Send me a selfie of you and sneak a pic of him.

Looking into my camera phone, I pretended I was capturing myself. I clicked the side button, got the bartender’s photo. Then, I took one of myself and sent both to Brandon.

Sipping my drink, I read Brandon’s reply.
Is that his dick! Bitch pull up your dress and bend your ass over the bar! Fuck him! Seriously, he wants you to ride that dick. Do it bitch!

I laughed.

By the age of sixteen, I was certain that a man who didn’t want much was worse than a man who didn’t have much. At least this young man had a job and I believed he wanted me. If only for one night, I definitely wanted him.

Growing up my mother had told me to keep my legs closed. That worked for a while. Until I turned sixteen and met the most beautiful boy I’d seen in my life.

Billy Blackstone was tall, dark, had nice white teeth, huge biceps, thick thighs, and drove an orange 1975 Camaro his father had given him. His Afro was cut short and always neatly trimmed. I didn’t care much for basketball but I enjoyed watching him run up and down the court.

My eyes trailed the bartender. I didn’t care if he saw me.

I couldn’t stay a virgin forever and the truth was I’d held on to mine longer than any of my girlfriends, including Echo. Billy was my first lover. First and only love, too. Maybe that was because I didn’t know what love was. The thing I appreciated most was before we did it, Billy made me cum by licking my pussy.

I hoped the mixologist was great at performing oral sex. Drinking made me start lusting for the bartender. My pussy was overdue for some good dick. I finished my cocktail, turned my glass upside down.

“Now, you need to chill for real.” He placed a large glass of water in front of me. “When you done with this, I’ve got something for you.”

Dressed in a long-sleeved black button-down shirt and black slacks, he was about six-two, broad shoulders, firm ass, and had a slender waist. I imagined he had that definition that started at the base of a man’s waistline then dipped inward toward his inner thighs.

I watched him wrap his long fingers around the silver shaker. Each time he shook, his shoulder-length locks jerked back and forth.
I bet his hair grazing my clit would make me cum. I could bend over this barstool and let him spank my ass until cream saturated my inner and outer labia but I was not pulling up my dress.

Sometimes I liked it rough. Then there were times I wanted the dick slow and easy. As he poured, I became wet. I swallowed the ice-cold water, then set the glass down.

Fortune called again. I pressed decline.

“Good job. Drink a little more. If you need anything, I’m your man,” he said with confidence. Then he slid one step to the left.

“Excuse me, bartender.”

He smiled, flashing the most perfect large white teeth. “Yes,” he said as if he were willing to do anything I’d ask of him. He could start by kissing me with those full sexy lips.

“How old are you, young man?”

A closed-lip smile accompanied the lifting of his brows. Right before he opened his mouth, he stood in front of me. For the first time I noticed his beautiful light brown eyes. He placed his elbow on the bar, leaned toward me, and whispered.

“Legal,” was all he said, then he backed away. “By the way, those lashes.” He nodded at me real slow.

Maintaining eye contact, I extended my tongue, then pressed my lips to the edge of my water glass. He sure looked as though he could fuck for hours.

I glanced down, then coughed. “Aw, damn!” His dick imprint was huge.

He smiled. “Think about what you want next,” he said, then stepped to the left. “You good?” he asked the young lady.

“The best,” she answered. “I’ll have one more drop, handsome.”

“I got you,” he told her.

I felt him looking at me. I refused to give him eye contact. I was not secretly going to compete for his attention. I’d convinced myself all men were flawed. They all suffered from, as Brandon would say, ADDD—Attention Dick Deficit Disorder.

I gave birth to four girls, each one was older than the young lady next to me. Devereaux, Mercedes, Alexis, and Sandara entered the bar at the same time carrying bags and balloons.

In unison, they shouted, “Happy birthday, Mommy!”

The sexy mixologist came from behind the bar, placed a small folded piece of paper in my hand, then said, “Happy birthday, Mommy.” Those raised brows and that closed-lip smile turned away after he winked. I recalled how happy Fortune’s wife, Vanessa, looked every time I saw her with her younger guy.

Greeting my girls, I thought,
I’ve pushed four babies out of this vagina. It’s still tight and I’ve still got it.
I hugged, kissed, and thanked each one of my daughters.

As a single mother I may have gotten some things wrong, but my children were all right. Well, perhaps. Depending on how one viewed their situations.