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Authors: Mary B. Morrison

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BOOK: He's Just A Friend
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CHAPTER 8
D
esmond sat on the sofa beside his mother, placed a check for one thousand dollars in her hand, and curled her fingers over it. His sister had called yesterday to tell him his parents needed a lump sum of money to pay the special tax assessment on the house. His father was proud and would've worked a part-time job before asking any of his children for money. Mom really hadn't asked but she had a certain knack for mentioning things in a roundabout way.
When his sister called him yesterday she'd said, “Mama called me. Did she say anything to you?”
Desmond had replied, “No. About what? Is everything okay?” He was the youngest and his mother still spoiled him. Desmond ate at his parents' house every day except Saturday. Mama didn't cook on Saturdays but she insisted he drop off his dirty laundry Saturday mornings. She'd wash and fold his clothes, which he picked up on Sundays, usually after dinner.
“Yes, and no,” his sister had replied. “They're fine. But Mama said, ‘Suga Puddin', what you think the govament gon' do if we don't pay our three thousand dolla tax bill?' So I called to let you know between the six of us we've come up with the money so you don't have to worry. We want you to keep saving for law school.”
That was considerate of his siblings but Desmond wanted to do his part. He refused to be the only one not contributing. Desmond appreciated how everyone in the family always catered to him.
The money he'd planned to spend on his parents' trip to Alaska, Mom and Dad could use whenever they wanted. Maybe take a trip to Las Vegas or something. Dad would like that.
Desmond tried to leave before his mother started planning his future again. As soon as he stood his mama said, “Whatever happened to dat nice girl Trina? You talk to her lately?”
“Yeah, Ma. I talked with Trina on the way over here.” His mother had probably talked to Trina this morning too, since she called his mom every week.
“You not talkin' on dat cell phone and drivin' at the same time, I hope.”
“Ma, I used my hands-free”—Desmond wiggled his fingers—“headset.”
“Well, if you ask me, and I know you didn't, dat Trina girl is the one you should marry. Have some kids with. But whateva you do,” Mama shook her finger then said, “don't marry dat fast Fanny girl and surely not dat Carlita. She's too old and she already done had her litter. Georgia ain't dat far away. Do like your father did with me and send for the girl.”
Trina wanted to move to California, get married, and have his kids. Desmond wanted her to come to California but not just to be his wife. What if their relationship didn't work? Desmond didn't want to feel responsible for taking care of her. And if he didn't take care of Trina, his entire family and Trina's family would blame him for everything.
“I love you, lady.” Desmond leaned over and kissed his mother's cheek. “I can't make it back for dinner but I'll see you tomorrow. Going to the game with Tyronne. Bye, Ma.”
“Okay, baby,” his mother said, securing the check in her bosom.
Desmond tossed his laundry basket in the trunk. On the way to Tyronne's house he wondered what made some families close and others distant. Why some people were happy all the time and others angry for no reason. Why when a woman did something wrong it never seemed as serious as when a man did the same thing? Why did the black man carry the weight of America on his shoulders? Wondering when, not if, he'd have to deal with the law. Flagrant injustice motivated Desmond to become a criminal attorney.
Too many of his male friends, both in Georgia and California—if they weren't serving time—had unjustifiable probations. Not two or three months probation. More of them had three to five years probation. Just another way for the system to incarcerate the so-called free black man by limiting his freedom. And the new generation of male teenagers—Desmond's jaw clenched at the thought of how many of them were being killed. Especially in Oakland.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Tyronne banged on Desmond's window, then opened the car door. “Man, let's bump this Realizm, Ghetto Scriptures,” Tyronne said, closing the door. Before Tyronne fastened his seat belt, he ejected Desmond's CD.
“How you gon' break the law. You can't just scratch the new Snoop for . . .
Realizm.
”
Tyronne bounced his head to “Nothing to Lose.” “Just chill and listen to the lyrics. This is part of the Hip Hop Elevation straight out of Oakland. You know dude, Darrin Hodges?”
“Yeah, and?”
“This is his shit. His artists. No shootin' up, no killin' up, no trashin' females, none of dat. Darrin's bringing back what hip-hop used to be all about. The music man,” Tyronne said, dancing in his seat. “Check out Blayze. You ain't heard nothing till you've heard Blayze, and you know how I feel about felines on the mic. But she's one bad sistah spittin' ‘Till We Reach the Top.' ”
Desmond parked in the overflow lot at the Coliseum stadium. Dust hovered around his Mustang so he rolled up his window and motioned for Tyronne to do the same. The crunchy sound of gravel and dirt faded then stopped as he turned off his humming engine. Kickoff for the Raiders game was twenty minutes away.
“What'd you do last night?” Tyronne asked.
“Took Fancy to dinner and a movie,” Desmond said, smiling.
“When you gon' learn? Man, forget Fancy. You need to be with SaVoy,” Tyronne said, inhaling the smoke rising from an oversize barbecue grill at a tailgate party.
Desmond thought for a moment, then said, “Man, I can't. I already got with Fancy. Last night, too.” Desmond smiled again.
“Read my lips, man. Forget Fancy! The only reason you been chasing that ho is because you know you can't have her. And if you ever got her, you could never keep her. You claim you want an intelligent woman. SaVoy walks across the stage to get her degree this summer. Man, just talk to her. I bet
she
can help you get into law school. Fancy chasin' that dollar, man. You can't catch no feline who's paper chasin'. Hell, I'd fuck Fancy but she ain't having that. Too uppity. I'm telling you. SaVoy is the one for you, Dez. And stop lyin', nigga. I didn't miss that comment about you ‘got with Fancy.' ”
Desmond peeped through the crowd trying to determine how much longer they'd have to wait before getting to the gate. SaVoy was nice and beautiful, but there was something missing. She wasn't fiery and freaky like Fancy. Desmond didn't have to prove anything to Tyronne. It was probably best Tyronne didn't believe he'd been intimate with Fancy. Desmond looked over at Tyronne and said, “That's funny. I thought SaVoy was the one for
you.
” Desmond couldn't believe he'd told that lie. SaVoy was too good for Tyronne. If Desmond hadn't gotten with Fancy, he probably would've dated SaVoy. Desmond pulled out two tickets and handed them to the agent at the gate. The walk up the winding ramp was so crowded they'd missed the kickoff.
“Naw,” Tyronne objected, “we just friends. SaVoy's cool and all but—”
“But what? She's too smart for you? Excuse me, intelligent. We might as well grab a couple of brews and something to eat before we settle in our seats.” Tyronne looked at his ticket. Suite 17. “You the man today, Dez.”
Desmond wanted a hot link but dismissed the thought, knowing his stomach would protest, so he ordered nachos, with extra cheese and a tap beer. Tyronne ordered the same with lots of jalapeño peppers on top.
“Hell no, she's not too intelligent for me,” Tyronne said while paying for both orders.
“Then what?” Desmond hunched his shoulders.
“Okay, you can't repeat this shit,” Tyronne whispered. “I do like her. A lot. But you know how I am. I've gots lots of pros jocking lé cheval. I'm not ready to settle down. But if I were . . . you're right. I think she's too deep for a brother. Plus, you really can't repeat this shit.” Tyronne cupped his hand between his mouth and Desmond's ear and whispered, “She's a virgin.”
Desmond stepped back. His eyes widened as he mouthed in slow motion, “You lyin'.” Desmond's voice escalated. “Really!” and tapered off. “A virgin? At her age.” Then Desmond tilted sideways and yelled, “Whoa!”
“So what. Now you interested?” Tyronne questioned, curling one corner of his lips.
“Man, if you're not—” Desmond said.
“Go for it, man. But don't let that be your only reason,” Tyronne said.
“Man, you know I'm just kidding. SaVoy likes you.” Although Desmond wanted SaVoy to like him, he knew she was seriously interested in Tyronne. Why? Desmond had no idea because SaVoy and Tyronne were complete opposites.
The crowd started roaring so they raced into the sky-box. Beer splashed from both cups. They stood staring at the field through the open window just in time to see a black and silver jersey cross the field goal line. The fans roared louder when the referee threw both hands vertically in the air, signaling the extra point was good. At halftime Desmond showed Tyronne the ticket stubs.
“Dawg, how'd you get these?” Tyronne asked, watching the woman place a red tag on his wrist for entry into the members only club.
“My boss. You know he's well connected. He works on half the Raiders' cars. In fact, those are the only cars he personally works on.”
“Man”—Tyronne tapped Desmond on the shoulder and nodded to his left—“isn't that your girl?”
Frowning, Desmond asked, “Who? Carlita?”
“Naw, dawg. Fancy.” Tyronne nodded again.
Desmond looked over and saw Fancy dressed in high-heel shoes, black leather pants, and a silver fluffy sweater. Desmond's jaw clenched. Fancy's hair flowed over her back as she threw her head back with laughter. She never let go of dude's arm. The same damn dude Fancy met at the New Year's Eve gala. He was dressed in a button down black suit, with a collarless shirt buttoned up to his neck.
“Let's go over and check ole girl out,” Tyronne said, heading in Fancy's direction.
“Naw, man.” Desmond grabbed Tyronne's shoulder. “I'm through with her.”
“Desmond! Desmond!” Fancy yelled, waving and walking in their direction. What the hell did she expect him to say?
Thanks for letting me get your pussy wet for dude.
Damn, Desmond had just had sex with Fancy last night. He guessed her tears were as phony as the way she was acting, grinning and shit in his face.
Desmond nodded, then casually said, “Hey, what's up?”
“Desmond, this is Byron. Byron, this here is my friend Desmond.” Fancy smiled, holding Bryon's arm tighter.
Byron extended his hand. Desmond squeezed Byron's fingers extra tight. “What's up?”
Byron frowned.
“Dez, man, we gotta cut.” Tyronne shook his head toward Fancy and said, “Trifflin' ho.” Then Tyronne said, “Man, I see some fine-ass felines in the club. Let's go.”
When Desmond glanced at the bar, he agreed. The club was packed with women in half tops and black spandex pants, dancing like they were Raiderettes.
“Don't trip, dawg. How many times I'mma hafta school you? Forget dat ho,” Tyronne said.
Desmond refused to openly disagree with Tyronne this time. He couldn't blame Fancy for wanting more than he had to offer. He couldn't compete with dude. Byron. Whatever his name was. Desmond thought his name was Van. Or Stan. Or something like that.
After the game, Desmond dropped off Tyronne and went to Carlita's. Although she'd given him a key months ago, this was the first time he'd let himself in without ringing the doorbell. Carlita would give him a warm massage, make love to him, and take his mind off Fancy.
CHAPTER 9
F
ancy twirled around her pole, slipped into her sheer stockings, winter-white wool pantsuit, and laced up her ivory ankle boots. Buttoning her double-breasted almond peacoat, she grabbed her designer purse and headed to her car. Fancy spent her entire week living for this day. Today was not a typical Friday. Tomorrow she'd take her first trip to Capitol Hill, with Byron. Fancy hurried to the Lake Merritt BART Station because if she arrived five minutes after nine-thirty she wouldn't have a space to park. Her friend, who worked the graveyard shift, glanced over his shoulder. The reverse lights on his truck shone. Fancy smiled, waved, and mouthed,
Thank you, baby,
as she blew him a kiss, knowing that was as close as he'd ever get to any of her lips. Stepping onto the escalator, Fancy shivered, recalling Byron's sweaty flesh sliding against hers.
Last night, Byron's passionate lovemaking brought tears to her eyes. Like playing a game of one-on-one basketball, Byron had predicted her every move. Fancy didn't have to tell Byron when to slow down, when not to switch positions, or when she was getting ready to cum. She didn't have to ask Byron to hold her afterward or call her before she left for work this morning. Although he hadn't paid her the twenty-five thousand dollars he said she'd earned, Byron promised she'd make some real money while they were in D.C.
The four-car train was slightly crowded. The few passengers that didn't have seats huddled in the doorway. Fancy swayed her hips and stood in front of the best-dressed man she'd noticed.
“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing with a warm smile.
Fancy returned the smile and replied, “Why, thank you.”
She sat, crossed her ankles, and thumbed through last July's issue of
Jet
magazine. Immediately she flipped to the “Beauty of the Week.” The fabulous photo of her in a safari bikini leaning against her dance pole brought a smile to her face. The guy standing over her smiled too.
Exiting at Montgomery Street, Fancy chatted then exchanged cards with the gentleman that offered her his seat because this week she hadn't given anyone her number. Byron had no idea how he had her changing her diva ways simply to please him.
Selectively handing out three cards a week, Fancy never had a problem getting a date. The information on the card had her name, title, Real Estate Leasing Agent, E-mail address, and home number. After changing her cellular number three times, and being forced to enter into a new one-year plan each time, Fancy quit giving out her cell number. The few times she'd forwarded her cell phone calls, the cellular company charged ten cents per minute plus hidden fees that made her curse out the customer service representative. So now when Fancy left home she forwarded her home number to her cell because SBC charged one low monthly flat rate for call forwarding. The only people who now had her cellular number were SaVoy, Tanya, Caroline, and Desmond.
Fancy strolled into her private office at ten o'clock and closed the door. Two messages registered on her display so she checked the caller ID, hoping at least one of the calls was from Byron.
Tanya had called at nine. She must have forgotten Fancy worked ten to two and got paid from nine to five. Fancy deleted the message without listening to it. Tanya never had anything interesting to say. The next call was from Caroline. Fancy started to hit three for deletion, then stopped and listened.
“Hi, Fancy. This is your mother. I need you to call me. The doctor says I may need to have surgery and I was wondering if you could take me to my next—”
Fancy hit the delete button and sighed. She had promised to call Caroline once a week. It was already February and she hadn't called Caroline once this year. Byron had become her priority. Byron was more important than SaVoy, Tanya, Desmond, and Caroline. Whenever Fancy saw his name appear on her caller ID, butterflies fluttered inside her stomach. Fancy hadn't thought about Caroline since her last appointment with Mandy, which was over a month ago. Fancy tapped her pencil on the desk calendar pad, hit the speaker button, and dialed Tanya's number.
“Hello,” a man's voice echoed through the receiver.
“Hi, this is Fancy. Let me speak with Tanya.”
“Tanya's at work. And you woke me up so don't call us before five o'clock. P.M.”
Us? Before five what? “Who in the hell are you?”
“This is Tanya's man, William. I don't want you single females makin' a bad impression on my woman. Tanya's got a real man now. She ain't goin' to no clubs, malls, or anywhere else without my permission. You got that?” William slammed the phone so hard Fancy grabbed her ear.
Oh, hell no! His ass done moved in and took over in less than eight weeks. Fancy hit her speaker button twice. Her second phone line rang. She hesitated before answering, “Good morning, Harry.”
“Can I see you in my office?” Harry didn't wait for a response. Through her rectangular-shaped window, Fancy saw Harry smiling and closing his blinds. His office window was directly across from hers.
Fancy unbuttoned her coat and secured the loop over the brass hook behind her door. Her hips swayed as she entered Harry's office. “Good morning, baby.” Fancy locked his door and unbuttoned her blouse with ease. It was their morning routine.
“Come here,” Harry commanded, palming her breasts with his short stubby fingers.
Fancy rubbed his short wooly afro. Harry's lips suctioned over her nipple.
“Oh, I need some cream to go with my coffee this morning. I missed you this weekend. We're going to have to start taking weekend trips again. Unbutton your pants. I need to taste you.”
Fancy pushed Harry's head away and buttoned her blouse. Now that she'd met Byron she was no longer interested in pleasing Harry. And since she had to wean Harry eventually, she might as well start now. Harry switched seats from his high-back office recliner to his armless computer chair. He rolled up close, tossed his tie over his shoulder, and eagerly fumbled to unfasten Fancy's belt.
Fancy moved his hands and refastened her belt. Harry's unwillingness to commit to marriage had demoted him to sponsor-only status. Soon he'd become a nonbeneficiary sponsor because after today she was permanently cutting Harry off from Miss Kitty. Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays were now exclusively reserved for Byron. Fancy pushed Harry away again.
“I have work to do, Mr. Washington.”
“Your job is to keep Harry happy,” he said, looking at his erection.
“Do not pull him out,” Fancy said, pointing at the bulge in Harry's gray slacks. “I'm warning you. I'm opening the door.”
Fancy glanced at Harry's file cabinet. The key was seldom in the lock. It was now. For months she'd tried getting into his personal files. Harry's ten-thirty meeting was fifteen minutes away. Fancy relocked the door and pleased Harry so good he started panting, barely catching his breath before answering his phone.
“Whew,” he exhaled, then picked up the receiver. “Yes, Allyanna,” he paused, then said, “Oh, shit! Allyanna, I lost track of the time. Go ahead and start the meeting. I'll be there in two minutes,” Harry said, buckling his belt. He motioned to Fancy to stand behind the door. “Get yourself together. And make sure you call Mrs. Lovely about her apartment repairs ASAP. Oh, yeah. And schedule a meeting for Monday afternoon with Ray Leon at the City of Oakland regarding my mixed-use development on Harrison Street.”
Mixed use? Fancy knew if she was serious about learning the industry she had to understand the terminology. Mixed use. She repeated the words in her head several times.
“Sure. I'll clear my calendar and I can accompany you to City Hall.”
“No, Allyanna will be there. Your job is to look pretty and, of course”—Harry fluttered his eyebrows and eyed his erection—“to keep Harry happy. And Harry is very happy this morning.” He closed his jacket and then shut the door.
Harry needed to lay off the viagra. What was he going to do when he turned forty? Determined to learn the real estate business, even if she had to teach herself, Fancy locked the door and opened Harry's personal file drawer. Her fingertips glided across the tabs. Medical. She pulled out the folder and read his policy. Family coverage? “What the hell?” Fancy whispered, then retrieved the folder marked Taxes. She cursed as she read Harry's filing status. Joint? Exhaling she said, “Damn,” and opened his Suspense file. A short “humph,” was accompanied by a shot of hot air escaping her nostrils. Tuition? She thumbed through his personal budget. She was in the top five on his list, a one thousand dollar monthly bonus was allocated in addition to the fifteen hundred dollars Harry paid her every two weeks. The thousand dollars barely covered her tax, medical, and dental deductions.
Dental. Family? Liabilities. Assets. Condos. The place Harry called home where he'd taken her once was nowhere on his list of assets. Fancy took a deep breath and held it. Primary residence. Her lungs deflated as she whispered, “Sacramento? Not Marina Heights in San Francisco.” Her eyes widened. She thought all Harry owned were six single-family homes and several apartment buildings.
Fancy scanned the prior months' budgets. Allyanna was on his list along with all the other women in the office. He must have been fucking them, too. She kicked the file cabinet and scuffed her new boots. “Aw, shit!” Fancy squinted. She rubbed her thumb over Harry Jr.'s tuition. Sarah's tuition. And Michael's day care? Fancy flopped in Harry's chair and waited for his return.
Why was Harry so secretive? Fancy heard Harry's keys jiggling inside the lock and raced behind the door. When he stepped inside Fancy slammed the door so hard it sprang back. She stood two inches from his face and asked, “What is your marital status! What are your living arrangements! And exactly how many kids do you have!”
Harry reared back, closed his door, and spoke low but firm, “What the hell are you talking about?” Harry glanced at the files scattered on his desk. “Please tell me you did not go through my files.” He stared at Fancy, then grabbed her biceps, pulling her close. “Answer me, dammit. Did you go through my personal files?”
Peeling his fingers away, Fancy said, “You liar! How could you?” She forced fake tears that streamed down her cheeks. “I hate you! I hate you! Liar! Liar!”
“Stop yelling.” Harry fanned the air in front of Fancy's face. “Let me explain. Okay. Yes, I do have a wife.”
Fancy didn't realize she was frowning until he started frowning, too. Harry exhaled, then bit his bottom lip. Fancy remained silent and stared at Harry.
“Listen. I'm not in love with her anymore. But I can't afford to divorce her right now because we have too many investments. Finances. Children. Property”—then he shrugged, laughed and added, “and a dog. His name is Buster.”
Fancy hysterically leaped from the chair, “Buster! Buster! Mutherfucka! That's not funny!” She wanted to let the real Fancy Taylor drop-kick his ass but she had to keep her psycho personality under wraps. Plus, Fancy had earned her monthly bonus and had every intention of getting paid with no intent of ever laying his lying ass again.
Harry responded between tight lips, “Don't curse me.” Then he stepped toward her and said, “Look. Let's discuss this over lunch.”
Fancy stepped back. “Why don't you invite the other women in the office, too? We can have an orgy.”
Harry's lips curled upward. He cupped his hand over his mouth and said, “Hum,” raising his eyebrows.
Fancy punched Harry on the shoulder.
“I'm kidding. Lighten up. I told you we can discuss this over lunch.”
“There's nothing to discuss.” When Fancy opened the door, everyone was huddled at Allyanna's desk.
“Get back to work before I fire all of you!” Harry yelled.
Fancy slammed her door and dialed the number she'd memorized from Harry's file. She pressed 9-1-6 . . . and waited.
“Hello?” A woman answered.
Fancy smiled to perk up her voice. “Hello, Mrs. Washington?”
“Yes, this is Mrs. Washington,” she responded.
“I don't believe this shit. I've been fucking Harry for two years. Two. Years. Lying ass muthafucka.”
“Excuse me,” the woman said.
Fancy placed the receiver on the base and took the rest of the day off.
BOOK: He's Just A Friend
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