Hot Boyz (4 page)

Mercedes always tried to be understanding of Mason’s relationship with his business partner, Cicely James. But did Cicely have to attach herself to Mason’s hip at every function to promote his career and their nightclub?

Cicely and Mason were very close way back in elementary school in Texas. When the Wilsons moved to Los Angeles, so did Cicely and her mother, even moving into a neighborhood near Ladera called Westchester. They both attended Westchester High School and they’d hang out every now and then. Cicely and her mother then moved away from Los Angeles to Atlanta, but Cicely came back to go to college in Los Angeles and she stayed. After she graduated, her mother died of cancer.

Mercedes met Mason in college at USC. She got pregnant one summer when she went away to spend the weekend with Mason while he was on an amateur golf tour overseas. Mercedes was amazed that Cicely called three and four times a day while Mercedes was there, yet Mason never let on that Mercedes was around. It was a known fact to everyone on the outside that Cicely was his main woman even though Mason denied it.

Mercedes was taken aback by Mason’s attention at the time, especially his promises and charms. He gave her the impression that he was not interested in Cicely on a romantic level, that they were more friends than anything else, and that her calls were on a friendly level.

Mercedes was satisfied just taking on the role of Mason’s lover. When Cicely found out that Mercedes was pregnant, she was actually woman enough to call and congratulate her, letting her know that what she and Mason had was strictly platonic and that
she was definitely doing her own thing. Cicely had been seeing a guy whom she met at Pepperdine College in Malibu. He was a promising young basketball player who was considering an offer to play pro ball. But, he died on the court during a pre-season game. He had a heart attack. Even today it seemed like Cicely had never had a real love affair since then. She’d always bury herself in her work at the club, and in her marketing business that she ran from her home.

Cicely was an intense walnut color and she had big eyes, almost the color of dark rum. She wore a naturally curly bob-cut. Tonight she was sporting an elegant, black Chanel dress with a simple gold Christian Dior hip-belt and gold leather slides.

Cicely hooked her long, thin arm along Mason’s buffed, brawny bicep. Her dimples were in full effect. She rested her dainty wrist upon his hairy forearm, topped by her other hand, and took him away from his wife without asking. She introduced her business partner to the long line of well-wishers who gathered to meet and greet the well-known, well-dressed, African-American golfer.

Mercedes smiled a fake smile their way. Mason motioned for her to come over and join in on the niceties. She acquiesced in support of her husband. Cicely played with one of her locks of hair and smoothed it behind her ear. She dropped Mason’s arm as Mercedes approached. Cicely backed away and gave Mercedes the once-over before she made her way over to another group of guests.

“So, when do you enter the senior’s tour, Mr. Wilson? Isn’t the age limit fast approaching?” a male, Caucasian guest asked, trying to be humorous.

“No, actually the senior’s tour does not start until the age of fifty. I’ve got a good eleven years yet.”

“How about the Ryder Cup Tournament? Is mat fast approaching?” his female companion queried, holding a glass of sherry in hand.

“It’s next month. I’m looking forward to it. The course is beautiful and the weather in England is always nice.”

“You live in Florida, do you?” the male inquired.

“No. We live in Ladera Heights.”

“La who?” he asked.

Mercedes said, “Ladera Heights. It’s between Culver City and Inglewood.”

“Oh,” said the woman, turning up her nose. “Near Inglewood, huh?” She took a swig from her glass.

“That’s right. Actually it’s one main street away from being considered Inglewood,” Mercedes replied.

“Oh,” the lady responded with a puzzled stare, taking another big sip.

“So, is this the lovely lady who keeps you dressed to the nines?” another male asked, encouraging a chuckle with the nod of his head.

Mason gave one quick titter. “Good one. This is my wife, Mercedes.”

“Do you still own the modeling business I read about?” the woman asked, obviously up on the background of the Wilsons.

Mercedes responded. “Yes, I do. It was originally a talent agency but I changed the name to Simpson Models. Simpson is my maiden name. It was a business passed down from my parents when they died.”

The woman seemed concerned. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

The other male changed the subject. “That’s quite a responsibility, running your own business. How on earth do you juggle being a mother, wife of such a visible man, and still run a business?”

“It pretty much runs itself sometimes. I have great employees who step up and help out a lot,” Mercedes said with pride.

Mason added, “And she still manages to be my right arm,” offering his right arm to Mercedes as she took hold.

“No, I’m sure you’d be able to handle things just fine, even without me,” Mercedes said, looking over at Cicely who was watching from afar.

“I never want to know that feeling, dear. Excuse us,” Mason said as he and his wife headed for a cozy love seat near a corner fireplace.

Mercedes spoke close to his ear. “I think your own fans don’t really know you’re black sometimes.” They took a seat.

“Oh they know. They know that above all else.”

Torino Jesse Wilson pulled up to his reserved spot in the rear parking lot of club Foreplay just before seven in the evening. Torino exited and closed the door of his BMW.

Torino was a gifted football player back in high school. He was highly recruited as a tight end. While Claude and Mason got their degrees from USC, Torino played at UC Berkeley. But he was involved in a car accident and broke the fibula and tibia in his right leg just before his last year. He had surgery but didn’t get much attention from the NFL after that. The good thing was that he stayed in school and took advantage of his scholarship. One thing Torino was not, was a quitter.

Torino loved the limelight and loved to make sure that his patrons, especially the famous ones, were treated royally, and they knew it. His height allowed him to look some of the taller than average bailers straight in the eye. He wore short dreads and had handsome features. He wore small gold hoops in each ear.

Torino was well-known amongst the professional athletes and actors who either lived in Los Angeles, or traveled in town for a little fun, as the man who could get the job done.

He was a die-hard bachelor and wanted to stay that way. He could make old women blush and young women giddy. On any given evening, two or three of his admirers could show up and make an, “I’m his lady” appearance without warning. So, the guys at the door and the ladies in the booth always let Torino know over
their walkie-talkies, who was in the house and what their twenty was. He had a system for keeping them separated, especially from the watchful eye of Colette Berry, the only one who could really claim a legitimate stake to his affections.

Torino knew how to wine and dine people, flashing his bright white teeth. His perfect complexion and big brown eyes were just a couple of his physical assets. Those who didn’t know him would have sworn he was twenty-something because of his hip-hop ways and trendy, up-to-date look. But actually, thirty-four was just around the corner.

Torino’s eldest brother, Mason, had purchased Foreplay about six years ago. Mason co-owned the club with Cicely, but Torino, who had been the club’s manager since its grand opening, was responsible for its success.

The club was always packed, and you could always count on a long line outside. Partially because of Mason’s reputation, but also due to Torino’s promotional skills. Torino wanted to someday own his own club, but for now, Foreplay was his home away from home.

“Hey, dudes, you need to get that kitchen together as per the inspectors. They’re going to be back next week and they aren’t gonna let us slide this time. I want it sparking clean and smelling like its deserving of an A grade. I’ll check back with you in a couple of hours, now. Don’t play with me,” Torino warned his kitchen staff.

Foreplay nightclub looked like a juke joint, but with sophistication and elegance. It had a second floor balcony slash VIP area, lined with a chrome banister, overlooking the entire club. Everything in the club was black and red. Mason loved bold red and thought there was no way to get around using black for richness and class.

The oblong bar aligned the entire rear potion of the club. The top of the bar was deep red, veined, solid marble that looked like speckles of brown sugar were thrown here and there. A dozen or so black leather sofas and love seats were scattered throughout with wine-shaded suede throw pillows. The dance floor area was mirrored all around, which made it look twice as big. The large
disco ball hovered overhead, shedding triangular bits of light in rainbow hues.

The restaurant area was located through the double doors just to the right of the roped-off, VIP stairway. Restaurant evening hours were only from eight until eleven and usually for the serious dinner crowd. Appetizers were served at the bar until closing time. After eleven o’clock, Torino used the restaurant as a private sanctuary for special, high-profile VIPs who needed to be secluded.

The club was about to be on and crackin’. At nine o’clock it was usually scarce but by ten, double digits, people felt the need to make their way in.

Just around ten, an impeccably dressed Torino, wearing a navy blue Italian suit and black silk muscle shirt, saw Sequoia Smith coming his way.

“Hey, Sequoia. How’s it going?”

“Cool. I talked to Mercedes the other evening. She’s doing well. She was watching Mason on TV,” Sequoia replied, wearing a form-fitting, baby blue velour J-Lo sweat suit with dark blue suede Manola Blahnik Timbs. She was not hurting for money.

“I’ll bet. That brotha’ is always on TV.”

“That’s what I reminded her. You running the place by yourself tonight?” she asked, looking all around.

“Yeah. Cicely’s been out of town. She was in Hawaii but I think she’s back now.”

Sequoia paused. “Hawaii. Isn’t that where Mason was?”

“I suppose so. I don’t keep up with him. But I surely keep up with my boss. She said she’d be back tonight.”

“Oh really?”

“Really. And what brings you out tonight?” Torino asked, looking dead at her cleavage. “You’re looking all toned and tanned and voluptuous.”

“Yeah, kinda similar to Colette’s build, huh?”

His heart-melting charm was not working. “Not really. But…”

Sequoia put her hand up. “But what, Torino? You are not God’s gift to women.”

“But, I just gave you a compliment. That’s all.”

Sequoia started talking loud. “Boy, don’t you know after all these years I see you as my brother. You, Claude, and Mason. When are you going to give up and stop trying?”

Torino shook his head and scratched the back of his neck. “I see your ego has grown with age, huh?”

Sequoia put her arm through the tiny round silver handles of her handbag and leaned into Torino as she slid it up over her shoulder. “And so has your big head if you think I’ve waited this long to find Mr. Right to start playing cat and mouse with you, Torino. Especially with you. Lord knows you’ve got enough mice running around up in here.”

“Hey, Sequoia,” said Kyle Brewer. He was Torino’s running buddy, the spitting image of Derek Jeter, light eyes and all. Kyle was a fireman and he’d met Torino years ago when they both interviewed for a position with the department. Torino did not get the gig. “You’re looking mighty good tonight.”

She stood up straight. “Can it, Kyle. By the way, thanks for putting my name on the list, Torino. See you later.” Sequoia switched away with extras.

Sequoia was easy on the eyes. Sexy as hell, she was built like a brick house, sort of sturdy and curvy-firm like Serena Williams. Her brown hair was a long and curly weave, but it looked natural. She had a way of accenting her nutmeg skin with just the right amount of makeup to make her look like a movie star, even though her profession was running her aging mother’s travel agency.

Torino’s eyes were glued to her very being. “That will be the last time her stank ass comes up in here trippin’ like she’s Janet Jackson.”

“You must admit she looks real screw-licious though, dude,” Kyle said, sharing the glance.

Torino broke his stare. “There are a lot of other fine women in here who deserve more attention than her spoiled attitude.” Torino shifted his focus back to his work. “By the way, can you help me out by getting the VIP guest list from the doorman and taking a copy of it to the VIP bouncer?”

“I’m on it, Tito.” Kyle chuckled.

“Tito? Oh, now see. You’re trying to get kicked out of here, right?”

“Just messin’ with you, dude. Hey, where’s Colette? Is she coming in tonight?”

“I don’t know. Why you worried? Just help me out.” Torino raised the antenna of his two-way radio.

“I’m on it. A nigga’ got eyes,” Kyle admitted.

“Eye yourself right on out the front door and don’t look back if you’re gonna start verbalizing about my lady. You can keep that to yourself.”

“Okay, calm down. I’m on my way to get the list.” Kyle took a step and paused. “Hey, you know what
VIP
stands for, don’t you? Very important pussy, right?”

Torino walked away as he replied. “You are one horny brotha, Kyle. I’ll check you later.” He spoke into his radio. “Where are the VIP wristbands, man? Get them to the front door now.”

Later that evening at home, Mason began to disrobe to the warmth of the bedroom fireplace as Mercedes sat on the end of their brass bed atop a white chinchilla comforter with gold brocade pillows.

“So, baby, I didn’t want to worry you but Mamma fell a couple of days ago,” Mercedes said, scrolling through her calendar for the week.

Mason froze in between stepping out of his trousers. “What was she trying to do?”

“She was just trying to get into bed, or so she said. She’s fine though. You’d be so proud of Star the way she handled her grandma. Watching them together is a sight for sore eyes.”