Live and Learn (25 page)

“I’m worried about my marriage,” she admitted softly into the silence surrounding their table. She checked her BlackBerry for the hundredth time. Her job meant being accessible at all times. A day off—even the weekend—was never really a day off for her…it was just a day out of the office.

As she slid the device back inside the leather case snapped to her crisp Ralph Lauren black linen pants, she looked up and felt pitied at the look in her friends’ eyes. The truth was the truth and if she couldn’t be honest with her friends, than who?

Renee had long since lost her mother to a massive heart attack. Her father now lived in Beverly Hills with his third wife and their ties were invisible. She would never lay her marital problems on her children and, well, Jackson was a part of the problem. So who did that leave? Her friends.

“He gave me that ‘we need to talk’ bullshit before he left this morning,” she admitted.

Aria reached over and squeezed her hand, leaving the faint scent of Armani’s Diamond perfume. “Maybe it’s a talk to improve things. You always think the worst.”

Renee raked her manicured fingers through her curls. “And you always see the glass half full.”

Jaime flung her weave over her left shoulder as she settled back in her chair to eye them. “We’ve been saying for years that you should encourage Jackson to go to counseling with you to deal with his issues.”

Renee ignored the PDA vibrating against her hip…again. For the first time in a long time, her focus was on her marriage. “I love him,” she admitted fiercely. “I just don’t understand the whole Ward Cleaver shit he’s caught up in because I’m not June in the least. Well…not anymore.”

As soon as she said the words, her eyes shifted to Jaime. “No offense to you and Jessa. I just love working.”

Jaime just shrugged and waved her hand glibly. The diamonds on her bracelets flashed. “None taken.”

Jaime was a diva and loved it.

Renee finally pulled her constantly vibrating BlackBerry from its case and looked down at the screen. “I have to take this call,” she said, already rising to her full five-foot-ten height.

She made a striking picture as she weaved her way through the tables to reach the privacy of the restroom.

Renee actually sent the call from her assistant to her voice mail as she opened the mahogany wooden door of the ladies’ room. It swung close behind her and she barely took in the warm plaid and floral French Country décor as she leaned her hip against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest.

Fuck it, she needed a moment. Facing the end of a marriage—
her
marriage—wasn’t easy…especially when both of her friends had the picture-perfect life she used to have.

Renee wanted her marriage.

She wanted her husband.

But she also wanted her career and she couldn’t have both. Period.

She gripped the edge of the counter. Her stomach felt like she swallowed sharpened nails.

“I love you, Jackson.”

“We need to talk. We
have
to talk.”

She tilted her head up and looked at herself in the mirror just as one lone tear raced down her cheek. She closed her eyes and released a breath heavy with her frustrations and fears.

Jackson wouldn’t leave her. He’d better not.

She swiped away her tears and straightened her back while she studied her reflection in the mirror. The soft and curly tendrils of her inch-long hair fit her oval-shaped face, wide eyes, and full, pouty mouth. She never felt sexier…especially with her signature smoky eye makeup, extended lashes, and glossy lips.

Jackson didn’t speak to her for a week after she first cut her long “good” hair. He used to love to play in it as she laid her head on his chest after steamy sex. But once she went back to work she caught all kinds of hell trying to manage it.

It had taken one hell of a freaky fuck fest to get him past the haircut drama.

She smiled naughtily at her reflection even as her eyes burned. A blow job and some handcuffs helped him right on down the road to forgiveness.

Would that type of “screw me ’til I’m sore” sex fix their problems now?

Renee walked into one of the wooden bathroom stalls. She made sure to flush the commode and then carefully wrap the seat with tissue before she dropped her pants and took a seat.

Her PDA vibrated and she remembered the call she had to return to her assistant, Kiena. She took the BlackBerry from its case. She frowned at the text message icon.

She was a grown-ass woman with teenagers and several e-mail accounts. She didn’t mess around with the text message trend. To hell with trying to keep up with all those abbreviations. LOL. KIT. BFF. How about LMTFAWT—leave me the fuck alone with text.

Renee opened the message with her elbows braced on her thighs.

“What the fuck?” Renee gasped. She continued to scroll down and read some more as her heart slammed against her chest.

Renee jumped to her feet and some of her pee ran down her thigh, wetting the rim of her pants. Her stomach felt like someone had gut-punched her. She clutched the BlackBerry with both hands as she read the message again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

“Oh…hell…no!” she shrieked, sounding more like Aria than herself.

She damn near dropped the BlackBerry into the commode as she snatched up her silk panties and her pants. She barely registered that she didn’t wipe.

Jackson was cheating on her?

Couldn’t be.

Shouldn’t be.

“Motherfucker…it
better
not be.” She left the stall even as she dialed Jackson’s cell phone number. She knew it was a waste with the fishing boat deep in the middle of the sea, but she tried anyway.

It went straight to voice mail.

She took a deep breath as she willed herself not to fall to the floor and cry like a baby. Somehow she found the strength to open the door and make her way back to her girls. With each step, the text message seemed to mock her.

Leading straight to your husband’s arms.

Boom.

I love him more than you.

Boom.

I need him more than you.

Boom.

He is my man.

Well, right now she needed her friends more than she needed Jackson. She nearly dropped into her seat as she roughly pushed her BlackBerry toward them atop the table. It hit against one of their glasses with a
ding
.

“How about some bitch just texted me that she’s running away with Jackson?” Renee snapped as she drummed her neatly manicured fingers on top of the wooden table.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Aria said in disbelief as she twirled Renee’s phone to look down at the screen.

Renee looked from Aria to Jaime in question. Both women held up their own cell phones with the same exact message displayed.

“What?!” they cried in unison.

“Oh that’s not the cherry on top of the sundae yet, baby,” Jaime said with much attitude. “Check your message again to see who it’s from. You’re not going to believe this shit.”

Renee swooped up the BlackBerry and worked her thumb to scroll to the top of the message. She gasped as she felt an angry fire begin to burn in her stomach.

Jessa Bell.

Best friends Alizé, Dom, Moët, and Cristal encounter more ups and downs in
Show and Tell

Available now wherever books are sold

Ladies

2000

T
he four teenage girls walked through the double doors of University High’s cafeteria like they owned the school. They knew without looking that all eyes were on them. Hating them and hating on them. They were used to it and maybe even thrived on it a bit. Popularity. Envy. High school fame.

Even as they settled at “their” table and began munching on the sandwiches they purchased from the store up the street—of course the cafeteria food was a no-no—people watched them. Wanted to be them. Wanted to be with them. But it was just the four.

Friends since freshman year, they weren’t looking to enlarge their clique. It was them and only them. One for all and all for one. Even though they all were as different as night and day, they clicked. They had each other’s backs. They knew their friendship would last past their high school years.

“Did y’all see the new Biggie video last night?” Keesha Lands asked, in the Tommy Hilfiger tank she wore with tight-fitting jeans. Her gold herringbone chain and bamboo earrings gleamed against her smooth dark skin and seemed to glisten in her cat-shaped eyes.

“Not me,” Latoya James said, looking prim and proper as always in her white collared shirt and ankle-length navy blue skirt with her shoulder-length hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that seemed to make her caramel complexion stretch.

Danielle Johnson rolled her deep-set eyes heavenward as she applied pale pink lip gloss that perfectly matched her fair complexion and pretty features. “My new foster family let their sickening sons watch
Nickelodeon
last night,” she said, putting the gloss into her Esprit purse before taking a bite of food. She made sure not to spill a drop on her dark denim dress.

“Well, I’m an only child and my parents ain’t churchy, so you know I was right there in front of the TV,” Monica Winters said, flipping her thick shoulder-length jet black hair over her shoulder as she flashed them a sassy smile on her cinnamon face. She did a little dance in her seat and winked at Keesha.

Keesha started rapping the words to “Juicy” and the girls all joined in with her. Even Latoya knew the words, although her parents ran a secular music-free zone. Ever since pulling the shy church girl into their fold, the girls were sure to bring Latoya up to speed on everything fun and fly.

They all laughed and gave each other high fives after they finished.

“Well, I’ve decided to call myself Dom,” Keesha stated with confidence.

“Dom?” the other girls all asked in unison.

“Yup, Dom as in Dom Perignon,” she explained with attitude. She pointed to Latoya. “You’re Moët…Danielle, you’re Cristal—”

“What about me?” Monica asked, feeling left out.

“I don’t know any more champagnes,” Keesha said with a helpless shrug. “But Biggie’s always talking about Alizé. I heard it’s a real sweet drink with liquor in it.”

“Then that’s me to a tee,” Monica said with satisfaction.

The four girls all raised their cans of soda and toasted their new names.

2008

O
kay. Let me explain how I feel in my man’s arms—if it is at all explainable. I feel secure. Loved. Cherished. Pampered. Needed. Perhaps most important of all…I feel wanted. Growing up as a foster kid and not knowing if my parents were dead, alive, or indifferent, feeling wanted is important as hell to me.

I am Cristal, or Danielle Johnson, and my man is Mohammed Ahmed. He is tall, handsome, and strong with cocoa-scented dreads that reach to his waist. He is everything I ever needed and nothing that I ever wanted.

Just
try
to make me leave him.

“Danielle,” he whispers in my ear with that sexy Jamaican lilt.

I shiver as he presses his warm naked body above mine. My legs spread with ease as I wrap them around his waist. His body and the bed sandwich me. The feel of his hard dick against my belly makes me anxious. Ready. Waiting.

As he bends his strong muscled back to lower his mouth—that delicious and skillful mouth—to my breast, he circles his tongue around my nipple. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. He uses his strong hips to prod the tip of his dick between my lips. We both gasp hotly. He circles his hips, pressing his hardness against my walls. Clockwise. Counterclockwise.

Jesus.

These moments in his arms and his bed are worth it all. Worth every damn thing I gave up for him. For this. Each stroke delivers my point home.

The money.

Pop
.

The fame.

Pop-pop
.

The fancy houses and cars.

Pop-pop-pop
.

The glamorous life.

Pop-pop-pop-pop
.

Mrs. Sahad Linx.

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop
.

All of it. Gone.

We are in tune with one another. United. Joined. He knows he is making me cum and that makes his dick harder than jail time. And that makes me cum even harder until I am panting. Sweating. Clutching him with my pussy walls and my limbs as he strokes harder and faster inside of me.

“Yes,” I cry out as he leans up a bit to look down at me with those silky brown eyes I love.

His sweat drips down onto my titties as each of his pumps makes them bounce up and down. “Dick good ain’t it?” he asks roughly as his face gets intense. “Huh? Huh?”

“Yes, baby, yes,” I whisper as I reach up to caress his handsome face with my quivering hands.

His head whips to the right to capture my fingers in his mouth. He sucks them deeply as he slows down his strokes to a lethal grind that brings the base of that dick against my clit.

Damn. Goddamn. Damn. Damn.

“Watch this, Miss Danielle,” he says thickly around my fingers.

I already know what time it is.

His entire body freezes as he looks hotly down into my eyes. I feel the jolt of his dick against my clit as he fills me with his cum. He smiles as he licks my fingers like the freak that he is. Each pluck of my clit pushes me further over the edge until I am working my hips up and down off the bed to pull downward on
my
dick. His mouth forms a circle as he closes his eyes and pushes down deeper into me.

I reach up to snatch off the leather strap holding his hair and his dreads surround our heads like a curtain. “Who the best? Huh? Who?” I whisper up to him.

“Danielle…Danielle…Danielle,” he chants as I drain that dick until it is empty.

With one final kiss to my lips, he rolls over onto his back and then pulls my weak body to his side. I gladly snuggle my face against his chest and take a deep breath of his scent like I can absorb it into me. With his free arm, he reaches over to turn off the lamp.

“Damn, that was good,” he whispers into the darkness before he slaps my butt cheek playfully.

“I aim to please,” I whisper back with a smile.

He laughs a little but soon his snores fill the air.

Damn, I love him.

“Good morning, Miss Danielle.”

I open my eyes and stretch. There he is just as constant as time looking down at me as he lays on his side on the bed. Okay, I love him but I do not do morning breath. Okay? All right.

I pull the thin sheet up over my nose. “Good morning.”

Mohammed just laughs at me before he flings back the covers and rolls out of bed. “You have time for breakfast?” he asks over his broad shoulder.

I hardly hear him. I am too busy letting my eyes skim over the hard details of his back and buttocks. “No, I did not bring a change of clothes,” I finally answer once he turns fully to look at me.

Mohammed reaches down to open a drawer. “What do we have here?” he says mockingly. “An empty drawer. What should we fill it with? Any suggestions, Danielle?”

I give him a sarcastic smile. First a drawer and then some of the closet and then pack up all your things and move in. Nothing doing. The last time I lived with a man he threw me out of his penthouse apartment. Well, he caught me cheating (ahem,
with
Mohammed) but that did not excuse the fact that if I had not kept my apartment for my friends, Dom and Moët, to live in, then my pretty high-yellow behind would have been homeless. To make matters worse, he kept mostly everything he ever bought me, even down to my lacy La Perla underwear.

No. I am nicely settled back in my beautiful apartment in The Top in Livingston. I have my best friends to help me keep up the hefty rent. Sure, I had to get used to the lack of quiet or privacy but it is
mine
and no one can throw me out.

Plus…Mohammed’s house left
a lot
to be desired.

“One day, baby. One day,” I promise as I roll out of bed.

I look at him and I know from the look on his face that he did not believe me. Truth. He is smart not to. I begin to climb back in the Gap charcoal gray turtleneck and pencil skirt I wore to our dinner date to IHOP last night. I wish I had a pair of sneakers to throw on instead of my suede high-heeled boots. As soon as I pull on my black leather trench, I walk over to where Mohammed is lounging across the foot of the bed watching a recap of some football game.

“Enjoy your day off,” I tell him as I bend down to snuggle his cheek.

Mohammed is the repair man at The Top. My friends, Dom, Alizé, and Moët, still cannot believe I am with him. Not when my life used to be about men who helped keep me from my life of robbing Peter to pay Paul. Athletes. Celebrities. Wealthy businessmen. I had been on the hunt to be the ultimate celebrity wife. My ex-fiancé Sahad Linx is the CEO of Platinum Records. His money, his fame, and his lifestyle had almost been mine. I let it slip through my fingers like sand so that my hands were free to grab Mohammed.

He reaches across to lightly touch my face and I get chills. Fuck the money and the fame. I got love and lots of it.

“See you later?” he asks in that Jamaican accent that has the power to make me wet.

“Yes,” I whisper against his lips.

Walking out of that bedroom and leaving my man in the bed naked, willing, and with his dick rising is almost as hard as he is. I try not to judge his house as I grab my hobo from the kitchen table. I can fit half of Mohammed’s entire three-bedroom house inside my living room. It is furnished just like the bachelor he is. Mismatched this. Tore-up that. Wal-Mart this. Target that. Mohammed likes to say his house has character. Whatever.

I look inside my Gucci purse (a purchase from my more glamorous days) for my keys and my hand rubs across my “bible.” Forgetting the keys, I pick up the address book. Inside is each and every man I have ever dated or slept with. For each man there is a brief bio and a photo, if I had one. I used dollar signs to rate how free giving they were with their money, and stars to rate how good they were in bed. The more dollar signs and stars the better.

But this book isn’t me anymore. Since I have been with Mohammed I have not made an entry. I have not called one number. I have good friends. A good man. A good life.

I am happy. I am.

Then why do I still have it?

Ignoring the answer to that million-dollar question, I shove the address book down deep in my bag. I finally close my fingers around the keys before I rush out of the house.