Mama Dearest (4 page)

She walks up to me and smiles as if we are college girlfriends. Her light brown eyes dissect me, settling momentarily on my breasts. I know they are one of my best features but is this bitch a lesbo?

“Yancey, I was hoping you’d be here. We haven’t had a chance to talk since we started rehearsals,” Marshawn said, sitting on the stool next to me. She ordered a glass of red wine and then turned to face me.

“Hello, Marshawn,” I said reluctantly.

“You know I was hoping to get to know you better.”

“Why?”

“You’re Yancey Braxton, that’s why I googled you before we had the first meeting. I mean you’ve done everything—recording, stage. I know you didn’t do much television and movies but I’m sure that’s because you turned Hollywood down. Am I right?”

I study Marshawn to see if I can figure out what she is up to. She radiates spoiled bitch from the red bottom of her expensive shoes
to the top of her sewn-in weave. Marshawn is in her early twenties, tall and lean, with a dancer’s legs and Angela Bassett-like defined arms. But from what I’ve heard just a passable voice.

“You’re a smart girl,” I said, sipping my drink.

“So what happened?”

I spotted a good-looking light-skinned brother and I felt his eyes on me. “What?” I asked, looking back at Marshawn.

“What happened to your career?” she repeated. I’d played this game with this girl before so I anticipated her next move. “I know I’m doing this second-rate production because I’m young, beautiful and at the start of my career. But you should be further along, shouldn’t you?”

Was I about to give out my first slap of the night? What was this Flavor of Love reject with the bleached teeth and too tight LBD (little black dress) trying to do? She can’t fool me. She’s bitch by birth, I’m one by choice, which means I work at it. It doesn’t take me long to see through the bullshit. I’ve done it so many times before. I guess Google didn’t inform her that I can flick the bitch switch in a split second.

I showed her what a truly phony smile looked like and said, “Sweetheart, I know you mean well, but my career is none of your concern. Why don’t you try doing some exercises to increase the size of those avocado pits I think you might call breasts. Enjoy your night, honey.” I grabbed my bag and stood.

Two hours later I wobbled in a pair of three-and-a-half-inch, open-toed, slingback Manolo Blahnik pumps, with my arms extended over my head, trying to hail a taxi. Music from the South Beach Club about four doors down from the Crowbar rang out behind me each time the door was opened and closed by clubgoers.

After leaving the casting party, I went back to the hotel, changed clothes and shoes and gave my luck another chance. I know I had drunk too much but it helps me forget my problems for a minute. No
money, no man and if I’m honest with myself—no real career. Since I couldn’t get a taxi right away I figured one more club wouldn’t hurt. I picked one with a bright white façade that looked popular. Once inside, I could feel just about every man’s eyes checking out the full package.

I walked up to a glass-cased bar. There was a rainbow of blinking lights within it that pulsed with the beat of the music. I sneaked a peek at myself in the mirror behind the bar, and my hair was almost perfect, even for a home perm. I have to do it myself these days. A sista don’t have two or three hundred dollars to be handing out for a wash and blow dry.

My eyes lingered over the countless bottles of liquor that were stacked at the bar when a lean, chiseled bartender, sporting a Mohawk haircut, and a black, ribbed T-shirt that clung to him like a second skin, approached. “What will you have, sweetheart?”

I wanted to say, “I’ll have the most expensive drink your tattooed hand can pour in a glass.” But all I had in my purse was enough money to get me back to the hotel.

“Umm … ,” I said, tapping my beautifully manicured fingertip to my chin as I stalled for time. No way should I have to buy my own drink.

After a couple of seconds, I felt a presence to my left. “What are you drinking, beautiful?” I didn’t even turn to see what the man looked like. It doesn’t matter; he’d uttered the magic words.

I flashed my Broadway smile, and said, “Cognac. Louis the Fourteenth.” And that’s the way the entire night flowed. Men stepped up, bought drinks and shot their best game, as though they were auditioning for a high-paying job. But I turned them away like they had lied on their resumes. I guess I still have something left. At least my beauty hasn’t deserted me.

When I left the cast party for my quick change of clothes, my intentions were to find a tall, handsome man with one pocket full of paper, the other full of dick. A brotha who could leave my legs trembling after he climbed off me, but wouldn’t hesitate to drop five hundred
dollars on a nice dinner before he got up the nerve to ask me for some. But since that was nowhere in sight, I decided to accept the drinks men (and women if they had the courage) bought, and make the most of it. Tomorrow is a travel day and we aren’t leaving until late in the day.

After what seemed like the fifth fat, short guy had tried to get me to go home with him, I asked a tall sista with a disturbing orange and purple ensemble, dancing by herself, what time it was.

“It’s almost two,” she said, her hand cupped to her mouth, screaming in my ear over the music.

It’s later than I thought, and any self-respecting woman knows, if you linger in a club until daybreak, men will think you’re just waiting for invitations to go home.

So I left the club a little past tipsy, but not yet pissy, trying to get a damn cab to stop. They raced past me like it was NASCAR, and I wondered did a sista have to yank down the front of her dress and flash the twins to get a lift.

Suddenly a car quickly stopped in front of me in the cab lane. It was a two-seater sports car with a pointy nose and huge wheels. Its color was a dark, dark blue, like a midnight sky, the streetlights reflecting off it like stars.

As casually as I could, I tilted my head a little, not wanting to seem like some busted-down ghetto girl, because I was intrigued by who could be inside. Maybe it was somebody from the Miami Heat or Miami Dolphins. But the windows were tinted.

As if the driver was reading my mind, the dark window smoothly powered down.

With a little effort now, I could see inside, and what I saw was the profile of an incredibly gorgeous man. He had the complexion of lightly toasted bread. His hair was cut down to a shadow and lined razor sharp all around. I could only see him from the side, but his profile was nothing short of majestic.

The car sat there idling, the exhaust emitting a deep, throaty purr, as smoke spiraled from the two pipes into the night air.

I stalled as best I could, letting a couple of cabs pass. I wanted the man inside to turn so I could see if he was as handsome from the front, or if he had ears too big or gold teeth, but he just sat still like a statue, as if he was waiting for something. I was dying to be noticed but there was no way I was going to show it.

A cab pulled up behind him and the cabbie waved for me to get in. No, I thought, I’m not budging. This was the cab stand. If this fool wasn’t trying to show off his new boy toy, the cab could’ve picked me up.

Another taxi pulled behind the first, then another, then they started honking their horns. But the man didn’t seem to notice or care. He acted like he was deaf.

I saw my opening. “Uh, I think that honking is meant for you, guy,” I yelled over the noise. Still nothing. So I took two steps to the car and lowered myself to the window. “Are you gonna move or—” He turned to look at me, and oh, yes, he was fine as a new mohair sweater. I stumbled over my words a moment, regained composure and finished my sentence. “You gonna move or what?” I asked, this time a little sweeter, a lot sexier.

He turned toward me. “Depends,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone, like the baseline in a quiet storm slow jam. “If you’d rather ride in a taxi or an Aston Martin.”

I wasn’t sure he was saying what I thought he was saying, so as cool as possible, I said, “Depends. Is this your Aston Martin?”

He cracked a smile. A deep dimple appeared in his left cheek, and his straight, white teeth seemed to brighten the car’s entire dim cabin.

My, my, he was phine!

With a gesture of his hand he said coolly, “Get in.”

Just like that? Oh no, I had to set him straight. “What?” I said,
wondering just who he thought I was. “I’m not just any female on the street a man barks an order to—”

“Get in,” he said again, more forceful this time.

I looked at the fine man behind the wheel, and I don’t know why, because I’ve never done anything like this, but there I was pulling on the door handle and lowering myself into his magnificent ride.

C
UT TO AN HOUR
later. I’m standing not six inches from the floor-to-ceiling windows of S. Marcus Pinkston’s 54th floor, three-bedroom apartment at the Four Seasons in the Brickell area. The windows wrap all the way around the corner unit, and on one side you can see the sparkling lights of the downtown Miami skyline. On the other side, I’m staring down at the Miami harbor, stretched out, peaceful and placid, dotted with sailboats.

I’m barefoot on Brazilian wood floors, a glass of champagne with a splash of pomengrate juice in my hand. I’m with a man I don’t even know. I guess I trust him. I know it’s crazy. I trusted him enough to get in his car, and when he suggested he take me to his home instead of my hotel, I trusted him enough to agree. I guess he trusted me too, not knowing if I could be some Glenn Close
Fatal Attraction
–type stalker, for all he knows. Maybe he could be that stalker that I needed.

Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s all the drinks I’d consumed or his unquestionable good looks, or the fact that I’m tired of counting dimes and quarters to make ends meet, denying myself all the finer things I’ve been accustomed to. He seems to have the means and is prepared to let me experience all those things for just one night.

And if I lay it on him right, maybe he’ll be my ticket back into the glamorous life that I deserve. Not to mention, he’s so fine, I have no
doubt he’ll satisfy the craving for love that’s been making my body ache for far too long.

I take a tiny sip of my drink. It splashes over my palate like sweet nectar. I’m in the house of a man I don’t know, yet I feel totally comfortable. He had an aura about him that soothed me from the moment I jumped into his car.

“Tell me your name again, beautiful,” he says, extending a hand and leading me to a low black leather couch.

I place my hand in his and follow, saying, “Yancey Harrington Braxton.” His hand is soft as a velvet glove. “You must have rich blood by the feel of your hand. I bet you haven’t worked a day in your life.”

His voice is deep and seductive as he says, “I use my brains, sweetheart, not my hands. I save them for other things.”

The look in his eyes tells me it’s not for praying. I decide to probe. “So how old are you?”

“Thirty-something,” he says quickly.

“So what do you do? I mean, to be able to afford all this?” I asked as I waved the champagne flute like it was a conductor’s baton.

“I used to manage a hedge fund and dabble in the futures market. It’s the family business. Do you consider that working?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I teased and turned up my charm. Judging from his place, I need to be on his team. “So you got me in your car. Do you always get what you want?”

S. Marcus smiled, showing those dimples again. He leaned in playfully. “Most of the time, because I know what I want. And I know how to ask.”

You better believe he does. Don’t blow this, Yancey, I tell myself. This could be your golden ticket back. “What does the S stand for? Steven?”

“Do I look like a Steven to you?”

“You could definitely be a Steven.”

He gives a wink and says with a sip, “I can’t reveal that until after our fifth date.”

“Who said there would be a fifth date?” I ask with a laugh. Deep down, I’m loving the idea that he sees me as more than a one-night stand. And once he gets a taste of my sweet stuff, he’ll want to keep me in his life for a long time, to shower me with all this luxury.

My sassy response makes his eyes glow with intrigue, as if he’s never been challenged.

“Oh, there
will
be a fifth date,” he says confidently, looking at me like I’d be crazy not to stick around to share in his high life. “But if there isn’t, then you’ll never know who S. Marcus Pinkston is. Or what you’d missed out on.”

I shook my head, not knowing whether to admire the hell out of this guy or be taken aback by his gall. “So sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“And you love it. So what is it that you do, Yancey Braxton?”

I hated that he knew my name and still had to ask, but I’d grown used to that. It hurts less than it did at first. “I’m an actress and I dabble in New York real estate.”

“Are you making any money in either one?”

“I do all right,” I lied.

“I bet you do. Listen,” he said, rising, “I’m going to get more comfortable. Make yourself at home and try not to miss me too much.” He then disappeared behind mahogany-paneled walls.