Playing Dirty (8 page)

D
ays had passed and I hadn’t talked to Maria once. It was Saturday, but it didn’t matter to me because it was my day off and I made it my business to treat myself to a day at the spa. I needed it really bad after what I’d been through these last few days. After I got dressed in my Christian Dior strapless sundress, I slid on my Roberto Cavalli shades and headed downstairs to the lobby.

Once I was outside, the valet driver had my Aston Martin parked out front with the AC pumping. As I walked over to get in, the valet smiled at me, like he usually did.

“You seem pretty happy today,” I said.

“I love to watch you…. You are so beautiful and so nice,” he replied.

I smiled and tipped him the usual hundred.

He looked down and I noticed he was holding a white folder with gold writing. “This was left for you,” he said, handing it to me.

“What is it?” I asked, puzzled.

“I don’t know,” the valet answered.

I grabbed the folder, curious as hell. When I opened it up, there was a white sheet of paper with gold writing:

LOOK ACROSS THE STREET.

SEE THE BLACK BENTLEY.

GO GET IN.

I raised my eyebrows in confusion. Nevertheless, I looked across the street. Sure enough, there was a black Bentley parked, with a driver dressed in black waiting beside it. He waved me over.

Before I went, I fumbled through the folder again. There was a set of keys, and that was it. I walked across the street, very slowly, cautiously. I was bugging out from this. I got to the car. The driver held the back door open for me.

“For you, madam,” he said with a thick English accent.

Before I climbed into the car, I looked inside. The inside was filled with dozens and dozens of bloodred roses; then I noticed on the seat another card and a bottle of Cristal.

“Madam, Sir Lance has instructed me where to take you. But it is a surprise,” the driver said.

Lance! It was the last client I’d gotten off. Big La La, a multiplatinum rapper from Houston. He was rich as a motherfucker, and when I got him off on charges of murder and conspiracy, he was forever grateful. I knew Big La La wanted to fuck me, but we’d never gotten the chance. On the last day of his court hearings, he’d promised me that I would see and hear from him again.

Excited, I climbed into the back of the Bentley. The driver seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and he went around to the front, got in, and began driving. I picked up the card and it read:

DON’T WORRY, THIS IS ALL FOR YOU.

I TOLD YOU THAT YOU WOULD SEE ME AGAIN.

BIG LA LA

I could hardly fit in the car, there were so many roses. I was smiling from ear to ear. No man had ever just whisked me away like this. I still had no clue where I was going, but I noticed the driver going toward the piers. I was lost in thought, not knowing what to expect. Just as I started feeling a little unsure, the car stopped.

“Madam, we have arrived,” the driver said. He climbed out and opened the door. He reached in for my hand to help me out. We were at the piers, for sure. There were several large cruise ships, boats, and yachts docked. I stood up and looked around; I was still trying to figure out just what the hell was going on. Then I heard his voice. The smooth, even tones of Big La La.

“Ms. Lomax,
mmph, mmph, mmph,
my sexy-ass lawyer,” he called out. I whirled around, smiling. He looked so damn good. He reminded me of Tyson Beckford, the male model. His lips were so perfect, and those damn pearly whites were too good to be true.

“Hey, what’s this all about?” I said, smiling.

“This is all about you. All about how you did ya thang in that fucking courtroom with that cracker-ass judge,” he replied.

I beamed.

“C’mon, let me show you,” he said, motioning for me. So I walked to him and he grabbed onto my hand and led me toward a huge yacht that was docked at the pier. At first, I assumed he rented the boat to take me around the water once or twice. Shit, I was dead wrong. When I got close to the boat, I noticed the gold lettering on the boat’s mast,
LA LA’S LOVE
. I don’t know if he noticed how my mouth hung open.

“Ladies first,” he said, opening his arms to welcome me onto his yacht. I could hear one of his records booming through the ship’s speakers. That fucking boat was truly gorgeous. We walked up a winding staircase into the yacht’s suite. The shit was fully furnished like a full house—complete with couches, plasma TVs, expensive throw rugs, and wall art. There were beautiful women and La La’s entourage hanging around different spots on the ship. There was a game room, movie theater, and an indoor pool on the yacht. Now, I had been invited on a dozen beautiful yachts, but this one was the most lavish I had seen. I was really impressed.

“I can’t stay. I’m not dressed for a party,” I said, acting shy.

“Ms. Lomax, you are always dressed to kill. Look at you! Rocking Louboutins just to go out on a regular day—I so admire your style,” he answered. “Anyway, this fucking party is for you. Without you, my ass would be doing time,” he remarked, ushering me into another room.

Inside the yacht’s stateroom was a long table, covered with all white centerpieces and white and gold place settings. At one end there was a large, beautifully decorated sheet cake that said:
THANK YOU!

“See, this is yours,” he said proudly.

“Oh, thank you, but you didn’t have to—” I started.

“I’m sorry, but I had to. You are the fucking bomb, and I think I want to get to know you better, now that the trial is over,” he said, moving close to me. I could smell his cologne and it was hypnotizing.

“Thanks, but I was just doing what you paid for,” I answered, still staying modest. Just as I said that, I could swear I felt the boat moving. “Wait, did the boat move?” I asked.

“Hell yeah! I know you didn’t think we were staying in Miami,” he said.

“I don’t even have clothes!” I said, kind of upset.

“You do now,” he said, opening another door to expose a bedroom. On the bed were all kinds of dresses, jeans, bathing suits, and shoes…lots of shoes. “I had my personal stylist pick out a few things for you,” he said.

My eyes were as wide as saucers. All of the designers—Gucci, Diane von Furstenberg, Hermès, Prada—shit, you name it, it was there.

“I don’t know what to say,” I remarked as I checked out all of the stuff he’d purchased. He even had a toiletry bag there for me with toothbrush, hair accessories, La Mer facial moisturizer, and everything I liked for pampering my body.

“Don’t say a word, just enjoy. Go ahead and change. We are having cocktails on the third deck in about thirty minutes,” he explained, walking out the door.

I flopped down on the huge bed, on top of all of the beautiful clothes, and smiled. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Nope, I was awake. I called Ophelia to let her know I’d be away for a while and told her to let my office know.

I picked out a silk Missoni knit minidress, with a pair of aqua Jimmy Choo sandals. The dress fit me like a glove, and the shoes were my exact size. I still couldn’t figure out how La La knew my sizes. I looked just like a runway model in the outfit. I chose not to wear any underwear—shit, I was doing it just like the real stars—no panties. I was all ready. I grabbed a small aqua Prada clutch and headed up to the third deck. I didn’t make it three feet before La La met me.

“Mmm, shit! You look like a million fucking bucks!”

“Thanks to you,” I said jokingly.

“It’s all good. It’s for a good cause,” he remarked.

We headed up to the third deck together. From up there the view was off the chain. The sun was setting and the water was crystal clear. There were a bunch of chicks up there—dressed to kill. La La introduced me to several people, but I was too overwhelmed to even remember them.

We sat on a long white leather bench that was built into the yacht’s walls. There were movable tables in front of the bench. The tables held all kinds of food—shrimp cocktail, lobster tails, beluga caviar, and all the highest-priced liquors you could name. These fucking rappers really know how to party, I thought. La La asked me what I was drinking and I ordered a Washington Apple. There was also a full waitstaff on the ship, so the waiter was back in a flash with my drink.

Everyone was vibing and having a great time. I could smell so much weed smoke, and I noticed a few people were sniffing coke. I wasn’t into that shit anymore. I may have a few tokes off a blunt, but that cocaine shit wasn’t for me. I had already fucked that up.

We partied into the night and the ship kept sailing. I still didn’t know where we were going and for how long. That first night I slept alone. The next morning I was met with breakfast in bed. The service was complete, with white-towel service. This was the way to live—I was living like the real wealthy people.

After breakfast La La came to my room. The boat had docked and he wanted to get off and show me where we were. I got dressed in another beautiful sundress, a large sun hat, and a beautiful pair of Valentino shades. I felt like a Barbie doll. La La and I left the boat, and the first thing I noticed was the white-sand beach. The beach was absolutely breathtaking. White sand, blue water, and coral surrounded us. The sun was hot but comforting on my skin.

“Greetings,” a woman dressed in a tropical getup said.

“Yes, I’m part of the Lance Wallace party,” La La replied. I’d forgotten his government name was Lance Wallace—that was his client name to me. Calling him “La La” had taken some getting used to.

“Ah, yes,” the woman said, snapping her fingers at someone behind her.

A man came running toward us. “Welcome to Barbados,” the man sang with his accent.

I turned toward La La and smiled brightly. “How did you know I’d never been to Barbados?” I asked.

“I do my research, Ms. Lomax,” he replied.

“Would you please call me Yoshi. I mean, you picked me up off the street, took me to a strange place, and laced me in luxury—the least I could do is let you call me Yoshi,” I said, laughing. He laughed, too.

We were led to a waiting limousine. It was kind of old, but for a small island it was the shit. The driver kept talking to us, but La La and I were too busy enjoying each other’s company. I felt like I was falling for him, and I didn’t even know him outside of our professional relationship and whatever I’d heard about him in the media. He was always in the media because of his status.

The limo finally pulled up to a crowded street. “This is Bridgetown…our shopping center. There is the duty-free shopping center,” the man instructed. La La and I got out of the limo and headed into the duty-free shopping center. I was in awe. For such a small island, that shopping center had everything: Gucci, Prada, Fendi, and Chanel, to name a few.

“Look, you don’t have to take me shopping. Trust me, I have plenty,” I said to La La seriously.

“Stop acting like that. Take this and do what you do,” he replied, handing me his black card.

“I can’t do that,” I said.

“Yes, you can. It’s easy as this.” He took my hand and placed his card into my palm. I smiled and didn’t say another word. He didn’t know me very well. I loved to spend other people’s money. I hit Chanel first. I purchased the new Coco Cabas bag in two colors—denim and chocolate leather. I got two pairs of Chanel shoes, which totaled more than $2,000, and then I moved into Gucci. I was always a Gucci girl; at first, it seemed that I had all of the bags that the small island flagship store carried, but then I found one that I didn’t. I purchased it, along with some new sandals and a pair of slides to wear around the boat.

La La and I went from store to store until we had too many bags to hold. It was the first time I’d gone on a real shopping spree that I didn’t have to pay for myself.

After we finished shopping, the limousine driver took us to a beautiful mansion to have lunch. La La told me he owned this huge house that was right on the beach. He said it was one of his many vacation homes. Barbados was fucking beautiful, but that house with the private beach was absolutely amazing.

We didn’t stay in Barbados; La La told me he had so much more planned for us. I didn’t argue; I’d already decided to take it all in and have a good time—and that was just what I did. I let him take care of me and I was loving it. I loved the way he had ditched his entourage just to be with me. I couldn’t ever remember a time that I’d seen him on the red carpet, record signings, or anywhere else without his crew—but for me, he had told them all to fall back and do their own thing.

When we returned to the yacht, we were both exhausted. All of the shopping, La La’s treatment, his fine ass, and his cologne had me horny. But I wasn’t going to make the first move. He told me to get showered and change for dinner. The boat would be sailing to our next destination. I took a long, hot shower in the beautiful frosted-glass-encased shower. I wet my hair and made it curly—exotic. I slipped into a BCBG silk slip dress and a pair of Giuseppe Zanottis. When I arrived on deck, I found him…alone at a candlelit table.

“Damn, girl, you always look good,” he remarked as I sat down.

“La La, tell me what this is really all about. I mean, you can’t possibly be that grateful that I got you off,” I said, motioning for the waiter to bring me my signature drink.

“Yoshi, you have no idea how grateful I am. You saved my life and career. I heard that you were the best at what you do, and you proved yourself,” he explained.

“I have received gifts from clients before, but nothing like this,” I remarked.

“I’m different. I’m also very attracted to you,” he said, placing his hands on mine.

I felt my heart thump and my pussy tingle. I was blushing, and I just knew it. “Well, I thank you for all that you’ve done. Shit, I’m gonna have to buy a new closet when I get back,” I joked.

Before I could say another word, La La leaned across the table and kissed my lips. Shocked, I pulled away, but he continued with his advances. Next thing I knew, we were down on the lower deck and were ripping each other’s clothes off. We kissed wildly and the heat between us was serious.