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Authors: Niobia Bryant

BOOK: Show and Tell
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Chapter Nine
Cristal
I
am trying my best not to keep checking my gold watch. Mohammed looks up from his plate of jerk chicken and wild rice. He smiles at me and my heart swells up with love for him. I smile back and I know it does not reach my eyes. Guilt already lives there.
The Caribbean is his favorite restaurant. He says the bright colors, food, and lively atmosphere reminds him of his home in Negril, Jamaica. Coming here tonight was my idea. A bit of a treat before the letdown.
“You are looking beautiful as hell, Danielle,” he tells me, reaching across the table to rub my hand with his thumb.
“Tell me something I do not know,” I tease as I kick my Manolo off under the table and ease my foot onto his lap. The colorful floor length tablecloth of our corner booth hides my actions as I stroke his dick to hardness with my foot.
I cock a brow as he sits up a bit straighter in his seat. “I am ready to go,” I tell him in my softest and most seductive voice.
“But we just got our food,” he complains without much conviction.
I look him dead in the eye as I ease my body down under the table.
“Danielle,” he whispers harshly.
I am a woman on a mission. Our Friday date night is being switched to the edited version. On my hands and knees I crawl across a random chicken bone to get between his legs. I undo his zipper and work his dick from his pants. His thighs clench as I stroke it just the way he likes it . . . nice and firm with a loose wiggle at the tip.
His crotch smells like a sexy mix of his sweat and his cologne. I moan a little as I pull his dick to me like a cigar and take a big puff. My lips curve into a smile around it as he hollers out a little at the feel of me blowing him.
“Is everything okay?” I hear our waiter Henry ask.
“Yes, I stubbed my toe,” Mohammed answers with that sexy Jamaican lilt even as he eases one hand under the table to grab the back of my head.
My motive for this spontaneous blowjob is to ease the date along a little quicker but the more his dick hardens against my tongue the more I am getting turned the hell on. No need for both of us not to enjoy ourselves, right?
I reach down between my legs and jerk my lavender La Perla's to the side to press my fingers against my clit.
Aaaah
. My own spit runs down my chin as I suck him deeply. I tickle the thick tip with my tongue before sucking it deeply. His legs shake and his hands grab my hair into his tight fist. I circle my hips as my fingers move faster and faster against my clit. His dick jumps as he fills my mouth with his cum. Like I am starved for it I swallow and suck until I know he does not have anything left. My fingers are wet from my juices. The smell of my pussy has filled the hot space underneath the table. I greedily clean every bit of his nut from his dick and balls as I shake and shiver with my own nut. My clit is sensitive as I cum but I do not dare stop rubbing it until I am spent and done.
His dick slips from my mouth as I fall back onto my ass and let my head lean back against the seat of the booth. Whoo. I would be wrong to fall asleep under here. I remember my plans and I suddenly have the energy of ten men. I ease back onto my seat and smile at the dazed look in my man's sexy eyes. With a napkin I clean the corners of my mouth before I rise up slightly to ease my skirt back down.
There is not a thing ladylike about blowing your man under the table in a crowded restaurant but who would know. I am not going to tell anyone . . . except Alizé . . . and Dom . . . and of course Mo. I
have
to tell my girls.
“Ready now?” I ask, pulling a compact from my purse to straighten my hair and check my makeup.
Mohammed just nods and his dreads swing against the sides of his handsome face as he reaches under the table to zip and button his pants. “Yeah, I'm ready,” he says, raising his hand to motion for the check.
There is
nothing
a man can do about a woman on a mission.
As we leave the restaurant a man across the room raises his glass to me in a toast. I ignore him as I feel my face get hot. Nosy-behind people.
Mohammed hugs me close to him as we walk to our cars in the adjacent parking lot. “My place or yours?” he asks as he kisses my cheek and lightly bites my ear.
I take a deep breath and prepare to lie. “Actually I have an early morning meeting. I was thinking I would just stay home tonight . . . alone,” I finish with what I hope is a beguiling smile as I wrap my arms around his waist and lean back to look up at him.
He frowns as he searches my eyes. Just when I think a million questions are about to fly out of his mouth he bends his head down to kiss me briefly. He lets me go and takes my key to unlock the door to my Toyota Solara. “Drive home safely.”
Okay. I am confused as I give him one last kiss to those lips I love and climb into my car. I toot my horn as I pull out of the fenced in parking lot. I look in my rearview mirror to find that he is still standing in the same spot of the parking lot looking at me leave.
As soon as I step inside the luxuriously grand Waldorf-Astoria, I know I made the right decision to come. Located on Park Avenue, the Waldorf is one of the premiére social venues for the New York elite. This is a long way from foster care and group homes in Newark. I want to be here. I lied to my man and my friends about my whereabouts tonight—they would not understand and probably think I am up to my old ways which I am not. I charged eight hundred dollars to my credit card at a consignment shop for this one-shoulder, black mesh dress with beige chiffon underlay by Dolce & Gabbana—something that will take me at least a year to pay off. And I came to this stag—this is not Mohammed's type of thing but I will not cheat on him. I am seriously growing because last year I woulda whipped out my Bible and dialed me a date.
Am I crazy to be here . . . alone and in last season's dress?
I step off the elevator and walk towards the elaborate doors of the four-story Grand Ballroom. I carefully hold up the edge of the delicate form-fitting dress. I feel like I am in a fairy tale. It takes every bit of decorum that I have taught myself, not to look fazed by the glamour and elegance surrounding me. I did not miss the looks from admiring men and envious women. I look good and I know it. Sue me.
I make my smile more confident as I step inside and join the line of guests greeted by the Ingrams. For a hot second I have an image of the guards pulling me out there because Mrs. Ingram forgot that she invited me. She would not. She could not. She
better
not.
She is looking fabulous in a strapless dress of the deepest shade of red that I have ever seen. Everything about her is perfectly in place. She is the queen of the ball and she knows it.
“Hello, Mr. Ingram. Mrs. Ingram.” I give them that winning Cristal smile as I reach out to them with both my hands.
“Hello, Danielle.” Mr. Ingram pats my hand warmly before Mrs. Ingram reaches over to slide my hands into her grasp. Even her hands are cool.
“Welcome, Danielle,” she says to me warmly before nudging me forward into the ballroom. I did not miss the way her eyes took in everything from my auburn weave flat ironed to perfection (of course) to my dress and jewelry. Thank God all of my men were not Indian-givers like Sahad. She did not make a crude comment so I assume I passed her assessment.
My eyes widen as I look at the partygoers. I cannot lie that I am intrigued. I see the crème de la crème of African-American high society. The already impressive ballroom is overflowing with flowers and artfully decorated tables around the large dance floor. Everything about this night says that no expense was spared. When the Ingrams throw a party, they throw a damn party. The crowd is a lot older and more sedate than I prefer. I am used to rubbing elbows with athletes and hip-hop celebrities—that hip twenty to thirty-something crowd. This is definitely a little more geriatric but it is also filled with people who are connected. Politicians. High-powered executives. Socialites. The Black elite.
There are more designer gowns and jewels in this place than I can ever hope to be near again. It is a long way from the foster kid growing up in Newark. I am going to enjoy myself to the fullest.
Chapter Ten
Alizé
“B
raun, Weber, Monica Winters speaking.”
“Hey, Ze, this is Cristal.”
“Hold on.” I stand up and quickly move around my desk to use my foot to close the door to my office. As soon as I settle back down into my chair, I press the phone back to my ear. “Whaddup, girl?” I ask.
“Did Mo call you?”
“No. Why? What's up?”
“Bones filed a petition to have paternity tests done on Tiffany.”
“What?” I lean forward with my elbows on the desk.
“She just got the papers at work.”
I pick up my pen and twirl it between my fingers. “Maybe it's a good thing. We all know he's the daddy. Now she can get some support from his Tupac wanna-be ass.”
“
Are
we sure?” Cristal asks.
I frown. “Are we sure of what, Cris?”
“Are we sure Bones is the father?”
“Cris, don't
even
trip.”
“I love Moët to death but she lied about Bones raping her. She did not tell us she was pregnant. Hell, we never knew she was screwing her preacher when we paid for her abortion.” Cristal paused and I just know she is looking down at her nails. “Mo can keep secrets when she wants to. That is all I am saying.”
“That was before. She's different now. Way more upfront.”
Cristal remained quiet for a minute before she spoke. “Well, this blood test will tell it.”
“The fact that he's getting the blood test might mean he wants to be involved. He hates Mo—”
“Understandably,” Cristal interjected.
I do an eye roll. “Anyway, how are they gone handle getting along after everything that went down? Girl, that's some crazy shit.”
“Tell me about it.”
I bite my bottom lip and turn troubled eyes to the open laptop on my desk. “Well, I got some drama of my own.”
“Cameron?”
“Please, he's so busy with his head up his fiancée's ass that he acts like I'm not alive. Hell, she be here more than I do.”
Cristal's laughter fills the line. “So what's the drama?”
“My dad and his girlfriend Andrea are getting married.”
“Ooh.”
“And I have to tell my mama.”
“Eew.”
“This shit with my mama not getting over my daddy help put my ass in therapy.” I drop my head in my hand.
“Yes, and I thank God for Dr. Locke getting you over that thug passion mess.”
I cock a brow. “Focus, Cristal.”
The other phone line rings.
“Hold on, Cris.” I put her on hold and hit line two. “Braun, Weber. Monica Winters speaking.”
“Hi down there, Monica. Mr. Steele's getting the team together for the ACTech acquisition. You want to sit in?”
“You know I do,” I tell Delaney, already reaching behind me for the tan jacket of my suit.
She hangs up and I quickly pick up the other line. “Hey, Cris, I gotta go. Oh, and stay from under restaurant tables with your nasty self,” I tease her as I rise from my seat.
“Who told you?”
“Mo. And don't trip 'cause you were gonna tell me yourself anyway.”
“Sure was.”
“Hey, did you swallow it? Gargle it?” I make a gargling noise in my throat before I drop the phone onto its cradle with a laugh.
As soon as I walk out my office my eyes lock on Cameron walking down the hall towards the conference room. I swallow over a lump in my throat as I take him in. All of him. I was an ass to think that this tall, handsome brotha with all the confidence and strength a man would ever need was not the man for me. He presented his heart to me on a platter and I threw it away. I could just pimp slap my damn self.
“Hi, Cameron,” I call out as he walks right by me with his head down reading a file he carried.
He pauses and turns. He looks up and for a second his face lights up at seeing me but then the look fades away and he nods shortly. “Monica,” he says just as shortly before he turns and continues on his way.
My plan to win him back before the big wedding day isn't scoring any runs. I hardly see him during the day and when we are within feet of each other there's always this distant and polite thing, as if we weren't friends last year. As if he didn't tell me he loved me.
“Cameron,” I call out to him.
He turns again.
“Could I speak to you for a quick sec?”
He frowns.
I give him a smile. “Please.”
He looks hesitant but he walks back down the hall towards me. Once I get him in my office, I am going to lock the door and jump his ass like white on rice. I done had enough of this ignoring me shit.
“Thanks . . . for . . .” The rest of my words trail off as his eyes shift from my face to some spot behind me. I turn to see what has taken his attention off me and all my fabulousness (even in my suit and heels I rip it, okay). My mouth drops open at the sight of Serena Lemons—Cameron's fiancée. Everything about her is the epitome of the corporate wife. She's tall, slender—but curvaceous, and beautiful, with jet black hair parted down the middle and flowing down her back. Somehow I know it's all real. This rich bitch can give Cristal a run for her money as the real deal socialite. She is wearing a mink, rocking the Fendi shades, Louis bag in place, looking like a black Barbie.
I hate her.
Cameron walks right past me and immediately pulls his future bride to him for a kiss.
He is happy to see her.
He is looking down at her as if he is deeply in love with her.
I am suddenly the last thing on his damn mind.
I hate that bitch even more.
I park my mom's old Camry (she upgraded to the 2008 model) in the driveway. I'm so happy to be home. This shit with Cameron is really messing with me. Standing there watching him kiss his fiancée hurt me like crazy. I know I told him that I didn't care . . . but I do. I know that I shouldn't give a shit . . . but I do. I know I shouldn't cry . . . but I want to. Damn.
I wish like hell that I could just drive to Livingston and talk this shit out with my girls but I had some other business to take care of. As soon as I walk through the side entrance into the kitchen, I see my mother stirring in a pot. She's already undressed from work and in one of her beloved caftans. She turns and smiles at me like I am the best thing since sliced damn bread. I love Elaine Winters to death. How in the hell am I going to tell her that my dad (the man she still loves) is marrying another woman?
“How was your day?” she asks.
“I went to my internship today,” I remind her as I fling my overcoat onto the back of the chair at the wooden table.
“How
is
Mr. Steele?”
I move over to stand by her at the stove and my stomach grumbles at the sight of her lima beans and neck bones. “Still good. Still getting married.”
She looks up at me and there is a hint of sadness in her eyes. “Seems like there's a lot of weddings and such going on.”
“You know?” I ask her softly.
She nods and throws her arm around my waist to comfort me. That's ironic as hell. “I'm fine and I am happy for your father so don't you worry about me.”
Playfully she swats my bottom and I hope like hell that she is telling me the truth.

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