Boyfriend Season (10 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Boyfriend Season
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9
PATIENCE
P
atience sat at her desk pretending to study her weekly sunday school lesson and thought about Pretty Boy. It'd been almost two weeks since she'd seen him or Silky, and it was driving her nuts. All she'd been able to do was pass coded telephone messages through Silky, telling him she'd be able to see him soon. And soon had finally come—at five o'clock, the time Bishop had told her her punishment would officially be over. A smile spread on her face because it could've been worse. She'd slipped into her house and room right before her parents had come home that Sunday, so the grounding had been minimal because no one could prove what time she'd come home. Her eyes moved across the room and admired the LV bag sitting atop the dresser. She had no idea how she'd continue to hide it from the Bishop, but she had to come up with something. Her having such an expensive purse was equal to blasphemy in his eyes, though his and her mother's purchases made the Louis's price seem discount-store cheap. Her eyes scanned the room and landed on her roomy walk-in closet. Her shoes were hidden in there, as were her sunglasses. She'd carefully tucked them away. They were in a plastic shopping bag, tied to the hanger inside the fluffy, outdated, lollipop-kid Easter dress she'd been forced to like and model at the annual Easter Celebration, which had been a clever title for a fashion show.
The telephone buzzed, causing her to jump. Before the first ring ended, she'd picked up. She'd been denied too many calls by letting the staff or her family answer, and she wouldn't let that happen again, at least not while her parents were at the church and she was free.
“Hey, BFF . . . can you talk? I need help with the sunday school lesson. I got a lot of catching up to do, and I want to study before we get back on Saturday,” Silky lied, talking in code, stretching her fabrication to include being out of town.
Patience breathed a relieved sigh, glad she'd answered before anyone else did. “Yes, I can help. I'm a little busy studying myself, but tell me where you're stuck, and I can call you and walk you through it later. Okay?”
“I'm in the New Testament . . .”
The new house.
Check. Patience took a mental note.
“. . . John 3:30. ‘He must become more, I must become less.' You know the lesson?”
3:30. Can I come then?
Patience smiled. She was glad she and Silky had come up with a code language; otherwise they'd never see each other, though Silky didn't know it. “Yes, I know it.”
I can come.
“I'll call you as soon as I can. Have your study materials ready,” she threw in just in case there was another ear on the line, which she'd learned to assume there always was.
 
The taxi seat was sweaty, Patience found out when she got out of the car and her thighs smacked loose from the navy pleather, leaving an oily print. Almost skipping, she made her way up Silky's sidewalk, breathing easier. She'd left the house as quietly as she could, walked through the backyards of her neighbors until she made it to the other side of the block, then quick-footed her way to the neighborhood gas station and called the taxi. She rang the doorbell, then looked at her watch. Early. 3:28.
Her heart forgot to stop beating when he answered the door. Pretty Boy. Trill. That was the stage name everyone knew him by, she assumed. Everyone but her. Sure, she'd heard her worldly on-the-low-low sisters quietly whispering about concerts they'd snuck to and parties they'd attended, but she didn't know who the celebrities they oooed and ahhed over were. She shrugged. She'd probably even heard one of his songs while riding with them in the car before they muted the volume, warning her not to tell the good Bishop. Yes, Trill was his name, that's what he'd finally told her in the mall, but she'd never asked what his parents had put on his birth certificate. She didn't care. All that mattered to her was that she could call him and he'd answer. Still, she wondered what Trill meant, but she wouldn't question him on that either. She was green enough as it was; she didn't want to seem fluorescent green.
“S'up, lil momma? Why you shrugging? You ain't happy to see me?” He flashed that crooked smile that made her knees weak, then stepped to the side to allow her entrance.
Her lips spread into a full grin, and she nervously bit her bottom lip as she walked by him.
“A'ight then! I see I make you feel that way too?” he said, throwing her off course.
“Huh?” she said, while she waited for him to close the door so she could follow him. She was at Silky's, but, for some reason, she felt she needed to wait for him like it was his domain.
Trill stopped in his tracks, bent forward, and planted his lips on her cheek. “I can tell you want me, lil momma. Nibbling on your lip like that. That's a sexy move.”
Patience stiffened, pulling her lips inside her mouth. She didn't realize that she'd made a move on him. She hadn't even realized she'd bit her lip. Blushing now, she forgot why she was there. Oh. Silky. “Sorry, I didn't mean—”
“ 'Bout time you got here!” Silky exclaimed and saved her, waltzing into the room with the Growler in tow. “Kisses,” she said, blowing an air kiss at Patience, then opened the door. “We're leaving. But you good, Trill got you. See you on the red carpet.”
Patience crinkled her eyebrows. She'd just got there, and Silky was leaving? “Wait . . .” She spoke too late. The front door closed while her hand was midair trying to hail her friend. “I thought . . .”
Trill wrapped his hand around Patience's waist and pulled her to him. “I got you, P. No need to worry.” His cell phone began to vibrate on his hip. He removed it from the clip, scrolled around on the screen, then said, “Our driver's out front.”
She was in another stretch before she could question it. Again, they weren't alone. A coal-black and very elegant woman who weighed all of eighty pounds, sat across from them, snapping on someone on the phone. Upon closer inspection, Patience saw that she was a natural beauty who wore no makeup and had super-sized feet.
“Get it together! Now!” She paused, flipped through a stack of files on her lap, selected one, and put it on top of the pile. She looked at Patience and smiled. “What size do you wear, darlin'?”
“Five.” Patience watched as the woman wrote her name in capital letters on the file in permanent marker, flipped it open, and began scrawling her clothes size on a sheet of paper in it.
I have my own file? Wow!
She eyed the woman's lap, saw that her file was on top of a bright orange one marked
DAMAGE CONTROL
!
“Five!” the tiny woman boomed into the cell. Then back to Patience, “Shoe size?”
“Seven . . . ?” Patience's answer rolled out of her mouth sounding more like a question because she'd almost been afraid to speak, but the woman warmed every time she looked her way.
“Seven . . . no, not seven and a half. Seven!” She added Patience's shoe size to the file. “You need to switch cell carriers because your phone and reception are garbage. Gar-bahg!” The lady paused again, scooted to the edge of her seat, and beckoned Patience to move closer. Her tiny hand was on Patience's face in seconds, moving her jaw left and right, then turning her head so she could examine Patience's hair. “A fairly good amount,” she said, nodding in appreciation. She turned her attention back to the person she was verbally assassinating on the phone. “We're going to need Janine.” Pause. “Nooo! Not Janey. Ja-neen! Got it? Last time you sent Janey. I want Ja-neen!” She powered off her cell, then shot her eyes at Patience. She sighed heavily. “I'm Countess, your new best friend, slash stylist, slash nutritionist, slash media guru!” she said, chipperly.
Patience wondered if Countess was what people considered bipolar. She'd flip-flopped between angry and bubbly within a split second, and Patience had never met anyone like her. “Yes, ma'am,” was all she could say. She didn't want to risk upsetting her.
The car turned into a long tree-lined driveway, and coasted for a while before halting to a stop. “A'ight,” Trill said, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek. “I'll see you in a minute, lil momma . . . and relax. Countess's got you.” He opened the car door himself and got out.
“Where—” she began, watching him walk toward what appeared to be a small house.
“Haircut three times a week,” Countess said as the car pulled away. “So . . . who are you? Verbal resume, please.”
Patience froze when the car pulled off. “Ma'am?” The trees blurred as they whizzed by them, making it hard for Patience to count them as she was desperately trying to do. She wanted to concentrate on something else besides Countess sitting across from her staring into her soul.
“Ma'am?”
Countess raised her perfectly arched brows and broke out in hearty laughter. “Ma'am?” she repeated. “Wow . . . someone with manners. Finally. Thank you, God! He's good!” She threw up her hands.
Patience looked at her out of the corner of her eye, and watched Countess relax and soften. “Yes, He is. All the time!”
Countess's head spun quickly, and a genuine smile brightened her face. “You're different, Patience. You're different, and I think we just might really get along. Tell me something. Is Patience really your name?”
Patience nodded.
“Odd, but I like it. What's your last name?”
“Blackman.”
Countess's eyes stretched wide, and her whites appeared brighter than normal because of the darkness of her skin. “Patience Blackman . . .” Her brows shot up in thought. “Patience Blackman . . . as in Bishop Blackman's daughter.
The
Bishop Blackman? I thought you looked familiar. I haven't been to service in over a year, but I kind of remember you.”
Reluctantly, Patience nodded again. She knew admitting she was Bishop's daughter could be her downfall, but she was too afraid to lie to Countess for fear of her switching attitudes again.
Countess perked up. “One minute, darlin'.” She whipped out her cell phone and called someone. “Cancel Janine! Cancel her! We're going to need Francoise. Yes—Trill's Francoise. This isn't just a date, this is press. This is huge!”
Patience wondered what she was talking about, and hoped she could find a way to ask Countess not to tell her father.
The car stopped and the door opened. Countess grabbed her hand and pulled her from the car. “Let's go!” she rushed her, pulling her up the walk. The house that stood before her was as big as her own, and had five luxury cars and two motorcycles in the circular driveway. Heavy bass rattled the windows, and smoke lingered from the inside when Countess opened the front door. “Up the stairs, quick!”
“ 'Ey!” Some guys she'd never seen before greeted them from the right, where a crowd of people filled a huge room.
“Un-uh!” Countess shushed them, snapping and pointing her finger at them like a weapon. “This is her. Her! Trill's her that he warned you to stay away from. I'll tell—and you don't want that.” She gently grabbed Patience by her shoulders and veered her toward a grand staircase. “We're running out of time.”
Patience climbed the staircase, unsure of what was going on and wondering what they were running out of time for. She gathered her breath and thoughts when they'd made it to the top of the landing and stopped suddenly. Gold and platinum CDs housed in shadow-box frames were everywhere. She imagined this is what the inside of record companies looked like. Posters. Studio shots. Photos from award shows with Trill holding up heavy awards. He was everywhere, and his images showed the same thing. Trill was a superstar.
Hands clapped loudly, pulling her attention.
“Ahh, Patience. So lovely. Cheekbones to die for. Natural beauty and hair—like Countess, she abhors makeup and flat out refuses to wear it. You're also a blank canvas, or you were minutes ago,” a very coiffed and elegant man sang, extending his hand. “I'm Francoise—your beauty god. And honey, I'm going to make you into a walking miracle.”
Patience took Francoise's hand and smiled. Immediately, she felt at ease with him. She didn't know if it was his compliments, genuine nature, or the power he oozed, but whatever it was about him, she welcomed it. After all, she guessed he had to be more stable than Countess. Patience followed Francoise to an open door, looked over her shoulder at Countess, and watched her transform back into a petite bulldog.
The room was filled with women dressed in all black, looking like a Paul Mitchell commercial. Racks of women's clothes lined one wall; a hair station was on another, complete with a washbowl and dryer. A makeup vanity with a comfortable-looking chair sitting in front of it held more face paint than Patience had ever seen. Oh. God. There was even a mani-pedi station with a whirlpool foot bath in the corner. “Wow.”
“Wow is right. This is all for you, Patience. Trill must really like you, honey. I've never seen this happen before. Well, besides for him.” He clapped his hands twice. “Off you go. Bathroom's over there. Take a quick shower and put on the cotton robe on the door hook. I'll see you in twenty.”

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