Crazy Love (3 page)

T
ameeka stepped into her store and the scents of lavender, peppermint and lemongrass wafted over her and immediately calmed her. The stiffness from her neck and shoulders magically evaporated. Smiling, she tentatively rolled her shoulders, then moaned out loud. Atlanta traffic always unnerved her. Anywhere else a twenty-minute drive would be just that, twenty minutes, but in Atlanta, multiply that by three and that was her daily commute.

She inhaled deeply, filling herself with the store's essence. This was her home. Her taste of heaven. Her soul fortifier. Her store. Heaven on Earth. The stress, the traffic and the momentary shoulder pain all ceased to exist as she sauntered to the middle of the floor. Her face glowed with pride. Not bad for a nappy-headed little girl from the wrong side of the tracks, she told herself. Last year, Heaven on Earth grossed over one hundred thousand dollars in sales and her financial advisor had forecasted that the next year would be even better.

A mere three years ago, a blink in time really, the three-story house was a rat-infested, urine-soaked hellhole that vagrants occasionally called home. But with financial help from the city, she transformed it into a slice of heaven. The walls looked like they were dipped in sunshine, mint-colored fabric embraced the window frames and rainbow-hued, plush throw rugs decorated the floor. Four couches and dozens of hard-backed chairs and recliners with oversize cushions were strategically placed around the room to provide readers or people who simply wanted to sit and mingle a comfortable arena to do so. Shelves and displays were chock-full of vitamins, minerals and herbs and everything else that aided in the wellness of the body, spirit and mind.

She loved the location; it was her dream spot. The Real Estate Goddess herself couldn't have picked out a better location for her. Little Five Points, Atlanta, Georgia. The size of a postage stamp, it was the part of town that, depending on whom you asked, was Atlanta's lump of coal or shiny diamond. Bars, coffee shops and brightly lit boutiques lined the streets. Each building was more outlandishly decorated than the last. No matter the time of day or year, there was always a carnival air simmering about.

The seed for Heaven on Earth was planted at Spelman, the historically black college. Thinking about the business plan she'd created there still made her laugh. She and her business professor had argued about the assignment. It was her senior year and she had taken his Life 101 class as an elective. If she hadn't needed the credits to graduate, she would've dropped the class faster than a coed looses her panties during spring break. She'd surprised herself by getting a B+ on the paper. It was forgotten until five years ago, when she was cleaning out her closet and had come across the project. It was as though she had found her lifeline; she snatched it up and never looked back, leaving behind a well-paying but stressful business analyst position at a Fortune 500 company. It didn't take long before Corporate America became a blurry nightmare.

Tameeka crossed her arms and gave herself a big hug. All her friends and family had told her that opening Heaven on Earth was a stupid idea. “Who's stupid now?” she wondered aloud to the empty room. “Stupid like a rich M.F. y'all hear me? Cha-ching!”

It was 7:00
A.M.
and it would be another two hours before Bea, her assistant manager, came in and they'd open for business. Trent Lock, her part-time employee, didn't come in until after three o'clock. Tameeka sashayed across the room and pushed open the door to her office.

If the store was heaven on earth, then her office was the beach. Everything was aquamarine, sand-colored, or seafoam green. She eyed a stack of paper on her desk, then shook her head. “I'll get to that later,” she muttered, then sauntered back into the store. It was time for her morning meditation.

Skipping across the room, which was something that she did only when she was alone, she dimmed the lights, put on a nature effects CD and placed six lit sandalwood-scented candles on the floor. Easing herself down on her favorite plush rug, she crossed her legs, then closed her eyes and started on the path to enlightenment. Her early morning tension was on the verge of melting away when a loud noise broke her tranquility. Opening one eye, she peeked at the ceiling; Mohammad Abdul, her upstairs tenant, had come into work early as well.

Ten years ago, Mohammad's work was too ethnic for some, but now his paintings and sculptures were hotter than bargain-priced Manolo Blahniks. On any given day, it wasn't unusual to see Shaq O'Neal or Madonna strutting up the stairs to his studio to peruse his latest masterpiece.

Tameeka pulled herself up and went through her routine. She replaced the nature effects CD with one of ocean sounds, then breezed throughout the store, turning on several strategicly placed lamps. She moved to the counter and brewed a pot of hazelnut coffee, her favorite. The aroma wafted up through the vents and invited Mohammad down.

“Hey! Hey!” he called as he slipped through the front door and made his way across the store. “How ya doing?” he asked, settling in an armchair across from her.

Tameeka grinned to herself as she poured coffee into the extra cup she had set out earlier. Their morning coffee-drinking session was a ritual that they both looked forward to. Tameeka leaned back on the couch, tucked her feet underneath her and observed Mo over the rim of her coffee mug. He was five-feet-eight, with dreadlocks that danced around his ears, full lush lips and a chest as wide as a minivan. He had a penchant for wearing khakis paired with loose-fitting shirts and today was no exception.

Her eyes danced appreciatively over his lips…remembering how they had felt on her skin. Years ago, really two, she and Mohammad had shared more than a pot of coffee; they had meshed their bodies together in a six-month relationship that left them both deciding that they were better friends than lovers. She thought about Tyrell and broke into a smile.

“Look at you, all lit up like a Christmas tree. Who making you glow?” Mohammad asked. He chuckled as Tameeka nearly choked on her coffee.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, glaring at him, then averting her eyes when he gave her a knowing smile. “It's the cold air,” she lied. She wanted to keep Tyrell all to herself, like a good secret.

“The cold air? You little liar. I remember a time when I made you glow. So I know that it is something
hot,”
he whispered as he slowly rounded the table until he was in front of her. Tameeka giggled and continued to sip her coffee. Mohammad was harmless and he liked to tease. “Is it something hot, Meek? I bet it was something
big
and
hot
…just like this,” he murmured seductively as he grabbed her hand and placed it on the growing bulge in his pants. It took Tameeka a heartbeat to process the situation.

She snatched her hand away and smacked him hard across the face. She looked down at her hand with disgust; it was stinging, and she wasn't sure why. It could've been from the slap she had just given him, but she'd bet that it was from the heat rolling off his erection.

“Mohammad!” she screeched. “What the—? Why did you—? Why would you—?” she sputtered, her whole body trembling with rage.

“Oh, shit, Meek, I'm sorry, I thought you wanted me to,” Mohammad apologized. “You had that glow…” He looked like a little boy who had broken his mother's favorite vase and Tameeka felt embarrassed for her outburst, and the anger slowly seeped out of her. She reached over and touched Mohammad's thigh.

“I'm okay,” she assured him as she composed herself. “You caught me off guard. You can't be putting ladies' hands on your crotch, that thing is dangerous,” she joked. “Do that to the wrong lady and you might get a little bit more than what you bargained for.”

Mohammad laughed. “So you think
this
is dangerous?” he asked, jutting his lap up at Tameeka.

“Back in the day it was bad enough to make me do things that made me blush, but not anymore. You're getting old, Mo,” she teased, as she relaxed against the couch.

“We're the same age,” Mohammad retorted.

“Yeah, but I got a glow and you don't,” Tameeka joked, throwing his words back at him.

“That's true, but I was the first one to ever make you burn,” he gloated, and Tameeka's lips curled up; of all her boyfriends Mohammad had been the only one who played her body like a fine violin. She was so lost in the daydream that she didn't realize he was next to her on the couch until she felt the heat rolling off of him.

Mohammad's lips hovered over hers, and before Tameeka knew what she was doing she stuck her fingers in his hair and cupped his head, pulling his mouth to hers. She sighed against his lips, they felt so familiar, yet different than she remembered. Her lips were slightly parted when Mohammad slid his tongue into her warmth. A jolt of excitement shot through her and exploded where her legs met. Tameeka raked her fingernails up and down his back, and he shivered against her. Grabbing his waist, she pulled him to her and plunged her tongue into his mouth. He captured it and caressed it with his own.

“Mo,” she groaned as she pulled him closer.

After what seemed like an eternity to Tameeka, but yet not long enough, Mohammad pulled away and looked down at her with hungry eyes.

“Just tell me when, pretty lady,” he said softly, before strolling out the door, leaving Tameeka in a daze. It took her a second to catch her breath before she jumped up and rushed to the door.

Tameeka watched as he swaggered up to his studio, then turned to face her reflection in the mirror hanging beside the door. “Tameeka Jaquisha Johnson, what the fuck have you done now?”

1. Treat him like a king
   
2. Make Victoria's Secret your best friend
   
3. Know the phone numbers of all the restaurants that deliver
   
4. Make crazy love to each other like there's no tomorrow
   

S
tacie looked around the hotel room and scrunched up her face. She was draped across the full-size bed with Crawford asleep beside her, snoring softly. This wasn't what she had envisioned when he suggested that they get together. A month, a whole month I've given this fool, and all he does is take me to hotels, Stacie fumed.

“Shit!” was the first thing that popped into her head the first time she walked into the room. It had to be one of the nastiest hotels in Atlanta. The walls were depressingly mud-colored. Two pictures of an orchard of wildflowers were slapped up on the walls in an attempt to brighten the room. They didn't. The bedspread looked as if it hadn't been changed in weeks. A quick glance told her that the rust-colored stains were not part of the pattern. The room's only redeeming quality was its view: At night, the Atlanta skyline twinkled and blinked like a Fabergé egg.

This is only temporary. Or so Crawford had reassured her when she'd asked him why he was staying at such a crummy hotel. He was quick to explain that his mansion was being renovated, and to blame his damn assistant for setting him up in a crap hole of a hotel.

“Yeah, I'll blame your
damn
assistant,” Stacie muttered, glancing down at Crawford's sleeping form. “It's not your
damn
assistant that makes your ass see me only on Wednesdays. And it's not your
damn
assistant that keeps me from seeing your mansion. And it certainly isn't your
damn
assistant that keeps you from taking me out on a decent date,” she said softly, and glared down at him. Then her face softened; he looked so cute. His eyelashes were so long that they kissed his cheeks, and his light brown hair was tousled, making it even curlier. Still…

It was only seven o'clock in the evening, but he was knocked out like it was the middle of the night. Stacie glowered at him. If he stuck to routine, he'd wake up, order room service, take a second nap, jump in the shower, dress, then they'd leave in separate cars, each going in different directions; she on her way home and he off to one of his dozens of business meetings.

She leaned back and rested her head against the headboard, gazing out at the Atlanta skyline. “I'm so sick of this shit!” She punched the pillow, inches away from Crawford's face, and he popped up, eyes wide open and arms flailing, as if she had punched
him
. After he realized what had happened, they both laughed. He sat next to Stacie, his head resting against the headboard. The blankets had slipped down and bunched around his waist, and Stacie's eyes feasted on his chest. He once told her that he was a gym rat, pumping iron five days or sometimes more a week. And it showed. His pecs looked like Michelangelo had chiseled them.

“Yo, whassup? You hungry?” he asked sleepily as he knuckled his eyes.

Stacie shook her head, then playfully ran a finger over his chest, teasing a nipple. “Crawford?” When he didn't respond, she leaned over and flicked her tongue over his nipples; that got his attention. “How come I only see you on Wednesdays?” she asked.

Crawford sharply cut his eyes at her and withheld the urge to snap at her. “You know my schedule, baby, it's busier than Oprah's. Besides, I'd rather spend all my time with you,” he said, nuzzling his face in her neck.

She swatted at him. “But you make me feel like a piece of ass,” she admitted. “We don't go out in public and when we do see each other, we can't seem to make it out of bed. It just seems…” she faltered, then her voice grew stronger. “It just seems that all we do is make love—I mean, fuck,” she quickly corrected herself.

“I did take you out…even bought you a dozen roses,” Crawford objected, skirting the sex issue.

“Yeah. You took me out
once,
and you spent the evening autographing ladies' titties,” Stacie pouted.

“It wasn't
ladies,
it was one, a very devoted fan,” Crawford said, and turned his face to hide a smile. Taquanna had turned out to be one of the freakiest ladies he'd ever met; she'd kept him and his teammates busy for a week.

“I just don't like feeling like a piece of ass.”

“Well, it's my ass,” Crawford answered, then reached down and cupped Stacie's behind.

“Stop!” she protested, though her lips were turned up at the corners. “And,” she continued. The way she said it made Crawford groan with frustration. Whenever a woman started her sentence with an “and,” shit was sure to follow. “I'm not feeling this hotel room. When are you going to take me to your mansion?”

“Just as soon as the renovations are done,” he responded smoothly. “Right now it's torn up, plaster and wood is everywhere. I don't want you tripping over anything and hurting your gorgeous body. Besides, I like having you all to myself.”

“You like having me all to yourself, my ass! You're either a cheap son of a bitch or you're hiding me from someone. Which one is it?” she demanded.

Crawford simply shook his head and gave her an indulgent smile. “Neither,” he answered as he gathered her in his arms. After he felt Stacie calming down, he said, “I got a little sumthin' sumthin' for you. It's in my briefcase.” He jutted his chin out toward the case, signaling Stacie to get it for him.

Stacie slid off the bed, snatched up his briefcase and was back at his side in record time. Crawford pulled the briefcase onto his lap and opened it just wide enough for him to stick his hand in and pull out a long, slender jewelry box. Stacie didn't know that inside his briefcase were half a dozen identical boxes. All inscribed with the same thing:
To my reason for living.

Stacie ripped off the wrapping, slid off the top and her eyes widened with surprise. Lying inside a nest of rose petals was a platinum tennis bracelet. To her practiced eye, it looked like he easily paid two grand for it. As soon as the shock wore off she gave a shriek of delight, then crawled on top of Crawford and rained kisses over his face. “Oh baby, this is so beautiful. Thank you so much,” she gushed. “Am I really your reason for living? No, no, don't answer that, I can tell by the look in your eyes that I am.” She bent down and gave him a kiss that left them both gasping for air.

“Let's order room service.” He reached over, scooped up the menu and perused it, more out of habit than necessity; he already knew what he wanted to order. With his head bent, he missed Stacie rolling her eyes. She really wasn't in the mood for the greasy Buffalo wings, greasy French fries and greasy onion rings that he always ordered. But she smiled anyway, then stuck her arm out and admired her new piece of jewelry.

An hour later Crawford was fast asleep. He was satiated, above and below the belt. For the second time that evening Stacie found herself staring listlessly at Atlanta's skyline. Soon she found herself twiddling the blankets, fiddling with her hair and fumbling the remote control. “This ain't cutting it,” she muttered. With a backward glance to ensure that Crawford was still asleep, Stacie pulled back the covers and slithered out of bed and reached for her shoes. A pair of sneakers. Her favorite. She brought the right one up to her nose and inhaled deeply. She moaned softly, then buried her nose deeper for a second whiff. By the time she was on the left shoe she was in heaven. Drool trickled from the corner of her mouth, her eyes closed in ecstasy.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Crawford barked. He found his voice after the shock had worn off. And when she didn't answer he repeated the question, louder this time.

Stacie's eyes snapped open. “Nuthin',” she denied, looking down at her shoes. They sat helplessly in her hands. Her high was suddenly gone. Deflated like a ten-cent balloon. She felt the wetness on her face and knew that her chin was glistening. She self-consciously swiped her hand across her mouth and chin.

Embarrassed, she pushed herself up, and on shaky legs made her way around the room. She snatched her panties off the lampshade, plucked her blouse from the dresser top and grabbed her skirt from the bed.

She dressed silently, perched on the side of the bed, occasionally throwing sidelong glances at Crawford. She glanced at him one last time and wished she hadn't; his glare was so cold that it'd cool Atlanta on an August day. She was at the hotel room door, her hand on the doorknob, when Crawford called her name.