Crazy Love (9 page)

Stacie shook her head. “I give what I get,” she answered, then changed the subject. “What about you? Where do you spend your nights?”

“In my bed,” Jackson answered, and Stacie rolled her eyes. “By myself.” Stacie raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I'm going to fess up, you caught me. Come closer so that I can whisper it to you. I don't want you-know-who to hear,” he said sotto voce as he glanced down at Jameel, who was playing with his shoelaces. Stacie hesitated for only a heartbeat before leaning in. Jackson's breath stroked her ear. “Sometimes…” he began. “Sometimes during a thunderstorm…when it's dark…and scary…Jameel sleeps with me,” he said, then his voice dropped to a seductive whisper. “Would you like to sleep with me instead?”

“Oh,” Stacie gasped as a shot of heat hit her mound. The thought of being in the same bed as Jackson left her breathless. She turned her head and their lips were a tongue length apart. Her eyes ran hotly over his juicy mouth and the sounds of the restaurant faded away as she slowly inched toward him. Jackson reached up and cupped the back of her head, urging her closer.

“Daddy!” Jameel shrieked, then tugged on his father's pant leg and Stacie jumped a mile high. “I'm ready to go now.”

Jackson shot Jameel a look that instantly quieted him.

“It's time for me to go too,” Stacie blurted, flustered. She made a move to leave.

“Hold up,” Jackson commanded and Stacie stopped in her steps. “So can I get the numbers?” he asked smoothly, but his mind was reeling. If Jameel hadn't interrupted him, they would've given Houston's a free show.

“Um, yeah,” Stacie answered, digging around her purse for a business card, then scribbling her home number on it. By then Tameeka had eased back over to them.

“Tell the beautiful ladies good-bye,” Jackson instructed his son, then he and Jameel sauntered out of the restaurant.

Later that night, after Jackson worked with Jameel on his multiplication tables, fed him, gave him his bath, and finally tucked him into bed, he felt like he had been strapped to a nonstop treadmill. It was at times like this that he wished he were married to someone who'd love Jameel as much as he did. Just then an image of Jameel and Stacie giggling together flashed in his head. “Oh, hell no! Not Miss Attitude,” he muttered to himself as he trudged down the hall to his room, pulled off his boxer shorts, and slid into his bed. The sheets were cool against his naked body. He clicked on the TV and aimlessly flipped through the channels; nothing caught his attention. He glanced at the clock.
It's still early,
he thought.

He picked up his phone, then Stacie's business card and punched in her home number. “Be home, Miss Stacie,” he murmured as the phone rang.

1. Lounging in a chaise on a cruise ship
   
2. Shopping in Paris or New York City. Hell, why not both?
   
3. Making crazy love to Shemar Moore 24/7
   
4. Taking a trip to Aruba to see Sinbad
   
5. Driving Lexie to South Beach
   
6. Sleeping until the afternoon sun kisses my eyelids
   

T
homas, Garrett and Jefferson, please hold. Thomas, Garrett and Jefferson, please hold. Thomas, Garrett and Jefferson, please hold.” The words flowed out of Stacie's mouth so smoothly that they were almost lyrical. Having said them one million, one hundred sixty-eight times had something to do with it. One day when she hadn't had that much to do, she'd figured it out. She had uttered that phrase one million, one hundred sixty-eight times. Eight years, multiplied by eight hours, and she answered the phone roughly fifty times an hour.

Her nameplate read
Stacie Long—Receptionist,
but she was really
Stacie Long, Toll Collector, Gate Keeper and Information Gatherer,
all rolled into one. And she loved it. She and only she decided who got past the solid oak double doors, whose call got forwarded to the decision makers and who got the information they wanted.

She adjusted her headset, stuck a peppermint in her mouth, took a deep breath and answered the next call. Her desk resembled a small cockpit and if the truth was told, with her black, whisper-thin telephone headset, she looked like a pilot. The high-tech telephone console spanned the entire breadth of the desk.

Being a receptionist wasn't what she envisioned herself doing when, eight years ago, she had quit her assembly line job at the Ford factory; she'd wanted to wear a white collar instead of blue. She had taken the receptionist job just to pay the bills and it was supposed to be until something better came along; eight years later, nothing better had.

The phones stopped ringing long enough for Stacie to log onto her favorite bridal website. Her brow was puckered with concentration.

That's how Quinton Jones, one of the firm's hottest attorneys, found her, staring at the computer monitor as if it was a TV.

“Hey Stacie,” he rumbled. Stacie jumped, then looked sheepishly at Quinton and a smile spread over her face. She'd had a crush on him from the first day he strutted into the office wearing his Armani. He was single, thirty-three, no kids and fine as hell. He reminded her of a young Denzel Washington. He was pulling in a healthy six figures to boot.

“Hey Q,” she purred, smiling brightly as she flung her hair over her shoulder and looked coyly at him. “How's your day going?”

He grimaced at the nickname she had given him; it was so ghetto. “Crazy,” he answered, and ran a hand through his curly hair. “I'm in court
every
day this week. One of my paralegals just quit. And my mom will be here this weekend and I haven't planned a thing for us to do.”

“Oh, I'm—” She was cut off by Mr. Peppersong's voice booming through the intercom.
“Miss
Long, I need to see you.
Right now
.” She and Quinton exchanged glances. He gave her a little smile before making a hasty retreat.

“Aw shit!” Stacie muttered. She'd been twenty minutes late for work this morning and she'd hoped no one had noticed. But of course someone had. Lexie was sick again. Wheezing and hacking, she had barely gotten Stacie to work. Stacie glanced stealthily to her left, then to her right, then did a quick twirl in her chair. The perimeter was clear. She crouched down and reached under her desk for her shoe. It was a sling back, not one of her favorites, but it had to do. She held it up to her nose and inhaled deeply. Then again, and again. After the fourth time, her heartbeat slowed down and she was as relaxed as a well-sexed woman. She swiped a hand over her nose and stood up. A moment later, both shoes were on and she was striding to Mr. Peppersong's office without a care in the world.

She hovered on the threshold of his office. He was sitting behind his desk, talking on the phone, but he looked up, caught sight of her and waved her in. As she eased her way into his office, she got the feeling that she was walking into a bear trap; she resisted the urge to examine the floor for anything that would grab her feet. Even though Andre Peppersong was on the phone, he couldn't resist the urge to smirk at her as he motioned her to the chair in front of his desk. Stacie plopped in it, and she couldn't help but notice a red folder on his desk, her name written across the front.

Stacie settled back in the chair and perused his office. This was her first time ever crossing the threshold. It was spalike. Everything was green and cream. Floor plants were scattered across the office, a cream-colored sofa took up the back wall and half a dozen miniature waterfalls covered the countertops. Stacie's eyes locked onto one particular waterfall; the cascading water was hypnotic. She was so fascinated with it that she didn't hear Andre hang up the phone.

“How are you today, Miss Long?” he asked, and fixed her with an unblinking gaze.

Stacie gritted her teeth. She didn't mind him addressing her by her last name, but the way he said “Miss” made it sound like he had just swallowed something bitter and nasty. “Fine. Thank you,” she answered primly, then ran a hand over her fuchsia colored suede skirt. The same skirt that almost caused a traffic jam on Peachtree Street the last time she wore it. Any heterosexual man would've been breaking his neck to get a look. But not Andre, she wasn't his type; he preferred a joy stick, not a button.

Andre opened the red folder and pretended to study the contents. He already had the file memorized; after all, he wrote it two weeks ago. He closed the folder, crossed his hands in front of him, looked at Stacie and said, “Well, Miss Long, I assume you know why I called you here this morning.” He paused a second for Stacie to comment, and when she didn't he breezed on. “This is the third time in two weeks that you've been late. What's your excuse
this
time?” He impatiently drummed his fingers on the desk as he waited for her response.

Stacie tilted her head and stared down at the oatmeal-hued rug. To Andre it looked submissive and demure, but she was really hiding the anger that flashed in her eyes.
How dare he speak to me in that tone?
she fumed. She pushed down her anger, then met his stare. “Lexie was sick. My car,” she explained at seeing Andre's raised eyebrows. “Lexie is her nickname. Her full name is Lexus Long,” she said all in a rush. “She wasn't acting right this morning. I guess she had a cold. So I didn't want to drive her too fast. Just in case she really broke down.” She was babbling and she knew it.

“Be that as it may, Miss Long. You are familiar with the firm's policy on tardiness.” This was said more as a statement of fact than a question and Stacie merely nodded. “You have one more time, Miss Long, to be late. Any more than that and we're going to have to dismiss you.”

Stacie gasped. I can't lose my job. My bills, my rent, Lexie!

Andre smirked at her reaction. He loved his job. “Oh, this is for you.” He slid a pamphlet to the edge of the desk and Stacie almost sucked her teeth. The asshole doesn't even have enough decency to hand it to me.

“What is it?” Stacie asked as she flipped through the brochure. It was filled with glossy photos of smiling people. Then her eyes caught the title, EAP, Employee Assistance Program. “I don't need this,” she protested, dropping it on his desk as if it burned her hands. “I don't need a counselor,” she said in a heated tone.

“Mr. Kimble thought that you could benefit from the program. Maybe the counselor can figure out why you can't get to work on time…and why you named your car Lexie,” he said snidely. “I would suggest that you sign up as soon as possible.”

Mr. Kimble. Stacie flushed deeply. He was one of the partners in the firm. He knows my business. Who else knows?

“That will be all. You may leave now,” he said prissily, then handed her the brochure.

Stacie was halfway to the door when he called her. “A temp will be training with you this afternoon.”

“For what? I didn't request anybody,” she responded, panicked. She only needed a temp when she went on vacation.

Andre smiled condescendingly, then said, “I thought it would be a good idea for you to have a backup. Just in case you're out, or
something
.”

“Oh,” Stacie said, relieved. “Is that all? Betty in the secretarial pool is my—”

“I think that it'll be wise to have another,” Andre interjected smoothly, and a chill went up her spine.

Before she could say anything more, he picked up his phone, punched in some numbers and swiveled his chair around, showing her his back. Stacie hurried to the ladies' room, locked the stall door and spent ten minutes with her nose in her shoe.

Misti, spelled with an “i” not a “y”, show up that afternoon, oozing perkiness. With blonde hair down to her waist and skin that looked like she and the sun were on a first-name basis, she had a breathy baby-soft voice. Every time she talked, Stacie had to strain to hear.

Stacie didn't mind it when Misti followed her around like a puppy. Stacie certainly didn't mind it when Misti transferred two calls to Andre's office and they got disconnected. But she was royally pissed that by the time they left at five o'clock everybody at the firm was in love with Misti.

Stacie skulked through the parking garage to her car. She popped the trunk, pulled out her gym bag and quickly pulled out her sneakers, then hurried back into the car and locked the doors. Then she reclined her seat back, closed her eyes and brought her sneaker up to her nose.

H
ave a wonderful evening. And thanks for shopping at Heaven on Earth. We appreciate your business,” Tameeka gushed as she walked the last customer out, then securely locked the door behind him. “Finally,” she sighed; it had been a long day.

“Come here, baby,” Tyrell called from the sofa. “Let me take care of you,” he said as he patted his lap. Tameeka trudged across the store and gratefully sank into his manmade cushion.

“Ah, you're my heaven on earth,” she whispered and snuggled deep into Tyrell's lap, thankful that he was there. “Did you enjoy yourself today?” she asked.

“I did. You are definitely doing your thing in here. I'm so proud of you, baby,” he said as he wrapped his arms around her and brushed his lips over her hair.

“Better than the last time?” she ventured, then held her breath.

“Yep…a
lot
better than the last time. Not once did you mistake me for your flunky or yell at me for looking at a lady. You're getting a lot better,” he praised.

“Thanks,” Tameeka answered. “I'm really trying. Believe it or not, our arguments bothered me too.”

“I like us like this, calm, on track and in synch with each other. If we continue like this we can do big things together, baby,” Tyrell said.

Tameeka warmed inside. She liked the sound of that…he was thinking long term. “Like what?” she asked.

Tyrell was silent for a moment, then said, “Marriage…babies.”

Tameeka gasped with surprise; she was thinking more along the lines of living together. She pulled out of Tyrell's arms, did a quick reverse and straddled him. “Really? You really thought about that?” she asked as she snaked her arms around his neck.

He nodded. “You're a good lady, even more so when you're not trying to rule our world. You have a lot of the qualities I look for in a woman,” he admitted.

“Thank you,” Tameeka beamed, and suddenly a loud rumbling reverberated through the store.

“Damn!” Tyrell exclaimed. “Was that your stomach? It sounded like Amtrak ran through here,” he joked, which set them both off laughing.

“I haven't eaten since this morning,” she admitted.

He drew back to look her in the eyes. “Six o'clock?” he clarified. They had eaten breakfast together.

“Yep. That'd be the correct time.”

“That was fourteen hours ago,” Tyrell said, then tightened his grip around her. “Oh, baby, you gotta eat. Let me go get you something. What are you in the mood for? Any dietary restrictions?” he joked.

Tameeka stuck her tongue out at him. “No diets this week…I could go for some wings,” she decided. “How does that sound?”

“Cool. I know a good place on Ponce. I'll be back in about thirty,” he said as he lifted Tameeka off his lap and settled her on the couch, then stood up.

“Wait, where you going?” she asked. “There's a guy right across the street whose wings are the bomb. And he gives the neighborhood businesses a discount.”

“Okay. Call the order in and I'll pick it up,” Tyrell offered as he settled back on the couch.

Tameeka shook her head. “He's really funny about stuff like that. He has to see the owner in order to give the discount.”

“That makes sense.”

“I'll be right back,” Tameeka said; now that she had made up her mind about eating, she had gotten her second wind.

“I'll walk with you,” Tyrell offered.

Tameeka smiled. “That's sweet, but it's right across the street—see.” She pulled him toward the window and pointed the shop out.

“Okay.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her a fifty-dollar bill. “Get some fries, a couple hamburgers, some milk shakes and something for dessert. I'm starving too,” he said, realizing that he hadn't eaten since lunch.

“Thanks, sweetie.” Tameeka stood on her tiptoes and kissed Tyrell. “I'll be right back,” she promised. As soon as the door closed, Tyrell turned to the window to watch her walk across the street. He didn't budge until she strolled into the restaurant, then he turned to the empty store. This was the first time he had been in it alone.

Tameeka hadn't totaled the receipts yet, but he knew she had to have done over three thousand dollars in business today. He gave an appreciative whistle as he glanced around the store; it was easy to see that Tameeka had done her homework before opening Heaven on Earth. She had just about every wellness potion on the market, and even after the busy sales day, everything was neat and in its place.

“What we need,” he murmured to himself, “is a place for us to eat.” He slowly wandered around the store until he spied a small, round table in the corner.

“Perfect.” He pulled it to the middle of the store. “Now all I need is some music and some candlelight,” he decided, and began making a second trip around Heaven on Earth.

He was slipping in Prince's new CD when he heard a noise.

“Yo, Meek, you still here?” Mohammad came bounding through the door wearing his usual khakis, but was shirtless. He skidded to a stop when he saw Tyrell. “Hey, what's up?” he asked, jutting his chin at Tyrell. “Where's Meek?”

“She ran out,” Tyrell answered, and quickly sized Mohammad up; there was something about him he didn't like. “What do you need?” he asked.

Mohammad grinned sheepishly. “Deodorant. I ran out and Meek always gives me some,” he explained with a shrug.

“Oh, go help yourself,” Tyrell said, and watched through narrowed eyes as Mohammad sauntered over to the beauty section and scooped up a bottle of deodorant. A thought suddenly came to Tyrell. “Yo, man, how did you get in? All the doors were locked. Is there some kind of security breach I should be aware of?” he asked half-jokingly.

“Naw, man. I work upstairs,” Mohammad answered as he made his way across the room with an extended hand. “I'm Mohammad. Meek gave me a key to the place.”

Tyrell froze and he dropped Mohammad's hand. “Mohammad,” he repeated, and he got a prickly sensation in the back of his ears. “And you work upstairs?” he asked.

“Yep!” Mohammad answered as he unabashedly rolled on his deodorant. “I'm one of the best artists in the Southeast. If you're looking for really unique pieces, I'm the man.”

“How long have you known Tameeka?” Tyrell spat.

The smile slipped from Mohammad's face. “Hey man, we're just friends, that's all. Very good friends,” he answered as he started backing away. Tyrell slowly advanced, like a lion stalking its prey. “I don't want any trouble.”

“How long have you known Tameeka?” Tyrell repeated in a deadly voice.

“A couple years. I can't remember,” Mohammad sputtered, silently praying that he was close to the door.

“You can't remember how long you've known the lady you've been sleeping with?” Tyrell asked, as he pressed forward. His hands were curled into fists and the closer he got to Mohammad, the higher they inched up to a fighting stance.

Tameeka stumbled through the door with three bags full of food; she got everything Tyrell wanted and then some additional goodies. She kicked the door shut, then looked up to see Mohammad crouching and Tyrell standing over him, his hands balled into fists. Her eyes widened to the size of pizzas. “Oh, shit!” she uttered as their dinner slipped from her hands.