Mama Dearest (14 page)

Was he dismissing me? “Please don’t do that. Marcus tells me you’re the best, and if this is going to be successful, then I’ve got to have the best.”

“Then we’ve got to come up with something,” he said pointedly. “And sooner rather than later, Yancey. You feel me?”

“Yeah, I feel you.”

I
LIE IN BED
beside S. Marcus, the stark white sheets entangling our bodies like satin ribbons. Both our chests are heaving from the marathon sex we just had. I turn my head, and stare at S. Marcus, wet strands of hair clinging to my face as I smile.

That man knows he can lay the hammer down with the best of them. So whenever he calls I’m there. I’d left my meeting fully intending to have Chinese food with Ava and call it a day. But as I looked over the takeout menu, my cell phone rang and it was him telling me he was in town for a meeting. I asked where he was staying, and before he could get “Seasons” after the word “Four,” I was hailing a taxi on the way to his suite.

He turns, looks at me, his face not two inches from mine. “What?” he asks, still slightly short of breath, smiling.

I’m all smiles right back. “It’s not going to work, so stop trying.”

“What’s not going to work?”

“Trying to make me fall in love with you and that thing you do.”

“That’s what’s up?” S. Marcus said, lifting himself up, on top of me, a confident smirk on his face. “I’m not trying to do that anyway.”

“And why is that?” I say, half playful, but the tiniest bit serious at the same time. I really had no clue as to where this relationship was heading.

He lowers himself, gives me a quick kiss on the lips. “Because I know you’re already in love.” He laughs as he rises up off me and jumps, naked, out of bed. “And very soon you won’t be able to deny it,” S. Marcus says, not turning around. As he walks to the bathroom,
his sculpted, curvaceous ass entrances me so much that I don’t really hear what he said. He stops at the door, turns around, and leans against the bathroom doorway. I try not to look down at his manhood, which is still semi-erect, but I can’t help myself. He notices and says, “Yeah, just what I figured.”

“Boy, take your shower,” I laugh, throwing the pillow across the room at him.

I flop back onto the bed, feeling spent yet rejuvenated, giddy like a teenage school girl. Yet I knew to remain cautious from my years surviving in the romance jungle.

In the bathroom, I hear S. Marcus slide open the glass shower door and turn on the shower.

Not yet, I tell myself. Wait until he’s all the way in, washing his face, has soap in his eyes and can’t come out and bust me.

I count to ten and then spring out of bed. I don’t throw on my panties and bra, because although I know he likes long showers, I won’t take any chance at getting caught.

I go to his slacks first and, unlike most men who just throw them to the floor while getting undressed before sex, S. Marcus folds his neatly, along with his shirt and underwear, and then rolls his socks into a ball before climbing naked into bed.

He is a neat freak, plain and simple. Not just with his clothes, but with everything. His business papers are always stacked neatly. I remember how I didn’t seen the faintest hint of dust on any surface in his house when I first met him. His face seems always clean shaven, his hair always cut crisp and his lining always razor sharp. His manicured fingernails are short and clean and look polished, although a closer inspection reveals they are not. All this had me wondering could he be one of those down-low guys who I’d found myself dating in the past. It didn’t matter how many times you asked the questions “Are you married?” or “Have you ever been with another man?” Some men could lie so easily.

I almost married a man like this once and also dated a man who I later discovered was married. For that reason I am up searching through S. Marcus’s pants pockets, then the dresser drawers and the shelves of the entertainment center, looking for his wallet.

I need to get his Social Security number, and somehow find the funds to do a background check and make sure that he isn’t another John Basil Henderson who—while he was doing those wonderful things he did to me in bed—was thinking about some other man in sexy underwear, and how they would get together later that night.

Minutes later, I still haven’t found his wallet, and realize that he has to be at the end of his shower. I turn in a circle, looking, wondering where he could be hiding it. Then it hits me. I forgot to check the nightstand drawer. That’s where it is. It has to be.

I race back to the bed and nightstand, but before reaching it, I hear the water stop and S. Marcus humming loudly.

“Hey Yancey, how did your meeting go? We got busy so quick last night I forgot to ask you about it,” S. Marcus calls through the bedroom door, making me jump. His voice sounds closer than the shower, like he is standing just on the other side of the door.

“It went well, but I want to talk about it when you got some time,” I yelled back.

Is it worth it? I thought. Should I risk getting caught, just because the man is neat? I’m staring right at the bedroom door, knowing S. Marcus could walk back in at any minute. But then again, I was holding his wallet in my hand. Sifting through its contents would only take a second.

“Would you like to order some room service?” S. Marcus calls out.

“Whatever you like, Marcus,” I said, trying to keep my voice from sounding different. Then I find his Florida driver’s license. I yank it from the wallet, hold it right up to my face, my hand shaking slightly. I don’t see his Social Security number, but I do see his first name
Seneca and his birthday, which actually seemed to jump out at me: 8/12/1983. He told me he is in his thirties, so that makes him a liar. Guard up. This man is really just a boy, I thought. How could he be so young and yet so confident? And if I ever considered being truthful about my age, this child could be my son. But I guess I’m getting ready to enroll at Cougar High. But I hadn’t reached cougar status yet, so I’ll leave that to Ava.

I quickly shove the license back into the wallet and drop it into the drawer. I leap back in the bed just as S. Marcus is opening the bathroom door.

He walks over, a snow-white towel wrapped loosely around his narrow, flat waist.

He leans over me again. “You still breathing so hard, baby. You been playing with that pussy while I was in the shower?”

“Why I need to do that?” I said, playfully pulling him on top of me. “I got the real thing.”

“Yeah, you do,” he said. “And you can have it anytime you want it.”

Ava stood in the kitchen, about to pour herself a cold glass of white wine, even though she knew drinking alcohol was against her parole. But she needed a drink after dealing with that damn probation officer of hers. He had threatened her that she would go back to jail if she didn’t get a job. He had even suggested she work at McDonald’s. Who did he think she was?

Ava tilted the bottle, about to pour the golden liquid into her glass, when she heard a knock at the door. She set the bottle down, wondering who would show up unannounced.

She asks, “Who is it?”

There is no answer.

Ava steps closer to the door, wraps her hand around the knob, and peeks out of the peephole. A black woman was standing out there, but her back was turned to the door.

“I said, who is it?”

The woman turns around, and Ava sees a distorted, fun-house
image of a young woman the color of a brown crayon. “What’s happening, Ava?” she called out.

Just when Ava thought her day couldn’t get any worse, it was about to. It was Lyrical, and Ava had no choice but to open the door.

“Bitch, I thought I wasn’t ever gonna catch up with your ass.” The tall and slender African-American young woman slid into the foyer. “Shit, this is a motherfuckin’ nice-ass neighborhood and house.”

After a few moments a speechless Ava regained her composure.

“Lyrical, what the hell are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“I figured you’d forgotten about our little motherfuckin’ deal. Did you lose a bitch’s number?”

Lyrical Chante Sanders was a twenty-two-year-old from Harlem who had befriended Ava while in prison. While Ava looked to Lyrical as a friend, Lyrical saw Ava in a strange way as the mother she had never had, being raised by her grandmother. She had been let out on early release, about six months before Ava.

Lyrical was tall for a girl, and she was dressed in jeans, with men’s boxers and a wife beater. Lyrical struck fear in most of the inmates, which Ava recognized during the first week, and a friendship was born. She was serving time for transporting drugs, which Lyrical said she had done without her knowledge for a no-good boyfriend who only visited Lyrical a couple of times while she was in the joint.

Ava owed her a debt. Lyrical made sure nobody messed with Madame Ava, as the other prisoners called her, and in return Ava promised to help Lyrical with her music career and change her decidedly masculine style. She had a cute shape, a perfect size four, Ava guessed. She is wearing a ratty denim jacket and dirty cloth tennis shoes. Her hair, which is shoulder length and black, and could’ve looked nice with some more attention, is parted on the side. It is broken off on the ends, and looks like Lyrical used her fingers to rake through it instead of a comb.

“I didn’t lose your number, girl,” Ava lied while giving her former friend a half hug. “I was going to look you up when I got settled.”

“Yeah,” Lyrical deadpanned, not believing Ava for a second, “I figured as much. That’s why I followed you home. I thought we might report to the same probation office, and I just asked a couple of those bitches up there if you were reporting and they said yes. It didn’t take long to get one of those bitches to sing and tell me what day you report to your parole officer, so I just hung around and it was like, bam, there you were. I just followed you home. Pretty smart for a dumb bitch like myself, huh, Ava?”

“Yeah, that was really smart,” Ava said warily, unsure where this was headed. “Can’t pull anything over on you. Did you get an early release? I thought you had at least five more years.”

“Yeah, you ain’t the only bitch who knows important people.”

“Well there you have it.”

Looking around the elegant room, Lyrical asked, “You got anything to play music in this joint? I brought you one of my demos. I put that rap that I did for you on it.”

The very thought horrified Ava. “I think so, but I don’t know how to operate it.”

Ava had to think fast. She knew the way Lyrical operated, and it was best to nip things in the bud before they got out of hand. She had heard enough rap music during her prison stay to cover her for a lifetime.

“Let me take a look at it. I can figure that shit out.”

“Just leave the disc with me and I’ll listen to it a little later. You know in private. That will be better.”

Lyrical nodded in response. She had more street smarts than Ava did. “Okay, that’s what’s up. You got anything to drink in this motherfucker? A bitch be thirsty like a motherfucker.”

“Yeah, I think we got something to drink. What would you like?”

“You got any malt liquor?”

“I doubt it.”

“What about some fucking Red Bull?”

Ava gestured to the kitchen, leading the way. “What’s that?”

“Damn, Ava, I thought you’d learn a little bit from me while we was in the joint. It’s an energy drink. My brother Conroy—the one who I told you was a truck driver but I think he’s doing some illegal shit ’cause the nigga always got a pocket full of cash. Well, he turned my ass on to them. He said they give you energy and keep him from falling asleep when he driving that big-ass rig of his. Now, I don’t drive no trucks, but I like to stay up late because that’s when my inspiration for my beats come. You remember, don’t you, Madame Ava? Are you still gonna help me with my music? You know, help me get a deal with some of the people ya know.”

Ava neatly evaded the questions. “How about some lemonade or sparkling water?”

Lyrical reeled back. “Lemonade? Are you serious, bitch? Just forget it if you ain’t got no beer or Red Bull.” She leaned her arm on the refrigerator door. “So what we gonna do first?”

“About what?”

“When you gonna call some them motherfuckers you know in the music industry? When they hear my shit, they gonna want to sign up a bitch to a multirecord deal. Don’t you think, Ava? That’s what you told me.”

It was rare for Ava to be caught so off guard. Lyrical was a wild card whom Ava had to play carefully. “Of course, just like I said in the joint, but I haven’t had time to call any of my contacts yet. Why don’t you write your number down and I’ll give you a call when I get in contact with them?”

Lyrical looked suspicious, but finally she backed off. “Okay, but this time don’t lose it. And give me your number so I can lock it in my phone.”

Ava gave Lyrical her number as she tried to think of an excuse to
get her out of the house before Yancey returned. She thought about what her probation officer said about the type of people she associated with and wondered if Lyrical had been told the same thing by her probation officer.