Naughtier than Nice (18 page)

Livvy's Spa was as amazing as one built on the deep-blue waters of Lake Mohonk.

When Olivia McBroom-Barrera walked through the back entrance, loyal clients were waiting for facials, manis, pedis, and exotic massages; a few movie stars also waited to get waxed and pampered.

There was a call from a celebrity in Hollywood, one who didn't want their name given out.

That was not unusual. The word was out. They had heard of Livvy's Spa, or Livvy Barrera, and wanted her to come to their home to massage, wax, and vajazzle them for their husband's birthday.

It was last minute, an emergency, and the client would have to pay a ridiculous fee for Livvy to go to the edges of Beverly Hills. To ensure it was legit, the session was paid for in advance by telephone. The celebrity was sending a chauffeur to pick up Livvy and whomever she needed to aid in the service. Livvy packed her products, took her two top estheticians, and within minutes a driver was in the lobby waiting. Tall, dark-skinned, well-built man, bald, wore glasses, had to be in his forties.

“They call me Driver,” was all he said before he handed Livvy documents to sign.

It was a nondisclosure agreement. NDAs were common in Hollywood. Livvy wouldn't be able to say she had the unknown celebrity as a client, not unless the client wanted it known.

Her two employees signed the same papers.

Once her bags were loaded and they were in the backseat of the town car, as the chauffeur eased into traffic on Sepulveda and headed north, the curiosity got the best of Livvy.

She asked, “May I ask who the client is?”

“Regina Baptiste.”

Her employees gasped. Livvy was stunned.

The chauffeur nodded and said no more.

Again her heart raced. Regina Baptiste was the top actress in Hollywood, if not in the world.

*   *   *

Regina Baptiste turned out to be one of the nicest people Livvy had met in her career.

She allowed Livvy and her two workers to take after-treatment photos and said she could post them on social media. Regina Baptiste tweeted. She also told Livvy she wanted to use Livvy's Spa twice a month, and when she was on location shooting, she wanted to be able to have an esthetician on set.

It was part of her contract, and the studios paid ridiculous money to keep her happy.

Dressed in green Nike sweats, a pink wifebeater, and white sandals, hair pulled into a simple ponytail, Regina Baptiste said, “My driver had to take my husband to a meeting at Sony. Another chauffeur will arrive any moment to take you back. I hope the delay is not too much of an inconvenience.”

Livvy said, “Not at all. We are more than happy to be of service to you, Ms. Baptiste.”

No one complained about being delayed in the lap of luxury.

They all sat out by the pool as a server brought them drinks. Best happy hour ever.

They were told their new driver had arrived. They thanked Regina Baptiste for her generosity and hospitality, gathered their
bags, and with broad smiles and tipsy strolls headed to the stretch limo.

Their new driver stood there, holding the car door open, a smile on her face.

A beautiful brown-skinned woman.

A face that Livvy had thought she'd never see again.

Livvy lost her smile.

The chauffeur looked at Livvy, and for a moment she lost her professional smile as well.

One of her estheticians took her elbow. “Olivia? You okay?”

She chuckled. “I'm fine. It's the wine.”

Livvy faced her driver, unblinking, in shock, looked at her face, her eyes.

She said, “Panther. It's you. It's really you.”

Equally surprised, the chauffeur responded, “Bird.”

“Olivia. My name is Olivia. People call me Livvy.”

“Never knew your name. Only knew you as Bird. The woman betrayed.”

They stood motionless for a moment, then Olivia nodded, eased inside of the limousine.

Her workers were ecstatic, talked all the way back to Westchester. Livvy spent the entire ride in silence, the partition up, the driver on the other side on her mind. It was Panther. She was a few years older, her hair had changed, she was more fit, but it was the woman Livvy had searched for.

For years Livvy had wanted to see Panther, had tried in vain to find her.

Now that she had found her, she didn't know what to do, what to say.

Livvy was terrified.

When they arrived at Livvy's Spa, the limo took them to the back entrance.

Livvy instructed her estheticians to take their bags inside. Then
she stood at the front of the limo, arms folded, facing Panther. She faced a curvaceous woman she had spent time with, but never alone. They had always made love with Carpe as the focal point, as part of a three-headed beast.

Livvy said, “Very small world, Panther. Is that what I should call you?”

She nodded. “Livvy's Spa.”

“I'm the owner.”

“Your surname on the paperwork is Barrera. I had assumed I was picking up a Latina.”

“My husband is Latin. Barrera is my married name.”

“Worked it out after . . . after that thing with Carpe?”

“Still trying. Hasn't been as easy as I would have hoped. We're different now.”

She nodded. “This was awkward. That caught me off guard, seeing you at the mansion.”

Livvy said, “Had no idea you were still in Los Angeles. You said you were going back to Atlanta.”

“Was. Never left. Still here. This Southern girl is still here.”

Livvy said, “What we had, sorry it ended the way it did.”

“Well, Bird, I said horrible, vile things.”

“You did.”

“Might have thrown something at you. I apologize for that. I used to drive by there, then slow down and reminisce.”

“Really?”

“It was good for a while.”

“It was fun. I enjoyed what we had.”

“I hated the way we ended things, those final words.”

“I didn't mean to be, but I was so angry at you for a long time.”

“It was a hard time for both of us. Glad you're doing okay for yourself.”

Livvy said, “You're rocking a fitted suit and now you work for this limo company.”

“No, I am part owner with the guy I see. We have a few employees. Funny, Dante was supposed to come pick you up, but he was caught in traffic after an Oceanside run, so I picked up the job.”

Livvy said, “Congratulations on the business, on the new life, on everything. You have a business and I have a business and I guess our businesses have brought us back together. Well, two-thirds of us.”

Then came the silence, the kind that buffered the start of what she really wanted to ask.

Panther beat Livvy to the question that was burning inside of her.

Panther asked, “Did Carpe come back to you before . . . were you with him again before . . . ?”

“He never contacted me. To be honest, I've looked for him. Did you keep in touch with him?”

“Oh, my God. You have no idea. I assumed you knew.”

“What?”

“He's dead.”

Livvy paused and her heart raced; she felt her brain start to short-circuit, felt the need to sit down, the need to scream, but she took deep breaths.

Panther said, “Sorry to drop it on you like that, Bird.”

“Dead? I don't understand. How could that happen?”

“He was killed, Bird. He was in the islands with his wife when it happened.”

“Carpe is dead?”

“Maybe two years ago. Could be three years. It hit me hard too. Hit me real hard.”

The moment Panther said that, tears fell from her eyes, same as she had cried back then.

Livvy was rocked to the core, her shoulders slumped, and she shut down. She had never had a lover die before. But that was inevitable. Death was inevitable for us all, and she knew that.

Livvy whispered, “He's dead. Are you . . . sure? I mean, are you really sure?”

Panther trembled, pulled her full lips in, twisted them, nodded. Leftover love was in her bloodstream. Emotions had risen, lodged in her throat. She was unable to speak.

Livvy said, “I went by there, the place we had. I would park out front.”

“It's destroyed now. Someone threw a poor man's grenade through the front window.”

“Are you serious? When?”

“Happened not too long ago. They think it was a hate crime.”

“Seems like it was just a few days ago . . . I went there . . . looking for. . . . I knocked on the door.”

“People assumed they had been attacked because they were gay.”

“I met the guys. I told them that I used to lease that apartment. They were kind, invited me in for herbal tea. I told them about us. I told them that me and Carpe . . . and you . . . we were there before them.”

“Why did you knock on the door? Why did you go back there after the way you left me?”

Livvy asked Panther, “Why do you go to that area, then slow down when you pass by there?”

They held eye contact.

Livvy saw the memories in Panther's eyes.

Livvy said, “Carpe changed me. You changed me. I wish I had never left. I've missed you.”

Panther shook her head as if those days were behind her, then eased into the stretch limo. She drove away. Livvy stood in the parking lot, motionless, cars hitting speed bumps as they passed, the echo of planes floating into LAX, horns blowing, music blasting, the din of traffic coming from all directions.

Panther left her now as abruptly as she had left Panther back then. Livvy was stunned. On the heels of Panther's departure,
Frankie exited the back door to her real estate business, her office being in the same block-long structure on Sepulveda Boulevard near LAX. Frankie's company was only two businesses away from Livvy's spa. Teary-eyed, Livvy wanted to avoid her sister, but she had been seen. Frankie called her name and headed her way, jogged that way in a hurry. Something was wrong. She could tell. Livvy wiped her eyes, wiped away tears, shock, and memories. She knew whatever was going on with Frankie, it had to do with her ex Franklin. That jerk had become the thorn in everyone's side. Livvy had never liked that bastard from the get-go.

Frankie said, “There is a long line out in front of your spa.”

“What do you mean? Traffic is backed up? It's always bumper-to-bumper.”

“No,
people
. There is a long line of women fighting to get inside your spa.”

“You're joking, right?”

“It looks like Black Friday at Walmart at your front door.”

When they stepped inside Livvy's Spa, one of the receptionists came to her in a hurry. Livvy could hear the rumble in her usually peaceful place. She felt a new energy. She felt the anxiety.

Since they had posted the selfie with Regina Baptiste, it had hit Instagram, had been given likes on Facebook, and been retweeted thousands of times. Due to that one photo, the phones had been on fire. They accepted walk-ins, and the waiting area was filled with customers. Some waved platinum cards.

Frankie stepped forward, helped get people calmed down and organized.

Livvy had one thought. The man she had longed for day and night, the man she had pined for for years, was no more. And there was no one she could call to confess her pain, no way she could grieve out loud. He was no longer among the living. And no one had notified her of his passing. She had been nothing to him. He had meant too much to her.

Livvy greeted her customers with smiles, then excused herself to one of the bathrooms, locked the door, bit into her hand, felt a pounding chest pain, had difficulty breathing, had feelings of unreality, an extreme level of fear and detachment from herself, then bit harder, almost hard enough to draw blood.

Soon she was able to control her breathing.

Then another wave hit her.

She shivered, grieved as tears fell from her closed eyes across her fist.

She was free.

The apartment was destroyed.

Carpe was dead.

Panther wanted nothing to do with her.

It was done.

Finally Livvy was free.

But this did not feel like freedom.

Tears fell, created a torrent as she bounced her leg and shook her head over and over.

Not everyone wanted freedom.

Not everyone knew what to do when they had been released.

The madness continued.

At seven thirty in the morning, after putting in my required roadwork with Tommie and Livvy before the sun came up, as rush hour was changing into the hours of road rage, I had parked in the expansive lot behind my real estate company. There was no street parking on Sepulveda until after the road rage ended. Dressed in business attire, I was channeling the stylish and forever-iconic Diahann Carroll, yet behind my good-morning grin I was nervous, so nervous I almost dropped the venti latte from Starbucks I carried in my right hand. I looked across the lot at the other businesses, felt like I had been followed. But these days it always felt like I was being followed. Paranoia. Before I went through the rear entrance of my office, I looked at my new car. My new Maserati. My Audi had been totaled, the check written expeditiously by State Farm, and then within forty-eight hours I had bought my GranTurismo. I picked up my new hoopty at a police auction for the price of a five-year-old Toyota Corolla. I could sell it for twice what I bought it for within a matter of hours. I never paid top dollar for anything, except for love. Took that philosophy from that handbook of the rich. One of the guys in our running group was a top cop and had hooked me up. As I rolled the streets of LA in my new ride my message was this: You can't stop me from rising to the top. Burn it, I'll get a better one. But to be on the safe side, I had parked directly in front of the business's security cameras. I wasn't stupid. I had too many haters living in my world. Mrs.
Crazy Carruthers sent e-mails over and over. The bitch wouldn't dial back the crazy.

Franklin claimed that he had nothing to do with what had happened to my car.

He said he had nothing to do with the window at my office being bricked the same night.

After I had called Franklin and made harsh accusations, he took that as a sign, as a ray of hope.

I told him, “Hope is the worst evil of all because it prolongs the torment.”

“I'm not giving up, Frankie.”

My voice weakened, splintered, and I could barely say, “Leave me alone, Franklin.”

“Look at that engagement ring, put it back on, and tell me you don't want us back together.”

I hung up on him, wiped my eyes, took a dozen deep breaths, screamed into a pillow, hollered out my pent-up madness until my throat was raw, then I shivered and turned off my phone.

I still didn't want my family involved, but I wanted this fixed. Desperate, I made a few calls, asked around. One of my trustworthy neighbors, one who was also my business adviser and my accountant, Geneviève Forbes, gave me a name and a number. It was for a man known only as Driver.

I took the number and put it on my refrigerator.

That night, at home, I sat in my Batgirl pajamas and gazed at the engagement ring.

I gazed at it as my cellular rang once again with Franklin's romantic ringtone.

I answered, “Why do you keep calling?”

“I want to see you, Frankie.”

“Ride a drone to the Middle East and see your wife.”

“I love you and will do anything to make this work. Just tell me what to do.”

“You made me the clown.”

“I'm sorry for what I did, for how you found out, but I'm dying without you, Frankie.”

“Obviously you're not dying fast enough. Try cyanide. Heard it works wonders.”

“I miss loving you. I miss making love to you. I miss all that we were building.”

“You should be incarcerated for what you did.”

“Tell me that you don't miss us. Tell me that what we have ain't real.”

Then I took the long pause, was consumed by an emotional lull, by memories.

In a soft whisper he repeated, “Tell me you don't miss us. Not the sex. Bowling, doing karaoke, snow skiing, sitting on the sofa looking at Netflix, meeting for lunch, doing long runs together.”

It felt like this was the part where the heartbroken woman missed a bad love and, despite his lies and deception, fell prey to her own emotions, took him back in her bed, allowed the poison to be the cure.

He repeated, “Tell me that you don't love me as much as I love you. Tell me that you don't miss the good you felt with me. Those months we were together, they made the rest of the world irrelevant.”

I didn't say anything, just stared at the ring as if it held the answer to my dilemma.

He repeated, “Tell me that you don't miss me, Frankie.”

“I can't tell you that.”

“Tell me that you have stopped loving me.”

I paused, struggled, and finally admitted, “I can't tell you that and say it's the truth.”

“If you love me, then there is hope. Then we can fix this thing and get back on track.”

Now I hated that I had relaxed, surrendered to love, and now he had that power.

I said, “No, you can't come see me. If my sisters found out you came here . . . you can't.”

“Tell me where you live and I can park out front. Or I will park a block or two away.”

“I can't have you in my neighborhood. You're not welcome in my world anymore.”

Hearing his voice made it seem like we'd been together only yesterday.

In a pained Southern accent he said, “Then come see me. Not seeing you is hard.”

“I'm not coming to your home.”

“Then meet me somewhere. Just you and me. No one will have to know but us.”

This was the part when a strong woman said she was done, then crumbled and crept back. I looked at my nightstand, at the engagement ring, the diamond I had dreamed he'd leave on my finger. I placed my hand over my flat belly, where I had wanted to house the next-generation McBroom child.

He whispered, “We left love locks all over the world.”

I wiped liquid weakness from my eyes, said, “Yeah. We left at least fifty locks in fifty places.”

“The cultural things we did in the motherland. You know we have a spiritual connection.”

“It was amazing. It was like our souls had returned home, had left all the ism in the USA behind, and we had arrived where we were loved and cherished, not chastised and ridiculed.”

Memories, like quicksand, pulled me under.

The first night in Africa, he gave me thirteen orgasms in one session. He gave me thirteen orgasms in the motherland, at an oceanfront villa in Zanzibar. Never in my life had I felt that way. I cried for an hour, cried for every soul lost during the Middle Passage. I cried and he held me and rocked me like I was his soul mate. We saw the sun come up over the motherland. Intimacy had felt so
spiritual. A new record. That was how my body responded to his, by achieving orgasm over and over and over.

Those moments and many others spent in the sun were impossible to forget. You could melt pearls in vinegar, but memories were stubborn. Even when Enlightenment and Hate arrived, Love refused to leave the building. Franklin had taken me to the
motherland
. We had made passionate love in Africa. We had left inscribed padlocks all over the world. It wasn't easy to bury the memory of your best friend.

Frankie loves Frankie.

The engagement ring sparkled. I went to the closet, sighed at the mind-blowing Stephen Yearick and YSA Makino 2666 wedding dress, ran my fingers over the incredible Vera Wang I would have worn to the reception. I would have married him.

I had wanted to make an
intentional
baby with him. I had tried to make a baby with him.

This was unfair. This was hell. This was worse than my first divorce. My first marriage had been a rebellious, youthful mistake, for independence, to act grown, to have sex, not for love. Franklin had stimulated me in a thousand different ways and in many places, physical and geographical.

I asked, “What happened to my car, to my business? Was that your jealousy at play?”

“I'm jealous, not going to lie, but I don't roll like that, Frankie. You know better. That guy you were with, maybe it was because of him. Maybe whoever he's seeing didn't like the idea of him going out with you and attacked your car.”

“Why would they attack my car and not his car?”

“It wasn't me, Frankie.”

“It was you and I know it was you.”

“I love you too much to do that.”

“
Love?
You have no idea what love is. I know
love
and
lie
start
with the same letter, but they are not synonyms Franklin. You're a liar and the truth does not live inside of you.”

“I love you, Frankie. You know I love you.”

I ached.

Fissures spread across my soul with each breath.

Franklin said, “Come see me. I need to see you.”

I took a deep breath, then whispered, “You're right.”

“And I know you still love me too.”

“I need to see you. I'll come see you.”

I sat on the bed, head throbbing, massaging my temples.

Nobody likes to be bamboozled, led astray.

I picked up my small gun, and after I made sure the clip was loaded, I made a phone call.