Naughty or Nice (17 page)

I chuckled because, damn, she was just as sneaky as Livvy.

Hell, guess it ran in the family because Momma and Bernard were sneaky too.

When Momma and Bernard married, the crib over on 110th was kinda cramped, and with the thin walls, they didn't have the kind of privacy a newlywed couple needed. Bernard would help us with our homework the best he could, then Momma would make sure we'd eaten and bathed, then made us go to bed, which was anywhere we were comfortable. After that, they'd creep out to the car and drive up the street. We'd kick the covers off us, line up and look out the window. They never went far. The muffler on Bernard's car told us where they were, two houses over, in the driveway of an empty house. We could see the car from the front window. It would get dark in that car. Then the silhouettes would vanish. Awhile later, we'd see the flame from a match. All of us would start giggling and laughing. Bernard didn't smoke. So we knew Momma was putting the match to her cigarette, taking that first pull that made her face light up.

Momma and Bernard would tiptoe back in the house glowing like fireflies.

As soon as I had that memory, I had an epiphany.

I was about to kick back and savor the business and real estate sections of the Sunday
Times,
but I chilled out and started people-watching instead, wondering how many of these sisters got hooked up in a special way this morning. I think it was my girl-sex-talk with Tommie, especially when she mocked Livvy's
Fuck that pussy eat that pussy slap dat ass dat dick is soooo good
. Have to admit, that imagery made me tingle, had me in that sensual frame of mind.

I figured it out, who got the hookup this morning.

The sisters who ordered tall cappuccinos got no dick.

The sisters who ordered a vente vanilla latte got some lame
dick, because lame dick was worse than getting no dick at all. Their folded arms and frowns said it all. Lame dick was the dick that got a woman in orgasm escrow, but couldn't close the deal.

The women who ordered bottled water had Kool-Aid smiles and skin glowing like Chernobyl. They woke up in a sexual hurricane and dragged themselves in here out of habit. Looked like they wanted to break out singing “The hills are alive with the sound of music.”

Just like Momma did when she came floating back in the house.

Yep, the ones who didn't get no satisfaction were wolfing down the hard stuff.

I figured all that out while I guzzled my second vente quadruple espresso cappuccino.

Just like I figured out Tommie was seeing one of my tenants.

I'm not Einstein, but I'm not Algernon either.

I
left church and met Carpe in Manhattan Beach at Sand Dune Park. It was midmorning and all the weekend warriors were out doing repeats on the steep hill. He had on black shorts and a white T-shirt with red letters advertising a good time at Daytona Beach. I had cleansed my face and changed out of my all-black outfit at Tommie's pigpen before I came here. Now I was wearing a yellow sports bra under a white tank top, gray sweatpants, and a yellow bandana.

I'd spent some time with him almost every evening this week.

We met at Baja Grill in Manhattan Village one night, did some Christmas shopping, ate, caught a movie at the small theater next door, then sat in my SUV, talking, kissing, then got in the back seat, pleasing each other, sweating, and fogging up my windows, while cars and people passed by, Christmas goods in hand. It was almost like being an . . . exhibitionist. I came so hard.

Late the other night, we were in the deserted parking lot at Coco's in Compton. Standing outside our cars, in the dark, him behind me, making me come and moan into the cool wind. Cars were feet away from us, zooming down Central. All people had to do was look our way.

Last night we sexed in the shower and bathtub in a rented room at the LAX Hilton. He left me there, went home close to midnight, and I stayed there, hugging a pillow.

That was why when he saw me parking we smiled. No words were needed.

One look at him, everything that was wrong went away. Livvy didn't exist anymore.

Just Bird.

And he was just Carpe, my escape, the lover I needed to seize every day.

He said, “Hotter than I thought it was gonna be.”

“Not as hot as you were getting me in church. You and those messages . . .”

He gave me that smile and winked at me. I tossed him a small tube of sunblock.

He shook his head. “I don't need sunblock.”

“Just because we have more melanin in our skin doesn't mean we won't burn. Eighty percent of aging is caused by the sun. That's why black women age better than white women.”

“Is that right. So, you must work in dermatology, or the medical field.”

I laughed. “Put on the sunblock, dammit.”

He smoothed the cream on his face.

I nodded. “Thought it was gonna be in the seventies today.”

“It's supposed to rain.”

“Doesn't look like it.”

It was a California winter day. Seventy-five at the beaches, over eighty inland.

We took our shoes off and hiked up and down that monster mountain of sand. Pain had become my friend. Plenty of people, track clubs and firefighters carrying hoses, football players, all were out doing the same. We were very competitive. At least I was. Each time up, I looked at the timer on my watch. The first time up took close to three minutes. Then it took a minute and a half to make my way back down. Each time up took a little longer, but I kept pushing myself. I had to do that hill at least one more time than he did. Ten times had me aching. After ninety minutes of agony, we rested a little while, got hydrated, and jogged the steps twice.

After that we drove up Highland and found street parking. We walked two blocks in our socks and rollerbladed. First we went toward Redondo Beach, then came back and bladed down near the power plants in El Segundo. Blading was easy and I would've kept going until I made it to Venice, but I looked out at the ocean. It was so beautiful.

We sat on the rocks and watched the waves. The sky was clear. Lines of surfers were out in the water, waiting for a nice-sized wave to bring them back in.

He kissed me a few times.

We bladed back and stopped at a little workout section right in front of the lifeguard's building, did push-ups on the ground and pull-ups on a metal bar while a group of women below played volleyball in the sand. I was burned out. Sat and watched him workout the muscles in his arms. Did that with a smile.

He asked, “Hungry?”

“I'm always hungry.”

He laughed.

I slapped him on his ass. “Not funny.”

“I know this place that has great lobster burritos.”

We hiked up the hills, T-shirts soaked with sweat, dirty socks on our feet, rollerblades over our shoulders. After doing the sand dunes and blading, it was a hellified walk. I pretended I wasn't aching from my ankles up to my ass. Every muscle was on fire.

He said, “Do curls with your blades.”

“You are really getting on my nerves.”

“Curls. Work your biceps.”

“Okay, okay. Geesh.”

We slowed down and looked at a sign for a large studio apartment. A rental going at $1,120 a month—typical beach prices, especially two minutes from the ocean.

I said, “I could buy a three-level house in Atlanta for that much.”

“Atlanta doesn't have a beach outside the front door.”

Both of us stared at that sign, just shaking our heads at the outrageous cost of beach property. We went back to doing curls and hiking up that hill.

 

The eating place called Sharkeez was right on Highland, not too far from where we had parked. We changed into our sandy workout shoes and walked into a place that had red and blue tiled floors, everything else a combination surfer and Mexican motif.

He said, “You worked out hard, so give yourself a break on the points.”

“When you get a butt like this—”

“Maybe I can get you a job at Stroker's and we can become millionaires overnight.”

“What's Stroker's?”

“Strip club.”

“Pervert.”

“Put the menu down. I'm ordering for both of us.”

“Oooo. A take-charge kinda guy. Me likey, me likey.”

Two lemonades and two lobster burritos were right at thirty bucks. We sat at a booth facing the street, sat on the same side of the table, leg touching leg, his hand on my thigh, moving up and down. Sanyo televisions all over the place showing surfer videos.

He took out his cellular phone and I went to the ladies' room to wash my hands. When I got back, he was still on the phone. His wife called him a lot. He always answered. I never said anything. We knew the rules of this game.

He told whoever he was talking to, “Thirty minutes will be fine. Call me back at this number when you get close and I'll meet you there.”

Then he hung up, leaned over, and kissed me.

I didn't ask him any questions. Just knew that he had to go back to his real world.

I asked, “You go to strip clubs?”

“Haven't been to one in a while.”

“Sounds like fun.”

We ate, enjoyed each other's company.

Outside on the beach, the surfers were surfing and hundreds of people were rollerblading, playing beach volleyball, and tanning. Life was one big episode of
Baywatch
.

 

His cell phone rang right as we were finishing up our meals.

Outside, he turned right. I told him we were parked the other way.

He said, “Come with me.”

“Awww, man. I know we're not working out again.”

He took my hand. “Come on and stop complaining.”

“My legs are dead.”

“Come on, Bird.”

We went back down the asphalt and concrete hill toward the beach, holding hands, my legs aching with every step, but we didn't make it that far. We stopped at the next block, right in front of the studio apartment that was renting for $1,120 a month.

A middle-aged woman, slender with golden skin and huge, perfectly round, gravity-defying breasts was standing in front of the sign, looking toward the beach. She wore frayed jeans shorts, red sandals, big orange glasses, and a floppy pink and yellow hat. I imagined she was fantasizing about living there, a stone's throw from the waters and sands of the Pacific, waking up to that marine layer and falling asleep under the ocean's breeze.

Carpe went to her and said, “Mrs. Klein?”

“That would be me.”

“I just called you about renting the property.”

“Well come in.” She had a narrow nose. When she smiled, her lips moved, but not the rest of her face. Like Joan Rivers, she'd overdone the Botox. She went on, “As you can see on the sign, I just reduced the price from eleven-ninety.”

“Good timing.”

“Your timing was great. I had just come by to make sure the
apartment was cleaned properly and was just about to leave the area. You and your wife from around here?”

“We're not married.”

“Oh.”

“We're having an affair.”

Mrs. Klein was stunned. So was I.

He went on, “I want to rent your studio so we can have a place to make love.”

I was about ready to hit the floor. Mrs. Klein and I stood there with our mouths wide open. She looked at me, a non-blinking stare, and I didn't know what to say.

Then Mrs. Klein's lips curved up. She laughed. “Well, this is the perfect love nest.”

“How firm are you on your price?”

She took her shades off, her face now serious. “What did you have in mind?”

“Maybe a discount for paying six months in advance.”

“Uh huh. Of course we're talking cash.”

He smiled. “Of course. And to sweeten the deal in your favor, you can still pretend your property is vacant and write the note off as a loss with the IRS.”

I stood there, rubbing my neck, my face so red, looking away from her scrutiny. My skin burned by the sun. Sweat drying on my face. Both hands were underneath my sweaty tank top, pulling, twisting, unable to be still, rocking from one foot to the other. That was all I could do.

Mrs. Klein took my hands in hers. She sang, “My, my, my.”

I blushed.

Her smile was devilish. “How I envy you.”

Carpe went with Mrs. Klein to talk over the business.

They laughed a lot.

He asked, “How soon can I get the keys?”

“How soon can you get me the money?”

They weren't whispering, but I could hardly hear. I was day-dreaming, looking at white walls, thinking about decorating, about a small bed and candles, moving to a place of ecstasy.

I heard her say, “I can go as low as . . . say . . . hmmm . . . sixty-six hundred for six months.”

“Cash?”

“Cash.”

There was another long pause.

“Wish I had a lover so generous.”

“She's a good woman,” he told her.

I walked to the window, looked out at the ocean, inhaled the ocean's breath, and I smiled.

 

I waited inside the studio until Carpe returned. When he came back I was lingering in the bathroom doorway, a hand on each side of the doorframe, heat rising from between my legs.

I asked, “Where is Mrs. Klein?”

“Gone.”

He came in, closing the blinds. We never took our eyes off each other.

I whispered, “You did it?”

“It's done.”

“Geesh.”

His voice had become a husky whisper. “This is yours.”

Mine was velvety. “Ours.”

“Ours.”

He inched my way, came over and kissed me, put his mouth on my face, licked my collarbone, then kissed me again, gave me my own salty taste.

Still I needed more than that to salve what I was feeling.

I whispered, “Rental car sex.”

He turned me around, yanked my pants down.

I moaned, almost suffocated.

He did the same with his workout shorts and jock strap, both ending up somewhere around his knees. His penis bobbed against my ass, hard and thick. My toes curled in my tennis shoes and I braced myself against the doorframe. He teased me like that.

He dipped, the head of his penis finding its way to my vagina. My ass curved upward, welcomed him. He entered me
a little at a time, pulled back to the tip, then sank inside me, gave me all his length, stretching me with his sensual strokes, then pulled out to the tip, played with me, then rushed into me all at once. My face heated, turned three more shades of red.

He fit inside me so good. From tip to root, his size was so perfect.

I held the doorframe and moved back against him, pushed him in me as deep as I could. Wanted him to crush all of my pain. First we danced slowly, then our own ebb and flow changed, our soft moans became the growls of greedy lovers, the pornographic sounds of two tigers devouring each other. His strong hands were on my waist, pulling me back into him.

“Yessss,”
I hissed over and over. “That's it, baby.”