Smoke and Mirrors (11 page)

This issue kept popping up in his mind like corn kernels in a microwave popcorn bag. He didn’t want it, didn’t need or desire it even for a second. Oh…he wanted some pussy alright, but it
wasn’t
from his stable… He rarely even fucked them anymore, and that engendered high pitched, whiny protests. The shit was becoming sticky, out of control, gooey with emotions he didn’t own.

The whole mess didn’t happen because he’d gotten burnt out on sex—he
loved
sex, couldn’t do his job if he didn’t understand the drive in a man to run all over town in search of the perfect poon. He’d been searching as well, only he was unaware of it until he saw
her
…

He’d been second-guessing himself since the first time he laid eyes on Paris Raven. After he found out the place across the street was a pussy palace, he felt like a damn fool. He needed to find out pronto who it belonged to, and come to some sort of agreement. When he realized it was the Madam herself, a woman he’d never seen but heard about due to her unique situation, he took it upon himself to observe her for an entire month. He watched her comings and goings, her mannerisms. He had to, for he was in undercover mode on how to approach this woman, how to make her bow the fuck down.

She’d come over to her apartment building at 6 a.m. and take a morning jog. In one hand, she’d have a half chewed dark red apple, tempting him like naked Eve in the Garden of Eden. It was the same morning snack each and every time. During her jog, she stopped to pet dogs along the way. And she had a thing for imported waters.

He also realized she was just as screwed up as him, so what the fuck did he have to lose?

He hadn’t felt excited about a woman since Cheryl, his high school sweetheart. Paris
did
something to him, ignited a spark he thought was long gone—cold, dead and bolted closed in an oversized vault with a code that was virtually impossible to break to get in or out. He prided himself on not feeling a damn thing, staying cool under pressure and never catching feelings for a whore or any woman for that matter. He didn’t think twice about beating a john damn near to death or following through on his threats. That was the nature of the job, and besides, it was nice on occasion to make someone the brunt of his pent up aggressions, have a taste of his wrath. He understood the pimp code, and he followed it…but this wanting to go out with a woman constituted a new bump in the golden paved road. He’d stuck to the cipher, but Paris was no
regular
whore. Her mind was wired differently, and she could be just as icy as him. Yet for some reason beyond his comprehension, his dick got hard off that fact…

No, she was in his same league; that couldn’t be taken away from her. Just because she looked like a black Jackie O’ didn’t mean she behaved like a first lady. She knew the game in and out, and though she had a tattered past, she persevered. He found that highly appealing, erotic…strong women got his motor started. Her glossy lips made it harder for him to resist and her nice, peach shaped ass and upright tits, devoid of a damn bra, sealed the deal with a kiss. He wanted to find out more about her, sit down and chat, run his lips along the side of her neck and see if she was willing to give a guy like him a damn chance to win her affections.

This isn’t over Paris, not by a long shot, baby. I want to taste your candy, see what you’re made of…Mmmmmm….

*

T
his can’t be
happening.

There he stood, bold as shit. This time, with a black suit paired with a white shirt and mint green tie, looking like some damn newscaster. Paris seethed. Justin Timberlake and Snoop Dogg’s, ‘Signs’ played in the background, a soundtrack from a passing car moving leisurely down the street playing the oldie but goodie. One of her main girls, Tasha, stood in the doorway looking the bastard up and down as if she wanted to lick him clean to the goddamn bone. The woman’s eyes bucked, taking in the GQ wannabe. The fucked up part was, he
did
look like a damn model, but she refused to give him any accolades. He didn’t deserve anything but a door slammed in his fucking face.

“What brings you here, Smoke?” she asked, annoyed.

That was the thing about Smoke, he didn’t make many public appearances, and when he did, it seemed to be a huge event. She’d heard the rumors and followed his entire timeline, especially after their run-in. She dug up his dirt with a shovel, and hated to admit it, but she was duly impressed. When the man first stepped foot in the game, he was being tried left and right. Fresh meat was on the street, and everyone in competition needed to sniff out the new man. Of course, that had happened many years ago, and now he was seasoned like prime rib presented on a silver platter. Paris elbowed Tasha out the way and took a stance, blocking the entrance in case he got any ideas.

“Good afternoon, Paris. It’s a fine day, so I wondered if you’d like to take a stroll?”

He sounded like a Southern gentleman out of 1952. It gave her a bit of a chuckle, but she kept her face tight, refusing to let him see she found him a tiny bit charming; besides, she was still pissed about their first interaction.

“No, I wouldn’t like to take a stroll with you and I thought you said we were done talking?” She pointed to herself then back at him. “I wish you had made good on that.”

“I changed my mind.” He grinned at her and took a bow, as if he’d removed a top hat and colorful flower petals were tumbling forth from it onto the ground, leaving a trail of fragrance along the street.

This mothafucka right here!

“I hope that I’m entitled. I think we got off to a bad start. I’d like to begin afresh.”

She looked at Tasha then back at the man. Tasha shrugged, offering absolutely no help at all as she stood there drinking it all in, but not offering a life preserver in the form of a much needed interference. Paris grimaced, sucked her teeth and continued to glare at him, mulling over her next move.

“I apologize for the other day,” he offered, with no hint of insincerity.

Regardless, she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw the tall son of a bitch.

“Tell the girls I’ll be back in a minute,” she hollered as she slipped her cellphone in the pocket of her cream and red striped capris. Tasha nodded and closed the door behind her.

They walked down her steps, between two large terracotta flower pots, and onto the sidewalk. As they stood side by side, she stole a glance at his big hand swaying next to her own. They moved at the same pace, the same rate. It almost looked as if their pinky fingers were daring to touch, intertwine. She got back on track and looked straight ahead, holding herself up, keeping cool…but why did he have to smell so damn good? And dress so well? No alligator shoes or gold teeth, no slick words coated in strange, overly used street vernacular. He spoke clearly and succinctly. So…fucking…smooth.

“So, first let me say thank you for joining me.” He looked down at her, making her feel an inch tall. Paris stood 5’7, but could look considerably taller in a mean pair of heels. She also had curves, but she was small in weight. Despite her petite build, she wasn’t the type of woman many men wished to brawl with, and that made her proud. She packed a pistol and from her history, everyone should have known she wasn’t afraid to scrap, fight, claw a fucker’s face to bloody bits, or pull that damn trigger. She’d even had to brandish it a time or two, prepared for the consequences. Life was not easy, and self-defense was status quo. Oddly enough, she had been called ultra feminine, dare she say, alluring, but her ability to adjust and recreate herself with the changing times, proved to be her unsurpassed strength. As she stared into the man’s captivating eyes, she knew completely and truly, many things may have been issues for him, but height, bravado and a sense of self weren’t any of them.

“You’re welcome…” she finally muttered rather late in the game, attempting an amicable approach.

“I want to ask you what problems you have with me? Let’s start there if you don’t mind,” he stated diplomatically.

“Smoke, I don’t have a problem with you, or at least, I didn’t until you tried to intimidate me. Please don’t let my clothing fool you. I’m from the streets and if you take me there, we can get down ’nd dirty. I’m not one of your whores. That shit doesn’t work on me.” She stopped walking and turned towards him, wishing to make her points clear as day. “Word on the street is that you have some sort of magical touch as it pertains to choosing the right women to approach, to build your family, as you call it.

“You watch them, then make your move. It’s gotten to the point that you no longer have to introduce yourself. These women know who you are and are trying to get with you. Few are accepted. I respect that, Smoke, and you should have dug deep before you came at me like you were fourteen karat gold crazy. If you’d watched me for even three minutes, you would have known your approach was completely incorrect. Let me school you on some shit right quick.” She was going to take this bastard down. Game recognize game!

“Please
do
…” He looked her up and down, lust in his strange, exotic eyes.

“I’m the
wrong
one to try to play with. I’m twenty-nine years old. I’ll be thirty in two months.”

“Happy early birthday.”

“Thank you. I’ve been hoing since I was thirteen. I’ve had my own house running since I was twenty-two. You and I are two of the youngest in the game. We already don’t get the respect we deserve. Me, because I’m a woman and deemed too young to be a Madam and you, because you’re white… Of course, you aren’t the first white pimp any of us have ever seen. We just rarely see you motherfuckers, and the fact that you aren’t doing what these other guys are doing, but still in the game, is astounding!”

Smoke looked down at the ground and emitted a light laugh, nodding his head in agreement.

“Can I tell you something?” He looked back up at her, his eyes hooded more than usual, making her pussy clench up over and over, spasms galore, like a Venus fly trap left in a room full of buzzing mosquitoes.

“What?”

“You are one of the most
stunning
women I’ve
ever
seen, and I mean that sincerely. Your eyes
really
captivate me. They’re your best feature. They’re large and slanted, like a pussycat…so sexy. Matter of fact,”—his face split into a crooked grin as his voice dropped impossibly lower—“that is what I will call you from now on. Pussycat…at least in my dreams.”

She twisted her lips and turned away. He’d delivered a bucketful of compliments like some slick vacuum salesperson, and she’d been suckered into letting him spill the sugary words all over her damn carpet and offer a demonstration.

“You need to stop.”

“What? You don’t think I’m serious?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. You run game for a living, and I am not inviting myself to participate in Chutes and Ladders with you so you can climb your way up and inside my domain. Roll your dice somewhere else. Now…” She began to walk again. “You said previously, you wanted our ladies to simply respect the boundaries. I have no issue with that.”

“Good, then why all that bull before?” he asked, raising his brow.

“Because you didn’t approach me right, like I said!” She stopped walking, almost stomped her foot in anger. “You came at me with some sly shit, acting like you were trying to score, get me under the excuse of trying to wine and dine me. You treated me like one of these bobble headed bitches versus your equal. If I were a man, you would have
never
handled it that way, Smoke, and you know it. I resent that.”

“But I
can’t
treat you like a man, Paris. If you were a man, I wouldn’t have been daydreaming all morning and afternoon about fucking you…”

They looked at each other for a long while, and the entire time, her pussy drew inward like a turtle in a shell as more contractions clamped between her damn legs, almost making her buck at the knees.

“Look, Paris, how do you know I wasn’t attempting to do
both
?” The smile disappeared from his face and his forehead slightly bunched. “Did you contemplate the fact that I
may
have been interested in you, as well as wishing to discuss business?”