Smooth Operator (12 page)

“Pretty girl, you watch too many movies. Don’t listen to Eddie Murphy, listen to me. Spock was Mexican and when immigration came looking for him he ran to space.”

Arri laughed so hard she cried. “Please be quiet.”

“Let me ask you a question.” Lyfe stroked her hair. “You ever think about running away and never coming back?”

Arri turned in his arms to face him. “No,” she said seriously. “If I ran away, then I’d be just like Darlene and Samara.”

“Who was Darlene?”

“My mother, who left me and my sister here to fend for ourselves.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“What?” Lyfe said, stunned. “Who did you live with? Who took care of you?”

“What do you mean? I took care of me. Don’t worry, I was a good girl,” she said sarcastically. “I went to school every day.”

Lyfe sighed. “Damn … I wish I could have known you then, protected you.”

“Don’t,” Arri said, as a memory of Ian once saying the same thing crept into her mind. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“How do you know what I can’t keep.”

“Because I’ve heard that before.”

“Not from me.”

“Let’s just chill,” she said, “because by morning I’m sure you’ll no longer be mad with your wife and you’ll be out of here.”

“I’m here because I want to be here.”

“Then let’s chill, please.” She kissed him on the lips.

“You have a bad habit of running away from shit that you really need to deal with. But I’ma let you get that.” He responded to her kisses. “Especially since I know you can’t resist me.”

“What?” Arri smirked.

“Who could resist me; after all, I’m fine as hell.” He nibbled against her neck.

“You are really on your own sack right now.”

“I’m just stating a fact. And you know it; look at me and tell me I’m not fine.”

Arri drank in every ounce of him and just when she was about to tell him he was average-looking—nothing to write home about—the truth took over her mouth, and she said, “You’re fine as hell … but you don’t look better than me.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he joked, “you know you all up on me, girl.”

“Oh, please, Mr. Yuppie Stalker, you broke your ass up in here, so don’t get carried away.” She waved her finger.

Lyfe kissed her earlobe and smacked her on the ass. “You wanted me to stalk you. And let me check you on this real quick: I am far from being yuppie or whatever other titles you keep tossing in my face.”

“Oh please.”

“Please, what? I’m serious.”

“So you from the hood in California and somehow floated to the top. I get it, so spare me the ‘I’m still down’ shit. It’s wearing thin.” Arri knew what she’d said might’ve come off a little harsh—this was her boss after all—but after all this talk about Darlene, Samara, and thoughts of Ian, she wasn’t in the best control of her emotions. The pain of being abandoned by everyone she’d loved was a festering wound deep down in her chest, so she continued.

“So while you were off living the high life with your trophy wife, do you know what I’ve been doing? I’ve learned that at the end of the day, no matter how hard I try, cry, or aim to please, nobody owes me a motherfuckin’ thing. Period. Okay? So please stop pretending, because we both know that you being hood or knowing what struggling is doesn’t go beyond the city you once lived in and you remembering how to speak slang.”

Lyfe swallowed the digs she’d just carved into his chest. He cleared his throat and said, “Hear me on this, all of this fat ass,” he smacked her ass, “got me a li’l open, but I ain’t on it to the point of pretending. I came from nothing. Absolutely nothing. I don’t even know if the house we lived in as kids was ours or an
abandoned, city-condemned shack that my mother stumbled upon and had us all squat in.”

“Lyfe—”

“I’m talking,” he said sternly. “Now let me put you on to something you don’t need to forget; I’m a grown-ass man and I don’t have to impress you with bullshit, I know who I am and if you have a problem with it, then fuck it.”

Arri sighed; it was not supposed to go south like this and she knew she needed to be cool and enjoy the warmth of lying in his arms. Especially since this was the tightest, yet the gentlest, she’d been held in years. His arms fit completely around her and she loved the way her head felt against his chest—beautifully protected, like she didn’t have to worry about falling, or failing, or fucking up, because finally she’d found the man that her mother spoke to her about that Easter—one of the few days she’d ever seen Darlene sober—the very man her mother told her would come looking for her. She’d found him, ball and chained and someone else carrying his last name … but she’d found him.

And she knew by lying in his defined arms that she needed to just let the chips fall where they may. And she had to hurry and live this experience, before the fear of falling in love again snuck in and shut her emotions down, before that moment came when she would tell her heart to kiss her ass, and that being in the arms of this man—this married man, her married
boss
—was a bunch of dumb, ridiculous, and predictable shit.

“I’m sorry,” spilled from her lips.

“Accepted,” he said, kissing her on her forehead. “Now listen”—he pointed to the TV and restored the lighter tone of their conversation—“see the black chick on
Star Trek
?”

Arri turned back toward the TV. “Yeah,” she said as a smile oozed through her voice. “What about her?”

“You know Spock was hittin’ her off.”

Arri playfully sucked her teeth. “He was not hittin’ her off.”

“Oh,” Lyfe said taken aback, “he can hit off the green chicks from Saturn but he can’t hit off the black one from Earth? Is that what you’re saying?”

“It’s a conspiracy, baby.” Arri pushed her ass deeper into his shaft.

“Funny.”

“And anyway, what does that have to do with anything?”

“Her last name was Jenkins.”

Arri laughed so hard that water filled her mouth. “That is such bullshit.”

Lyfe squeezed her tight and locked her in place by folding his fingers between hers.

Arri kissed the muscle closest to her lips. “I’m glad you’re here.” She traced the bulging vein that made a winding road down Lyfe’s bicep.

“I’m glad to be here.” He stroked her hair. “And given the fucked-up day that I had—”

“You wanna talk about that?”

“Nah, I don’t wanna deal with that right now. Especially since I’ve tried all night to get peace and to silence my thoughts, and no matter how hard I tried, nothing worked, until I got here. After you stopped giving me the gas face, that is, like I was about to rob you and shit.”

Arri smirked. “Hell, this is Brooklyn.” She pulled Lyfe’s arms even tighter around her, snuggled the deepest that she could into his chest. He stroked her hair and placed his left leg along the side of hers and they laid in silence until they drifted to sleep and the early morning sun lay a fan of golden rays over them.

T
he night lights of downtown Los Angeles sparkled overhead as Payton held a martini glass to her lips and lounged on her cliffside terrace. She wondered how it would feel to be by herself … forever. Would it be quiet and filled with deep, moving, and inspiring thoughts? Or would she yearn for more, desire love, and be bitten with the fear of dying alone?

She ran the tip of her index finger around the rim of her glass and wrestled against the pain taking up space in her throat. She fought like hell to hold back the tears sneaking out the corners of her eyes, so she quickly wiped them, careful not to smear her mascara. She swallowed what remained and internally lectured herself that crying was for the weak; she had too much to lose to be reduced to a bumbling fool. She hadn’t made it this far by being emotionally exposed; she’d conquered it by ruling with an iron fist and taking no shorts.

Why the tears anyway? Certainly, I love Lyfe, but not enough to break. Not enough to put aside all I’ve built, all I’ve ever been.
Payton’s mother told her that love was for a feeble and easily influenced bitch, but that a smart bitch knew marriage was for advancement and privileges, status, and recognition. But Payton didn’t listen, instead this time she married for love, good dick, and companionship.

Which was the real reason she didn’t think twice about making
Lyfe vice president. It certainly never occurred to her that he’d actually act like he
deserved
such a career path—working seven days a week, twelve-hour shifts, and warping before her eyes into the crème de la crème of businessmen. Why didn’t he understand that that was not what she’d groomed him for. Hell, she could run her own fuckin’ company. She’d only given him the position for the sake of looking up to par to the outside world, but within their bubble he was to be a doting husband, who was there to love her when she came home from a hard day at work, there to listen to her, understand her, and adore her—not to challenge the shots she called. He was supposed to be her man, at her beck and call, the one who loved her, flaws and all, and his opinion was supposed to remain buried underneath his admiration of her.

But it wasn’t.

Lyfe was his own man, with his own hopes and dreams, and he wouldn’t allow the job she’d given him to be for show. He had the audacity to want to work and the nerve to learn how to handle the investment banking machine better than anyone she knew. And once he got his confidence up, all of a sudden his thoughts became twisted and he started talking too fuckin’ much, expecting
her
to cook for
him
and ruin her body by bearing his goddamn babies.

She didn’t sign up for that shit.

Where was the appreciation? The sense of obligation? The gratitude?

Why was she sitting here, right now, as if she were desperate, clutching her cell phone in her palm, waiting, wondering, and burning up on the inside because he had yet to return any of her calls?

This was bullshit.

Where was this motherfucker, huh? And why was he so hard-pressed not to come the fuck home? He hated New York. Hated it. So why all of a sudden was he swingin’ his balls and digging in
her back that he was going to stay? And moreover, when did he decide that he was bold enough to ignore her phone calls?

“I don’t believe this bullshit!” she bolted out, unable to keep it bottled in for a moment longer.

“What?” Dominique blinked. “Believe what bullshit? What are you talking about?” She placed her martini on the terra-cotta floor and looked at Payton, who sat across from her in the chaise lounge. “Have you been listening to a word that I’ve said?”

Payton focused in on Dominique; for the few moments that Payton was in deep thought, she’d forgotten that Dominique was there.

Payton batted her eyes and dipped the olive on the end of her stirrer into her drink. “What are you talking about, Dominique?” She ate the olive. “Of course I’m listening to you.”

“Then tell me,” Dominique practically pleaded, “what I should do?”

“About what?” Payton frowned, her tone making it quite evident that Dominique was working her nerves.

“About Quinton,” Dominique quipped.

“What about him?”

“Okay, you’re pissing me off. Here I am confiding in you and you’re not even listening to me.”

“Look,” Payton leaned forward, “what do you want me to tell you? That it’ll be okay? That love conquers all? Some Cinderella, princess and the frog bullshit?”

“I want the truth.”

Payton quipped, “You know better than anyone that Quinton isn’t shit. How many years have we been holding this conversation, huh? Do something else besides feel sorry for yourself.”

“And what?” Dominique said, pissed, the scent of Payton’s perfume burning her nose. “Be like you? It’s not exactly any secret that your husband isn’t feeling your ass either, my dear.”

“It isn’t my husband that you need to be concerned with. And
furthermore, if it’s no secret that my husband isn’t,” she made air quotes, “feeling me, then why are you sitting in my fuckin’ face asking me for advice?”

Dominique hesitated, the truth of the matter was she had no explanation as to why she was here.

“How in the hell you ended up with a husband like Quinton,” Payton continued, “I will never know. But I do know this, you better get your ass on board with every other bitch who’s married into fame and fortune and accept Quinton’s money in exchange for his short attention span and tolerance for your ass. Stop concentrating on the disdain and distaste in his eyes and go shopping, go hang out, have your ass a one-night stand, for crying out loud! Shit.”

“Unlike you, I took my set of marriage vows seriously.”

“Dominique,” Payton said sweetly, “honey, maybe you should’ve been more like me, then you’d have it together. Otherwise you should’ve married Joe Blow the city bus driver if you wanted to demand fidelity. But when you marry seven figures and higher, there is some shit you just have to deal with, and your man possibly fuckin’ somebody else is one of them. Don’t be concerned with who he’s doin’, be concerned when he’s mistreating you, ignoring your calls … or his ass falls in
love
with somebody else.
Then
all bets are off. Get a life of your own, outside of those damn Chihuahuas and those twins. Geezuz. You’ve had his sons, now move on to the next staying-rich trick: stash you some cash and relax. Let Quinton think it’s all good, and then when you have enough money on the side, you can flex your tolerance level.” She flicked her hand. “But until then,” she laid back in the lounge, took her shades from her hair, and slid them on, “shut … the … fuck … up.”

Dominique sat in shock. “I wish like hell you had stayed gone.”

“I thought you were leaving.”

“I am,” Dominique threw over her shoulder as she stormed
to her candy-apple-red Mercedes minivan, parked in the driveway.

Payton finished off her martini as she watched Dominique disappear into the distance.

A few minutes later, her cell phone rang. It was her mother. She stared at the caller ID and just as she decided to ignore the call, “Finally, she left,” floated from behind Payton. “You need to tell Dominique that she has to call before she comes here,” Quinton said, filling the doorway. “How long has she been gone?”